Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  The cutter came alongside at that moment and the master of the slaver—a ship out of Bristol—clattered up the side, Archer at his heels.

  Archer touched his hat. “Richard LeClerc, Captain Hayden, Master of the Orion.”

  Hayden shook the man’s hand. “Are you the owner, Captain LeClerc?”

  “No, sir. She’s owned by a syndicate. All Bristol men of good standing.” The man looked over at Archer, clearly unsettled. “We lost our masts in the gale, Captain. No doubt you went through it yourselves . . . though you fared better than we. I can likely make port under jury, sir—not Port Royal, where I was bound, but some port—the problem is I won’t have half a cargo when I arrive, for I didn’t set out with water or victuals for such a slow crossing.”

  “I can tow you into Barbados, to which port I am bound,” Hayden offered. “It will not be fast, but quicker than you are sailing now and you shall not end up on a reef—I will see to that. Have you stores for a fortnight?”

  The master shifted from one foot to the other, creases wrinkling up his forehead and appearing around his eyes.

  “A fortnight . . . mayhap. We will be on tight rations, though. I cannot grant you salvage rights—not when there is the least chance I can make port on my own. I can offer you a portion of the profits, sir.”

  “There are seldom ‘profits’ when such arrangements are entered into, Captain LeClerc.”

  “A portion of the sale of my cargo, then. Five percent,” the master said. “We have seven hundred alive yet, and I expect to have nearly that many when we arrive.”

  Hayden wished he were anywhere but on his deck having this discussion, for he wanted nothing to do with this man’s trade, but he could not leave a ship to sail on under her scrap of canvas, all but unmanageable, a sea of reefs and islands before her, not to mention her shortage of victuals and water. The human suffering would be beyond comprehension.

  Behind the slaver, Barthe was making small motions with his head and half gestures with limp hands.

  “Allow me to consult with my officers, Captain LeClerc.”

  Barthe and Hayden immediately retreated to a place where they could speak privately.

  “That man is offering half what we should be due,” Barthe whispered. “He is in a fix, Captain, for he could lose half his cargo, even if he did bring his ship into a port—which we both know would be a feat of seamanship that would see the man a legend.”

  “We are talking about a large number of lives, Mr Barthe. And I do not mind saying that the entire business . . . unsettles me.”

  “I do realise we are speaking of lives, and I am of the same opinion as you, sir: trade in human souls is revolting, but . . . There is right and wrong, sir, and five percent of the sale of his slaves is an insult, sir. We should not take less than ten percent, and half that again would not be unfair, sir.”

  Hayden could feel the eyes of his officers upon him, for they would all share, should the ship be considered salvage. Even if they settled on a commission to tow the slaver into port, they would certainly expect—and deserve—a portion of the monies.

  The Reverend Smosh came and hovered two yards distant, his doughy face drawn and dark.

  “Mr Smosh,” Hayden addressed him, “do you have a question, sir?”

  “I do apologise, Captain, but as the guardian of human souls, sir, I feel I must intercede on behalf of the hundreds entombed upon that ship.” He shook his hand in the slaver’s direction. “I believe that to profit from the sale of these poor people will put a stain upon your ledger that can never be erased. It is a base evil, sir—and you know I am not prone to making such pronouncements.”

  “It is a legal trade, Mr Smosh,” Barthe reminded him, “no matter how reprehensible one feels it might be.”

  Smosh turned readily upon the sailing master. “Legal at this time. I pray that will soon change, for it is a blot upon the character of our people.”

  “What am I to do, Mr Smosh?” Hayden asked the parson. “I cannot leave this ship to drift on towards the reefs and dangers that lie ahead.”

  “No, Captain, you cannot. You must not, but—”

  But Barthe interrupted. “If her cargo were wool, Mr Smosh, or any other commodity you care to name, we would be entitled to a portion of her profits if we towed her into port. That is the custom of the sea. You might not approve of the theft of the poor sheep’s wool, but should we then leave the ship carrying that wool to drift? Or are you suggesting we must carry it into port for no profit at all?”

  “That is precisely what I am suggesting—nay, urging—Mr Barthe.”

  “Well, you have not spent your life at sea, Mr Smosh,” Barthe replied testily, “and are not yet fully versed in the practises and customs. If we save this master and his cargo, we are entitled to be paid for it, and paid handsomely, no matter if he carries wool or men . . . and you will receive a portion of that money.”

  Smosh drew himself both up and back half a step. “I should not take it were it a fortune, Mr Barthe. I should not allow a single piece of such lucre to cross my palm.”

  “The officers shall be glad to hear of it,” Barthe informed him, “for we will happily divide up your share. Thank you.”

  In truth, Hayden was largely in sympathy with Mr Smosh in this matter, but he had his officers to think of, and they—even those who bore strong feelings against the trade of slaves—would expect their share of any monies which derived from the rescue of this stricken ship.

  “I cannot leave this vessel to drift and I cannot refuse the master’s offer without provoking all my officers and crew, who will feel sorely cheated—cheated by me. I will not have my own men hold such feelings against me, Mr Smosh. There is little enough profit in this life as it is.”

  Smosh made a little bow. “Captain, I beg you reconsider. Profiting from the sale of these poor souls—it is damnable, sir. Damnable.”

  “I have little choice, Mr Smosh. It is a legal trade—though we are of one mind in this; I disapprove of it heartily.”

  Smosh said nothing, but neither did he make any sign that he accepted his captain’s decision. There was no doubt in Hayden’s mind, though—he would rather an unhappy parson than an unhappy ship.

  “Ten percent, Mr Barthe?”

  The master nodded once.

  Hayden crossed the deck to the slaver’s master.

  “Ten percent, Captain LeClerc, and we have an arrangement. Shall I have my clerk draw up an agreement?”

  LeClerc hesitated, but then nodded and offered his hand to Hayden.

  Hayden turned to Barthe and Archer. “Arrange gear to take this ship in tow, if you please. And Mr Archer, we no longer need to be at quarters.”

  Guns were boused up against bulwarks and the crew set to arranging gear to tow. It was a common enough task, for prizes were often too damaged to sail, and after actions British ships sometimes had to be towed back to port.

  Cables were arranged and a messenger line rowed over to the slaver so that a larger cable could be carried across. As well as the business was managed, it still took a good part of the forenoon. When the Themis was put on course again, her speed was not half what it had been.

  “Barbados recedes before us, Captain,” Wickham offered as he stood by the taffrail beside Hayden, watching the slaver set her scrap of canvas to aid their efforts.

  “So it would appear, Mr Wickham. I have not asked in some time, but how fares your hurt?”

  “Well enough, sir. I have one finger that does not obey my commands, but the physician said I was lucky not to lose half my limb, sir. I am but four-fingered on that hand, but I count myself lucky, even so.”

  “You were luckier not to bleed away your life. Griffiths preserved more than your arm.”

  “So he did, sir, and I shall never forget it.”

  The two stood awkwardly a moment. Hayden realised that Wickham
now bore a reminder of his mortality with him—into every action, every cutting-out expedition, into every storm even. He would never be free of it. The service did this to the young gentlemen—brought them to maturity before their time.

  Wickham went off about his business, leaving Hayden at the taffrail watching their tow, gauging the skill of her helmsmen, for if she were not steered well she would sheer and part the tow cable—and anyone upon Hayden’s quarterdeck would be in mortal danger should the cable whip back before it fell into the smothering sea. He decided that the master of the ship must know his business, for the men at the helm were keeping her steady before the seas.

  “Did you expect to enter the slave trade on this voyage, Captain?” It was Angel, appearing at his elbow, and his conversation with Mr Percival on the main-top came back to Hayden.

  Have you not noticed, Captain Hayden, that Angel is often in your company?

  “I did not, but then neither did I expect to be dressed as a French captain, upon a French ship, chasing English mutineers . . . but that occurred, as well.”

  “You seem always to be somewhat at war with yourself, Captain,” Angel observed. “Your French side at odds with your English. Your feelings about slavery at odds with your desire to save the lives of these unfortunates—not to mention keeping your avaricious crew happy.”

  “I should not call them avaricious,” Hayden answered firmly. “Do you know how few opportunities these men will have in their lives to possess more money than they require to but meet their daily needs? Prize money can mean the difference between their children going hungry or having food upon their table. Do not judge them for this desire.”

  “I do not judge them,” Angel said with emotion. “I lost everything I possessed when the Medea went down. I understand their situation better than most might imagine.”

  Hayden turned to regard the young Spaniard. “But surely you have family, Angel. The uncle you go to . . . ?”

  Angel seemed to hesitate, but then nodded. “Yes, my situation is not the same as your sailors’. I did not mean to compare my lot to theirs.” He said nothing a moment, and Hayden found himself gazing at the young Spaniard’s face. Was he indeed a woman in disguise? Or could Percival have merely decided to create some mischief by telling Hayden this story?

  “I have been thinking, Captain Hayden,” Angel said, so no other might hear, “that I overstepped the boundaries of . . . politeness. I should never have suggested that you failed in some way to speak as you should with the woman you courted. I could not know what was in her mind, and it was not my place to speak as I did. I apologise.”

  “You have no need of doing so,” Hayden replied. “I fear your insight was entirely correct but came too late. I should have spoken but did not comprehend my situation. If only I had known to say, ‘I shall give up the sea and make my way ashore, for a life without you shall be but half a life.’ Perhaps that would have won her heart.”

  “It would win the heart of many a woman, Captain,” Angel said with surprising feeling, and then turned, hurried to the companionway, and disappeared below without so much as a nod or a “by your leave.”

  Hayden stared at the deck-opening down which the Spaniard had retreated. He could not have been more astonished or confused had Angel slapped his face.

  Either Percival is correct, he thought, or Angel is of the same persuasion as Percival himself. Certainly, Angel’s response to the declaration Hayden should have made to Henrietta would never have been expected of a young man with the common desire for women. Hayden shook his head, his thoughts in a tangle of confusion.

  Was it possible that Percival had seen something that no other man aboard could see? Hayden turned to stare aft. He was beginning to feel Percival was not wrong. There was a young woman living in his cabin and he seemed to have attached her feelings without even being aware of her sex!

  Inexplicably, thoughts of Henrietta came to mind—Henrietta, who was, by now, married; Henrietta, who had chosen another over him.

  Hayden shook his head. Somehow, he had secretly hoped she would undergo a change of heart. And so, here he was, yearning for her yet.

  I am the captain of a machine of war, he thought—not some lovesick youth. If she can make a life without me, I can do the same without her. Pining is overly romantic, if not puerile.

  He gazed at the confused wake trailing along behind and, at the distant end of the long tow rope, the slaver.

  Too many regrets trailed behind him and would not release their grip.

  He wondered again at Angel’s response to his words. What had he said? “I shall give up the sea and make my way ashore, for a life without you shall be but half a life.”

  “It would win the heart of many a woman, Captain,” Angel had replied, before colouring and hurrying below.

  I should stopper my mouth, Hayden thought. When I do speak, my words always land me in trouble.

  A foul odour assaulted his senses then, carried to him on the pure ocean trade, the smell of men lying in their own filth, entombed in excrement and transported to a life of confinement and endless toil.

  Perhaps I spoke wrongly in this matter as well, Hayden thought. Mr Smosh counselled me otherwise, but I did not heed his words. Perhaps he did speak for a higher power and I turned my back.

  Eight

  The calculation of each man’s share of the profits from the delivery of the slaver became the sole diversion—perhaps the compulsion—of the Themis’ people. Debts were both paid and entered into on the basis of this, as yet, unearned capital. The estimates of the monies coming to the Themis varied—in the majority of cases, according to the character of those doing the valuing. The older and more cynical tended to talk in terms of a few pounds and cautioned others not to squander monies that were not yet in their purse. The optimists, the young and the generally feckless, however, reckoned themselves as wealthy as lords—and not all of these were uneducated hands. This rule, however, did not hold in all cases. A few who by experience or years should have known better began to see, if not mountains, at least hills of gold. Mr Barthe, to Hayden’s utter surprise, was one of these. His appraisal of the slaves’ value increased several times each day and his plans for these monies became more grandiose each hour. This had become an object of general amusement among the other officers—that is, among those who were not daydreaming of coaches and manor houses of their own.

  Hayden thought there was much to be learned from observing the manner in which each man, sometimes in opposition to his humour, responded to this impending wealth. Barthe, commonly the most bitter and cynical of his officers, was now revealing himself to be the most prone to wishfulness.

  Others, however, were deeply unsettled by the whole business and found the dark shadow of the slaver trailing behind as distressing as the discovery of a lump growing in the guts, its existence half denied and utterly dismaying. Smosh spoke openly of the evil in their wake and he had a good number of followers, these not always the most devout among his flock. Wickham had informed Hayden that he did not wish to receive any profit from the sale of slaves, and Griffiths, who could much less afford such nobility, had joined this same camp. Lieutenant Ransome, who, like Hayden, was perennially in need of money, was tortured by this matter for several days but finally decided that his hopes for a match with one of Wickham’s unmarried sisters were more critical to his future (or so Hayden assumed), for he reluctantly informed his captain that his share could be divided among those wishing to profit from such a foul enterprise. Hayden thought the young man might break down and weep when he made this pronouncement, but the young lieutenant mastered his feelings.

  There was yet another faction among his crew, and it was, in Hayden’s view, the most fascinating of all. The ideas of this group were being expounded on the quarterdeck within Hayden’s hearing as he worked at his table.

  “Well, let me ask you, Doctor,” Mr Barthe’s voice cam
e down the skylight, “if we had not discovered this slaver, would not many—perhaps hundreds—of her unfortunate Africans have died for want of food and water?”

  “Most assuredly they would, Mr Barthe,” the doctor replied.

  “And would you not agree that it is better to be a live slave working some plantation than to die at sea?”

  “I suppose I must agree that slavery is a small improvement over that particular alternative, but—”

  But Barthe was not finished. “Then more good has come of our efforts than evil, one must admit . . . ?”

  “Mr Barthe,” the doctor argued, “all this rationalization and extenuation does not excuse an institution that takes free men from their homes, reduces them to the state of property, and forces them to labour for the good and profit of others.”

  “I agree, Doctor. You could not be more right, but, as we have saved their poor lives, and by the traditions and laws of the sea we are entitled to an agreed-upon share of the profits, there is but one thing any man of conscience might do . . . I, and many others, intend to give a portion of our legal earnings—legal, mind you—to an anti-slaving society.”

  “Let me see if I comprehend what you have proposed, Mr Barthe,” the doctor answered. “Though you disagree vehemently with the institution of slavery, you are about to profit from the sale of slaves? To somehow purify this profit, and to absolve yourself of your involvement, you intend to give a portion of your money to men who are fighting to make slavery illegal in Britain and her colonies?”

  “You miss my point, Doctor. I am about to profit from the preservation of hundreds of lives.”

  “But you preserve those lives so that they might be sold into slavery—and your profits will come from that sale, Mr Barthe. You are, in effect, no different from an investor in a slaving expedition. Do you not see a contradiction, Mr Barthe, in making profit from selling free men into slavery and then taking some part of that profit and giving it to those who fight that terrible practise?”

  “But if I do not take my rightful share, Doctor, it will be divided up among others who do not share my beliefs. No part of it will then go to the cause of abolition. How is slavery to be abolished if the anti-slavers are not supported? Printing pamphlets and renting halls for speakers costs money, sir, money that comes to the societies by donation.”