‘You did not mention this in your account to me…’
‘Cole was dead, sir, I saw no reason to attach this unfortunate incident to his otherwise good name.’
‘It was his name you were attempting to protect?’ Brown’s sarcasm was clear.
‘Indeed, sir, it was.’
‘Pool informed me that he had little faith in you.’
Hayden shifted in the straight-backed chair. ‘I assure you, Admiral Brown, I gave Captain Pool no reason to hold that belief.’
Chalky fingers drummed upon the mahogany table. ‘The service is a small community, Mr Hayden. Men’s reputations precede them.’
Hayden felt his face flush. ‘In my particular case,’ he replied heatedly, ‘it is the reputation of one of my former commanding officers that precedes me.’
The drumming stopped, and Brown’s head cocked slightly to starboard. ‘Are you suggesting, sir, that one of your captains is responsible for your character within the service? Is that your idea of loyalty?’
Hayden shut his eyes a moment. Fool, he berated himself, Hart has many friends both in and out of the service.
‘I did not mean that, sir,’ Hayden offered lamely.
‘Then I cannot comprehend what you could have meant.’ The admiral glanced at his hand, still resting on the table, flexed the waxy fingers and resumed his staccato drumming.
‘The Reverend Dr Worthing has written me – three letters! – complaining of his treatment at your hands. Did you confine this gentleman to his quarters?’
‘I did, sir. He was provoking unrest among my crew and would not desist even after being warned.’
‘So say you. Dr Worthing believes you are dangerously inexperienced if not subject to delusions.’
‘You may enquire among my officers, Admiral. I don’t believe you will find one who shares Dr Worthing’s opinion.’ As though Worthing might divide good officers from bad – the man had never previously been aboard a ship!
But Brown seemed little interested in enquiring among Hayden’s officers. ‘Do you deny this as well? – after asserting your control of the convoy, against the wishes of Captain Bradley, you then relinquished your ship and command of the convoy to a junior lieutenant so that you might go on an ill-prepared rescue mission? Did you not comprehend where your responsibilities lay?’
‘I did, sir, fully, but my senior lieutenant was ill with the influenza, my third lieutenant was a midshipman of sixteen years temporarily promoted, and my second, though an excellent young officer, lacked experience. There were two hundred souls at risk, and I had no one else I might send.’
Brown raised his greying brows a little. It was clear he remained unconvinced by this argument.
‘If I may, sir,’ Hayden managed, struggling to keep his tone mild, ‘we did bring the convoy through under difficult circumstances, rescued most of the Syren’s crew, and sank both a frigate and a French seventy-four –’
The hand banged down flat on the desk, gripping the edge with an arthritic thumb. ‘Mr Hayden, the seventy-four gun ship sank due to collision caused by incompetent execution of a poorly contrived plan. The frigate went down when her magazine exploded – which, for all that is known, was very likely due entirely to the mismanagement of the French crew. I will give you no credit for sinking ships by chance!’
The admiral rose from his chair, walked stiffly to the stern gallery and drew back the curtain, undamming a deluge of stark sunlight. It raced across the cabin deck, enveloping Hayden so that he lifted a hand to shade away the pain in his eyes. For a moment the admiral stood, gazing out, and Hayden realized he was mastering his anger.
‘I have no captain to take your place; none who would take your ship, at any rate.’ Brown spoke calmly and turned his head but little in Hayden’s direction. ‘I will send you as escort to a few transports to Genoa, and then on to Toulon. Do not tarry in Genoa; indeed, once the transports are safely in harbour you need not even anchor. Dr Worthing and… this other parson must go with you. Allow me to give you some counsel in this matter, Hayden; confining parsons to their cabins for sedition is likely to make you something of a subject of… merriment within the service. I suggest you not do it again. Good day.’
A moment later Hayden was in the warmish sunshine, wondering if he would ever leave an interview with a superior not feeling as though he had been ill-used, insulted, his actions subject to flagrant misrepresentation, and his motives questioned. Pool had abandoned his convoy, leaving Hayden without adequate means to repulse the French squadron, and for this Pool had apparently received not the smallest censure – though he had managed to impugn Hayden’s character while explaining away his own dereliction of duty. Hayden brought his convoy – Pool’s convoy! – across Biscay through difficult winter conditions, repulsed an enemy squadron of superior force, sank two French vessels – one a ship of the line – and for this he was mocked and told that his reputation had preceded him! It was more than a saint could bear.
The trip across the busy harbour passed slowly, Childers, sensing Hayden’s mood, silently glancing his way occasionally. Hayden’s stomach, not his best friend under perfect circumstances, growled like a terrier. As Childers brought the barge alongside the Themis, Hayden stepped onto a rung of the topside ladder and climbed quickly up, barely acknowledging bosun and marines as he gained the deck. In a moment he was in his cabin, sealed orders slapped down upon his writing table, and pacing angrily larboard to starboard.
A half-hour of this fruitless activity did little to reduce his choler but Hayden believed he might, at least, be capable of concealing his frustration from others. He sent for Saint-Denis.
The first lieutenant arrived a few moments later, haggard, thinning hair lank and faded, his entire carriage bespeaking fragility. It seemed to Hayden that Saint-Denis grew weaker, in fact was relapsing into illness. Along with this, his character appeared to be breaking down – at least his arrogance had been compromised.
‘Are you well, Lieutenant?’ Hayden enquired.
Saint-Denis nodded stiffly. ‘Well enough.’ Then, ‘I recover but slowly, Mr Hayden.’
‘It appears to be true of those who were most ill. I worry that Griffiths’s health has been broken.’
‘It is an irony that he came nearer death than any who did not succumb. If not for young Gould I believe we would have lost the doctor.’ He touched a hand absently to his temple. ‘Lost any number of us, in truth. He nursed us back to health. I never expected to be spoonfed like a babe at this time of my life, but so I was.’
‘We all owe Gould, Ariss and Smosh a great debt of thanks.’
Saint-Denis nodded, his manner intense but unreadable. Since his recovery he appeared to be in confusion about Gould – as though disdain and gratitude had commingled to form some strange emotion for which men had no name.
‘How went your meeting with Brown, sir?’ the lieutenant enquired, mastering himself.
Hayden felt the wound in his pride bleed a little but he attempted to show no sign of it. ‘We are to escort seven transports to Genoa and then precede directly to Toulon. Presumably, Lord Hood will find a captain for the Themis… and all will be well with the world.’
‘When do we sail, sir?’
‘In a few days. We must water and take on powder and shot.’
‘Very good, sir.’
A golf match was arranged by Wickham, to be held in a pasture just beyond the isthmus. Hayden thought it a strange idea but it seemed to animate his officers and – given their recent states of both mind and body – that was no bad thing. The players would be Saint-Denis, Dr Worthing (hardly to be left out as he possessed the only clubs), Mr Smosh and Wickham. Hayden, who had never even seen the game played, declined an invitation but agreed to observe. A good part of the ship’s company also planned to join the audience, and food and drink were quickly organized, the whole enterprise taking on something of a holiday atmosphere. Interest was so keen that Hayden suspected wagering had slipped into the matter, and he only h
oped that none of his crew would be ruined, given the precarious state of most seamen’s financial affairs.
The chosen day presented itself: warm, windless, the vault of the Mediterranean without cloud and flawlessly blue. Boats carried the party of sportsmen ashore, landing them near the town. The goodness of the day, the gaiety of his companions and the sense of hardships past put Hayden in a mood of benevolent contentment. All that remained for him to feel utterly at peace with the world was the presence of Henrietta Carthew, and though this was clearly impossible, he allowed himself to fall into brief reveries in which his memories of Henrietta were so palpable that the emotions he felt in her presence were recaptured entirely, giving his feelings of tranquillity a luxurious edge of yearning, which was not at all unpleasant.
As the crew of the Themis proceeded along the street, some of the locals were drawn into its sphere: a few young men looking for diversion, and a number of young women of dubious occupation, who immediately found themselves the object of much male attention. To Hayden’s surprise, Griffiths seemed interested in these girls, and then Hayden realized it was one particular girl that drew the doctor’s eye. She was, Hayden noted, very comely, her skin delicate, hair shining coppery in the sun. Her behaviour was so modest that Hayden wondered if she were not a sister of one of the young men who had joined the party (and he wondered at the young man’s judgement to bring his sibling into such company) when he noticed the girl had but a single hand – the left being missing. The scar of her surgery was still pink and fresh upon her wrist.
‘Do you see, Doctor,’ Hayden said quietly. ‘That young woman has lost her hand.’
Griffiths nodded, taking his gaze away, flushing a little with embarrassment. ‘Yes, and an ugly job the surgeon made of it.’
They continued to walk, saying nothing more. Hayden, Hawthorne and Griffiths made a small party within the party, strolling along the street among sailors, inhabitants and soldiers. The three seemed happy in each other’s company, as they had been when all were residents of the gunroom, and this alleviated some of the isolation Hayden felt as captain.
This peaceful state, however, was interrupted by great alarm from down the street. People could be seen dashing into doorways and bolting up side alleys and a few seconds later, shouts of ‘Mad dog! Mad dog!’ reached them. Faces appeared at upper windows, leaning precariously out to stare down into the suddenly chaotic street.
A black mongrel dodged among the flying bodies, muzzle thick with drooly froth, snapping at any who happened in its path. Hawthorne looked quickly about and snatched up a barrow-handle that leaned against a wall. He strode to the centre of the narrow way, spread his legs and hefted the handle like an axe. Before him the sea of people seemed to part in a swirl of skirts and frock coats, children being swept up and thrust through open windows into waiting arms. Without warning, the dog tacked to starboard, chasing after a corpulent man who, in his alarm, ran first towards a closed door, and then clumsily changed course. The mongrel snapped at his ample buttocks as he turned but then carried on towards Hawthorne, who barred its way. In a moment it was done, the barrow-handle flailing down, a sharp ‘crack’, and the brute lay on the cobbles, his limbs twitching faintly. Hawthorne fetched him two more blows to the skull, and the mad dog lay limp and still.
‘I am bit!’ the corpulent man cried. ‘I am bit!’ He pulled at his breeches, twisting around awkwardly in an attempt to see an area of his bulk that had not been in view for some years. ‘My God, the brute got hold of me!’
Griffiths took charge, galvanized by need. He and Hawthorne peeled the man’s breeches down around his ankles right there in the street, the crew of the Themis and emerging residents crowding round.
‘It is a scratch only,’ Griffith’s pronounced, crouched by the man’s bulging derriere. ‘The teeth did not penetrate the skin.’ He turned to a group of locals. ‘Is there a smith?’ he demanded.
‘I’ll fetch him, sir,’ a young man offered, and went off at a run.
The corpulent man had grown somewhat pale and Griffiths had him sit down on the ground, and then lie down when he did not show signs of recovery. The dog was an object of almost equal curiosity, people collecting around it but keeping a little distance in the event it was not wholly dead. A pock-marked boy prodded the beast with a stick, the dark skin mounding into creases where the point pressed, but the dog did not respond otherwise.
A smith appeared, running down the street with a pair of tongs in one hand. The crowd opened a narrow corridor to let him pass, and he stopped over the mad dog’s victim.
‘Who is the doctor?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ Griffiths answered, reaching out to take the offered tongs.
This sight caused the corpulent man to stir but Hawthorne and two crewmen pinned him, squirming, to the ground, before he could escape.
‘Do not move!’ Griffiths ordered, and with only the slightest pause to take aim, applied the glowing, hot coal to the man’s buttock. A hissing sound and the smell of burning flesh caused everyone to draw back, some covering their nose and mouth.
‘Done,’ Griffiths announced, returning the tongs to their owner. Griffiths turned his attention to several people who seemed to be the victim’s friends. ‘He must be submerged in a cold bath for as long as he can hold his breath – as many times as he can bear – then whipped with towels. I believe we applied the coal in good time and he will be preserved from the madness.’
Griffiths hauled himself to his feet using his walking stick. ‘Shall we carry on?’ he said testily, embarrassed by his physical weakness.
‘By all means,’ Hayden replied.
Griffiths might have been put out of sorts by the incident but it was clear the rest of the crew thought it a most diverting entertainment and talked of nothing else as they made their way down the street and out of the town. Occasional cries of ‘Mad dog! Mad dog!’ produced immediate alarm and much laughter for a short stretch but then the novelty wore away and these ceased altogether.
Through a gate in the stone wall the golfing party emerged into the pasture. The bullocks, carried there from Morocco to feed the British fleet, could be seen collected in a distant corner, where herdsmen with dogs had agreed to keep them. The habitually dull-rummy, and today confused, looks in the eyes of the cattle as they observed the progress of the sportsmen and their entourage seemed appropriate to Hayden. As human endeavours went, golf did seem to be one of the oddest. Around him seamen partook of coarse Spanish wine, which could be had cheaply from any merchant in the town, and already they were none too steady on their feet. It did not help that several weeks upon a moving deck made the land seem to sway about – a strange phenomenon familiar to any man who had gone to sea.
‘It is rather like the links land at St Andrews,’ Worthing observed, surveying the area. ‘Have you played the old course?’ he enquired of Saint-Denis.
‘Twice only,’ Saint-Denis replied, frustrating Worthing, who seemed certain that in this he would prove superior.
Worthing sported a bright red coat, an item of apparel which had originally been adopted by golfers to give warning to strolling families who might otherwise find themselves in a cannonade of small missiles. This garment had apparently been made to fit a slightly smaller man or perhaps had been purchased some years earlier, when the worthy doctor had been youthfully slim, for now it seemed to pull his entire form upward, fitting tightly around his small belly and forcing back his shoulders.
A few feet behind walked Worthing’s servant, a particularly devout hand whom the crew had nicknamed ‘Dismal Johnny’. He bore, under his right arm, with shafts pointing aft, a small array of play clubs, spoons, putters and diverse curious and exotic-looking implements, some of which appeared to be tools especially manufactured for cutting hay or perhaps pounding beef.
The procession stopped at the first teeing-up place and stood about wondering what would happen next, the sailors looking on faintly bemused. Saint-Denis retrieved one of the play clubs and hefted it
knowingly. He flexed the ash shaft, sighted along its length, then, taking hold of the sheepskin grip, waggled it back and forth.
‘A most excellent club,’ he pronounced it. ‘Who is your cleek maker, Doctor?’
‘Jarvis, in Edinburgh,’ Worthing said, perhaps a bit defensively.
‘Jarvis? I have not heard of him.’
‘He is not so well known as some, but does excellent work and has made a number of clubs to my own design.’
Saint-Denis drew the club back slowly, a little above waist-height, then whipped it fiercely around his body, sweeping the ground before him and continuing through, the club making a most satisfying and impressive ‘swoosh’ as it went.
‘Ah, I wondered. Several of these were unknown to me.’
‘This I call the “mishleek”,’ the reverend doctor said proudly, handing the lieutenant an object that looked like a small garden hoe fixed at an angle on the end of a wooden shaft. ‘For playing out of sand or soft dirt.’
Saint-Denis waggled this one. ‘Of course. I can see its utility immediately.’
Worthing retrieved another. ‘The globmudge, for playing out of ditches.’
Saint-Denis smiled broadly as he received this one, returning the mishleek. ‘I have needed such a club many times but had none.’ He turned to his student in the gentleman’s game. ‘Do you see, Wickham? – for ditches in which a little water might lie. A globmudge,’ he said admiringly. ‘I possessed a mud-flinger for a time but found it unsatisfactory in all ways.’
‘Oh yes, the mud-flingers were poorly conceived and deficient in every way that mattered. You will find the globmudge its superior for unditching the ball and getting it down the links. Many a player who has seen me swing my globmudge in a little rivulet of mud and the ball, almost miraculously, flying up has hurried off to Jarvis to possess just such a weapon of his own. I hope we will find a ditch in which I might demonstrate its handsomer qualities.’
‘So do I. Three putters, you carry?’
‘Yes, one can hardly do with fewer, and God knows I have tried. And I also have this,’ he took yet another club from those on offer, ‘I haven’t a name for it yet. The ‘new-cleek’ I have been calling it until inspiration supplies better.’
A Battle Won Page 21
