Under Enemy Colors (14 page)

“Indeed it is, Mr Landry,” Hayden answered. “Indeed it is.”

With a strong feeling of distaste, Hayden pressed his seal into the wax and gathered up the rest of his correspondence.

“You don’t want the last letter copied, Mr Hayden?” Perseverance asked. The boy was standing by the door to his cabin, waiting to take the lieutenant’s mail, his face serious, freckled, contemplative.

“Thank you, no, Perse. It is of a personal nature, and I copied it myself.”

The boy nodded, apparently disappointed. It was one of his several qualities that Hayden had come to admire; he never shirked his work or complained of it. In this, he lived up to his name.

Hayden passed his letters to the boy, who hurried out to add them to the shore-going mail. For a brief moment Hayden almost went after him. What would Stephens do if Hayden refused to send in his hated reports? But Hayden let the boy go, fully aware of his promise to Stephens—his word was worth something, even if it was in such a disreputable cause.

Madison appeared at his door. “Captain requests your presence on the quarterdeck, Mr Hayden.”

The lieutenant slipped on his coat and, out of respect for the low deckhead, tucked his cocked hat under an arm. In a moment he was on the quarterdeck, where Landry, Barthe, and Archer all stood awkwardly by the captain. Several of the midshipmen attended at three yards’ distance.

“Ah, Mr Hayden,” Hart said as his lieutenant appeared, “kind of you to join us.”

“My apologies, sir,” Hayden said quickly, tipping his hat. “I was unaware that I was wanted.”

Glancing up at the sky, Hayden could see that the gale had almost blown itself out, great blue tears appearing in the woollen cloud. The wind remained in the south-east, but had moderated, and the rain stopped, though the decks were still dark from it. Beads of water hung from the mizzen boom, where they swelled until plucked by gravity. A cold drop struck Hayden on the neck as he tipped his hat.

Hart regarded his first lieutenant with a squinty gaze, eyes hazy-blue, almost hidden beneath a slightly bulging brow. The man’s face was lined and waxy, and glistened with a thin film of sweat. Hunching a little, as though the pain had not entirely abandoned him, he reached out and took a spoke of the wheel in hand.

“This wind will fall away shortly,” Hart said, pressing his words out. “And I anticipate it will veer to the north or nor’east. Let us quit this berth while there is yet light. Whose watch is it, Mr Hayden?”

“Dryden’s, sir.”

The captain glanced up at him, his face turning a little red. “Dryden? The master’s mate?”

“Yes, sir,” Hayden said.

“Who are the officers of the watch, then?” Hart demanded brusquely.

“Lieutenant Landry, Mr Archer, and Mr Dryden, sir.”

“You do not stand out of watch on my ship!” Hart growled. “Where did you ever get such an idea?”

“It was so upon every frigate I served aboard, sir.”

“Well, it is not so on my ship. You will stand watch like the other lieutenants. Get us under way, Mr Hayden. Shape our course for Brest.” He released the wheel and motioned for Landry, who hurried to him so that the captain might put a hand on his shoulder. “Try not to foul another’s anchor,” Hart snapped at Hayden. “I shouldn’t like the good name of my ship tarnished by your incompetence.”

Griffiths, who had been hovering nearby, came to Landry’s assistance, and the two of them helped the captain down the companionway.

“Well, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said, fists clenching, thoughts of violence hovering about the edge of his consciousness. “Let us prepare to get under way.”

“Aye, Mr Hayden,” the master said, giving him what he thought was a look of sympathy, “and let us hope that the hands are more willing than when last we weighed.”

“It is the officers I worry about, yourself and a few others excepted, Mr Barthe. Where is Mr Franks?” Hayden asked, looking around the deck for the broken-nosed bosun.

“He took the mail over to the
Captain
, sir. It was his intention to view our masts from forward as he returned.”

Orders were called, and to Hayden’s relief, men began to bustle about the deck, coiling down halyards and sheets, rigging bars to the capstan and readying the messenger line to weigh anchor. The hands did not appear happy in their work, but had returned, at least, to their former level of deficiency. Franks came over the side in the midst of this, ordering his boat taken in.

“How stand our masts, Mr Franks?” Hayden called out to him.

“Straight and true, Mr Hayden.”

“Will you see to the paunch mat on the main-course yard? It all but chafed through in the gale, and I should not want it to do so again.”

“It will not, sir!” Franks took one of his mates and Aldrich aloft to see to the paunch mats and hanging mats that protected various parts of the rigging from chafe.

The boats came over the side and were stowed on the reserve spars. A tackle was readied to cat the anchor, and men took their places at the capstan bars.

“It is a wonder to me that order can be brought to such goings-on,” a voice opined, and Hayden turned to find Muhlhauser before the binnacle, regarding the spectacle with a mixture of awe and amusement.

“There is much to do at once,” Hayden agreed, “but the men know their business tolerably well.” In truth they were slow and badly organized, he thought, but he would soon put that to right, if Hart would let him. Hayden, too, observed the men, noting faces, dredging up names. Some worked with a will, several stood by, mystified, and still others bent to their appointed tasks only when Mr Franks or one of his mates came toward them brandishing a rattan or a rope end.

“Would one refer to this crew as ‘motley’?” Muhlhauser asked, forcing Hayden to suppress a laugh. He glanced at the man’s face to be sure he was not jesting, but the look of wonder and innocence told him he was not.

“I believe, Mr Muhlhauser, that the term would not miss the mark by a great deal.”

Hawthorne stood on the deck a yard away, smiling. “It is perfectly correct, I think,” the marine said. “You should see this crew wear ship, Mr Muhlhauser. They even wear motley.”

This made Wickham and Madison both laugh, and in company with the marine lieutenant, they quit the quarterdeck rather hastily.

The look on Muhlhauser’s face changed. “I believe I have been mocked,” he said indignantly.

“Not at all, sir,” Hayden assured him. “It was a play on words meant to amuse you, I’m sure.”

“A play on words? How so?”

Hayden cleared his throat and pressed down his own laughter. “To ‘wear ship’ is to come about by bringing the wind across the stern. ‘Motley,’ beyond its common meaning, is a word for the costume of a fool or a jester. To ‘wear motley’ is to dress as a fool, or by extension, to be a fool. Mr Hawthorne only meant that the crew run about like fools when they wear ship. An insult to the hands, if to anyone.”

Muhlhauser did not look either amused or mollified. “Well, if you are certain he did not intend insult…”

“I am quite certain he did not. Mr Hawthorne has not a mocking bone in his body.”

This seemed to satisfy the inventor, and he tried to shake off his anger. “It was rather clever,” he offered.

Hayden smiled. Too clever, apparently, he thought.

“What is it we do now?” Muhlhauser asked.

“We will back the fore-topsail as the anchor heaves. At the same time we will brace the yards around on the main and mizzen topsails. As the anchor heaves, the ship will begin to make sternway—travel aft—and by putting the helm over we will turn so that the wind will strike the ship upon the starboard bow. Do you see? Smartly, we will brace the fore-yards around, the sails will fill, and the ship will gather way and we will be off…if all goes as planned.”

The men began to push their chests into the capstan bars then, and after a moment of straining, the capstan began to slowly turn. It was another long moment before the ship began to inch forward, the anchor cable stretching taut. Although there was a great deal of bustle both on deck and aloft, the ship moved only very slowly, its great displacement resisting the men’s efforts at the bars. Due to the great girth of the anchor rode, it could not be made to turn around the small circumference of the capstan, so it was tethered by nippers to a much smaller messenger cable, and the nippers were removed as the cables neared the capstan. Slowly, so very slowly, the anchor cable was hauled in and arranged in the tier below.

“Aloft, sail loosers!” the master called into his speaking trumpet.

Finally, the anchor heaved, and sail was loosed, tumbling down like falls of water, Hayden thought. The fore-topsail backed, pressing against the mast.

Midshipman Williams stood by the rail, staring down into the water.

“Do we make sternway, Mr Williams?” Hayden asked.

The boy spat down into the water and watched the little cloud as it dissipated. “Not yet, Mr Hayden…” Then, after a moment, “Aye, sir.”

“Put your helm over, if you please, Mr Dryden.”

The wheel spun and the ship moved aft. Hayden looked around, gauging the distance to each vessel, assuring himself for the fifth or sixth time that they had room enough to manoeuvre.

A little brig had appeared at first light and anchored too close astern of them in an awkward arrangement. He could see her commander ordering men to veer more cable, but Hayden was confident they would stand clear of her.

The head of the ship appeared to fall off onto the starboard tack, and the headyards were braced around. Sails filled with a
thup
—a sound no sailor ever forgot. For a moment the ship made leeway, then her great mass began to slide forward, passing near the bow of the brig. Hayden nodded to her commander as the ship passed. The mizzen and jib were quickly set to balance the vessel.

“Stand by!” Barthe called up to the yardmen. “Let fall!” And the main and fore course cascaded down, bellying immediately to the small wind. The sand-glass was turned and the ship’s bell rung. Staysails flew up their respective stays, and the ship heeled but a little, and then stiffened. The
Themis
passed among the convoy, her new paint rain-slick and shining dully in the fading light.

There was something a little forlorn in the scene: the gale-battered ships lying to their anchors in the quiet bay, like seabirds with heads tucked beneath their wings, the single frigate standing out into the channel as darkness threatened. Hayden felt both pride and sadness mix in his breast: pride that it was his ship setting out to carry war to the enemy, and sadness…he knew not why. There was a loneliness to the scene—all the ships with their crews hunkered below out of the weather, the lone frigate going forth.

The
Themis
stood out into the channel, and was not four miles from shore when the wind died away, leaving the ship rolling in the seas left behind by the gale. Hayden took hold of the mizzen shrouds.

“Look at this slop!” the master cursed. He cast his gaze around the horizon. “And where is our wind?”

“It will find us by and by,” Hayden said, “and this will go flat at the turn of the tide.”

Muhlhauser clung to the shrouds nearby, his face ashen and shiny. “And why should the tide turning flatten the seas?” he asked.