Under Enemy Colors (48 page)

“But it was me that took the damned ship back,” he muttered to himself, gaining an odd look from a passer-by.

In this strange conflict between his two nations, Hayden had chosen England, but England had not chosen him in return.

Not three steps further on he heard his name called and looked up to find Mr Muhlhauser of the Ordnance Board, smiling at him as though they were old shipmates.

Hayden struggled to master his rage and resentment. “Mr Muhlhauser. How good to see you, sir.”

Muhlhauser made a stiff leg. “How is your poor head, Mr Hayden? You received quite a blow, indeed; the doctor was most concerned.”

“I am no more foolish than previously, so I suppose that is the best one can hope for. And your own wounds?”

Muhlhauser waved an arm that was still in a sling. “All but healed. I should be free of this in a few days.”

“I am surprised to find you here. I thought you had returned home.” Hayden could not help but remember the failed gun-carriage of Muhlhauser’s design.

“I am come for the court-martial, Mr Hayden, in the event that my own evidence is required. Though at this moment I am off to see the First Secretary.”

“Stephens?”

“Could it be another?”

“No…No, of course not. I should not wish to make you overdue.”

The two men parted. Stephens, it appeared, was familiar with a vast portion of the Royal Navy. It pained Hayden’s poor, dazed brain to puzzle out what this might mean, so he gave it up, making his way back down to the busy quay and onto the now rather notorious
Themis
.

The gunroom door opened and Archer came in. “Mr Wickham sends his compliments, Mr Hayden, having just returned to the ship.”

“And my compliments to Mr Wickham. I shall be glad to have him back. Is he outside?”

“No, sir. He scurried off to visit Aldrich in the sick-berth.”

“I should be able to release Aldrich from the sick-berth tomorrow,” Griffiths said. “But he is not even to have light duty for at least a week.”

“Our ship’s company is slowly trickling back, it seems,” Barthe observed.

“Yes, I saw Landry today,” Hayden informed the others. “Bumped into him, as it were, on the quay. He is aiding Hart in his preparations for the court-martial, apparently.”

“We saw him, as well, Mr Hayden. He came aboard ship and fetched a few articles from his cabin. Hardly had a moment to be civil.”

They sat about the table, sipping claret, which they drew off from a quarter-keg that stood upon a shelf by the door. Barthe occasionally gazed hungrily at one of the glasses, the play of light through the deep, liquid red, but then he would master himself and glance away, or smile with a kind of bitter embarrassment.

“Perhaps I should write up my day,” he said, and rose from the table. “There is such an abundance of work accomplished each day, I can hardly keep up my harbour-log.”

The master repaired to his small cabin, but in a moment, his door opened again, a look of bewilderment on the round face. “You have not taken my log to write up some work, have you, Mr Hayden?”

“I should never do such a thing, Mr Barthe. The ship’s log is your sacred charge.”

“It must be here,” the master muttered, and went back into his cabin. The clatter of instruments and books being shifted, a low curse. “Someone has removed my log from its proper place,” he said peevishly. Reappearing, red-faced, the master looked around the gunroom as though expecting to find the book lying there, astray and neglected, on some shelf or table.

A general search commenced, to no avail. The others then began to quiz the master closely: when had he last written in the log? where had he done this? and so on. But Barthe claimed never to have taken the book from the gunroom.

Midshipmen and servants were interrogated. No one had seen the book in question. In the middle of this, Wickham turned up, looking overly pleased to be back aboard ship, Hayden thought.

Griffiths began tallying who, to anyone’s knowledge, had cause to enter the gunroom that day, and as names were offered, that of Lieutenant Herald Landry was uttered. A horrible silence fell over the gunroom.

“The court-martial shall require the ship’s log,” Archer said. “My brother told me that all the officers’ journals must be submitted, but the ship’s log…that is the most vital, for it is the official account of our cruise.”

Barthe lowered himself slowly into a chair, his red face draining like a glass. “I am charged with the safe-keeping of the ship’s log-book,” he said. “None other.”

Though it was never mentioned, everyone present knew that the master had once before been convicted of neglecting his duty.

“But clearly you have kept it safe,” Griffiths assured him. “It has been removed…
stolen
, it seems.”

“If the official log is gone,” Wickham observed thoughtfully, “then every event might be questioned, the captain and Landry saying one thing, the officers another. The captains of the court-martial will have to decide whom to believe.”

“And whom will the captains choose, I wonder?” Griffiths asked.

A very earnest discussion followed, for now that a date had been set, the prospect of the court-martial took on an immediacy it had lacked formerly. Those who had witnessed courts-martial gave lengthy accounts, interrupted by many questions.

“It is the King who will be prosecutor,” Barthe said. For reasons he did not like to dwell upon, the master knew more of courts-martial than the rest. “All officers and crew will be tried for the loss of the
Themis
.”

“But it was a mutiny,” Wickham said, clearly confused. “Are not the mutineers to be blamed?”

“Indeed, Mr Wickham,” Hawthorne explained, “they shall attend their own court-martial, and will almost certainly all be hanged. Losing the ship is the single charge against us, for it does not matter by what means a ship is lost—there is a court-martial all the same. Am I not correct, Mr Barthe?”

“Indeed you are. When a ship is lost,” Barthe said patiently, “it is sometimes due to an error or negligence on the part of an officer other than the captain—perhaps an error in navigation by the master—so all officers are charged. Of course, it is the captain who will be questioned most closely and is in the most danger.”

“Let Hart go to the devil,” Hawthorne said, “I am more concerned with the gentlemen of my mess. How do we defend ourselves against these charges? I for one do not want to shoulder the blame, and certainly my part will be called into question, for it is the place of the marines to guard the ship against mutineers.”

“You must all write an account of what happened from the moment you became aware of the mutiny,” Hayden said. “As accurate as memory can make it. I have no doubt that every one of you acquitted himself with honour. You have nothing to fear.”

The lamps burned long into the night in the gunroom, as the officers present framed their answers to any questions they could imagine the court asking.

While these accounts were written, Hayden climbed up to the captain’s cabin and sent for young Worth. The boy—he could not have been nineteen—slipped silently in the door a few moments later. The term “plain” applied to the young landsman in almost every possible way. There was about him a look so unremarkable as to pass all notice. Hayden doubted that anyone could tell another what he looked like five minutes after he had left a room. Hair some neutral colour that might deserve the descriptor “brown,” features without distinction in either size or shape, height adequate, neither well-made nor ill. He could almost have been invisible so little impression did he leave.

“Worth, be at your ease, you are in no trouble, sir.”

The man, whose manner was taut and anxious, did not seem to find this reassuring.

“Do you know, Worth, that some member of the crew has been leaving helpful notes in the pockets of my jacket. This has been secretly done and I do not wish to expose the man who has done it, which means I can never thank him. Very odd, is it not?”

“Perhaps the man does not wish to be thanked, sir,” Worth said, his face utterly neutral.

“Which would make him very noble.” Hayden fixed his gaze on the man’s face for a moment. “It appears that Mr Barthe, through no fault of his own, has got himself into a bit of difficulty. I am seeking a way to extricate him but have realized I require assistance. There is, however, a significant risk to the man who might aid me, so I hesitate to ask…”

“What risk, sir?”

“Prison. Perhaps worse.”

The boy worried a thread sprouting from a seam in his trousers. “That
is
a risk, sir. Might I ask what a man might do to aid Mr Barthe?”

“The ship’s log went missing from Mr Barthe’s cabin, which the officers of the court-martial will view as a serious lapse in the performance of his duties. They might also wonder if Mr Barthe has ‘lost’ this book because the contents reflected badly upon him in some way.”

“I swear, Mr Hayden, I don’t know where the book is.”

“But I do. Or at least I believe I do. Would it be possible to retrieve Mr Barthe’s log from a house or some other lodging without appreciable risk to a nimble man with some expertise in such affairs?”

Hardly an eye-blink in reaction. “Oh, I should think it would be, Mr Hayden.”

“How many men do you think such an endeavour would require?”

“Three, sir.” A slight pause. “I believe I might recommend such men, if I may be so bold.”

“I will have the doctor write their names on the sick-and-hurt list. They will be far too ill to attend the court-martial, where I’m sure Mr Landry and Captain Hart will be engaged all of the forenoon at the very least.”

Hayden crouched low, inspecting the rudder trunk in the dim light of a lamp held aloft by the carpenter. Pushing the tip of a blade into the wood, he was appalled to find it sliding in with little resistance once the surface had been broken.

“It is amazing to me we have not even seen it weep when the seas built up. I don’t know how you noticed it, Mr Chettle, but well done.”

“If not for a bit of new paint bubbling up, I should never have suspected for a moment, Mr Hayden. Rotten inside but, for the most part, sound out. We should have had trouble from it in no time, I’ll warrant.”

“Yes. It will have to be rebuilt.” Hayden rose, ducking beneath the tiller. “Sooner rather than later.”

“I’ll see to it first thing, Mr Hayden.”

As Hayden turned away a marine corporal stepped into the circle of light.

“There you are, Mr Hayden,” the marine offered. “There is a ship’s master to see you, sir. Mr Hawthorne has put him in the captain’s cabin to await your pleasure.”

“I shall speak with him directly.”

A moment later Hayden entered the great cabin to find a man seated by the table, hat in hand, his greatcoat thrown open. Glancing up to the door-sound, he rose, extending a hand, his manner business-like.

“Mr Hayden. How pleased I am to make your acquaintance at last. Ben Tupper, master of the
New England
. I come bearing mail from Mrs Adams, sir, and hearing that you were aboard the
Themis
, I carried it over directly.” He proffered a package heavily wrapped and bound in string.

“Why, how very kind of you, Mr Tupper. Very kind, indeed. Will you take a drink with me?”

“It would be my great pleasure, upon some other occasion, sir, but I have an engagement yet, this evening…”

“Then it will wait for another time, Mr Tupper. Pray, how fared my mother and Mr Adams, when last you saw?”

“They prosper very well, Mr Hayden. I was at supper to their home but six weeks ago, and Mrs Adams seemed very content and jolly. Mr Adams is also very cheerful, and thriving in his various endeavours. They spoke of you with great fondness, Mr Hayden, and desired I convey these letters to England, though I hardly expected to put them in your hand. I shall weigh in three days’ time, Mr Hayden, and would gladly carry your letters with me, if you wish it.”

“I shall take the first offered moment to compose my replies and have them carried over to your ship before you sail, Mr Tupper. It is very kind of you.”

“Anything for Mr and Mrs Adams, Mr Hayden; they are very dear to me.”

Hayden escorted the American master up to the deck and saw him on his way, then hurried back down to his cabin to open his letters. His mother’s delicate hand could not reduce her life to black and white, but captured the nuance of her thought, her mercurial emotions. French would give way to English, mid-sentence—once in the middle of a verb—and Spanish and Italian were added for spice. Much concern about her family in France—the little news she had—all well…so far. Three letters she had sent, all overflowing with the happiness of her new life in America. (How Aldrich would have approved of that, Hayden thought.) At the same time, her wickedly satirical observations about Americans made Hayden laugh aloud.

In the package he also found a dutiful letter from his step-father, almost without content, and a longer one from Mr Adams’ youngest daughter, twelve-year-old Emma, who admired him overly, he well knew.

Answers would have to wait, for there was much to do, and Hayden did not know how to explain his present situation. The truth was he did not understand it himself. He was not charged with the loss of HMS
Themis
, yet had a terrible feeling that on the morrow the full blame for this notorious affair would be his to bear. Perhaps these letters extolling the virtues of life in America meant more than was revealed upon their surface.