Chapter One
Out of the murk, a
crest loomed palely and boomed against the forward quarter. A cascade of water
broke along the deck, engulfing to the knees two men who clung to the shrouds.
The ship, deeply laden and labouring, rolled heavily to leeward and a blast of
wind struck Griffiths wetly across the face.
"I
must have more hands, Doctor," the sailing master shouted almost into
Griffiths' ear.
"I
have given you all that can walk, Mr Barthe," the surgeon responded in like
manner. "Those remaining are too ill to stand."
A
flash of lightning illuminated the master's face, pale and streaming, hat
clamped down to his eyebrows and bound tightly in place by a length of blue
cotton.
"Is
it the yellow jack, then? That is what men are saying."
"It
is not, Mr Barthe. It is acute poisoning from some substance imbibed—likely
the pork served this very day. But I have never seen it so severe. Men cannot
stand, and have disgorged more fluids than their bodies can bear. It was my
hope that you could spare men to aid me...."
"I
cannot, Doctor. I have been reduced to sending boys and reefers aloft where
they should not be. I can spare no one."
The
ship rolled again, and water sluiced across the deck slopping about them. The
doctor felt Mr Barthe's hand grasp his shoulder to preserve him from harm.
Silence was enforced by a gust that devoured all human sound.
In
the distance, lightning branched down into the sea, illuminating, for an
instant, the chaotic waters, the spider-work of rigging. A boy struggled
toward them, crabwise, hand over hand along the lifeline. In the flare of
godly light, he slipped and fell, then dragged himself up on the taut line. He
reached them, breathless, dismayed.
"Mr
Barthe!" he shouted. "We have lost Penrith."
"What
in hell do you mean, you've 'lost' him?"
"He
went aloft with us, but no one saw him climb down. We do not know what became
of him."
"Did
you not number off the men as they reached the deck?"
A
second of hesitation. "No, sir."
The
master cursed. "Has he taken ill and slipped below?"
"Williams
made a thorough search. We fear he's gone overboard, unseen."
"Damn
this night! Call for Mr Landry!" The master began to struggle forward but
turned back to the doctor.
"Will
you take yourself below, Doctor? There is naught you can do here, and I should
be happier knowing you were below in such weather."
Griffiths
agreed, and scrambled toward the companionway, his last view of the gale,
Barthe and some others in the waist, gazing up at the yards—stark, angular,
gone. A heavy roll of thunder and he slipped and plunged down the stairs,
cracking his elbow cruelly, twisting a knee beneath him as he struck the
unyielding deck.
Chapter Two
Philip Stephens
had been First Secretary of the Admiralty for thirty years. Previous to that,
he had been Second Secretary. Through his delicate hands passed the
correspondence of admirals and captains, First Lords, ministers and spies.
Lieutenant Charles Hayden was well aware that no one in the offices of the
Admiralty was more intimate with the details of the Navy and her distant fleets
than the little man who sat, mostly hidden by a writing table, before him.
That he should be aware of the existence of one Lieutenant Charles Saunders
Hayden, however, was still something of a surprise.
The
First Secretary bent over a letter, his spectacles refracting sunlight from the
nearby window into a faint prism on his cheek. The most prominent features of
the man's face were inflamed arteries that spread, crimson, over his bulbous
nose. They meandered onto his cheeks and branched into deltas beneath the
rainbows from his spectacles. It was not so much a face, Hayden thought, as a
landscape.
"Captain
Bourne holds you in high regard," Stephens rasped, his voice throaty and thick.
"An
honour I strive to deserve."
Stephens
seemed not to hear this, but put the letter down upon his tidy table, removed
his spectacles, and rather directly took Hayden's measure. Too easily
trespassed against, the lieutenant felt heat flush into his face. It was,
however, not the moment to take offence; that anyone in the admiralty building
had noticed him was an opportunity not to be squandered.
Hayden
had come to think of the Admiralty as a court. The First Lord was sovereign,
the Lords Commissioners his ministers, all men of rank. Below him, the
courtiers in their tiers, Admirals, Vice Admirals, Rear Admirals, captains both
high and low on the list, and far below these influential personages, lowly
lieutenants, all desperately hoping to be appointed governor of that tiny
outpost of empire known as a ship of war. Those possessing the skills of a
courtier, and family interest, tended to rise. Certainly, the Admiralty would
always need a few gifted functionaries, like Philip Stephens, to keep things
running smoothly; a handful of stouthearted, fighting captains; an Admiral or
two who could manage a fleet action; but for the most part the courtiers
succeed and everyone else bowed their heads, smiled charmingly when noticed,
and hoped to find a patron who might advance their cause. Hayden was not, by
nature, a courtier, but he did his best to appear receptive and amiable, all
the same.
Stephens
did not seem to notice. "I have a position for you, Lieutenant."
Hayden
took a long breath and released it slowly into the small room. "I should be
forever in your de--"
The
First Secretary did not allow him to finish. "It is not the sort of position
that puts you, forever, in another's debt. Captain Josiah Hart has need
of a first lieutenant." A grim, little smile flickered across the pale lips.
"I see by your face that you had hoped for a command...."
Hayden
considered a tactful response, but then gave in to exasperation and, perhaps,
disappointment. "I had hoped, by this time, to have earned greater
consideration than a first lieutenant's commission.... But I will not refuse
it," he added quickly.
The
little man made a humming sound, produced a pocket handkerchief and began to
clean the lenses of his spectacles. "Captain Hart has at his command an aging
frigate, the Themis, in which he has been cruising the French coast...
to damned little effect."
Hayden
feared his eyes widened at this utterance.
Stephens
went on, the linen being worked back and forth by the quick cocking of a
wrist. "Five weeks ago he lost a seaman in a gale. Man fell from the mainsail
yard by night. Never found. Not an entirely uncommon occurrence, one must
say. But on the morning next, when the course was set, this dropped from the
bunt." The Secretary reached down behind his table and produced a glass jar,
stoppered and sealed with wax. In murky, amber fluid, a thick worm lay
suspended, washing slowly forth and back. And then Hayden saw the nail.
"It
is a finger!" the lieutenant blurted.
"Severed,
cleanly, by a knife—or so the ship's surgeon concluded. He saw it freshly
fallen from aloft, so I must give way to his opinion. As everyone aboard had
their full complement of digits, except for three men who were known to have
parted with theirs sometime earlier, it was assumed that the lost man had left
his second finger behind." Stephens returned his gaze to Hayden, as though
expecting a response
"But
severed by a knife, sir...."
"Yes
- hardly misadventure. The unlucky man was seen that very day in dispute with
a landsman known to be of evil disposition. A knife in a bloody sheath was
found rolled up in the landsman's hammock. He denies all, of course. Says he
butchered some poultry—unfortunate bugger. He sits in Plymouth awaiting his
date with the courts-martial."
"Surely
he will not be convicted on such evidences as that?"
Stephens
shrugged. Apparently the man's fate did not affect him overly.
"And
what was a landsman doing aloft, if I may ask?"
"Half
the crew were down with some malady—rancid pork, the surgeon posits. They
sent boys and midshipmen aloft that same night." Stephens waved his hand, as
though brushing aside this line of conversation. "Do you know Captain Hart at
all?"
"I
have not had the honour."
The
First Secretary bobbed his head. "He is, how shall I say...? A man of some
influence through Mrs Hart's family."
It
was the lieutenant's turn to nod. Interest was something he understood
well—due to his utter lack of it. In the court of the Admiralty, having a
wife related to a "minister" counted for any number of successful actions at
sea.
"There
is some concern about this affair on the Themis. Her First Lieutenant
invalided out at the end of the cruise. He claims to know nothing of the
matter, and we pray that is so."
Hayden
felt himself straighten a little in his chair. "If there are malcontents
aboard Hart's ship, why not exchange them elsewhere?"
Stephens
meticulously adjusted the position of a tidy stack of papers on his desk. "And
suggest that Captain Hart cannot manage his own crew? I don't think that
would answer in this case." He glanced up at Hayden. "But then you have
dealt with a discontented crew before—most ably, I am given to understand."
Apparently
the First Secretary knew Hayden's service record intimately. "When I was
job-captain aboard the Wren..."
Stephens
nodded once, but then a crease appeared between his meagre eyebrows. "Are you
certain, Lieutenant, that you know nothing of Captain Hart? You are not being
disingenuous?"
"I
had not heard his name before entering this room."
Stephens
gazed at him a moment, as though gauging the truth of this statement. "Hart's
connexions within the Admiralty are of the highest order... It is, therefor,
perhaps not surprising that I have received a request to place a lieutenant
with... bottom aboard Captain Hart's ship—after all, even the most
skilled captain has need of such an officer from time to time. Do you not
agree?"
"What
captain would argue against competent officers?"
The
first secretary indulged a grim little smile. "What captain, indeed. It was
my intention to find such an officer to serve aboard the Themis... but I
am looking for something more. I tell you this in the strictest confidence, Mr
Hayden. Is that understood?"
Hayden
nodded, liking this conversation less by the moment.
"I
require a man who will keep a most accurate record of Hart's exploits. I'm
sure the good Captain's modesty is such that an honest account of his
endeavours has never been made known within these walls."
Hayden
sat forward a little. "I will not take this position, Mr Stephens," he said
firmly, but then added, "though I am not ungrateful of the offer."
"But
you have already accepted. Did I not hear correctly?"
Hayden
tried to keep the anger from his voice, with only partial success. "That was before
I knew you wished to turn me into an informant. Under such a circumstance I do
not feel honour bound."
Neither
man spoke for a moment, but Hayden feared his voice had betrayed him. Philip
Stephen's face changed ever so slightly; drawn in but a little more, it would
have formed a scowl.
"Allow
me to be uncharacteristically forthright, Lieutenant Hayden." The First
Secretary sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers before him. "You have
little future in the King's Navy."
Hayden
could not hide his complete and utter surprise at this statement—not because
it was in the least untrue, but due to its audacity.
"Your
friend...," Stephens shuffled through some papers, "the Honourable Robert
Hertle, is about to make his Post, as would you have had you half his
interest. Despite your manifest abilities—and I am certain Captain Bourne is
too shrewd to have misjudged them—you are lodged in your present
circumstances with little hope of forward movement. It does not help your
cause that we are at war with France and that you are half a Frenchman."
"I
am an Englishman, sir. My mother is French."
Stephens
held up his hands. "Be at peace, Lieutenant. I have recently made the
argument that your parentage weighs in your favour, for I am given to understand
that you have lived in that country a good many years and speak the language as
a native...."
Hayden
nodded.
"You
must understand, Mr Hayden, that I am your advocate, but the prejudice of
others is not easily overcome. That is why I am able to offer you only this
first lieutenant's commission... at this time. It is true that I am asking you
to write an account of your cruise, but certainly you would keep a journal, as
a matter of course. Would you not?"
"It
is not quite the same thing, Mr Stephens, as you well know."
"It
certainly isn't if you choose to believe it is not. And I do admire your
loyalty to the captain under whom I have proposed you serve, but sometimes
loyalty to one's own cause is not such a terrible evil. Captain Hart, you
should know, has a very good understanding of this distinction." He spread a
little rectangle of paper on the table. "This is the address of one Thomas F.
Banks, Esquire. My name should never appear on your letters in any way, but I
will receive them all the same."
Hayden
eyed the scrap of paper, disdainfully, but made no move to pick it up.
"That
is not just an address resting on my table, Lieutenant. It might be better to
think of it as representing your future in the navy. You may take it up... or
you may leave it lie. I will allow you the evening to consider, but I shall
require an answer by tomorrow, noon. At such time the position will be offered
elsewhere." He leaned forward and slid the paper closer to Hayden. "In case
you decide in favour of a career in the navy."
Hayden
rose without taking the offered paper, but then found himself hesitating,
hovering, as it were, over the table, eyeing the little rectangle of white
overwritten in a spare hand. He knew if he left that room without it he would
remove his uniform that day for the final time. His career in the navy would
be over—a decision not to be hastily made. His left hand reached out and
took up the paper, slipping it quickly into a pocket. Philip Stephens had
returned to his papers and appeared not to notice.