Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (2 page)

I
t began as an uneventful crossing—if crossing a vast and volatile ocean in the dead of winter could ever be construed as uneventful. A three-day gale in mid-December, however, changed all that and set in chain a series of “events” unlike any Hayden had ever known or even imagined.

To begin, three men were thrown down from aloft; two broke on the deck and departed this life upon that instant, but the third, beyond all odds, landed upon one of his fellows, who had not heard the cries, and now it appeared to be a question of which would live, for both lay in the sick-berth sorely hurt.

The next event was less dramatic but infinitely more sensitive. Hayden had been prevailed upon by Admiral Caldwell, the commander-in-chief of the Barbados station, to carry the admiral's secretary out with him. The man, who was also a cousin to the admiral's wife, was presently installed in a cabin in the
Themis
' gunroom. And it was in regard to this particular gentleman that Lieutenant Benjamin Archer had approached his captain.

Beyond the gallery windows, night's sullen tide gathered on the eastern horizon. Across the sky, however, quickly fading shades of pale purple, rose, and gold appeared to have been pastelled upon the clouds. Shortly, a servant would slip in to light the lamps. The frigate's cabin,
which had once seemed as grand as a ballroom to Hayden, now appeared cramped and dreary compared to the great cabin he had so recently vacated upon the sixty-four-gun ship
Raisonnable
. He had been too junior a captain to retain such a command and now he was back on the ship no other officer wanted, his rise and fall so rapid he had barely a moment to register either. At least, he reminded himself, he had retained his post.
And
he was not headed north into the Baltic on convoy duty, where he had so recently spent several cold, wet months, often fog bound and land-blind. Instead, he shaped his ship's course towards the West Indies, and the warmth of those verdant islands had reached out to the crew of the
Themis
the previous week.

Archer stood in his usual post-somnolent state, uniform not quite dishevelled enough to provoke comment. In his hand he held a small square of cream-coloured paper, neatly folded. The young lieutenant was struggling to find some way to begin and looked sheepish or, perhaps, embarrassed, Hayden could not say which.

“And what is it, exactly, that Mr Percival has done to distress you so, Mr Archer?”

“Well, sir . . . he has given a poem to Mr Maxwell.”

“The cherub?”

“Yes, sir.”

Midshipman Maxwell had been dubbed “the cherub” the instant he had set foot on the deck, for no one aboard had ever seen a youngster who so resembled a seraph, from his curly, yellow locks and rosy cheeks to his rather angelic smile.

“That hardly seems a capital offence—unless it is a particularly bad poem.”

“It is rather good, sir, but then his claim to have written it is somewhat exaggerated, as I believe a player by the name of Shakespeare wrote a very similar poem some years past.” He held the poem out to the somewhat mystified Hayden.

Hayden unfolded the paper, and there, in a very beautiful hand, was written:

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance or nature's changing course untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st.

Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade

When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st.

So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

“So Mr Percival gave this poem to Mr Maxwell, claiming it to be of his own making . . . to impress our young midshipman with his poetic skills?”

Archer shifted uncomfortably and then said in a very low voice, “I believe it was to impress him with his ardour, sir.”

“Ahh . . .” Hayden felt suddenly as though he had been thrown into a part of the ocean he had not swum before. “And how is it you are certain of that?”

“It is a love poem written by Shakespeare to a young man, sir.”

Hayden glanced at the poem. “I see no indication here that this poem was written to a man rather than a woman.”

“I believe it was dedicated to and first presented to the Earl of Southampton.”

“By Shakespeare . . .”

“Yes, sir.”

“Shakespeare the playwright.”

“The very one, Captain.”

“I am . . . somewhat . . . dumbfounded.” Hayden looked at Archer again. “Our Shakespeare?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The things they neglected to teach me in school . . .”

“I can say the same, Captain.”

“How did you learn of this, then?”

“My brother, sir.”

“The barrister?”

“The very one, sir. He belongs to a Shakespeare society.”

“I did not know such a thing existed.”

“It would appear there is at least one.”

Hayden glanced at the scrap of paper again. “He is quite certain this sonnet was written to a young man?”

“Quite, sir. It is but one of many, a fact apparently well known among scholars, sir.”

“Well, they have kept it rather a secret from the rest of us.” Hayden glanced again at the poem he still held. “I shall never view Shakespeare's plays in the same way again.”

“It does give them a certain slant, sir.”

“Yes. But to the matter at hand . . . How has Maxwell taken all of this?”

“He came to me rather embarrassed, sir. In fact, I should say he felt somewhat ashamed. He asked my advice on how best to proceed, not wishing to offend a cousin of the admiral's wife.”

“Hmm. Does anyone else know of this?”

“Mr Wickham, sir; he sent Maxwell to me.”

“Let us try to keep it among the four of us.”

“I agree, sir, but I am not quite certain how to deal with it. I suppose I could give Mr Percival a copy of the Articles of War . . . ?”

“But he is a civilian and only governed by them at the extreme. When does the midshipmen's reading society next meet?”

“Tomorrow, sir.”

“Do you still attend?”

“Whenever duty allows, Captain. I intend to be at the next meeting.”

Hayden passed the poem back to Archer. “Excellent. Invite Mr Percival to your meeting, then produce this poem, saying that he has brought it to the attention of the group, read it aloud, and discuss it. Be certain to inform everyone who Mr Shakespeare wrote it for. Mr Maxwell will have no more troubles with Mr Percival after that, I trust.”

Archer looked immensely relieved. “Thank you, sir. I believe that is an excellent plan.”

Hayden hoped he was right. Best to save everyone embarrassment in this matter—not least the captain. “How is Mr Wickham getting on?” Hayden asked, as much to change the subject as anything.

“I do not believe he has gained any more use of his hand since he came back aboard, sir. He remains one-and-a-half-handed, though I believe he is determined to make the best of it, all the same.”

“He would not let anyone know any different, no matter how he felt.”

“I believe that is true, sir.”

“Do keep your eye on him, Mr Archer, and inform me immediately if you see signs of melancholy. The young . . . they never imagine that they will not heal, but when they discover they have injuries that will stay with them all their days . . . Well, I have seen more than one youth struggle with this realisation.”

“I will observe him most carefully, sir. You may rely on me entirely.”

“I already do, Mr Archer. Is there anything else?”

“The small cutter has a touch of rot in the transom, sir. Mr Hale is seeing to it.”

“Are you happy with your new carpenter?”

“I am, sir. I shall miss Mr Chettle, but the new carpenter seems a good sort, if you can overlook his bawdy humour.”

“I have overlooked greater things.” Hayden nodded to his first lieutenant. “Mr Archer.”

“Captain.” Archer touched his hat and let himself out, allowing Hayden to return to his accounts.

“Shakespeare,” he muttered. “Who would have thought it?”

Over the sounds of sea and breeze Hayden heard a cry and turned away from his paperwork. By the time he had risen to his feet and pulled on a coat, there was a knock on his door. He opened it to find his marine guard and one of the younger hands standing just beyond—the sailor out of breath.

“The lookouts have spotted a boat, sir,” the boy said, making a knuckle. “Mr Ransome has sent me, sir, requesting your presence on deck.”

“You do mean a boat, Jackson, not a ship?”

“Most definitely a ship's boat, sir. Appears to be only a handful in it, Captain.”

By the time Hayden emerged into the damp evening, dusk had darkened the sea and only a dim glow remained in the west, the sunset retreating rapidly.

“Where away, Mr Ransome?”

The lieutenant pointed.

It took Hayden a moment to find it, but there, upon the breathing back of the sea, a ship's boat rose and then dropped out of sight.

“Heave-to, Mr Ransome, if you please. We will take them aboard.”

Hayden put his hands on the rail cap. Wickham appeared at his side with a glass, which he fixed on the boat, distant perhaps a hundred yards. Most would hardly take notice, but the midshipman had an awkward grip with one hand—the result of the injury sustained on 1 June. He hid it well, but his friends took secret notice.

“How many, Mr Wickham?”

“I can make out only two, sir.” Wickham peered into the tube a moment more. “It would almost appear to be a Navy boat, Captain, but the men are not in uniform.”

“Well, we shall soon know their story.”

The occupants of the boat quickly revealed that the lack of uniform was not an accident. Although one shipped oars, he had only the vaguest idea of how they should be employed. He did manage, after a time, to lumber, stem first, into the
Themis
, causing every seaman aboard to
wince noticeably. The castaways required aid to board and then collapsed on the deck, both of them an almost unhuman colour and clearly horribly ill.

“Hoist in the boat, Mr Ransome,” Hayden ordered, and then turned his attention to the castaways.

“You are English,” one managed, slumped down against the hammock netting. “Thank God,” he said with feeling. “We feared you were French.”

“Only in the smallest degree,” Hayden replied, and then in Spanish, for that was, by their accent, clearly their mother tongue: “How long have you been adrift?”

Hayden half expected, by the looks on their faces, that they might not answer and instead begin to weep, but the same young man spoke.

“One day only,” he replied in English, “but we were made terribly ill by the storm and have had almost no water or food. I am Don Miguel Campillo, Captain.” He put a hand on the shoulder of his companion. “My brother, Don Angel. We prayed and the Lord sent you. You are the hand of God, sir.”

“I have been called many things, but that is by far the kindest. Charles Hayden, Captain of His Majesty's Ship
Themis
.” He turned to one of the hands. “Water . . . and pass the word for the doctor, if you please.”

A moment later the castaways were draining the dipper and then draining it again. Hayden thought the younger, Angel, might begin to sob and was controlling this up-welling of feeling with difficulty.

“Will you come down to my cabin?” Hayden asked when they had drunk their fill. “I have called for the doctor.”

Miguel struggled to his feet and balanced himself against the hammock netting. “Thank you, Captain.” His voice was noticeably less hoarse. “We have no need of a doctor. We are just ill from the sea. It will pass. You will excuse our show of feeling, I hope, but we feared we would never be found and would perish on this great desert of water. God has delivered us; He must have some purpose for us yet.”

“At the very least, I think you should speak with the doctor. May I help you?” Hayden enquired of Angel, who remained slumped on the deck.

“We can manage, Captain, thank you.” With some difficulty, Miguel pulled his brother to his feet and they set off along the gangway, brother supporting brother and hammock netting supporting both.

Hayden thought them to be perhaps twenty years and sixteen or seventeen. They were not Spanish peasants, as the elder made very clear by his use of “Don.” Their dress was plain, but Miguel's manner, though polite, showed not the least deference. His English was polished. The two were obviously related, though the older had progressed further into manhood and his face and form showed it. Dark, well made, not overly tall, serious, perhaps even wary, but then they were among strangers and had just felt the cold presence of Death lurking among the high-running seas.

The ladder was negotiated with difficulty, and on the gun-deck they found Dr Griffiths waiting outside the door to Hayden's cabin, a grey presence a bit more undertaker-like than Hayden believed was ideal in a surgeon. Inviting everyone to enter, Hayden introduced the doctor and then excused himself. When he emerged onto the darkened deck, the oceanic night had settled upon a restive sea.

Ransome spotted Hayden and came over, touching his hat. “Did you learn how they came to be adrift, sir?”

“Not yet. I thought it best Dr Griffiths see them before I made such an enquiry. I suppose it might also be polite to offer them sustenance before subjecting them to the Inquisition.”

“Well, at least they should be familiar with inquisitions and know how to conduct themselves.” Ransome looked out over the sea. “I do not know if God preserved them, but half an hour later I doubt the lookouts would have made them out in the dark—they would have been left adrift.”