Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (8 page)

“It would win the heart of many a woman, Captain,”
Angel had replied, before colouring and hurrying below.

I should stopper my mouth, Hayden thought. When I do speak, my words always land me in trouble.

A foul odour assaulted his senses then, carried to him on the pure ocean trade, the smell of men lying in their own filth, entombed in excrement and transported to a life of confinement and endless toil.

Perhaps I spoke wrongly in this matter as well, Hayden thought. Mr Smosh counselled me otherwise, but I did not heed his words. Perhaps he did speak for a higher power and I turned my back.

T
he calculation of each man's share of the profits from the delivery of the slaver became the sole diversion—perhaps the compulsion—of the
Themis
' people. Debts were both paid and entered into on the basis of this, as yet, unearned capital. The estimates of the monies coming to the
Themis
varied—in the majority of cases, according to the character of those doing the valuing. The older and more cynical tended to talk in terms of a few pounds and cautioned others not to squander monies that were not yet in their purse. The optimists, the young and the generally feckless, however, reckoned themselves as wealthy as lords—and not all of these were uneducated hands. This rule, however, did not hold in all cases. A few who by experience or years should have known better began to see, if not mountains, at least hills of gold. Mr Barthe, to Hayden's utter surprise, was one of these. His appraisal of the slaves' value increased several times each day and his plans for these monies became more grandiose each hour. This had become an object of general amusement among the other officers—that is, among those who were not daydreaming of coaches and manor houses of their own.

Hayden thought there was much to be learned from observing the manner in which each man, sometimes in opposition to his humour, responded to this impending wealth. Barthe, commonly the most bitter
and cynical of his officers, was now revealing himself to be the most prone to wishfulness.

Others, however, were deeply unsettled by the whole business and found the dark shadow of the slaver trailing behind as distressing as the discovery of a lump growing in the guts, its existence half denied and utterly dismaying. Smosh spoke openly of the evil in their wake and he had a good number of followers, these not always the most devout among his flock. Wickham had informed Hayden that he did not wish to receive any profit from the sale of slaves, and Griffiths, who could much less afford such nobility, had joined this same camp. Lieutenant Ransome, who, like Hayden, was perennially in need of money, was tortured by this matter for several days but finally decided that his hopes for a match with one of Wickham's unmarried sisters were more critical to his future (or so Hayden assumed), for he reluctantly informed his captain that his share could be divided among those wishing to profit from such a foul enterprise. Hayden thought the young man might break down and weep when he made this pronouncement, but the young lieutenant mastered his feelings.

There was yet another faction among his crew, and it was, in Hayden's view, the most fascinating of all. The ideas of this group were being expounded on the quarterdeck within Hayden's hearing as he worked at his table.

“Well, let me ask you, Doctor,” Mr Barthe's voice came down the skylight, “if we had not discovered this slaver, would not many—perhaps hundreds—of her unfortunate Africans have died for want of food and water?”

“Most assuredly they would, Mr Barthe,” the doctor replied.

“And would you not agree that it is better to be a live slave working some plantation than to die at sea?”

“I suppose I must agree that slavery is a small improvement over that particular alternative, but—”

But Barthe was not finished. “Then more good has come of our efforts than evil, one must admit . . . ?”

“Mr Barthe,” the doctor argued, “all this rationalization and extenuation does not excuse an institution that takes free men from their homes, reduces them to the state of
property
, and forces them to labour for the good and profit of others.”

“I agree, Doctor. You could not be more right, but, as we have saved their poor lives, and by the traditions and laws of the sea we are entitled to an agreed-upon share of the profits, there is but one thing any man of conscience might do . . . I, and many others, intend to give a portion of our legal earnings—legal, mind you—to an anti-slaving society.”

“Let me see if I comprehend what you have proposed, Mr Barthe,” the doctor answered. “Though you disagree vehemently with the institution of slavery, you are about to profit from the sale of slaves? To somehow purify this profit, and to absolve yourself of your involvement, you intend to give a portion of your money to men who are fighting to make slavery illegal in Britain and her colonies?”

“You miss my point, Doctor. I am about to profit from the preservation of hundreds of lives.”

“But you preserve those lives so that they might be sold into slavery—and your profits will come from that sale, Mr Barthe. You are, in effect, no different from an investor in a slaving expedition. Do you not see a contradiction, Mr Barthe, in making profit from selling free men into slavery and then taking some part of that profit and giving it to those who fight that terrible practise?”

“But if I do not take my rightful share, Doctor, it will be divided up among others who do not share my beliefs. No part of it will then go to the cause of abolition. How is slavery to be abolished if the anti-slavers are not supported? Printing pamphlets and renting halls for speakers costs money, sir, money that comes to the societies by donation.”

“Mr Barthe, I doubt that the abolitionists would accept money from the sale of slaves. Their principles are not so . . .
pliant
as yours.”

“Well, then I shall keep all the profits from salvaging this ship and give the anti-slaving society monies earned from my profession, Dr Griffiths. Will that satisfy them, do you think?”

“A society with the purpose of combatting prostitution will not, Mr Barthe, accept money from the owner of a brothel, no matter how it is earned!”

“You misconstrue my point, Doctor . . . Ah, here is Mr Hawthorne. Let us present our cases before him.”

“Abolitionists should not be frequenting brothels,” Hawthorne immediately offered, forcing Hayden to suppress a laugh.

“Mr Barthe is just explaining,” the doctor informed the marine, “how he will give a portion of the monies he earns from the selling of free men into slavery to the anti-slaving societies.”

“Very kind of him,” Hawthorne could be heard replying, “but I regret to inform you, Mr Barthe, that to profit from stealing away men's freedom and allowing them to be bought and sold like cattle is, well . . . reprehensible.”

“Then I should do as you both have done and refuse my share of the profits?” There was no audible reply to this, and Mr Barthe went on. “If I do this, the anti-slaving societies will receive no advantage, and I can assure you that such a decision will not aid these poor unfortunates” —(Hayden could only assume Barthe waved a hand towards the slave ship)—“in the least. I shall, by donating some of my profits, be doing more to abolish slavery than either of you. Good day to you, sirs.”

Hayden heard the sailing master stomp off.

“Is it possible he is right?” Hawthorne wondered aloud.

“Mr Hawthorne!” the surgeon chastised.

“But you do comprehend his position, Dr Griffiths?”

“Mr Hawthorne, if we were to accept Mr Barthe's argument, then why should we not finance expeditions to Africa to buy slaves, sell them across the Atlantic, and give all the profits to the anti-slaving societies? That would do much to further the cause of abolition, would it not?”

“But there is a great difference, Doctor. These slaves have already been taken from their homes and are destined for the slave markets. Unless we act to free them, which would make us all criminals and mutineers, then these poor souls will soon be plantation slaves. Their destiny
cannot be changed. We could, however, do something that is within our power—give all the profit we are to make to the abolitionists. Or perhaps we could do something more substantive and buy some men—or some families—from this very ship with our profits. Buy these people and grant them their freedom?”

“Buy slaves with the profits from the sale of slaves?”

“Buy them and free them.”

“Leave it to you, Mr Hawthorne, to take a clear moral issue and find some way to cloud it.”

The discussion came to an end at that moment, as Dr Griffiths was called away.

The ink had dried upon Hayden's quill as he listened, so he swirled it in his inkwell. He had not realised that finding this stricken ship would have such an effect. Men who had never thought much—and cared less—about the institution of slavery were suddenly forced to make decisions about it. Hayden glanced out the gallery window at the slaver bobbing in their wake, dragged bodily along as she reached the trough of each wave . . . as though the two ships were shackled together and their fates somehow commingled.

A
t sunset the sky darkened with low, fraying cloud, and, though rain spattered down upon the waters all around and the seas got up, the wind made only a little. The groundswell, however, was enough to strain the tow cable so that it parted and the slaver dropped quickly astern. To keep the lights of their tow in sight, the
Themis
was hove-to and every few hours set briefly before the wind to keep near the drifting slave ship.

Once he was assured that his lieutenants understood what was required of them, Hayden retired below to the warmth and cheer of the gunroom, for he and the ship's guests had been invited to dine that evening.

Mr Percival and the two Spaniards sat among the regular officers and warrant officers who made up the gunroom's complement. Mr Smosh, Dr Griffiths, Hawthorne, and Archer were all scrubbed and buttons polished. Ransome, who also had a cabin letting onto this small rectangle, was officer of the watch and therefore on deck.

Mr Archer was the official host of this meal, as he was the senior officer in the gunroom, and he took up this duty with a will. Plying guests with food and drink appeared to be his principal responsibility
and, at this task, he proved to be efficiency itself. All off-duty officers and guests were sufficiently jolly, Hayden observed.

Conversation had ranged widely and presently settled on the proper character for a sailor's wife.

“A large dowry, above all,” Mr Hawthorne joked.

“Nay, nay—she must be comely, so her husband shall never be tempted to stray,” Mr Smosh argued.

“What say you, Captain?” Archer enquired.

“I am the last man here to ask, Mr Archer,” Hayden replied, with a surreptitious glance at Angel. “I have been love's fool more often than I have shown wisdom in this particular matter.”

Hawthorne waved a finger in the air. “Any man who has not been a fool in love has never known the rapture and frenzy that overthrows reason. A man
reasonable
in love is but imbibing bread and water to slake his meagre appetite. He has not the devouring yearning that casts aside all pride to fill that unendurable void that has grown within.”

“Hear! To fools in love,” others echoed. Glasses were raised and a toast enthusiastically drunk.

Into the small moment of silence that followed, Mr Percival said softly, “I pity women; their passion can never be the equal of a man's.”

“Why, I should take the opposite side in such an argument, sir,” Hawthorne informed the admiral's secretary. “Women are but forced to conceal their passion, for such madness is thought unseemly in a woman.”

“Mr Hawthorne is very correct,” Angel interjected. His colour was high with wine and his words very carefully enunciated. “Why else do women flock to see
Romeo and Juliet
? It is to see a young woman's passion unleashed without fear of censure. In their secret hearts they are all Juliets who dream one day of a marriage wherein their passion might be given its head—”

“Like a wild mount between smooth thighs,” Smosh added drunkenly, and all laughed that this had come from the mouth of a parson.

When this laughter died away, Percival turned to the young
Spaniard, who was seated beside him. “Why, Angel, it would appear you are let into the secret thoughts of the fairer sex. How is it that you became their confidant?”

Angel looked somewhat uncomfortable at this question, but then replied, “Unlike many men, Mr Percival, when women talk, I attend to their words rather than merely pretend to do so.”

The admiral's secretary raised his brows a little, then turned to Hayden. “What think you, Captain?” he asked. “Who has the greater passion? Young Romeos or their Juliets?”

“I am not the pilot to have sounded the hearts of women, Mr Percival, nor do I have charts for those foreign waters. When I venture there I am but a poor sailor on a moonless night, the sea fathomless, shoals unmarked, storms and squalls unpredictable—in a few words, entirely out of my depth.”

Hawthorne turned suddenly serious. “It would appear you have more wisdom in these matters than you claim, Captain,” the marine lieutenant observed.

“The passion of Juliets is the greater,” Angel asserted.

“Even than your own manly, young passion, Angel?” Percival asked, his smile not well hidden.

Angel coloured. “I have not the experience to answer that yet.”

Archer waved a hand at the young Spaniard. “He knows so much of women though he has not
known
a woman.”

Hawthorne turned to Angel's brother. “How is it, Don Miguel, that this slip of a youth claims such knowledge of a woman's heart when he has not tasted the bitter wine that is love?”

“He has observed my follies in this matter, Mr Hawthorne,” Miguel replied. Of all present, he was clearly the furthest into his cup.

“Ah.” Hawthorne turned to Hayden. “Captain, you are playing the politician in this matter. Give us your uncensored opinion: Has Angel still a girlish heart not yet grown to manhood? Is that his secret?”

Hayden turned his goblet slowly on the table, staring into its crimson
depths. How to phrase it? “I do not think this is some affliction of youth, Mr Hawthorne. No, I think Angel is a Rosalind, with the wise, knowing heart of a woman secreted within the form of a young man.”

“A woman's heart wrapped in a tiger's hide,” Griffiths pronounced, and a toast was drunk to their young tiger.

Mr Percival yet maintained that the passion of men was greater, but in the way of conversations made slippery with wine, this one slid on to matters less serious.

It was late in the middle watch when Angel and Hayden helped a drunken and sleepy Miguel back to their shared cabin. The rolling of the ship on the long groundswell initiated a three-man trip-and-stagger that began Angel laughing and then Hayden as well. Several times Angel brushed against Hayden, and once, when the ship rolled, fell against him and lingered in that position just an instant longer than strictly necessary, pulling away with what Hayden imagined was reluctance.

Was this a young woman made bold by claret and the belief that her secret desire was hidden beneath a man's clothing? Or was it a young man? Had Hayden imagined that Angel had pressed himself to him for a second?

His own brain was a little addled by drink and the need for sleep, so his thoughts and feelings seemed to run in all directions at once.

They managed to get Miguel up the ladder by Angel pulling and Hayden pushing from behind.

At the door to Hayden's cabin, the marine sentry let them in, poorly hiding a smirk. Because of the swell, the cots swung forth and back to an uncommon extreme—though in fact it was the ship that moved and the cot which stayed nearly stationary. Even so, getting the limp Miguel into his cot was all but an impossibility. He was both deadweight and lolling, so that he constantly slipped through one's fingers. Twice they tried to manhandle him into his cot as it swung near but failed, all but dropping him to the floor. They then bent double with laughter and were forced to recover a little before a third attempt saw the job done.

With some difficulty, they removed Miguel's shoes and decided that
he must sleep in his clothes, for undressing him in a swinging hammock was both exhausting and dangerous.

Angel put a hand on Hayden's arm.

“Thank you,” he whispered, as though not wanting to disturb his brother. “I could never have managed alone.”

“It was nothing. Sleep well, Angel.”

Hayden retreated beyond the partition and into his own half of the cabin, his heart beating from the effort of manhandling the limp Miguel, or from his growing hope that Angel was in fact a young woman.

Percival had put this thought in his head, and now Hayden could not force it out. With some effort, he mastered himself and went about his nightly preparations, though sounds that he took to be Angel undressing did try to draw his thoughts onto other paths.

It took but a few moments to perform his toilet, and when he emerged from the quarter-gallery, he found Angel standing by his swinging hammock, holding the ropes that suspended one end. His hair was down and neckcloth gone.

“Does everyone know my secret?” Angel whispered.

For a few seconds Hayden did not know what to say.

“Mr Percival and myself. No one else . . .” he replied just as quietly; there was a sentry stationed outside his cabin door. He walked closer, reaching up and taking hold of a beam so that Angel was not two feet distant.

“Will he reveal it?” Angel asked.

“I do not believe he will.”

“And you . . . ?”

“Your secrets are safe with me.”

But what was Angel's secret? That he was a woman dressed as a man, or that he preferred men?

“Rosalind, you called me . . .”

“Because I have wondered if Angel was your real name—the name you were given at birth.”

A shake of the head. “No . . . I was christened Angelita but, like
Rosalind, hid my true sex away, though she called herself Ganymede, not Angel.”

The two stood, face-to-face, hardly knowing what to say—Hayden uncertain if he could believe what he had heard.

“If I had known that Mr Percival and yourself both knew my secret . . . I should have been more discreet about the passions of women.”

“That secret is safe with me as well.”

“Do you remember that Rosalind, dressed as Ganymede, helped Orlando fall out of love with another?”

“Yes, but her intention was the opposite.”

“That is so, but perhaps I might perform this same service, for I cannot bear to see you suffering.”

“Has that been your intention?”

“I—I do not know. I have been so confused. For all this time I am to be acting a man, yet I have so wanted to be a woman. To speak to you as a woman.”

“I think you have been doing just that, but I have been too obtuse to know.”

The ship rolled and Angelita lost her footing, and just as Hayden put out a hand to steady her, she put a hand against his chest. And then she pressed her face into the hollow of his neck, her breath very short.

“Does this feel strange?” she asked.

“To be honest, yes. A moment ago I was not absolutely certain you were a woman, and for a long time after you came aboard ship I believed you a young man. I confess I do not know quite what to think . . . or what to feel.”

Angelita stepped away from him now and looked up into his face. “I hope you will be able to learn to see me as I am—a woman—though no one else must ever know.”

“I swear, Angel, I will not tell a soul.”

“I am Angelita . . . but you must never say it where any other can hear. Even my brother—for he must not know that I have revealed my
secret to you. He would be very angry.” She appeared to search for words and did not meet his eye.

Outside, the wind moaned in the rigging and the seas hissed as they passed beneath.

“Charles . . . ?” Angelita whispered. “I have lied to you—more than once.”

Hayden felt a certain dread run through him.

She appeared to gather her thoughts, or perhaps to decide if she should tell him this. “My father died a few years ago and, in time, my mother remarried. I tell you most honestly that my father was very wealthy. His estates, of course, would go to my brother, but not until he comes of age. This man my mother married, he has a son about Miguel's age, but that family's estates are small compared to my father's. One night, my brother was out with his dearest and oldest friend, who was like a brother to him. They had been drinking and, on a lark, exchanged coats. As they walked home they were set upon by . . . I don't know how you say . . . by bad men. His friend was killed, but Miguel was only thrown aside and left unharmed. It was Miguel's belief that these men meant to murder him but, because of the darkness and the exchanged coats, killed his friend by mistake. They were not robbers, because they took nothing.” She closed her eyes as though she could block out the very idea of someone attempting to murder her brother. “This man, my stepfather, worked upon my mother to have her agree to marry me to his son. If Miguel was dead—
were
dead—the way would be clear to have my father's estates given to my husband. My mother would never believe that this man she married was so false, but Miguel and me . . . we had no doubt. We believed his life was in danger—Miguel's life—and I was to be married to someone I despised. So we fled . . . upon the ship of a friend of my father's, as I told you. We planned to go to our uncle—my father's brother—who we believed would protect us until Miguel came into his inheritance; once the lands were his, they would be out of the grasp of my stepfather and his son.

“We believed we were safe once we were at sea . . .” Her voice had become dry and small so that he strained to hear the words. “But during a calm—not long after we sailed—the captains of the other frigates and some officials travelling to Vera Cruz came aboard our ship to dine. One of these officials we knew—he was an associate of my stepfather. He had been to our home many times and knew Miguel and me by sight. We thought he would reveal our identities immediately, but instead he said nothing. This we found confusing. If he did not intend to reveal who we were and have us returned to Spain, what did he intend? Would he demand money? Was he not such a good friend of our stepfather as we thought? Was it a coincidence that he was on that ship? Miguel believed that it was not and that he planned to have us murdered when we reached Vera Cruz. Once we both were dead, then my stepbrother could inherit my father's estates. All that would be necessary would be for my mother to adopt him as her heir.

“We dreaded our arrival in Vera Cruz, but we did not comprehend the true danger. One evening we went forward to the . . . where the injured sleep . . .”

“The sick-berth?”

“Yes. We went there to visit a young officer who had befriended us and had the bad luck to be injured in a fall. The collision occurred while we were there. Lamps were thrown down upon the deck and shattered so that all was dark. There was a great panic, for the ship began immediately to sink. The few men in the sick-berth were borne out. Two crew men who appeared to be helping told us to stay out of the way and wait, but then, as soon as the sick-berth was empty, they turned on us with knives. We were taken by surprise, but I had a pocket pistol secreted in my jacket and shot one as he attacked me. That was his blood on my clothing. The second ran off. We made our way to the deck. There the captain put us into the boat, but Miguel was frantic with fear. You must understand—there had now been two times of men trying to kill him. There was no way to know who aboard had been sent to
murder us or how many they might be. Every man aboard seemed like a threat, so Miguel . . . he forced this man to cling to the ropes and cut us free, setting our boat adrift with only we two in it. The coxswain was hauled back aboard.” She covered her eyes, and Hayden saw tears slip between her fingers.