Fourteen
The island of Barbados was not blessed with a natural harbour or all-weather anchorage of any description. There was only the open roadstead off Bridgetown, which was both crowded and busy with the commerce of this small but prosperous island. This exposed anchorage had but two benefits—that of being in the lee of the island, the trades blowing from the opposite side, and of being so utterly open to the sea that sailing out, if the winds suddenly demanded it, would not be impeded by headlands or off-lying reefs.
Hayden sat upon a chair in the official room of the station’s commander-in-chief—the recently installed Admiral Benjamin Caldwell—a man Hayden had met on one or two previous occasions.
The very well-turned-out and bewigged admiral sat reading Hayden’s report of his Atlantic crossing through the glinting lenses of a pince-nez suspended by hand several inches before his face. He was half obscured behind a large desk of French manufacture, no doubt recently liberated from one of several French possessions the British had taken. When the admiral finished reading, he lowered both the sheaves of paper and the pince-nez and turned towards Hayden.
“A woman . . . ?” he said, rather astonished.
“Yes, sir.”
“The doctor had mentioned his suspicion to me, but no else.”
“You were aware of her ruse, though . . .”
“I was sharing my cabin with the guests, sir.” Hayden waved a hand at the door, beyond which lay an antechamber. “I have brought the brother here in the event that you might wish to speak with him.”
“Mmm.” The admiral demurred. His left eye appeared to twitch. “It is a matter for the Spanish, I think. It is the oddest thing that they were adrift in a boat alone, though, is it not?”
“The explanation they gave—”
“I read your report, Captain.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And they lost everything?”
“Everything but the clothes on their backs . . . and their lives.”
Caldwell gave a distracted little shake of the head—almost a tremor. “There is a merchant here, a Spaniard; not an official envoy—more of a commissioner, I suppose—but he sees to the interests of the Spanish government whenever necessary. I will bring the matter of the castaways to his attention. Perhaps he can aid them on their way to Vera Cruz.” He shifted the pages of Hayden’s report, as though shuffling the matter of the Spanish castaways to the bottom of the pile. He then rested his hands upon the table and leaned a little forward. “You were at the battle of the First, Hayden—in command of Raisonnable—were you not?”
“I was, sir.”
“But you were not in Portsmouth when the King graced the fleet with his presence?”
“No, sir. Lord Howe had dispatched me to follow the French fleet, to be certain it returned to Brest.”
“Yes . . . the fleet . . . well put. The almost intact French fleet that returned to the unassailable harbour of Brest.” He rose to his feet, his colour suddenly high. “And were we recognised for our parts in this battle, Hayden?”
Hayden was uncertain how to respond, so he made a small gesture that could be interpreted in any number of ways.
“No,” Caldwell asserted, “we were not.” He paced towards the open window, then turned back to face Hayden. “Did you see the state of my ship when the battle was done? My sails and rig cut to ribbons, masts still standing only because the hand of God held them so. Thirty-one dead and many more wounded. How many men did Lord Howe lose? And you, Hayden, I saw you in Raisonnable come to Lord Howe’s aid when he was beset by two ships, and I saw you lay your ship alongside a Frenchman with treble your weight of broadside, and did you receive a knighthood or silver plate? Or even a commemorative medal?”
Hayden made no answer—he had received such a medal but thought this an inopportune moment to mention it.
“No! Medals were reserved for His Lordship’s . . .”—he searched for words—“. . . fart catchers!” The admiral resumed pacing. “All my dead men, dead to no purpose. And what of the grain convoy? Never intercepted! The greater part of the French fleet escaped to be repaired. Seven prizes we had to show for our efforts! Seven! We should have had twenty! The truth is, and no one will say it aloud, the lord admiral’s nerve failed him at the end and the French were allowed to escape. There it is. The harsh truth, but I have said it and will not withdraw it. They are calling it ‘the Glorious First of June.’ It should be known for all time as ‘the Infamous and Shameful First of June.’ But Howe”—he pronounced the name with utter disdain—“has connexions in the Admiralty and is a hero. I have few, and it would seem I was not even present at the glorious battle. None of my men was killed or wounded, it seems, my ship untouched.” He stopped and looked over at Hayden, suddenly abashed, even embarrassed by his outburst. “Well, we are far from the Admiralty and their bumbling here, thank God,” he said more mildly. “We can prosecute our own war. And there is prize money to be had—a fortune if one is lucky and not shy . . . and if you can avoid the Yellow Jack. Spend as little time in port as you are able, Hayden. That is the secret. The healthful sea air will soon cleanse your ship of the putrid diseases that are carried off from the shore.”
“I shall keep to the sea as much as I am able, then, sir.”
Caldwell returned to his chair, and for a moment it appeared as though exhaustion had swept over him. His eyes—his entire being—seemed to lose focus. And then an almost imperceptible shiver ran through him and his concentration returned. “You are no doubt aware that we have suffered reverses of late? Guadeloupe taken and then lost . . . The Saints, the same. The Army, God bless them, have not been as stalwart as I might wish. Though it must be said that the French have had numbers everywhere. If we had only intercepted the convoy transporting their army . . . but our intelligence failed us. We were not so well informed then as presently.” He considered a moment. “I awake each morning wondering if the Spanish remain allies and praying that I might learn of their betrayal before the news reaches Havana. In these waters only the French are our enemies—but if the Dons betray us . . .” He paused a moment, considering. “We take these islands at great cost, Hayden, and what does our government do? Uses them at the bargaining table when treaties are written. Who in their right mind would trade an island rich in sugar for Quebec and the surrounding French possessions? One might as well trade a few rocks and trees for silver! Yet that is what our government did.” He shook his head, shrugged, and looked up at Hayden. “I might have need of you to transport soldiers, Hayden, but I will employ you as a cruiser as often as I am able. It is a rich hunting ground, and I am informed that you are a very capable captain.”
“I do not know who informed you, sir, but I thank them.”
There was at that moment a bustle in the office beyond. A loud voice, speaking in a heavy French accent, came reverberating through the massive doors. Caldwell glanced up at the doors and then back to Hayden. The voice rumbled on, more quietly, so that Hayden could not make out the words.
“Do you know the other captains here? Jones, Oxford, and Crowley?”
“Sir William I know by reputation,” Hayden said, referring to Captain Jones.
“Who does not . . . ?” the admiral replied, and smiled.
“Oxford not at all, but Crowley I have had the pleasure of meeting on more than one occasion.”
“You shall get on with them splendidly, I am quite certain. Not one of them is the least shy. Sir William is the senior officer and prosecutes his war with the usual zeal.”
“I shall look forward to sailing alongside them, sir.”
The admiral looked suddenly more serious, his brows drawing up so that a cleft appeared between them. “Now, Hayden, am I correct in remembering that you were recently mistaken for a French officer . . . by the French themselves?”
“That is correct, sir. When we were wrecked aboard Les Droits de l’Homme.”
“So your French is very good?”
“I speak it as well as I speak the King’s English, sir.”
“Excellent. Would you stay a few moments longer? I have the Comte de Latendresse waiting beyond the door, and his English is only a little better than my abysmal French.”
“I am at your service, sir, if I may be of assistance in any way.”
“Thank you.”
The admiral went to the great doors and opened one, revealing Miguel and a large, moustached man seated beyond. A word with his secretary and the moustached gentleman was brought in.
Caldwell gestured to Hayden as he rose from his chair. “I have asked Captain Hayden to remain with us. His French is excellent.”
“Where did you learn to speak French, Capitaine?” the man enquired.
“My mother was French. I spent much time in Brittany and Bordeaux when I was young.”
“Ah, my own family had estates in Burgundy—also great wine country. And how is it you have come to be in the King’s Navy, if I may ask?”
“My father was an English sea captain. I grew up in England.”
“Ah, that is the explanation.”
“I was acquainted with Captain Hayden’s father,” Caldwell informed the Frenchman.
“I did not know that, sir,” Hayden said.
“I cannot claim to have known him well, but we were acquainted. He was a respected sea officer.”
Hayden felt a little softening towards the admiral at this admission.
“You may speak freely before Captain Hayden,” Caldwell assured de Latendresse. “Nothing said here will be repeated.”
They all took chairs. The Frenchman perched upon his skittishly, as though he might jump up and leap out the window at any instant.
“I have just, as you know,” de Latendresse began, “returned from a dangerous fortnight on Guadeloupe. The Jacobin forces are there in greater numbers than I previously believed—at least fifteen hundred strong, I am told, perhaps more. It was very dangerous for me to move about the island. Many of my old friends had been discovered or taken away merely because their sympathies had fallen under suspicion.” He shook his head unhappily. “It was very brave of them to stay . . . though even more it was foolish.” He looked up, his eyes infinitely sad. “But some of us must take such risks if this Jacobin madness is to be defeated and a rightful monarch restored.”
“Is there not some vulnerable point,” Caldwell asked in English, “some point where we might land our troops?”
The Frenchman looked rather confused by this, and Hayden quickly translated the question. De Latendresse puffed out his lips and considered a moment before answering.
“These revolutionaries . . . they are not so foolish. They know best where their enemies might land, and these places they have invested with cannon, and, nearby, troops have made camps. You might land a force, but to carry the island . . . it would take many men, I think, for getting ashore would be very costly.”
“And what of our own islands?” the admiral asked. “Will the Jacobins attempt them, or no?”
The Frenchman shook his head slowly. “The French have no plans for further attacks this season,” he assured them. “They have not got the ships for such adventures.”
“Will they not be reinforced from France?” Caldwell asked him.
“Not this season, Admiral.”
Even this news did not cheer Caldwell; he appeared to sink a little lower in his chair with each bit of the comte’s intelligence. The conversation moved away from the strategic position of the British in that area of the Caribbean Sea and onto mundane matters, the admiral and the French nobleman enquiring about the well-being of family and friends. It seemed that the comte lived with his comtesse and several children in a large house provided by the Navy. They were without a country—castaways of a different sort—and no doubt living in fear that the French might invade Barbados.
Finally, the interview came to an end and Hayden departed, leaving Caldwell and the comte discussing who among the French exiles living in Barbados might be trusted and who might be a spy planted among them.
Hayden gathered up Miguel and the two went out into the streets of Bridgetown. The day was warm, the wind fragrant with the spicy perfume of flowers. The city itself was a-hum, tradesmen’s carts and barrows passing by, planters in their carriages and gigs, dusky-skinned slaves and freemen going about their business, and then the Creoles with their nutmeg skin and striking features—to Hayden’s eye, more handsome than either of the races that spawned them. In among these walked smiling sailors who made knuckles to Hayden as they passed. There was little danger of desertion on such a small island and the hands were commonly given leave to go ashore, to their great delight and the profit of local inns and bawdy houses.
It was but a short walk to the beach off of which the Themis lay at anchor, the stricken slave ship nearby. Hayden could see his crew at work about the ship setting aright all the wear of a long sea crossing.
Hayden explained to Miguel that the admiral would send a letter to the Spanish merchant who acted as commissioner for his government when required, and he hoped this gentleman would aid them on their way.
Miguel took this in, watching all the while where he put his feet. This news did nothing to cheer him or put his mind at rest, Hayden thought. Indeed, it almost appeared to increase his anxiety.
“This news does not appear to have cheered you, Miguel,” Hayden ventured.
“My sister told you that two members of the crew on the Spanish frigate attempted to murder us?”
“Yes.”
“I fear that this commissioner you speak of will send word to the wrong people, revealing that we are alive, and we will be in danger again.”
“And who would the wrong people be?”
“I wish I knew. Our stepfather has many allies . . . more than I realised.”
Hayden wondered how much of this fear was real and how much imagined. He did believe that there had been an attempt on Miguel and Angelita’s lives by sailors on the frigate. That would be enough to make anyone distrustful, certainly.
“The offer of my aid still stands . . .” Hayden informed the Spaniard.
Miguel stopped abruptly. “Captain Hayden,” he said curtly, his voice shaking with suppressed anger, “you do not seem to comprehend what has happened. I cannot demand you walk out with me, as you have saved my life and the life of my sister, but do not think for a moment that I approve of your actions. No, sir, I believe you have betrayed my trust and acted as a . . . a bounder. The sooner I might pry my sister from your clutches, the better. I do not want your money, sir. I want nothing to do with you at all!”
With that, the Spaniard turned and set off down the beach. How he intended to get out to the ship when he had not a penny to pay a boatman, Hayden did not know.
Hayden’s own cutter waited, drawn up on the beach, the crew lounging in the shade of a nearby tree. The coxswain soon had them up and launching the boat.
“Where is the Spanish gentleman, Captain?” the coxswain asked.
“He was detained, Childers. You may return for him in one hour.”
“Aye, sir.”
As he was rowed out to his boat over water so clear he felt he sailed through the air, Hayden realised that the slaver was sending its human cargo ashore in lighters, some of the poor people so weakened and ill that they had to be helped down into the boats. The sight so distressed him that he had to turn away.
What else could I do? he thought. I could not leave them to drift in the Atlantic.
Yet the sight of them being carried ashore to be sold made it very clear that he had participated in this shameful trade. He had towed these poor creatures to Barbados and to a life of slavery. The truth that he could do nothing else without breaking the law was of little comfort.
Hayden clambered up the side of his ship, spoke briefly with the lieutenant who was officer of the watch, and then went below to his cabin, where he found Angelita sitting in a chair near the open gallery windows, her head bent over an open book. She looked up as Hayden came in and a joyous smile set her cheeks aglow.
“Charles!”
“My dear, you are up. Has the doctor allowed it?”
“Yes. I am following his very orders.” She rose from her chair stiffly and slowly for one so young. Her page was marked with a ribbon and the book placed gently on the seat, then, pushing on the back of the chair, she stood more or less erect, a grimace then a smile of determined triumph crossing her face.
Hayden began towards her, but she held up a hand to stay his progress.
“Let me cross to you. I am to walk about the cabin a little today.” Moving more like a puppet than a supple young woman, she made her way slowly across the six or seven paces that divided them and nearly collapsed against him.
Hayden put his arms about her lightly, so as to apply no pressure to her injured side. The feeling of her in his embrace, pressed against him, was intoxicating, and he breathed in the scent of her hair as though it were the finest perfume. The idea that she would soon be gone caused him such a feeling of loss that he could hardly bear it.
“The instant your brother believes you can be taken safely ashore he will have it done,” Hayden whispered.
“Then I should be back in my cot . . . immediately.”
Hayden told her that Miguel remained ashore for an hour and then relayed to her their conversation.
“He is trying to act in the place of my father, but I would rather he remained a brother,” she said quietly. “If we do not accept help from you, Charles, then who will it come from, and at what price?”
“The admiral tells me there is a Spanish merchant here who acts on behalf of the Spanish government when required. Admiral Caldwell promised he would write this man a letter. And certainly you could write to your uncle and ask him for aid?”
She pulled away from him so quickly that she was wracked by a spasm of pain. Finally, it faded enough that she was able to look up at him. “This merchant, he would write to my mother; I have no doubt of it. And then our whereabouts would become known to my stepfather. We cannot have this happen, Charles. I believe we would be in danger again—mortal danger. As to our uncle—he does not know we are fleeing to him. We planned to come to his house unannounced and plead our case before him. If he believed us, and we think he should, then he would not betray us to my mother. We dare not write to him lest he misunderstand and alert my stepfather where we are.”
Hayden nodded as she nestled into him again.
“Will you send me away, then?” she asked in a small voice.
Hayden took a long deep breath and leapt. “Not if I can prevent it by any means short of a duel. But your brother will never consent to us marrying.” There . . . it had been said. There was no other way to keep her near without compromising her honour, and he would not let her go. That much was clear to him.
She pressed closer at these words. “Did I hear you ask for my hand, Captain Hayden?”
“I must get down on one knee to ask for your hand, officially.”
“Is that how it is done in England?”
“Yes. Is it not so in Spain?”
“In my country it is all arranged between families.”
“I do not believe our families, such as they are, will agree, so we must find another way . . . Are you weeping?”
“With happiness . . .” She did then bury her face in his chest and wept silently a moment.
“You should be back in your cot,” Hayden said when she appeared to recover from this excess of emotion. “You have been up and about enough for one day.”
Hayden aided her in every way, and not without considerable pain, she was settled again in her cot.
“Do we need my brother’s consent here?” she asked. “I do not know the laws.”
“Your brother’s consent . . . ? I am not certain. You cannot marry without your parents’ consent until you are one and twenty. And you are but twenty, you tell me?”
“Yes, until six months.”
“I will investigate. There might be a Presbyterian church here, and the Scots are more lenient in these matters.”
Hayden sat and held her hand awhile, talking of small things: the town, his meeting with the admiral. There was something odd about the meeting that he had not been able to comprehend until he began to speak of it aloud.
“The royalist who came in—this comte—he told me his family estates were in Burgundy, but his accent, though very faint, was not quite right. It was the way he said ‘dangereux.’ I have only heard it pronounced so in the south—in parts of Languedoc.”
“Why would he not tell the truth?”
“Perhaps he is not who he claims, my dear.”
“If that is so, then perhaps he is neither noble nor a royalist,” she said softly.
“That is my fear, especially as he appeared to have the admiral’s complete trust.” Hayden considered a moment. “Ask your brother his impression of this man; he sat and conversed with him in the antechamber for some time.”
“The accent, you would know better than Miguel, but manners . . . We are both very familiar with the manners and attitudes of the French aristocrats, as so many fled to our country. I will ask him.”
Angelita began then to nod and muttered an apology for this before she fell asleep. Hayden went to his table and began looking over his stores lists. The ship would need to be victualled and watered before she could go to sea, and he wanted to be ready the moment he received orders.
However, even though he tried to fix his mind upon his stores lists, it would not be so confined. He had entered into an understanding with a young Spanish woman he knew hardly at all. Had he gone mad? He did not feel the least mad, but only a growing excitement and deepening affection. Her family, of course, would never approve. He was not certain his own mother would think it wise. But he felt so . . . at peace with her. He felt as though the sun had miraculously risen on a perpetual twilight and he was only now becoming aware that he had been living in near-darkness. It was the intimacy, the growing trust, the shared secrets that charmed him. Just the knowledge that she was sleeping nearby filled him with delight.
Well, Hayden thought, I am not the first man to be a fool in love.
When he had been at his paperwork an hour, Miguel returned, opening the door quietly.
Hayden indicated, silently, that Angelita slept. Miguel nodded. It was an odd association that had grown up between the two men; they were utterly divided over the connection between Hayden and Angelita, but united in their concern for her. This led to a strange and uncomfortable alliance, not so much of convenience as concern. Given that Miguel had informed Hayden several times that he wished to shoot him—and he meant this in its most literal sense—it seemed strange that they could cooperate in any way, but when it came to Angelita’s recuperation, they did.
Hayden forced himself to attend to his paperwork a little longer but then came to a decision and slipped out in search of Midshipman Lord Arthur Wickham, whom he found teaching spherical geometry to the cherub in the midshipman’s berth.
“Mr Maxwell,” Hayden addressed the new middy. “I need to have a word with Mr Wickham, if you please.”
The midshipman retreated quickly, leaving captain and protégé alone.
Wickham awaited whatever was to come with his usual uncanny focus.
“Mr Wickham, I should like to send you ashore on an errand of some delicacy . . .”
“Aye, sir.”
“I wish to know if there is a Scots Presbyterian church or priest of that faith on this island.”
“Certainly, sir,” Wickham replied without blinking. “When should I begin?”
“Immediately, Wickham.”
“Aye, sir. I shall go ashore this instant.”
“And Wickham . . . ?”
“Sir?”
“Not a word of this to anyone. Anyone at all.”
“You may count on my utter discretion, sir.”
“That is why I have asked you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Without another word or a single question, the young man hurried off.
Hayden then went in search of Reverend Smosh, whom he found instructing the ship’s boys—a task he had taken on with great relish. Hayden thought that if there were any among them with the least academic inclination, they would be prepared to go up to Oxford in but a few short years.
“Mr Smosh, might I interrupt your dissertation for but a moment?”
“Certainly, Captain,” the chaplain replied, then turned to his students. “Read on—one paragraph each, aloud—then pass the book to the next.”
Hayden and Smosh spent a moment finding a place to speak privately, and there the corpulent little minister stood, awaiting the captain’s pleasure.
“Mr Smosh, I might have need of your services—to perform a marriage ceremony.”
“Which service I should do most happily. Who, might I enquire, are the happy couple?”
“Myself, Mr Smosh, and Doña Angelita.”
Smosh hid any surprise he might have felt. “Ah. Is it possible, Captain, given this young lady’s nationality, that Doña Angelita is a member of the Church of Rome?”
“She is prepared to become a member of the Church of England.”
“Which of course is not something that can be accomplished overnight. Is there any reason to hasten such a union?”
“Not the usual reason but, in this case, a disapproving brother.”
“I see. So she would have to become a member of our church in some haste?”
“Mere minutes, I suspect.”
“Ah . . . well . . . I might enquire if she is a member of the Church of England, and if she were to answer in the affirmative, I would have no way of discovering if that were the truth or no.”
Hayden nodded. Smosh was not given to making decisions by the book—any book.
“Doña Angelita is of age?” he then asked. “That is to say, one and twenty or older?”
“I only have her word on this matter. Her brother, who opposes the marriage, would likely claim she was not.”
“I believe in this case that I would accept the lady’s word if my captain were to assure me it is true.”
“She is one and twenty, I am quite certain. Do we require a licence?”
“I can provide the licence. When would these nuptials take place, if I may ask?”
“Soon, but I must get her brother ashore first.”
Smosh nodded, and looked down at the deck a moment. “I wonder if this gentleman’s propensity to drink himself senseless might provide an opportunity.”
“Reverend Smosh, whatever are you suggesting?”
“It is merely an observation, Captain, that in the brief time he has been aboard, this Spanish gentleman has drunk himself into a stupor on more than one occasion. I suspect a man of such dissolute habits might find himself in a similar state again, given half an opportunity. If he were to fall into properly convivial company . . .” His eyes lost focus and he appeared to consider. “A certain officer of marines comes to mind . . .” The priest shrugged his heavy shoulders.
Hayden thanked the priest and went in search of Hawthorne.
“I thought you would be ashore, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said when he found the marine officer in the gunroom with a disassembled pistol lock laid out on a square of linen.
“I have been ashore and plan to return there on the morrow, if my captain will give me leave.”
“I believe he might be prevailed upon to allow that.” Hayden made a gesture to the cabins that lined both sides of the gunroom.
“We are alone,” Hawthorne informed him.
Hayden took a seat and leaned over the table to speak quietly.
“I wonder if it might be possible to get Don Miguel senseless with drink this evening.”
“I wonder if it is possible to stop him, given that wine is provided; the man has not a sou to his name.” Hawthorne regarded his commander. “Does the reason for this proposed drunkenness involve a young lady?”
“Indeed. Smosh would marry Doña Angelita and myself, but her brother will not allow it.”
“Ah. It is likely not my place to question my captain, but is this a somewhat precipitous marriage?”
“Entirely . . . and I do not care. Neither does she.”
Hawthorne nodded, his face very serious. He considered only a moment. “I might have need of involving others. Mr Archer, Barthe, perhaps Wickham . . . Ransome, possibly.”
“Involve who you will, but word must not reach Miguel or our opportunity will be lost.”
“I shall exercise all care. We must have a supper in the gunroom to celebrate our successful crossing—an ancient tradition of His Majesty’s Navy.”
“Ancient traditions are to be upheld at all costs.”
“I agree. Leave this matter to me, Captain. Give it not another thought.”
Hayden rose to his feet. “Mr Hawthorne, were it within my power, I would make you captain of marines.”
“If it were within my power, sir, I should make you Admiral of the Blue. But only because I have grown rather tired of red.” He glanced at his coat.
Both men laughed, and it was not at their wit.
In a few moments Hayden was pacing back and forth across the quarterdeck by the transom, his excitement barely contained. Was he really about to marry? That very evening? Given how long he had known the prospective bride, he thought he should feel some trepidation, some doubts. He felt neither. And that seemed almost as remarkable as the fact that he was about to become a husband.
Henrietta came to mind at that moment. Was this headlong rush into matrimony a result of his failed suit for Henrietta Carthew? Had he hesitated because he had doubts about marriage to Henrietta, as his friend Robert Hertle always believed? Or had he shown wisdom then and was acting the fool now? He did not know. He was not about to let Angelita escape. He knew, somehow, that he would regret it the rest of his days if he did so. The rest of his days.
“As I regret the loss of Henrietta,” he whispered, as he stopped to look over the side. “I shall not make the same mistake a second time.”
Miguel accepted the gunroom’s invitation, though Angelita deemed herself not recovered enough to attend. The gunroom’s occupants were all present, as were Hayden and the senior midshipmen. It was a convivial atmosphere, though close, with only a little breath of air whispering down the gunroom skylight, which was itself under the cover of the quarterdeck.
“A toast to our crossing, gentlemen,” Mr Hawthorne proposed, holding aloft his claret glass. The marine was sitting next to Miguel and had taken on the duty of keeping the Spaniard’s glass fully charged.
The toast was drunk, and it was not the first. The King’s health had been toasted earlier, sitting, as was the custom in the gunroom, with its low deck-head. The health of wives and sweethearts had been drunk to, with only a few half-hidden smiles showing. The successful passing through the gale was toasted, as was Miguel and his sister’s miraculous survival.
“We have not drunk to the health of our steadfast ally, the King of Spain,” Barthe offered.
That ruler’s health was toasted. And then that of his Queen.
However, despite these quantities of claret, Miguel seemed terribly and inconveniently sober, as though he had sworn that very day to curb his drunkenness. Hayden was of the opinion that several of his officers were further into their cups than the Spaniard.
Griffiths glanced his way and made a small shrug with his narrow shoulders. He rose to stoop beneath the beams. “I beg your indulgence, gentlemen, but I must take advantage of this momentary pause between courses to look in briefly on a patient.” The doctor stooped out, leaving the chair to one side of Miguel empty.
The atmosphere in the gunroom was certainly jolly, as Hayden had hoped, but it seemed to him to have a forced quality to it, an edge of anxiety, perhaps. He could not say whom Hawthorne had taken into his confidence, other than Barthe and Archer. Several others had concocted “toasts” that would not normally have been heard in the gunroom, so perhaps his secret was concealed from no one present.
The evening wore on, wine flowing with a liberality which, even safely at anchor, one seldom saw in the Themis’ gunroom—or perhaps any other gunroom. Miguel, however, was hardly more than mildly inebriated, and nowhere near drunk enough to pass into unconsciousness, as he had more than once since being discovered drifting in the Atlantic.
Hayden’s emotions swung wildly from trepidation to almost unendurable excitement and then to worry that his marriage could not take place because Miguel remained stubbornly sober.
The doctor returned, the next course served, glasses filled, conversation engaged in. A song was proposed and sung as the servants cleared away. Hayden noted the doctor filling Miguel’s glass, after which Griffiths nodded to Hayden, for what reason the captain could not say.
Yet another course, after which Hayden thought Miguel looked distinctly groggy, his eyes fluttering closed and then snapping open. He slumped lower in his chair and, finally, if not for Hawthorne and the surgeon, would literally have slipped under the table.
The doctor took the Spaniard’s pulse and nodded, apparently satisfied. He then pointed long fingers at Miguel’s glass. “This must be disposed of, and not drunk by anyone,” he instructed.
“I will see to that, Dr Griffiths,” Wickham offered, taking up the glass with some care.
“Whatever did you put in it?” Hawthorne asked the surgeon.
“A mild soporific. He will wake in the morning refreshed and without any ill feelings.”
“Lest they be towards his new brother-in-law.” The marine turned to Hayden. “How shall we proceed?”
Hayden rose to his feet. “First I must up to my cabin to wake Angelita, if she sleeps, and then ask for her hand.”
Hawthorne almost reeled back, and everyone else froze where they stood. “You have not asked for the maiden’s hand?”
“Her brother was always hanging about.”
Hawthorne glanced around at the others. “Well, what if her answer is no?”
Hayden shrugged. “Then I suppose the wedding must be called off.”
“My God, sir, I do hope you are confident of her answer.” Barthe was as incredulous as Hawthorne.
“Is one ever perfectly confident, Mr Barthe?”
Barthe shrugged, lumbered into his cabin, and quickly reappeared, bearing a package wrapped in plain paper, which he proffered to Hayden. “In the event that she accepts you . . .” he said.
“What is it?” Hayden asked, as he reached out to take the offering.
“A dress. It was meant for one of my daughters, but I think she will give it up in this cause. If it is not a proper fit, tell me; I have daughters of all heights and proportions.”
As Hayden began for the door, Hawthorne barred his way. The marine held out his hand, and upon his palm lay a plain gold ring.
“Where did you find this?”
“Some gold coins were donated—the blacksmith forged it on short notice.”
Hayden could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“You should keep it in your pocket, Mr Hawthorne. And thank you. Thank you all.”
Up the ladder to the gun-deck, past the marine, and into his cabin. He deposited the package on a chair and found Angelita in her cot, reading by lamplight.
“Captain Hayden!” she said, as always delighted to see him appear. “But where is my brother?”
“Asleep, and not likely to wake before morning. I have come to ask you a question, but I fear you must rise from your sick-bed to hear it.”
She laid her book aside with such haste it almost tumbled to the cabin sole. “If you will steady my cot and give me your hand . . .” Gingerly, but without hesitation, she swung her legs over the side and lowered herself to her feet. For a nightgown she wore one of Hayden’s shirts, with the sleeves severely reefed. It fell to her knees.
“There, I am on my feet. What is this question?” she asked, and looked suddenly as frightened as a child.
Hayden took her hand and went down on one knee. Her other hand went to her mouth.
Hayden took a calming breath. “Doña Angelita, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
The tiniest little gasp, and then tears. A whispered, breathless, “Yes. Above all things, yes . . .”
Hayden rose to his feet, and she favoured him with the sweetest kiss he had ever known.
“But when?” she asked, drawing far enough away to bring his face into focus. “My brother will never allow it.”
“This very night. Mr Smosh has agreed to perform the ceremony. He will ask you two questions. Are you one and twenty or older, and are you a member of the Church of England. You must answer yes to both. Can you do that?”
“To be your wife I would tell a thousand lies. But where? Is there a church nearby?”
Hayden waved a hand around his cabin. “This will be our church. I know it is very modest, and we do not have a special licence, but we do have a licence, and within the hour, we can be man and wife.”
She looked around. “It will be a perfect church. It lacks only my family and all who are dear to me.” She turned back to Hayden. “But you will be here, and you will be my family now.”
They embraced, though with care to her injured side.
“I have something for you . . . a gift from the sailing master, Mr Barthe.”
Hayden took up the package and put it into her hands. The ribbon was quickly untied, and inside was a lovely, pale cream dress; simple yet beautiful, Hayden thought.
She held it up in the lamplight.
“Perhaps not the wedding gown of which you have always dreamed,” Hayden said softly.
“As long as you are the groom, I would wear a sack. It matters not at all. Tell Mr Barthe it is a most beautiful gown.” She grinned at Hayden. “The most beautiful I presently possess.”
She retreated to dress and put up her hair. Hayden, already in clean linen and dress coat, took up a brush and swept away any dinner crumbs. He examined himself nervously in a mirror and concluded he would do.
Angelita was not gone half of an hour but reappeared with her hair held up in the ribbon that had closed Mr Barthe’s package. A knock sounded at his door, and Hayden opened it a crack to find Hawthorne, and hanging back behind him in the dim light, his steward, several midshipmen, and hands, all bearing burdens hardly discernible in the dim light.
“What is the verdict, sir?”
Hayden suspected his marine guard had overheard and the news was already known.
“The best possible, Mr Hawthorne: guilty of aspiring to matrimony and sentenced to a lifetime of it.”
The marine broke into a grin. “May I be the first to say ‘Congratulations,’ sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Hawthorne.” Hayden waved at the men lingering behind. “What is all this, then?”
“Whenever it is convenient, Captain,” Hawthorne said, “we have come to ready your cabin for a wedding.”
Angelita had crept up, and peered around Hayden’s shoulder.
“Are you ready for our guests?” Hayden asked of her.
She looked rather confused. “If it is the English way . . .”
Hayden beckoned the men in. In a blink, the screens were taken down, cots and furniture removed, lanterns hung and lit, flowers arranged, a simple altar created. Mr Smosh gave directions here, and Mr Hawthorne there. A constant stream of men went in and out, and beyond, on the gun-deck, Hayden could see the hands gathering and talking quietly among themselves.
“It would appear word has got out, sir.” Archer nodded to the crew collecting along the deck. “The gunroom servants must have let it slip, sir.”
Wickham came in the door at that moment. “Sir, the hands have learned you are to marry this very hour and they have charged me to ask if they will be allowed to attend the ceremony.”
“Where did they ever get such an idea?” Ransome answered before Hayden could speak. “You may inform them that they may not!”
There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Angelita said softly, “But they have all been so kind to me . . . Is it not acceptable . . . ?”
“It simply is not done,” Hayden replied, “but then, we are far from the shores of both England and Spain . . .” He hesitated a moment and then turned to his first lieutenant. “Let us take down this bulkhead, Mr Archer.”
Mr Hale and his mates had the bulkhead down in a trice, and the cabin now opened onto the gun-deck, where the men all stood, grinning and speaking quietly among themselves. Mr Smosh had a brief, whispered conversation with Angelita, which concluded happily, Hayden assumed, by the looks upon their faces. A few more moments of buzzing about, and then Mr Smosh called out for order and the hands quickly removed their hats and stood silent as penitents at the final judgement.
Smosh stood before the opened gallery windows with the starlit waters beyond. He glanced once at Hayden, who gave a small nod, and the parson began.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy Matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God . . .”
The words, which Hayden knew almost by heart from his attendance at weddings, flowed over him like an incoming tide and bore him onward. He glanced at his bride, standing not two feet distant, almost a-tremble with suppressed excitement, and he felt a peace descend upon his heart and his mind, as though all doubt and conflict and worry had been washed away by the words of the chaplain, and he stood there, made anew.
“Therefore, if any man can shew any just cause, why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter forever hold his peace.”
Smosh waited a respectful moment and, when no one spoke up, continued.
“I require and charge you both, as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement when the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed, that if either of you know any impediment, why ye may not lawfully be joined together in Matrimony, ye now confess it.”
There was, Hayden thought, the matter of her age, and perhaps her religion . . . But neither of them “confessed,” and Smosh went quickly on.
“Captain Charles Saunders Hayden, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt though love her, comfort her, honour and keep her in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as thou both shall live?”
“I will,” Hayden answered clearly, his words echoing strangely along the open gun-deck.
Smosh turned to Hayden’s betrothed. “Doña Angelita Campillo, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour, and keep him in sickness and in health; and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as thou both shall live?”
“I will,” Angelita answered, her voice somehow filled with wonder.
Smosh then spoke to the congregation. “Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?”
As agreed, Mr Barthe, who was the father of daughters and the eldest present, performed this office.
Hayden and Angelita then turned to face each other, and he took her right hand in his.
Smosh then said to Hayden, “I, Charles Saunders Hayden . . .”
“I, Charles Saunders Hayden,” the captain of the ship repeated.
Quickly, it was Angelita’s turn, though, Hayden thought, she had hardly the breath to manage.
The ring was passed from Mr Hawthorne to Hayden, who placed it on the open book in Smosh’s hand. It was then returned to Hayden, who slipped it onto the wedding finger of his bride’s left hand.
“With this ring,” Smosh said softly, and Hayden repeated.
“With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with my worldly goods I thee endow. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
Hayden and his bride knelt.
“Let us pray.” Smosh spoke to all the men congregated there. “O eternal God, creator and preserver of all mankind . . .” When he had finished, he joined Hayden and Angelita’s right hands together. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
He then, in the common way, pronounced them man and wife and blessed them.
Hayden and Angelita rose to their feet and the entire gathered crew and guests sang Psalm 128, their voices no doubt echoing around the entire anchorage. Given that it was not the Lord’s day, this would surely give them something of a reputation as a pious ship.
“Three cheers for Captain and Mrs Hayden!”
And the men cheered as though they had just defeated all the French that ever were.
Hayden and his bride held hands, suddenly wondering what they were to do now.
Another song was sung, this one more sailorly but no less heartfelt. The hands went down to the lower deck then, to continue their celebration, and Hayden’s cabin was quickly reassembled and the table laid for a light supper, as a traditional wedding breakfast would not answer at that hour.
It seemed passing strange to Hayden to sit at a table with his bride—his bride!
And yet he felt a warmth of happiness and amity come over him so that he thought he must be aglow with it, as surely his bride appeared to be.
The supper lasted barely an hour, and his guests went happily and quietly out. Hayden’s servant and steward assisted the carpenter, who made a low platform of two grates. Upon this they made as sumptuous a bed as they could manage, and then they too disappeared.
Hayden waved a hand at the arrangement. “It is a modest marriage bed, I fear.”
Angelita came near, and he put his arms around her.
“It is the bride who is supposed to fear the marriage bed . . .” she whispered, “or at least feel some small anxiety.”
“And are you anxious, my dear?”
For a moment she did not speak, but then said very softly, “We have taken a great leap of faith together; we shall see where we land. Softly, I hope.”
“As softly as we can.”