Hayden ordered boats launched and went himself aboard the prize, anxious the entire way and searching among the Frenchmen at the rail for a sign of Angelita. As he came up the side, he found the crew gathered on the quarterdeck—a smoke-stained and beaten group who to a man appeared to bear some small wound or other. Among these downcast sailors he found both de Latendresse and Don Miguel Campillo, the latter with his arm bound in what appeared to be a bloody shirt.
“Who is the master of this vessel?” Hayden asked in French.
De Latendresse replied. “The captain was killed in the action—may God have mercy on his soul.”
May he have mercy on yours, Hayden thought.
“I am in command,” de Latendresse admitted. “I am the captain.”
“You are no officer,” Hayden said coldly. “You, sir, are nothing more than a spy. And you,” he said to Miguel, “aided this man. In good faith, I offered you my help, and you chose this course instead—to become a traitor to your own nation.”
“Better than accepting handouts from the likes of you,” Miguel replied in Spanish.
The blood drained from his face as he said this, he wavered an instant, and then slumped slowly down onto the deck. Although he looked as though he might pass into unconsciousness, no one seemed to care or even to take notice.
“Mr Wickham? See to their surrender. And Mr Gould?”
“Sir?” The midshipman stepped quickly forward.
“Will you examine Don Miguel’s wounds? God help me, he is my brother-in-law yet.” He turned his attention back to de Latendresse. “Where is Mrs Hayden? What has been done with her?”
“She is below,” de Latendresse said, and ordered a man to lead Hayden to her.
Marines went ahead with muskets at the ready, but there was no resistance, only wounded and dead lying on the ruined gun-deck, which was slippery with blood.
Hayden was taken down to the hold, where he found all the ship’s sick and hurt, lying upon barrels, but for one cot, suspended and screened off from the others by a bit of sail.
Hayden went there, unable suddenly to breathe. And there he found his bride, shiny with sweat, her beautiful face a sickly yellow hue.
“Do not come near,” she whispered. “I have the fever.”
Hayden went immediately to her side, all but collapsing down on a short stool that stood on planks by her cot. He took up her small hand, which was inhumanly hot.
“You are always a bit late,” she said, her voice so thin it was not even a whisper. “But here you are, all the same.”
“I will have Griffiths here of an instant,” Hayden told her. “He has physic for every hurt. He—”
She put up her hand to quiet him. “There is no physic that will heal this hurt . . . The true apothecary comes for me.” She closed her eyes and tears pressed between the lids, and though she made no sound, her shoulders shook.
“Is Mr Smosh nearby?” she managed after a moment.
She nodded, and then with effort whispered, “I will be buried in the religion in which we were married.”
“You are not going to die.”
“Charles . . .” she said softly, but very firmly. “That is my wish.”
Hayden found he could not speak, but nodded.
She put a hand upon his heart. “You will keep me there—I know. There, safe . . . until we are both called from our long sleep.” Tears flowed freely then. “So short was our time together in this life, but all of eternity awaits us.”