Free Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead by S. Thomas Russell Page A

quizzed the distant sail once more.
    â€œCan you tell anything of her, sir?” Archer called up.
    But Hayden could not . . . A ship, nothing more, so distant as to be invisible from the deck. “I cannot, Mr Archer. We will alter our course to intercept. Call the sail handlers, if you please.”
    â€œAye, sir,” came up from the deck.
    Hayden lingered a few moments more, his mind torn in two directions at once—wanting to consider the remarkable conversation he had just held with Percival, and drawn to this strange sail.
    He forced his mind to his duty and went down the back-stay, hand over hand.
    Archer stood waiting for him.
    â€œShall we beat to quarters, Captain?”
    â€œThe moment we have altered course, Mr Archer. Where is Mr Wickham? Send him aloft. Let us see if he can make out this ship.”
    The sail handlers hurried to their stations, but there was no panic, no pushing, despite the palpable excitement. Mr Wickham appeared and went up the mainmast, a gaggle of off-duty midshipmen tailing behind, their shiny new glasses slung over their shoulders in imitation of Lord Arthur.
    Wickham did not stop at the main-tops but climbed on until he sat astride the top-gallant yard. The ship was put on her new course, picked up her skirts and went surging over the trade-driven seas, which now struck the
Themis
abeam, sending heavy spray sometimes high into the rigging. The gun crews went to their places, but before they had cast off their guns, a call came from aloft.
    â€œOn deck!”
Wickham twisted about to find his captain. “She appears to be under jury rig, Captain. Only a stump of one mast standing.”
    Barthe had come, and stood by his captain at the rail, where they had a view of Wickham. “Is she a Navy ship, Mr Wickham?”
    â€œI cannot be certain, Captain, but I do not believe she is. Transport, more like. No flag that I can see.”
    â€œKeep your glass on her, if you please,” Hayden called up. “And be alert for any sign that she is not alone.”
    â€œAye, sir.”
    Gould stood a few feet off. “Sir? Shall I send aloft our colours?”
    â€œNot yet, Mr Gould. Have the French colours ready as well. We shall quiz this ship before we draw within range of her guns—has she any to speak of.”
    â€œAye, Captain.”
    â€œIs she the other Spanish frigate, do you think, Captain?” Bartheasked. The master stood, hands on the rail, squinting off to the sector of sea that hid this mysterious vessel.
    â€œI cannot answer that, Mr Barthe. Where is Miguel? Mr Gould, find one of our Spanish guests, if you please.”
    Gould left his flags in the care of the cherub and scurried off. A moment later he returned, herding both Angel and Miguel before him.
    â€œThe ship that struck the
Medea
,” Hayden began, trying not to stare quizzically at Angel, “was she a transport or a frigate?”
    Angel looked to Miguel. “We sailed in company with other frigates, Captain, but we did not see the ship that sank us.”
    â€œWell, we have a heavily damaged ship in the offing. I would like to know what she might be before I draw within range of her guns.”
    Miguel and Angel glanced at each other again, and Angel shrugged. “I do wish we could offer more, Captain Hayden.”
    â€œWe shall discover her origin soon enough,” he replied.
    It was, however, almost two hours before they could make her out. Hayden went forward, the only place from which this ship could be seen clearly on their point of sail.
    Having beat to quarters, almost every hand aboard had a station, but those few who had no duties gathered on the forecastle. The doctor was there, as was Hawthorne, who might range about the ship as he was needed once he had his orders from Hayden. Smosh was there as well, minus his clerical collar, as he would aid the doctor in the cockpit, should that be required, and there was terrible superstition about