Under Enemy Colors by Sean Thomas Russell, Sean Russell, S. Thomas Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

Landry, a crew will be needed to raise the sheers.”
    Landry looked to the bosun, who grimaced as he spoke. “Most of the men are half seas over, Mr Hayden,” he said apologetically.
    “Drunk, I assume you mean? After the women have been put into boats, take the men who are insensible and pile them in the waist. The firemen can douse them, assuming we can find anyone sober enough to man the pump. Any able seamen who can walk a single deck plank unaided, send aft to assist Mr Franks. Everyone else will set to and clean ship.” Hayden glanced around. “This deck is a disgrace, Mr Landry.”
    “Yes, sir, I’ll have it scrubbed immediately.”
    “No, I want to keep the quarterdeck dry so we can work. Have it swept clean, and everything properly stowed. I would like to get the sheer legs up by nightfall.” He turned to the third lieutenant. “Let us make a quick inspection of the mizzen step, Mr Archer.”
    The third lieutenant and two of the mids led Hayden below, down into the darkness. The step for the mizzen proved solid, as one would expect on a ship so recently commissioned, but still something of a surprise to Hayden, given the neglect apparent everywhere. The Themis clearly had been honestly built to begin. Blessedly, the mast partners were also free of rot.
    An ugly scene awaited them when they returned to the deck. Drunken seamen struggled with the marines as the visiting women were pried bodily from their clutches. An hour’s battle was engaged, by which time the women had been slung into the boats, and the foremast hands subdued, though not without many a hard beating. There was a moment when Hayden thought the entire thing would get out of hand, and had been on the verge of ordering the armourer to fetch pistols for the officers and warrant officers.
    It took some time to subdue the mob, and then set them all to work, cleaning and stowing. The surgeon cleared his table, and the wounded were carried to him, many so drunk they did not feel their injuries and only wondered later that a seamstress appeared to have been at work upon their battered derma.
    Hayden oversaw raising the sheers, and was soon aware that Mr Franks was a sad excuse for a bosun, and his hapless mates had learned their trade from him. It said much of Hart that he could not find good men to serve aboard his ship. What young Lord Arthur Wickham was doing there was a mystery, for he came from a good and influential family.
    “You need a block for a girt line, Mr Franks,” Hayden said, as the bosun stood gazing dumbly at the recumbent mizzen mast, a horny finger scraping a scab on his ear. “Tail-tackles must be rigged fore and aft at the foot of the sheers, and the feet should stand on stout planks that span at least three beams, and four would be preferred. Shore the beams from below. Then a leading block must be positioned so we can take a line forward to the capstan.” He turned to find Landry, who stood looking on, unsure what to do. “We’ll need hands to man the capstan in about four hours, Mr Landry. Will we have enough sober by then?”
    “I’m sure we will.”
    “How goes the deck cleaning?”
    “I’ll see for myself, Mr Hayden.” The lieutenant picked his way forward, careful to get in no one’s way.
    Hayden took the measure of each man as he worked. An able seaman named Aldrich was the only man who took any initiative. He clearly had been at sea long enough to have learned his trade thoroughly, and had raised a mast before. Young Wickham was everywhere, watching, studying the way tasks were managed, holding the fall of a rope, fetching a block.
    The crews of his respective ships had long been Hayden’s special province of study, partly out of fascination with mankind in general but also because the crew was the instrument through which an officer accomplished the tasks bestowed upon him by the Lords Commissioners. Hayden had seen both good crews and bad, and spent much time considering how any given collection of men