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

could become either one or the other. He’d seen bad crews evolve into the most willing under the tutelage of good officers, and he had witnessed an apparently willing crew turn sour and froward by the introduction of a single foremast hand. He thought of a crew as being like gunpowder, a mixture of elements that, in the right proportion, produced the desired effect, but in the wrong proportions was of no use whatsoever. The greater the proportion of experienced seamen, especially those who had fought in several actions, the better, for these men would be looked up to by the younger and less experienced Jacks, and their manner and habits emulated. Hayden could see few if any such men among the crew of the Themis , and this was a cause of some concern.
    “Damn your worthless hide, Manning,” Hayden heard one of the hands mutter, “take up the strain on that line. Put your fat arse into it.”
    To Hayden’s great surprise, some pushing ensued among the men, and Franks, the bosun, took up his rattan, which brought order, though the damning and muttering continued.
    Stepping back, Hayden asked a servant for water, and stood observing the crew muddle through their work. It was not just the spirit of cooperation that was lacking; the men appeared to actively thwart one another, moving to impede another’s efforts, tossing a marlin spike beyond the reach of the man who required it, watching men struggle with some task that clearly required more hands, yet not jumping to and aiding where a willing crew would. Hayden also observed men labouring at some chore too great for them but never asking help—knowing none would be forthcoming, he suspected. Dark looks and glares, mouthed curses and warnings, jostling a man precariously balanced. He had never seen the like. He wondered if Philip Stephens had any idea what went on aboard this unlucky ship.
    Aldrich appeared to have his acolytes—men who deferred to him, who seemed to surround him almost protectively—yet it appeared he did not desire to be placed in such a position. Gently, he turned aside all attempts to raise him up or to distinguish him in any way—a curious phenomenon to the new first lieutenant, who was quite aware that he himself had always craved responsibility and recognition.
    He reminded himself that among this gathering of men, there was at least one murderer, and, witnessing the animosity that existed between the hands, it no longer surprised him.
    The officers’ orders were heeded to the least degree possible—the smallest increase in disrespect and negligence would have seen the crew-men flogged, but they had found the greatest degree of insolence that the officers would tolerate and this was now their habitual manner.
    Doffing his coat and hat, Hayden weighed into the fray, attempting to bring order to the confusion. Usually he enjoyed such a challenge, but among these men, and the palpable hostility, he felt like a stage actor pretending to be at ease, to relish the task at hand. In the past he had often found that his enthusiasm would spread to others, but these men did not seem to notice and treated him with suspicion if not hostility.
    Hayden had detailed a large sailor to make up the lashing that bound the head of the sheers, but soon realized neither the man’s skills nor his inclination were equal to the task.
    “What is your name?” Hayden asked him.
    The man raised a large, pock-marked face, all nose and brow. “Stuckey, sir. Bill Stuckey.”
    Hayden guessed Stuckey was fourteen and a half stone, or thereabout, and taller than he by a good three inches. Ill-fitting slops, sweat-soaked, clung to his torso, and out the end of his sleeves thrust big, turnip fists.
    “I will make up the lashing with you, Stuckey, for it is, I think, a task new to you.”
    The man rose and stepped back. Around them the work stopped. “I’m a landsman,” the big man drawled, “taken from my chosen profession and forced aboard this bloody ship.” Stuckey eyed