Under Enemy Colors by Sean Thomas Russell, Sean Russell, S. Thomas Russell

him insolently. “The sea is not my calling nor will I have it be… sir .”
    Hayden faced the man full-on, despite the disparity in size, aware that everyone watched. “I am pleased to hear it, Stuckey, for I am always on the lookout for a man to perform the myriad labours that are beneath the skills of seamen. You will begin by cleaning the heads.”
    Hayden turned back to the gathering of men, all of whom had stopped their work to stare silently. “Where is the bosun?” Hayden called out.
    The broken-nosed bosun stood up from among the men crouched over their work.
    “Mr Franks,” Hayden said evenly, “have one of your mates follow Mr Stuckey with a knotted rope. If he is not about his work with a will, he should be started, sharply.”
    “For how long, sir?” the bosun asked, looking perplexed.
    “As long as it takes, Mr Franks.” Hayden turned back to the big landsman. “When you are ready to learn your new trade, Stuckey, come and speak to me. Now be about your duties.” Hayden turned away as one of the bosun’s mates approached, knotting a rope.
    Hayden would assign the man the most back-breaking work on the ship as well as the most demeaning. Two days would either see him come to Hayden asking to learn his trade or he would become completely insubordinate and require flogging. But Hayden had run up his flag for the men to see. Now to convince them that he was both fair and reasonable, for it was not enough to be severe, not if one was to earn the crew’s respect—and no officer could expect to govern for long without it.
    The men applied themselves to their tasks with renewed energy after that, and by nightfall, the sheers were raised and guyed in place, like a great, inverted V standing on the quarterdeck. Block and tackle and brute strength saw the mast positioned, ready to be raised. Hayden was confident they would get it in before the next day was very old.
    He dined that night with the gunroom mess and invited guests. Mr Franks was so fagged by his afternoon’s effort that he perpetually nodded at the table, much to everyone’s amusement.
    “There was one among them that could take on any man aboard,” laughed Hawthorne, the marine lieutenant. “Laid out Smithers with a single blow. I think we should have kept her. Could lead a boarding party, that one. The French would not stand against she!”
    The assembled men laughed.
    “Will you not take a little wine, Mr Barthe?” Hayden asked, noting that the sailing master’s glass had not been filled.
    The laughter dried up like paint in the sun, though a few half-suppressed smiles—smirks, in truth—remained.
    “I hope you will forgive me if I do not, Mr Hayden,” Mr Barthe replied evenly. “You see, I have taken a vow of temperance from which, for all my honour, I dare not deviate…though it causes much amusement to certain of my messmates.” Smiles were further suppressed around the table. Barthe went on. “You need not be concerned, Mr Hayden; I will not be pressing temperance pamphlets upon you or recommending the works of Hannah More. It is entirely a personal matter. A defect in my character will not allow me to partake of strong drink, even wine or ale, without the most disastrous consequences. I hope you will forgive me, therefore, if I toast with plain water. No disrespect is meant.”
    “By all means, Mr Barthe, forgive me for even bringing up the subject.”
    “No need. I tell my fellows in the gunroom to make not the slightest allowance for my vow. Partake as usually you would and never for a moment worry about the effects of this upon me. To be always coddled and have our people drinking away from me would deprive me of much good company and in the end I would be only the weaker for it, for one must learn to resist temptation. One must drill just as men do at the guns. The longer I resist, the stronger I become.”
    The small clatter of cutlery on china, glasses raised and returning to the table.
    “Did you see much