Under Enemy Colors Read Free

circumstances with little hope of forward movement. It does not help your cause that we are at war with France and that you are half a Frenchman.”
    “I am an Englishman, sir. My mother is French.”
    Stephens held up his hands. “Be at peace, Lieutenant. I have recently made the argument that your parentage weighs in your favour, for I am given to understand that you have lived in that country a good many years and speak the language as a native…”
    Hayden nodded.
    “You must understand, Mr Hayden, that I am your advocate, but the prejudice of others is not easily overcome. That is why I am able to offer you only this first lieutenant’s position…at this time. It is true that I am asking you to write an account of your cruise, but certainly you would keep a journal, as a matter of course. Would you not?”
    “It is not quite the same thing, Mr Stephens, as you well know.”
    “It certainly isn’t if you choose to believe it is not. And I do admire your loyalty to the captain under whom I have proposed you serve, but sometimes loyalty to one’s own cause is not such a terrible evil. Captain Hart, you should know, has a very good understanding of this distinction.” He spread a little rectangle of paper on the table. “This is the address of one Thomas F. Banks, Esquire. My name should never appear on your letters in any way, but I will receive them all the same.”
    Hayden eyed the scrap of paper disdainfully but made no move to pick it up.
    “That is not just an address resting on my table, Lieutenant. It might be better to think of it as representing your future in the Navy. You may take it up…or you may leave it lie. I will allow you the evening to consider, but I shall require an answer by tomorrow, noon. At such time the position will be offered elsewhere.” He leaned forward and slid the paper closer to Hayden. “In case you decide in favour of a career in the Navy.”
    Hayden rose without taking the offered paper, but then found himself hesitating, hovering, as it were, over the table, eyeing the little rectangle of white overwritten in a spare hand. He knew if he left that room without it he would remove his uniform that day for the final time. His career in the Navy would be over—a decision not to be hastily made. His left hand reached out and took up the paper, slipping it quickly into a pocket. Philip Stephens had returned to his papers and appeared not to notice.

Three
    L ieutenant Hayden stood with his back to the hearth, his sodden hose steaming like kettles. The little withdrawing room—Mrs Hertle’s “Chinese Room”—seemed a bastion of warmth and good cheer that night. Outside, a summer rain battered at the pane. A gust rattled the sash. Mindful of the ancient vase, Hayden rested a damp elbow on the mantle, where a small puddle immediately formed.
    “This will set you up, Charles.” Robert Hertle passed his friend a steaming glass, the perfume of hot brandy filling the air. “Let me find you some dry hose.”
    “No, no, Robert—don’t trouble yourself. The fire will dry me presently.”
    Robert appeared unconvinced by this argument, Hayden could see, but kept his peace. The two had known each other while still in the nursery, for their fathers had been close friends. It was, in this case, not an exaggeration to say they were like brothers, though they could hardly have been less alike despite identical years—four and twenty. Hayden was as dark as Hertle was fair.
    Hayden raised his glass. “We must have a toast. To Post Captain Robert Hertle.”
    Hertle smiled modestly, pleased by his friend’s kindness, and by the gratifying warmth the words seemed to spread through his entire being. “It is undeserved, as you well know.”
    “It is richly deserved. Think of all the deadwood that made their post before you—though the Lords Commissioners set them upon the quarterdeck instead of beneath the stern, where deadwood belongs.”
    Robert laughed. “What I was trying to say