Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Hawthorne shook his head.

  They would be a hungry lot if they were forced to sail back to Dominica, but as long as they had water they would survive – it was not ten leagues to the northern tip of that island. They could easily sail it overnight on the usual trade.

  The river, it turned out, was used to transport goods to the plantations upriver and produce back down to the bay. A constant traffic of overloaded boats passed to and fro, the boatmen chattering or singing. None noticed anything unnatural in the cluster of lowhanging branches fifty yards up the side channel.

  The tide went out so that the boats sank into the soft bottom, with only a few inches of water lapping their planking. The morning wore on, growing more hot and muggy by the moment. Hayden had almost finished his watch when he heard the sound of laughter – a young woman’s laughter.

  The voice of a man speaking some patois reached them, coming nearer and nearer. Hayden cocked his pistol and stayed ready. But the voices stopped just short and a soft cooing reached them, unmistakable even if one did not comprehend the language. Very soon this was followed by the sounds of love: sighs and moans and sweet endearments.

  One by one the sleeping sailors woke and were signalled to silence by the others. It seemed to go on for an impossibly long time and Hayden could sense the arousal and frustration of the men around him. Finally, the affair was brought to a satisfactory, and rather high-pitched, conclusion. It was then followed by prolonged teasing and giggling. Just when Hayden thought the amorous couple might set in for a second go came the sounds of them rising to their feet, brushing off and pulling on discarded clothing. They set off then, back through the trees, and the sailors all appeared to break into grins at once. Hayden motioned the men to silence or there would no doubt have been many volleys of bawdy jests passing back and forth. As it was, there was some stifled laughter.

  One of the men stirred Bamfield, who had been wounded in the taking of the brig, but the man could not be woken. Gould crawled over the hands lying in the bottom of the boat and felt for a pulse or for signs of Bamfield breathing. The midshipman turned to Hayden and shook his head, looking suddenly pale.

  They covered the dead man’s face with his own jacket, and the others inched away from him, especially the wounded. Hayden feared the man would begin to smell horribly, and wondered if they should not weight his body with stones and sink him there in the backwater. The sun ascended into the blue and, despite their situation, Hayden found himself nodding and fighting to stay awake. When his watch ended, he curled up in the hard bottom of the boat and was asleep instantly.

  It was, for Hayden, the usual jumble of dreams: Angelita coming to his swaying cot by night; a storm sweeping across Barbados, lightning revealing the palms bent worshipfully low; Henrietta reading a letter in a garden, face pale and drawn; and Hayden running … running through a forest, looking back, pursued by something terrifying.

  Twenty

  The two ships hove-to not fifty yards apart, and Archer and Barthe were carried across the small divide by cutter. The day had dawned clear and bright, the translucent blue sea rolling by. To the south-west lay the island of Guadeloupe, so vibrantly green it appeared almost to glow.

  Archer and Barthe clambered up the side of the ship and were ushered quickly down to the captain, Sir William Jones, who sat at his table without a jacket, poring over some papers. He did not look the least distressed by the events of the previous night.

  ‘Ah. Mr Archer. Mr Barthe, I believe? Would you take a glass of wine with me?’

  Neither was the least inclined to, but they could hardly refuse. Wine was duly poured.

  ‘Captain Jones,’ Archer said then, ‘what in the world happened last night that we lost our captain and shipmates?’

  ‘It was the damndest thing, Archer,’ Jones told him, as they all took seats. ‘We made our way into the bay, silent as snakes, and there at anchor we discovered a large convoy and their escorts – several ships of war. As you can imagine, it made finding our brig a bit of a problem, but we did find her, finally, anchored at the very head of the bay. We boarded and took her but as we were sailing her out we had the most beastly luck and ran aground. I took my boats to row out a kedge when a dozen boats of screaming Frenchmen came upon us. It was a miracle that we managed to slip off into the darkness. Hayden and his men were yet aboard the brig and attempted to fight them off, but they were terribly outnumbered.’ He shrugged.

  ‘You do not know, then, how many survived?’

  ‘We were rowing for our lives, Archer. All we heard was the French attacking the ship and your captain and crew valiantly trying to beat them off. Unfortunately, their numbers had already been reduced by the fight to take the brig, so they did not have much of a chance against a hundred and fifty Frenchmen.’

  ‘I should say not.’ Archer felt as though a bucket of the cold North Atlantic had been dashed in his face.

  ‘You are the acting-captain now, Mr Archer, and I have complete faith that you will perform your duties to my greatest satisfaction. Hayden spoke highly of you.’ He smiled at the acting-captain in an avuncular sort of way.

  ‘But what of Captain Hayden? What of our shipmates?’

  ‘They will be exchanged. Perhaps not here, but they will be carried back to France and exchanged there. It will all turn out well in the end, I have no doubt.’

  Twenty-one

  Hayden awoke to a shot, not certain if it was a dream or real. Gould was crouched down, staring into the wood, pistol held ready. Along the boat, others were awakened as well, shaking off their dreams.

  ‘Did I hear a shot?’ Hayden whispered.

  ‘Musket, sir,’ Gould replied softly.

  All the men stirred now, as silently as they were able. They crouched down, peering over the gunnels, apprehensive and struggling to breathe quietly. A little gust pushed through the wood, stirring the leaves and setting branches asway. Above this, nothing could be heard.

  Then, nearer, a report muffled by the trees. Hayden guessed, by the sound, that the musket had not been aimed in their direction, so he hoped that meant whoever fired it was not walking toward them. An hour passed without another shot or any sounds of men. The sun had progressed into the west now and darkness was but two hours off, he thought. If they could lie there, hidden, for that short time, they would slip out and pray the Themis was hove-to off the bay.

  His stomach had begun to complain of hunger, and the others were suffering the same. The confiscated wine had been portioned out, carefully, to the men in both boats, and drunk with officers watching, so none could sell their portion to another. Drunken hands were not what Hayden needed now. Wine – even good French wine – was no substitute for food.

  Morris, who was one of the several wounded, awoke at that moment, and cried out in pain. The men nearest entreated him to remain silent, but he was clearly fevered, unaware of what went on, and in terrible agony. In vain, they whispered, cajoled and even threatened the man to keep silent, but to no avail.

  Hayden could not help but remember the accidental smothering of a man in a similar situation not so long ago. Finally, Gould gave the man several folds of leather belt to bite down on, and this quieted him at last.

  Every man now stared into the shadowy wood beyond and listened apprehensively. For a long time they heard nothing: no sound, no voices. Hayden was beginning to think that whoever was shooting – hunters, he hoped – had passed by. And then a stick snapped.

  Immediately, Hayden turned to the right, from where the noise had come, and there, crouched down, musket in hand, was a boy of perhaps fifteen, looking at them curiously.

  Gould twisted around and levelled a pistol at the lad, who leapt up and fled.

  ‘Les Anglais! Les Anglais!’ he cried.

  Hayden, Gould and Hawthorne vaulted out of the boat and waded ashore. By the time they had climbed the low bank and gone a few yards into the bush the boy was already lost to sight.

  Hawthorne tore apart the air with an array of
curses that would have done Mr Barthe proud.

  ‘What are we now to do?’ the marine asked.

  ‘We have no choice,’ Hayden answered without hesitation. ‘We set out this instant and hope darkness finds us before the French do.’

  There was no discussion, but only nods from both Gould and Hawthorne. Ransome had climbed up the bank by then and hung back a few paces.

  ‘We are discovered, Mr Ransome,’ Hayden informed him as he returned to the boats. ‘We must put to sea this instant.’

  They clambered down the embankment, into the water and then into the boats … but then he stopped. ‘We’ll leave Bamfield here, under the branches, where he is not likely to be discovered immediately.’

  None of the men met his eye, but a few nodded.

  The dead man was handed out of the boat, stripped of his British sailor’s garb and laid to rest on the shore. No one felt good about treating a shipmate so, but they were in narrow straits now and had no choice.

  ‘Don’t leave me here,’ Morris whispered, his eyes unfocussed and face flushed and slick with sweat.

  ‘We will not leave you,’ Gould whispered. ‘Now stay silent, or you will have us all in gaol.’

  The midshipman glanced back at Hayden, his look very grave. He did not expect Morris to live, Hayden realized, and wondered if poor Morris comprehended this as well.

  The knots that bent the branches low were undone and the able hands all slid over the side and ran the boats over the silt and into deeper water.

  ‘Is our cask full of water?’ Hayden asked as the oars were shipped.

  ‘It is, sir,’ one of the marines reported.

  ‘As soon as we are in the main river we will rig for sail.’

  In a moment they were turning downstream toward the sea. They surprised the occupants of a small fishing boat returning upriver, who stared at them with a mixture of fear and disbelief.

  Masts were quickly stepped, gear rigged, and as soon as they emerged from the river’s mouth, sails were set. The boat heeled to the trade. Without being ordered, the men all shifted to windward. A scattering of sails could be made out across the pale evening blue – fishing boats and schooners – but no mass of sail large enough to be a frigate.

  ‘What is our course, sir?’ Childers asked.

  Hayden pointed. ‘We will work our way out to sea and then return after nightfall and hope to find the Themis there.’

  He did not really expect Archer to return until late in the night, but it was always difficult to predict the actions of others. The usual brisk trade was blowing – twelve or fifteen knots – but altered in direction by the islands.

  Hayden had only a nightglass, which was of little use by day, so he called out to the other boat just off their larboard quarter.

  ‘Mr Wickham? Can you see our ship?’

  The midshipman stood up in the stern sheets and scanned the sea to the west and south. He turned back to Hayden after a moment. ‘I cannot, sir, but this schooner seems to be taking an interest in us.’ He pointed at a little schooner about half a league to windward.

  Hayden could just make out the men on deck, but not why Wickham thought they were interested in their boats, but then the schooner began to wear. She was not large for her type – sixty feet, Hayden thought. Were she a Navy ship, she would have a crew of sixty or sixty-five men, but if she were a trading vessel, that might act as privateer if opportunity arose, then her numbers could be either substantially smaller or – if she were dedicated to prize hunting – greater.

  As the starboard side of the distant ship came into the light Wickham turned to Hayden and called out, ‘She does have guns, Captain!’

  ‘Privateer!’ Childers muttered.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Hayden cautioned. ‘I cannot make out more than two dozen men on her deck.’

  The little ship crossed two yards on her forward mast but had her square sails neatly furled.

  ‘Mr Ransome!’ Hayden called out. ‘We shall have to keep to the shallows, and hope to lose her come darkness. Stay near. We may yet need to fight.’

  Ransome repeated Hayden’s order and the two boats altered course to the south. The shoal that protected the careenage was perhaps one mile distant. They would have to stay off that. Once beyond, they could keep to the shallows. Schooners were employed by navies for inshore work because of their shallow draught, but the ship’s boats drew barely more than a foot, even heavily laden.

  A gust caught the boats then, heeling them down and dashing spray over the crew. The water, however, was blood warm, or so it seemed, unlike their home waters, where a good dousing would leave a boat’s crew shivering and stiff with cold.

  Childers glanced apprehensively to windward. ‘Will we pass by this shoal, sir, before the schooner reaches us?’

  ‘It will depend, Childers, on how fast this schooner might prove to be.’ Hayden considered the privateer that was now most certainly shaping her course to intercept them. ‘How much water do you think this schooner draws, Childers?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. That would depend on what work she was intended for and where she was built. If she came from the Chesapeake she might draw very little. If she came from somewhere up north, she might draw ten or twelve feet, Captain. If she’s local … well, I cannot say, sir.’ Childers turned his attention south. ‘We will be on a lee shore, sir, and I think the seas will build as we go.’

  ‘Yes. We shall have to sail along the surf line and hope the master of this schooner will not dare come so near.’

  ‘Is it not likely, Captain,’ Gould began, ‘that he knows these waters better than do we?’

  ‘I am afraid that is very likely true, Mr Gould, and that confers upon him a clear advantage.’

  ‘If I were him, sir, I would pick a place where I might sail in near and drive us up on a shoal, Captain.’

  ‘They might be thinking the same, but any waters that shallow could be clearly seen. He might consider launching boats and coming after us, which he would have to do before it grows dark. Once night has fallen, our boats are not easily seen.’

  Hayden looked into the western sky. The sun was now sinking below Basse-Terre and casting an ever-lengthening shadow east. There was very little twilight at this latitude – when the sun set, darkness descended swiftly after. The sun, however, could not be hurried in its course.

  Childers was an excellent helmsman and the other boat had Dryden and Wickham aboard, both of whom Hayden would trust at the helm in any situation. Gould was not so experienced but Hayden could take his tricks at the helm if need be.

  Hayden turned back to quizzing the privateer, and began to suspect she was both nearer and faster than he had hoped, though very likely on her most advantageous point of sail. She very quickly loomed up, shaping her course to cut Hayden off at the southern tip of the shoal that protected the careenage. Every man aboard twisted about every few minutes, attempting, with a dreadful fascination, to gauge the speed of the schooner.

  A quarter of an hour later, smoke blossomed from its side and, a few seconds after, an iron ball tore into the back of a wave some hundred yards aft.

  ‘They cannot bring their guns to bear yet,’ Hayden noted, trying to keep his voice calm.

  ‘Is that a 9-pounder, sir?’ Gould enquired.

  ‘Six, I should think, though quite large enough to sink us if we are struck.’ Hayden waved a hand at the boat. ‘But we are a small target, Mr Gould, on a moving sea. We will soon see how good their gunnery is.’

  ‘I would put money on some of our crews to hit a boat at this distance,’ Gould told him.

  ‘But a frigate’s decks would not be moving so much in this sea,’ Childers pointed out.

  The schooner was, however, drawing distressingly near. There was little more than a fathom over the shoal, and the waves mounted up there and became steep. Breaking crests could only be seen over the southern tip, where it became very shallow.

  With wind abeam and the sea from the same direction, Hayden did not
want to get into the steeper waves and risk being knocked down by a gust. Skirting the edge of shallow water was the best they might do here. It was not necessary to heave the lead; the bottom could be seen down to forty feet, and it was but two fathoms presently.

  The schooner fired its ‘broadside’ of three 6-pounders but the shot all fell astern.

  Shading his eyes, Hayden stood and gazed toward the careenage, where he could see another schooner hove down and several smaller vessels swinging to anchors. He then turned his attention to the privateer, trying again to gauge her speed.

  ‘Will we make it, sir?’ Gould asked.

  ‘I am not certain where this shoal ends, but it will likely be a close-run thing.’

  The privateer held her fire for the next five minutes, realizing, Hayden assumed, that there was no point wasting shot. She was sailing hard toward the end of the shoal, hoping to beat the British boats there and either force them on to the shallow end of the reef or bring them to with her guns. Hayden had no chart for this area but, with the tide near low, he could make out areas of the shoal that were dry.

  Again Hayden gazed at the enemy ship for a moment, then he stood and called out to the boat aft. ‘Mr Ransome! If that privateer makes the end of this shoal before us we shall wear and sail north … upon my order.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ Ransome called back.

  ‘All hands to wear ship,’ Hayden said, gaining smiles from all the hands, for she was hardly a ship and did not require even all the men aboard to bring the wind across her stern.

  ‘Will we not be heading back toward the bay, sir?’ Gould asked softly.

  ‘Indeed, Mr Gould, but it will be dark before we reach that place and, with a little fortune on our side, the Themis will appear off the bay sometime after midnight.’ Hayden took another look at the schooner. ‘I wonder if we can bring her in so close that she will not risk wearing to come after us but will have to pass some distance south and tack in clear waters.’