He glanced up at the sky, gauging the course of the moon, establishing the positions of the islands of cloud, measuring the time it would take for the moon to transit each mass.
‘How distant is Sir William?’ Griffiths asked.
‘Two leagues,’ Barthe replied.
Archer would have said five English miles, but two leagues was near enough.
The three men had gathered at the rail and were gazing at Inconstant to windward. Jones always claimed no ship could sail nearer the wind than his, so Archer and Barthe had decided to let him climb to windward of them, which would no doubt feed his substantial vanity and pride. The truth was, the Themis was every bit as weatherly.
Archer glanced up at the sky. ‘That is great acreage of cloud in the west, Mr Barthe. Do you think it might douse the moon as we require?’
‘It might provide an hour of meagre light, Mr Archer. Might I suggest we douse our own lanterns, one by one?’
Archer gave the order, and the larboard stern lantern was snuffed. An area of shadow crept west, slipping over Inconstant so that only the pinpoints of light that were her lanterns could be seen, and those but barely.
‘Let us douse another lantern,’ Archer ordered, and this was quickly done.
The massive shadow that flowed over the sea approached, silent and slowly roiling, down and up, like a languid sea serpent. It reached them, and passed over, more insubstantial than a dream.
‘The last lantern,’ Archer ordered. ‘We will shift our yards and wear ship. I should like to see as many sea-miles as can be managed between ourselves and Sir William, come dawn.’
Archer went and stood at the taffrail, from where he could still see the lights of Inconstant as they winked up and down on the trade-driven sea. He could almost imagine it was his first command – even if an acting-command – disappearing over the horizon. Jones might find them on the morrow and install some other in his place. It was the greatest good fortune that Sir William had informed him, in great detail, of his plans for the cruise. If Jones stayed with those plans – to any degree – Archer could avoid him. The only difficulty this threw up was that Jones had chosen the best cruising grounds and, as Archer would not be able to go there, the Themis would not likely have as profitable a cruise as her officers might hope, and bringing prizes to Caldwell would likely assure Archer of remaining in command. One choice made seemed to mean another was lost.
The passage north of Guadeloupe would be their cruising grounds for the next few days, and Archer dearly hoped he would find good fortune and never wake to see the sails of Inconstant bearing down upon him.
Twenty-six
In the dark, the schooner crossed an invisible wind-line, and the crew found themselves slipping ever so slowly across an ever calmer sea. With his small crew, Hayden could not man all the guns and sail the ship, so men were assigned to stations to which they could be called of an instant, as circumstances dictated. All the pistols aboard were distributed to the men and muskets were laid ready to hand. Everyone knew their station and duty, assuming they could hear orders being called. A few of the Frenchmen aboard were armed, and a couple of the younger men were stationed to aid the sail handlers. Women and children were sent below.
The little ship slid over the surface with barely a ripple in her wake. There was not a whisper aboard unless it was an order, and everyone who could stared out into the darkness hoping to find any threat before they themselves were discovered.
Hayden had walked forward to gaze a moment through his nightglass. Nothing but a shoreline lost in shadow and the dark mass of the small islands. He passed the glass to Wickham and whispered, ‘I will be aft. Keep a careful watch.’
Hayden walked quietly aft, where he found Ransome standing by Childers at the wheel. This was the third night they had crept in to this same beach, and no one aboard felt the least pleased about it. Smugglers who worked along the English coast never came to the same place two nights running but had many landing places which they used in as random an order as they could manage. A smuggler would think what Hayden was doing the height of folly, and Hayden realized that he could hardly disagree.
A small gust swept down off the mountains and would have held them in irons if Childers had not been alert and spun his wheel, putting his helm up and keeping his ship hard on the wind. It was not so good a slant as they had been on, but Hayden expected the wind to come back around when the gust took off. The ship picked up speed on the gust, and a soft, babbling wake was heard behind – not something that could be detected at any distance, Hayden hoped.
Hawthorne loomed out of the darkness, his height and gait unmistakable, even by starlight. ‘No one aboard has drawn breath in half of an hour,’ the marine whispered.
‘When this gust dies we will lay-to, man the boats and await Louis’s signal. I shall not risk sailing any nearer.’ Hayden waved a hand forward. ‘Les Islets à Goayaves lie just there in the dark.’
Hawthorne stared into the dark a moment. ‘If you tell me it is so, Captain, I will believe you.’ The marine lieutenant was silent for a few seconds, and then whispered, ‘I do wish this were the last night we were coming to this place.’ He touched his hat and hastened forward, no doubt to see that his men were in position, though Hayden did not doubt that they were. Hawthorne was both liked and respected – not something every officer could manage. His men would be where he positioned them and would not falter if ordered to stand and not give way.
The gust finally withered away, allowing Childers to put the schooner back on her course. Hayden ordered the ship laid-to on the starboard tack with her bow pointed more or less north. A leadsman was set to work in the chains forward, keeping Hayden informed of the depths. There was a shoal outboard of them at fourteen fathoms, and Hayden planned to use it to keep position, though in such a little breeze and small tide he did not expect his ship to move very far.
The boats were brought alongside, and Hayden ordered the crews sent down into them. As the men went one by one over the rail, there was a sudden clatter and a pistol fired in the boat. Hayden went immediately to the bulwark.
‘Is anyone hurt?’ he whispered.
‘No, sir,’ came the reply from Midshipman Gould. ‘Blew a hole in the planking just below the gunwale, sir.’
‘Who was the man who had his pistol cocked?’
‘Me, sir,’ one of the hands admitted in a small voice.
‘Give your pistol to Mr Gould,’ Hayden hissed at him. ‘You shall not have one again.’
Bloody fool! he thought.
If Louis was watching, and he must be, what would he make of that? A single pistol shot at sea. No shouting. No sounds of a fight. Would he guess it to be an unlucky accident? Or would he pull his people back and retreat to the mountains?
Hawthorne stood at the rail a few paces away, no doubt reassuring himself that this was not the doing of one of his people – which it was not.
‘Mr Hawthorne,’ Hayden said, trying to calm his voice. ‘Let us have another marine in each of the larger boats.’
‘Aye, sir.’
Two marines were quickly chosen and sent down into the bow of each boat. Wickham’s – the third boat – was small enough that another armed man would simply be in the way. Hayden called for his nightglass and went forward.
Time immediately died away to a little zephyr of drifting minutes. The cosmic wind that pressed it on drew breath, and the night was held in suspension. Hayden began to think that morning would never come.
When he could bear it no more Hayden went quickly below, where there was a lamp lit, and pulled out his watch. It was past the time when they should have seen a signal. His mind made up, he went back up to the deck and quickly forward.
‘We will make the countersignal,’ he ordered quietly.
The order was acknowledged with a quick knuckle. The lamp was lit and the signal made. For a long moment Hayden did not think that any answer would break through the darkness, but then, dim and distant, the signal flashed.
Hayden leaned over the side. ‘Mr Wickham? We have a signal. Keep your wits about you.’
The three boats pulled away and were quickly lost in the darkness. Without meaning to, Hayden began to pace across the width of the deck.
Another oarsman would have been useful, Wickham thought, despite the size of the boat – smaller than a British jolly boat, so narrow that one man could handle two oars. One good oarsman, though, would always be quieter, and that was the captain’s main concern. If a rapid escape became a necessity, Wickham planned to take up oars himself.
The beach, which lay half a mile distant, appeared to retreat before them. A low swell broke upon the sand – a ponderous, unrelenting rhythm. Pale crests were visible before the beach, and then the dim expanse of it, running north and south, took form. The boat slid up on the sand and the swell pushed the stern off to one side. All three were in the water immediately, the marine with his rifle shouldered and aimed into the dark forest, Wickham and the oarsman pushing the boat around to allow them to set off, bow first.
A now-familiar voice whispered from a few yards distant.
‘C’est moi. Louis.’
‘How many tonight?’
‘Twenty-four, Mr Wickham.’
‘So many? I will send the boats at once.’
Louis and another waded into the small surf to push them off.
In but a moment, Wickham found the boats.
‘They have two dozen this night,’ he told them.
‘I hope they have not brought their belongings,’ Ransome replied. ‘We shall be hard pressed to carry so many.’
‘I will return with you,’ Wickham told him. ‘We might take three or four.’
The boats set off all at once, oars softly swirling water, and were soon gliding to a stop on the sand.
Despite finding Louis there and hearing the phrase that meant all was safe, Wickham was anxious to load his passengers and get shut of that beach as quickly as it could be managed. The French remained back in the shadows until the boats had landed, and then the men came out to help turn them around. The women and children appeared at a word and the men began handing them into the boats.
‘Three must come with us,’ Wickham whispered in French.
This caused a hushed consultation, and then a woman and two children hurried over and clambered hastily aboard. The refugees were not yet all aboard when an almost simultaneous flash and report came from just south of them. A musket ball whistled overhead.
Before an officer could shout an order, a volley of musket fire came from down the beach and, in the boat furthest south, there were screams and panicked shouting.
‘Push them out! Push them out!’ Ransome called over the musket fire, and the sailors and a few Frenchman began shoving the boats out into the small swell. Wickham was doing the same to their boat before he even thought. When the water reached mid-thigh he tumbled over the gunwale and began searching about for oars. They were pulling out into the darkness then. Shouting was heard and then another ragged volley. On the shore he could hear cries and calls to retreat into the trees.
‘Pull to starboard,’ Wickham grunted, dragging his oar through the water. ‘To starboard.’
The sounds of fighting came from the shore, and Wickham feared refugees were being bayoneted. Gunfire came from the trees then, and it was the turn of the Jacobins to take fire. This likely saved his life, Wickham realized, for the Jacobins were on the beach dead aft of them and would likely have killed many in the boats, if they had not been fired upon. He was near to pulling his arms out, keeping up with Watts, and air was tearing at his throat as he gasped.
An orange flash of light dimly illuminated the boats and a deep boom echoed from somewhere out at sea. Wickham turned his head to see the flashes from several guns fading. Almost immediately there was an answer.
‘My God, sir! Are they taking our ship?’ Watts managed.
‘Not if our captain is still standing.’
Everyone’s eyes were fixed upon the shore, where musket fire had erupted without warning. Hawthorne came running along the deck.
‘Is the shore within range of our guns, sir?’ he asked.
‘Who would we be aiming them at, Mr Hawthorne? I cannot even see the beach, let alone separate friend from foe.’
It was at that instant that guns fired from behind, slamming into the hull with a rending of timber. Both Hawthorne and Hayden staggered and spun around at the same instant, grabbing the rail. In the muzzle flash of the other ship’s guns Hayden could see the shocked faces of every man aboard.
‘Man the starboard guns!’ he called out.
There was the briefest second of shock, and then the men were running to the guns.
‘Traverse that gun aft, Swale,’ Hayden ordered. ‘Further yet. That will answer. Fire!’
The British guns spoke and the crews went to work, swabbing and loading. All his officers were in the boats, so Hayden was master, lieutenant, bosun, midshipman and captain. He went quickly to the wheel and relieved the helmsman, sending him, and any men to be spared, to raise a headsail.
Even in his instant of surprise, Hayden had realized that the enemy ship had more – and likely larger – guns. With so few men aboard he could not chance being boarded and would not let the other ship alongside, if at all possible. Just as his crew was about to run out their guns, the French ship fired another broadside. Balls beat into the hull and tore through the foresail.
This time Hayden counted them – five small guns – likely 6-pounders. He could make out the masts of the other ship and decided it was a brig – perhaps the very ship they had attempted to cut out but a few nights past. The headsail was sheeted home and the sail handlers ran to raise the main. The ship gathered way and heeled a little to the breeze flowing down from the mountain. The British guns were fired, each as they were loaded – a stuttering fire, but no less effective for it. Hawthorne and two of his marines had manned the aft swivel and were proving quick and able, despite never having fired one before.
Hayden cast an anxious look toward the island, wondering if his boats had escaped the beach or if his men had been cut down. An image of them lying, bleeding on the sand, came to him unbidden. Wickham, Ransome and Gould were among those men, as was his coxswain and other good men. He had sent them to that beach to rescue his mother’s people, though he had no orders to do so. If he lost his men and officers in this endeavour he knew the remorse would never be outlived.
The brig was pacing his own ship and angling nearer. ‘Hardy?’ Hayden called out, hoping his most experienced able seaman was still standing.
‘At the gun, sir,’ came the call.
‘You are now my sailing master, bosun and first lieutenant. If this brig comes any nearer, we will tack. Find sail handlers, and do not hesitate to use Frenchmen. They can haul a rope without understanding English.’
Hardy, who appeared to be a large brute of a man, was a gentle soul – the guardian of all the ship’s boys. He could have been a bosun’s mate, but he would not beat a fellow sailor for all the world. The hands would lay down their lives for such a man and do his bidding without question.
‘Mr Hardy!’ Hayden called out. ‘Set a man to swinging the lead, if you please.’ He did not want to run his ship aground in the dark, where distances were difficult to measure.
Tacking would have to be timed correctly or the other ship would have an opportunity to rake them from astern. He wanted to put his helm up as the other ship was abreast so it would pass on before it could fire into their stern. No doubt they would tack after, but Hayden assumed they had not enough men to man the guns, stand by to board and handle sail, so it would take a moment for them to get men to their stations.
He sent a marine to bring his nightglass up from the cabin below, and to enquire of the refugees if any he had ordered below had been hurt. The brig was taking on form in the dark, the masts and yards silhouetted against the low stars.
‘The French are huddled in the hold, sir
, and not a one injured,’ the marine reported, handing Hayden his glass. Bracing himself against the wheel so it could not turn, Hayden fixed his glass on the nearing ship. He thought he could make out men lining the rail between the guns, and wondered if extra hands had been signed on for this particular enterprise; there would be no shortage of men, not with a convoy lying at anchor on the other side of Basse-Terre. On the other hand, the master of the ship likely did not want to spread his prize money any further than he must. Hayden hoped he was dealing with a parsimonious privateer.
Wickham’s oars were not muffled, and knocked and rapped against the thole-pins, drowning out small, distant sounds. The flutter of luffing sails that would indicate their ship was getting underway could not be heard. The report of guns, however, could not be masked, nor could the shouting and calls of men. Those carried to them across the water and filled Wickham’s heart with dismay.
He was soon gasping. His arms burned and his muscles and tendons stretched and strained. He did not know how much longer he could keep it up. The Frenchmen on the shore, however, appeared to have lost them in the dark and left off firing.
‘Mr Wickham?’ called the marine in the bow. ‘The ships appear to be retreating out to sea, sir. We are not gaining.’
Wickham heard himself curse.
‘Avast rowing!’ Ransome called in the dark, and Wickham and Watts laid upon their oars, heaving and gasping.
A boat came gliding out of the murk, accompanied by the sound of muffled weeping – a child.
‘Mr Wickham?’ came Ransome’s voice. ‘Have you any wounded?’
‘I do not know.’ He twisted around. ‘Is anyone hurt?’
The Frenchwoman and her children were not and Watts declared the same.
‘Just a scratch, sir,’ the marine in the bow whispered, as though embarrassed even to be admitting it.
‘Just a scratch? And how did you come by this scratch?’
‘Musket ball, sir. Nary a drop of blood.’
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 26