Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  As they penetrated farther into the bay, towards the Islet du Gosier, Grande Terre put up its shoulder to the wind, providing the English sailors with calmer waters. The scent of the land carried to them, and the wind felt warmer, as though it passed over hot coals.

  “Does Sir William intend to go inside the island?” Childers whispered.

  Shoals extended both to the north-west and south-east of Islet du Gossier, and though it was possible they might pass over these, Hayden would not have taken the chance, given his limited knowledge of the bay. Sir William and his two boats lay to starboard, so it was impossible to alter course in that direction without the oarsmen of the different boats running afoul of one another.

  “Perhaps Sir William knows the depths better than we,” Hayden whispered.

  They carried on for another five minutes, but Hayden could sense Childers’ anxiety, as the coxswain stared into the darkness, looking around constantly in an attempt to be more certain of their position.

  When he could bear it no more, Childers whispered again: “Mr Barthe cautioned me to give the shoals around this island a wide berth, sir.”

  Hayden nodded. The sailing master had issued him the same warning. He considered for only the briefest moment.

  “Alter our course to starboard a little, Childers. I will attempt to speak to their boat.”

  Childers edged them marginally nearer, a difficult thing to manage in the dark, where distances were always deceiving. When the two boats were almost oar tip to oar tip, Sir William began to motion Hayden to keep off.

  “There is a shoal, sir,” Hayden hissed, hoping his voice would carry.

  He could see Sir William consult with his coxswain—perhaps over what Hayden had said—and then Jones cupped hands to his mouth and whispered, “Follow me.”

  “What are we to do, sir?” Childers whispered.

  “Assume Jones knows what he is about. Avast rowing, and we will take up a position aft of their cutter.”

  Hayden began waving his own cutter back so it did not lumber into their transom, and the oarsmen in the following boat left off rowing. For a moment the two boats drifted, the men lying on their oars, and then they took them up again, Childers bringing them into line with Sir William’s two boats.

  Hayden thought the tip of the shoal that lay to the north of the little island was less than a mile distant. Half of the hour would see them over it—assuming Barthe was wrong and they could pass over it.

  The rowers kept up their relentless pace. Hayden would have chosen to proceed more slowly, allowing his men to preserve much of their strength for the coming fight. They would have to speed the last halfmile or so and he did not want his men all in when they arrived at the brig. But they were following Jones’ lead, and the Themises would not be left behind and accused of being shy for all the world. Like all men, they needed some things in which they could take pride, and they would protect these with their very lives.

  A quarter of the hour had passed when there was a dull thump and grinding sound from ahead and the cutter they followed was backing oars and the men all muttering. Hayden ordered his men to back oars, as well.

  “What has happened?” Ransome whispered as his cutter ranged up near Hayden’s barge.

  “Sir William, I believe, has gone aground. Back the oars, Childers, let us give them room.”

  This was done. Through the darkness, Hayden could just make out the shape of the boat, the shadows of men slipping over the side to heave it up and off. Shore was only a quarter of a mile distant, and anyone there would certainly have heard this.

  Looking about, Hayden estimated that he could make out a boat at sixty or seventy yards, and a group of four boats would likely be visible farther off. Given that, he wondered if they would not have been better to come down the very centre of the large bay, as distant from the shores as could be—but he had not been the one making the decisions. He had deferred to Jones, whose experience in those waters was much greater than his.

  It took a few moments for Jones to get his barge afloat again, and the other boats to give him room to manoeuvre. Once all was sorted, they set off again, this time giving the shoal room. They bore on in this manner for a short while and then Jones altered course again, almost due west.

  “Do you know, Childers, I am beginning to have my doubts about coming so near the entrance to the careenage.”

  “I agree, sir. There are batteries there, and men on watch, I have no doubt.”

  Hayden did not want to alter his course and lose sight of Sir William, but he was also losing his faith in the man’s plan to skirt the shore. He gazed out into the bay. The dark mass of a vessel seemed to materialise out of the smoky darkness, riding lights aglow.

  “That does not look like a fishing vessel,” Hayden whispered to his coxswain.

  “I agree, sir. It would appear to be a transport.”

  Then, to the right of this, another vessel came into view, and then another not so very distant from that. And then, as though a little mist had hung over the water and been swept away, a bay filled with ships opened up to them.

  “Is it a fleet, Captain?” Gould whispered.

  “A convoy, perhaps. I wonder how long it has been in port.” His mind went immediately back to the meeting between the comte and Caldwell at which he had acted as translator. “The French have no plans for further attacks this season,” the Frenchman had told the admiral. “They have not got the ships for such adventures.”

  “Will they not be reinforced from France?” Caldwell had asked him.

  “Not this season, Admiral.”

  Either the comte did not have the correct information . . . or he had lied.

  “Catch us up with Jones,” Hayden said softly.

  The oarsmen increased their pace and Hayden’s barge quickly overtook that of Sir William, who stood in the stern-sheets of his boat, gazing about, his white breeches appearing almost to glow palely.

  As Hayden drew alongside, he ordered his men to avast rowing and Jones did the same, the two boats drifting on.

  “Where is our little brig?” Jones muttered, as he stared into the darkness.

  “Sir William,” Hayden almost hissed, “there is a convoy here . . . and at least one frigate that I can make out. This is almost certainly a military convoy . . . bearing troops.”

  “Yes,” Jones said distractedly. “We shall inform the admiral.” He pointed into the night. “She must be up in the very head of the bay, where it is too shallow for the larger ships.” He sat down and ordered his boats on.

  Hayden sat, dumbfounded.

  “Sir,” Childers said softly, “he is not going after this brig yet . . . There must be five thousand French sailors aboard these ships.”

  “Yes . . . Follow Sir William. I shall try to dissuade him from this folly.”

  It took a moment for Hayden’s boat to overhaul Jones’, and when it did, Sir William pointed up the bay.

  “That must be her there,” he informed Hayden.

  “Sir William,” Hayden replied, “there must be thirty ships in this convoy—at the very least. Two of them appear to be frigates—”

  “That is the beauty of it, Hayden,” Jones whispered. “They will never for a moment be expecting us. We can slip aboard, take the ship by stealth, and sail it out without the French being any the wiser.” He pointed again. “Do you see those lights? I would wager our ship is there.”

  “But, Sir William, why this little brig? There is a harbour full of ships.”

  “Come along, Hayden,” Jones replied testily. “I will lead the way.”

  He set his men to the oars again, leaving Hayden again shaking his head and all but speechless.

  “What shall I do, sir?” Childers asked.

  “We have no choice. I cannot leave him to cut out this brig on his own.”

  Hayden put his boa
ts in train aft of Jones’. He could sense the mood of the men, though they made not a sound. Like him, they thought this the height of folly.

  Hayden looked up at the clear sky and the expanse of bright stars sweeping across the vault. Cloud would have been preferable—cloud and a little rain to mask both the sight and sounds of their approach.

  Hayden kept his eyes on Sir William’s boats, wondering at what distance they were still visible. He was distressed to find it to be much greater than he had hoped. If there were alert watchmen aboard any of these ships, the British would be spotted at a distance. He could only hope they would be mistaken for Frenchmen.

  The stretch to the back of the bay was short—a mile and a half, Hayden thought. He could feel his excitement and anxiety growing; his traitorous stomach gave an audible growl, much to his chagrin. The tension among the men was palpable now, especially among the marines in the bow, who sat stock-still, staring into the darkness ahead as though the gates of Hades lay there. Jones was taking them near the little island that lay to the west of the narrow channel that divided the two large islands that made up Guadeloupe. Hayden was certain it was invested with cannon to guard the entry to the channel beyond. He could only hope the gunners stationed there were in their cups or sleeping.

  The head of the island drew abreast. Hayden could make out the dark forms of vessels in the anchorage. And then the sounds of voices reached him over the water. He turned his head this way and then that, trying to discern from what direction the sounds came.

  Gould pointed at the nearby island, and Childers nodded agreement. The oarsmen slowed their pace without being told, dipping their oars as silently as they were able. It was when the oars returned to the surface, dripping, that they inevitably made noise—a small patter of drops on the surface.

  “Listen!” a voice said in French, and Hayden held up his hand; the oarsmen stopped in midstroke—oars in the water. Behind him, Wickham, fluent in their enemy’s language, had his men do the same. To his great relief, so did Jones—who often bragged that he had sailed up to the mouth of Brest Harbour and spoken a French Navy cutter there in such impeccable French that they had never for a moment suspected him of being English.

  For some minutes they lay there in the dark, trying to control the sound of their breathing, no one moving in the slightest. And then another voice drifted out to them.

  “Have some more wine, Mathias,” it said, “to calm your excited nerves.”

  They waited until the conversation resumed, and then a man began a song in French and others joined in. Hayden ordered the oarsmen on. “Easy. Silent as you can, lads.”

  The singing went on without interruption, and every man aboard began again to breathe. At the head of the bay lay another, smaller bight, too shallow for larger vessels and almost enclosed by shoals and reefs and islands. Their brig would certainly draught too much to have got in so far, so Hayden expected her to be lying just short of it if she was not out among the larger ships.

  Jones stood up in his boat, which was now twenty yards ahead and to starboard. He fixed his gaze forward and then turned and began waving Hayden up. While he was seating himself, his oarsmen suddenly picked up their pace.

  “It seems Captain Jones has found his quarry,” Gould intoned.

  “Yes, and right up in the back of the bay, where we must sail her out through a French convoy. At least he is right about one thing—they will not be expecting us to come this night; such a thing would be beyond foolish.” Hayden leaned forward a little. “Put your backs into it,” he whispered, “let us not have Sir William take the ship before we arrive.”

  After a very lengthy ten minutes, Hayden descried a smaller dark mass ahead and ordered Childers to steer for that. He drew his cutlass, felt down into the shadowy bottom of the boat to be certain he could lay his hand on an axe, and prepared to stand.

  “Bring us up on her starboard side, head to wind, Mr Childers.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hayden glanced towards the shore. All still seemed quiet, the soft notes of the French song drifting slowly out to them, quieter by the moment.

  The smooth cadence of the oarsmen increased to Childers’ urging, and the boat surged over the calm bay. Hayden glanced aft, where he found Ransome’s cutter keeping pace. The distant brig did not seem to grow larger, but instead appeared to be receding, the distance to it mysteriously growing.

  Without warning, the brig materialised out of the murk, appearing larger than it should. Childers brought the barge, almost silently, alongside, the oarsmen unshipping sweeps and sliding them silently down onto the thwarts. Fore and aft, men climbed quickly up and made ropes fast to the brig—to their surprise, they found boarding nets! In a bay full of ships! But all remained quiet aboard; if there were watchmen awake, they remained unaware of the English.

  Hayden stepped up onto the barge’s gunwale and began cutting through the boarding net. Upon the cutter, which had come alongside immediately aft of them, men were doing the same, when a heavy thump sounded. Someone in the cutter had dropped an axe. Immediately, Hayden ducked his head.

  “They are upon us!” came a cry in French.

  Hayden rose and went back to cutting through the net with renewed energy. He could hear the thudding of feet upon ladders, and then there was a flash hardly ten paces distant.

  Musket balls buried themselves in the bulwark planks. A man on the cutter dropped into the bottom of the boat like a sack of meal tossed down. Hayden braced himself, drew a pistol, rose up, and fired into the mass of men who were now crossing the deck towards him. The marines in both British boats began firing, the air bright with flashes.

  Hayden dropped down, shouldered a man aside, and came up with an axe. He took this to boarding nets, hewing through the ropes. A Frenchman came at him with a cutlass, which Hayden managed to evade on first thrust. Gould, who was climbing up beside him, shot the man in the gut and, pressing back the boarding net, tumbled onto the deck, where he immediately became the target for the Frenchmen surging towards them.

  Gould scrambled up, drew his other pistol, fired, and then, realising the odds, turned to lunge back into the barge but came up against the netting. Hayden drew his own pistol and shot one of Gould’s attackers.

  “Turn and fight! Turn and fight!” he screamed at the midshipman, who was the lone Englishman on the French side of the netting.

  The boy began madly thrusting and twisting, trying to keep from being run through.

  Just then, the boarding net was thrust upwards and the hands surged over the rail as a single mass. Hayden was pushed upwards and over the bulwark, whether he wished to go or not. And then he was alongside Gould, wielding a cutlass and screaming what he did not know.

  The battle was fierce and brutal, neither side giving a foot of deck without a man falling. The planks were quickly wet and slick with blood, the footing treacherous.

  There were too many Frenchmen aboard to be accounted for by the little brig’s crew, so Hayden had been right—they had been reinforced, which meant they had expected—or feared—the English were coming.

  A man threw himself upon Hayden, stabbing at him with a dagger and managing, despite all Hayden did, to cut him twice, how seriously could not be gauged. And then this man was torn free and thrown down upon the deck by some of Hayden’s crew, and stabbed again and again until he lay still.

  Hayden was standing on bodies now. The British had not managed to push the French back but only to hold their little beachhead of deck, and Hayden thought they might not even keep that much longer. The tide turned as Hayden was thinking this, and the British began to step back, even as they fought furiously against the dark mass of shadowy men who tried to murder them with almost invisible iron. A step, and then another, and the British sailors were forced into a little crescent of deck so that the men in the centre of the half-moon were hemmed in by their own kind and unable to fight. All forwa
rd momentum had been lost, and now it was only a question of jumping down into the boats and getting clear before the French followed them over the side and forced them either to swim or to surrender.

  “Men in the rear into the boats!” Hayden shouted. “Men in the fore, hold your ground.”

  There was a shout at that instant, and gunfire from behind the French. A moment of confusion, and then the fight was not being pressed; the wall of hostile, dark bodies jostled and lost confidence.

  “Press forward! Press on!” Hayden shouted. “Sir William has come! Sir William is upon them!”

  The men around him all shouted, and suddenly they were thrusting cutlasses and swinging their tomahawks with deadly energy and purpose. And now it was the French giving ground, frightened and confused, beset from both sides. Men were falling to the deck before them, and the British balanced upon the bodies as they fought their way forward. And then the French were casting down their weapons and calling for quarter.

  Jones came striding through the surrendering French, and even in the dark Hayden could see the smile upon his face, the triumph in his step.

  “Hayden! Well done! The ship is ours.” He waved a hand at the vessel, unaware that half the still bodies lying upon the deck were British. “They have a boat streaming aft. I will put all the wounded French and any other prisoners we can into it and set it adrift. Then we will cut the cable and slip out of here before the dawn finds us.”

  Jones did not seem to notice that Hayden made no reply. He only turned away and began shouting orders.

  The soldiers on the nearby batteries must have decided that the brig had been taken, and they opened fire. Cannon balls screamed through the air and plunged heavily into the waters to either side.

  “They will find the range soon enough,” Hayden said aloud. “Mr Wickham?”

  “Here, sir.”

  “We will offer aid where we can. Gather some men to go aloft to loose sail, and two men with axes to cut the cable—but not before they are so ordered.” Hayden turned and found another midshipman nearby. “Mr Gould—see to our wounded, if you please.”