Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  The marines had taken charge of the prisoners, a great number of whom were wounded and, like their British counterparts, crumpled on the deck, many praying and moaning.

  An iron ball struck the transom aft, sending up a shower of slivers.

  “Captain Jones!” Hayden called out. “Shall I get this vessel underway?”

  “If you please, Hayden.”

  Hayden went to the wheel himself. “Lay out aloft, there!” he called to the men climbing onto the top.

  Galvanised by the situation, hands were on the foot-ropes and the yards manned in a trice.

  “Loose mainsail!” The sail came shivering down and immediately backed against mast and rigging. “Mr Wickham? Cut the bower cable, if you please.”

  There was a dull chopping forward, and then Hayden felt the vessel begin to make sternway. He put the helm to starboard and, though it seemed to take forever, very slowly the stern began to swing to larboard.

  The men had scrambled in off the mainsail yard, and Hayden ordered it braced and then the staysails set. The latter shot up their stays with the buzz of rings on tarred rope. The mizzen sail was released from its brails and run out.

  The ship’s movement aft began to ease, she appeared to hover a moment, and then very slowly she began to make way, but not towards the harbour entrance; they would never lay that narrow channel on this wind. They would have to slip out to the south, skirting around all the anchored ships—a task difficult enough by daylight when the shallows could be clearly seen from aloft.

  “I need a leadsman forward,” Hayden called.

  “I’ll find the sounding lead, sir,” an unknown hand called back, and hurried off. In a moment, Hayden heard the splash of the lead being cast, and then, “Six fathoms, sand, and shell!”

  “Mr Hawthorne, is that you?” Hayden called to the tall figure standing, musket in hand, by the prisoners.

  “It is, sir, and very happy I am to see you among the standing.”

  “And you, Mr Hawthorne. I need the binnacle lamp lit.”

  “I shall have it done in a trice.”

  More prisoners were being sent into the boat alongside, where the wounded were passed down with more haste and less care than Hayden would have approved. He set his course by what he could see of islands and headlands, but he was only guessing. Jones came out of the dark.

  “Shall I con us out, Hayden?” he enquired. “I have been in here before.”

  Hayden relinquished the wheel with the greatest relief—almost gratitude. He had made a careful study of Barthe’s chart, but that would be no substitute for local knowledge—there were shoals and reefs and shallows all around.

  A man appeared with a ship’s lamp and quickly transferred fire from it to the binnacle lamp. Hayden hoped the compass did not require a large correction.

  Wickham hove out of the darkness then. “I have a lookout forward, sir,” he reported, then stood, saying nothing, his face concealed by the darkness. “We have a great many wounded, sir.” He took a deep breath. “And dead, too, I fear.”

  Hayden nodded. “We were struck astern, Mr Wickham. Take some of the hands below, if you please, and see if we are making water.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hayden feared that Wickham was absolutely right—there would be a butcher’s bill that could never be justified by this little two-sticker and her cargo. The French boat was filled to its gunwales with wounded and prisoners and then cut loose. There were not a dozen prisoners left sitting on the deck.

  “Carry the compass up from the barge,” Hayden ordered Childers, “then stream the boats, if you please.”

  More iron balls plunged into the water nearby, and one tore open a staysail, which then hung, wafting, in rags.

  The coxswain appeared, with the barge’s compass in hand. He consulted the brig’s compass and compared the heading with his own.

  “Their compass is half a point off, sir,” Childers informed him. “Our true heading is south-south-east. The brig’s compass reads east by south, half a point south, sir.”

  “You have an excellent, steady crew, Hayden,” Jones said. “They do you credit.”

  Despite himself, Hayden thanked the man.

  “So what do you think of our little brig, Hayden?” Jones asked. “She is light on her helm and appears properly built. Seventy-five feet, I should think. Small, but handy.”

  Hayden could not help himself. “I should like her a great deal better had her cost not been so great.”

  Jones nodded. “Yes. I should like war better if it could be fought with wooden swords and broken off each day at supper. But it is not so.”

  A ball crashed into the midst of the prisoners, smashing the deck and throwing shards of oak in all directions. Both Hayden and Jones fell back themselves, but were quickly on their feet, grabbing hold of the spokes as the little ship tried to round up.

  There was then a mewling and calling out in French, as half the prisoners, it seemed, were down and wounded—those who had not been killed outright. There was a moment of stunned helplessness from the English, and then some of the older hands waded into the devastation and began staunching wounds and endeavouring to find who among the very still remained among the living.

  “Bloody lucky shot . . .” Jones cursed, half under his breath.

  “Not so for the prisoners.”

  “No, Hayden. Killed by their own gunners . . .” Jones shook his head.

  “I will look to the ship forward,” Hayden said, unable to bear the man’s company a second more.

  There was calling out from many of the nearby anchored ships now, and lights were appearing. Hayden blessed the dark night. Maybe they could slip out before the French realised what went on. It would be Jones’ luck—and would add to his ever-growing myth. Hayden made his way forward to the forecastle.

  Wickham reappeared then.

  “We are not making water, sir,” he told Hayden. “But I have the butcher’s bill from Mr Gould, Captain.”

  Hayden held his breath.

  “Seven dead, sir. And four more wounded—two very gravely.”

  “Not seven dead just among our own people, surely?”

  “I am afraid that is the tally, sir. Sir William has his own losses, which I am informed are not small, either.”

  Hayden closed his eyes a moment.

  “Do you wish to know the cargo, Captain?”

  “I am afraid to know it.”

  “Bar iron, paper, and sundry other goods. Mr Ransome believes it would be valued at four thousand pounds.”

  Hayden said nothing.

  “Not an insubstantial sum, sir . . .”

  “Two thousand pounds less the admiral’s share. Is a man’s life worth two hundred pounds, do you think?”

  “That is not for me to say. I should like to think my own worth somewhat more, though.”

  “Mmm. I want you all about the ship, Mr Wickham, keeping lookout. If we run aground, we shall likely be forced to leave this brig behind, which I am now loath to do.”

  “I am on watch, sir. And I shall see to the leadsman. It must be a man who knows what he is about.” A quick touch of hand to hat and the midshipman hurried off.

  The cannon balls were sending up heavy plumes of water astern now, as the brig sailed beyond their range. Hayden felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck release to the smallest degree. If the wind held, they would be free of the harbour in an hour, and out to sea.

  “Eight fathoms!” came the leadsman’s call.

  In this darkness, distances to the low-lying shores around the bay were difficult to gauge. There was, Hayden knew, a long shoal that reached out into the bay almost directly south of them. On this wind they might just weather it, if their leeway was not great. He was tempted to enquire after a pilot among the prisoners but suspected any Frenchman who was not a fool mi
ght run the brig aground. They were going to have to find their way out of this bay by their own seamanship—and luck.

  “Seven fathoms!”

  Hayden knew it was something like a mile and one half to the point of the shoal. Their speed could only be estimated at that moment, but he did not think it more than five knots, so a little more than a quarter of an hour. Jones would alter course then.

  “Six fathoms and one half!”

  Taking out his night glass, Hayden quizzed the bay to all points of the compass. They were going to sail rather near some of the anchored ships when they passed the tip of the shoal.

  “Six fathoms!”

  The guns from the shore fell silent. Either the French gunners realised the brig was out of range, or they had lost sight of her in the murk. Hayden made his way aft along the deck, among the wounded being tended by their shipmates.

  “Five fathoms!” the leadsman called from the chains.

  As he made the quarterdeck, Hayden saw Jones consult a pocket watch. No doubt he was using it to estimate when he had passed the end of the shoal. The man’s seamanship was just shy of legendary, and he appeared almost shockingly calm, as though unaware of the gravity of their situation. They would, however, come very near the shoal on this tack, and could not afford the smallest error.

  “Four fathoms!”

  Jones stared out into the darkness ahead, then back to Hayden. “We will alter our course to starboard once we have weathered the point of this little shoal,” he said. “Will you arrange the crew to shift our yards and handle sail, Hayden?”

  Hayden made a small bow. In a moment he found Ransome, who said quietly, “I have sail handlers at their stations, Captain.”

  “Then we will await Sir William’s order.”

  “I hope he knows where the end of this shoal lies, sir . . .” Ransome all but whispered.

  “No one has ever faulted the man on his bravery or seamanship.”

  “Three fathoms and one half!”

  The men on the deck had fallen silent, half watching Jones, the rest staring out into the dark at the invisible dangers that lay there.

  “Three fathoms!”

  The ship continued to slip over the calm bay, heeling but a little to the warm trade.

  “I believe we may safely bear off,” Jones said, as though commenting upon some rather fine weather.

  “Mr Ransome,” Hayden said quietly, “I do not think we shall need to slack the mainsheet.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Orders were given and, just as Jones began to turn his wheel, there was sudden shouting to larboard and then a flash so bright Hayden could see the face of every man aboard. Then he heard a terrible report and all about them the horrifying sound of iron balls tearing apart the night. The deck shook beneath Hayden’s feet as at least two balls struck the topsides. A few more passed through the sails, but most, he realised, must have missed the mark.

  “Bearing off, Hayden,” Jones informed him.

  Ransome and Hayden went about the deck, sending men to their stations. The yards were braced around and sails quickly trimmed. Jones had altered course about six points, and their wind hauled aft accordingly.

  The guns on the ship were reloaded, but not with the speed of British gunners, and another broadside was fired, most of the shot penetrating the night but missing its mark.

  “I thought they would rake us, sir,” Ransome whispered.

  “They traversed their guns as though we had held our course.”

  Ransome peered into the darkness. “I can barely make them out, sir. They must have lost us against the land. Thank God.”

  Jones leaned forward to consult his watch by the binnacle light. “Are we making five knots, Hayden?”

  “Barely so.”

  “The wind will freshen and haul back into the north-west as we go. It is only the land that has caused it to blow from this unnatural direction.” He turned the wheel a spoke. “In seven minutes I will bring us back, almost to our original course. That should take us out through a narrow pass.”

  A British gun crew would fire two broadsides in that time, Hayden thought, and looked up at the sky. Tattered cloud continued to sail over, bands of stars sprayed across the heavens between. Across the anchorage, the vague forms of ships could barely be seen, but in the areas of cloud-shadow, all remained dark. Tails of smoke drifted to them, down the wind, stinging eyes and nostrils.

  Not a hundred yards distant, the night opened in a blossom of orange flame and roiling smoke. Hayden froze in place, holding his breath as the report reached them, sails suddenly thrashing about in their gear and balls passing to either side, only to skip off the surface a hundred yards beyond.

  “They have found us, Captain,” Wickham whispered. He had loomed up out of the darkness to stand beside Hayden.

  “Yes, but they do not have our range. Much of their shot was too high.”

  “Let us hope they do not know it.”

  Before the next broadside could be fired, Jones ordered the men to their stations again, then spun his wheel, altering their course five points to larboard. Hayden expected another broadside, but none came.

  “They have lost us . . . at last,” Jones announced. “Half of the hour and we will be in open waters.”

  Ten minutes slipped by and Hayden began to hear the men around him breathing more easily; they worked their shoulders to loosen the muscles. In but a few moments they would be beyond the shoals and shallows and into deep water again. The cost in lives had been great, but at least these lives had not been lost to no end.

  Hayden himself began to feel a lessening of the fear and anxiety that had beset him all that night. He heard a low chuckle somewhere forward, followed of an instant by an officer warning the man to silence.

  The wind felt to be making a little, Hayden thought, though it still showed no sign of swinging back into the north-west, where it properly belonged. The slap of wavelets against the sides as they pressed forward, the little sighing breeze, and the tiller ropes running through their blocks below were the only sounds. And then without warning Hayden was thrown forward, staggered three or four steps, but somehow kept his feet beneath him. The rending sound of timbers running up on rock or coral came to him, and immediately the stern of the brig swung to leeward and was instantly grinding upon coral. All forward motion stopped, and as the ship swung, the sails luffed and beat the air like broken wings.

  “She’s hard aground,” came the call from forward, as though every man aboard did not know it.

  Men who had been thrown down on the deck got quickly to their feet. Wickham had the presence of mind to grab the lead and begin sounding all along the starboard side.

  “Hard bottom all along, Captain,” he informed Hayden. “I can feel it.”

  He made his way quickly aft. “Three fathoms here, sir. Soft bottom. Sand, I should think.”

  Jones looked around the vessel once and then turned to Hayden, his mind clearly made up. “I will row out the small bower, and my boats will haul as well. I leave the ship in your charge, Hayden.”

  He began calling out orders, and his men jumped to with a will. Jones’ boats, which had been streamed astern, were brought alongside. Cables were passed up from below and quickly coiled down in the boats. The small bower was lowered with much care, so that it hung under and astern of the barge and could be released of an instant.

  Hayden sent men aloft to hand the sails, for the canvas was doing nothing but heeling the ship and pushing it farther onto the reef. The capstan was manned. In the dark silence Hayden heard Jones order the anchor let go, and Hayden ordered the men at the capstan to be ready for the cable to be returned to the ship. He took his place on the end of one capstan bar, for there were so few men aboard.

  The crack of musket fire sounded then, and Hayden jumped back from the capstan to see muzzle flashes coming fro
m out in the dark bay. Upon the instant, Jones’ crew began to return fire.

  “Mr Hawthorne!” Hayden shouted. “All your marines to the larboard quarter. Do not fire on Sir William’s boats!”

  The marines, many of whom were at the capstan bars, took up their guns and hurried aft.

  “Mr Ransome! Bring our boats alongside to starboard. An armed boatman in each.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hayden hurried aft, where he found Hawthorne, a musket to his shoulder, peering into the gloom, where musket fire came from several places.

  “How many boats are there?” Hayden asked the marine.

  “I cannot be sure . . . Four . . . at the very least. And nearer than I had hoped.”

  Hayden heard himself curse. A man was dropping the lead to starboard. “Are we drawing off?” Hayden asked him.

  “Not that I can tell, sir,” was the answer.

  Without warning, fire blossomed from several points in the darkness, all very near, and shouting was heard in both French and English. Jones’ men returned fire, and splashed oars into the bay without concern for discovery.

  “He must come back to the ship!” Hawthorne said in exasperation. “I do not know who to fire upon.”

  Hayden could now make out what the French were shouting, and clearly, they had found the brig.

  “Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “Every able-bodied man to repel boarders!”

  Hayden could hear boats rowing directly at the brig, and then they appeared.

  “Captain Jones!” Hayden shouted at the top of his lungs. “Call out, or we will fire.”

  There was no response.

  “Those are your Frenchmen, Mr Hawthorne. Fire as you will.”

  Hayden took out his own pistols, which he had failed to load after they had taken the brig, and began madly loading. Ransome ordered the men to the larboard rail, aft, and they lined it, brandishing pikes and tomahawks and shouting defiance at the French.

  Hawthorne’s marines all fired at once, but there were suddenly many boats appearing. Six, Hayden counted, and then more behind those.

  “Where is Sir William?” Wickham asked. He stood beside Hayden with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other.