Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “Driven off, I fear,” Hayden replied, as he finished loading his pistols.

  “Fix bayonets!” Hawthorne ordered.

  When the first boat was but two boat lengths distant, Hayden stepped up to the rail, levelled a pistol, and shot the man in the bow. Along the rail other guns went off, and there was much carnage in the first French boat. But behind came many more.

  British sailors were desperately loading their firearms when Hayden realised that the French boats were in such numbers that they were impeding each other in their rush to the brig. He did not need to think a moment more but called out, “Mr Ransome! All our wounded into the boats . . . upon this instant!”

  “Marines, stand in your places!” Hawthorne shouted over the chaos. He looked over at Hayden. “We will hold them until the men are in the boats.”

  “I admire your resolve, Mr Hawthorne, but the French have numbers.”

  The first French boat thumped alongside, and another immediately astern of that. For the second time that night, a brutal battle began upon the deck of the little brig. The first wave of Frenchmen were held at the rail, murdered, and fell back into their boats, but soon more boats came alongside the first, and more after them, so that the hostile mass became too great. The English were pressed back across the decks, foot by foot. Hayden fought shoulder to shoulder with Hawthorne and another marine, but soon they were hemmed in so tight that only a half-circle of deck was left to them.

  “Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “Begin getting the men into the boats.”

  He did not look back but trusted his men not to break and run. They must cling to their bit of deck until most of the crew was in the boats. The British sailors managed to hold their line so that the fighting did not break up into isolated engagements, which would have been of great advantage to the more numerous French. Pikes thrust out of the dark and Hayden struck them aside with his cutlass, thrusting at the mass of men before him. He held a discharged pistol in his left hand and used it as a small but effective club. The marine to his right was pulled back out of the line, and Hayden and the next man closed ranks. A musket fired from among the French, and the man to his right tumbled back. The English were being driven back to the rail. Hayden could not look away to see how many of his men still stood, but finally, when the rail was but two feet behind him, he called out, “Englishmen! Into the boats!”

  Eighteen

  Two post captains going to cut out a little brig,” Archer heard Barthe grumbling to the doctor. “Why do we have lieutenants, I ask you?”

  “We all knew Jones’ reputation,” Griffiths replied quietly. “I have little doubt that our captain will come out of it unharmed. His judgement is very sound.”

  Archer only heard Barthe growl in response. The young lieutenant walked aft, out of hearing, along the gangway. All around, the sea was inky black. To Archer, it seemed as if the boats had set off hours before, though it had not been nearly so long.

  He went to the rail and examined the dark mass of Guadeloupe, the large open bay. From where his ship lay, hove-to, a few lights could be seen—likely on the shore, though it was difficult to be certain.

  Archer realised that he felt both slighted and embarrassed. If anything were to happen to his captain while he remained safe aboard ship . . . well, he would look shy, even if he had been following orders.

  “Did I hear a musket, Mr Archer?” the helmsman asked. Even hove-to, a man stood by the wheel ready to cast free the ropes that held it in place.

  Archer strained to hear over the sound of wind and sea. For a long moment he thought the helmsman had imagined it, but then, faintly, came the crack of musket fire, dulled by distance. The fire was staccato, or perhaps it could be only intermittently heard and then fell to silence. Aboard the Themis the hands and officers went utterly still, listening.

  The silence, as much as the gunfire, created apprehensions in the mind. Had the brig been taken, or did the gunfire mark the discovery of the cutting-out parties? What did this terrible quiet signify?

  And then a flash of distant light and the deep boom of a gun. A regular, if slow, fire began.

  “Shore batteries,” Archer heard someone mutter.

  Barthe came waddling along the gangway and onto the quarterdeck, the doctor striding purposefully behind. This fire was kept up for some minutes, everyone aboard listening as though, somehow, the reports of the great guns would eventually sum to a comprehensible account of the action in the bay—the meaning of it would be revealed. But then the guns, too, went silent.

  “I will wager they have sailed the brig out of range of the shore batteries,” Barthe announced.

  That was the meaning of it.

  “Or the brig has been dismasted or disabled in some way,” Griffiths suggested softly.

  “Perhaps the gunners lost sight of the brig in the darkness,” Archer said, “or they were not firing at the brig at all.”

  Some time, unknown and unmeasurable, passed, the night about them soft and silent, and then guns began to fire again, the flashes lighting up some small part of the bay. Archer called for his night glass and fixed it on the point where the flashes originated.

  “Mr Barthe . . .”

  “Mr Archer?”

  “There would appear to be some goodly number of ships at anchor; I can make out their silhouettes when the guns flash.”

  “Are they ships, Mr Archer, or fishing boats and coasters?”

  “I believe they are ships, though I should not wager great sums upon it.” He handed the glass to the sailing master.

  Another broadside was fired, the flashes appearing in the dark.

  Barthe stared into the night for a long moment more and then returned the glass to Archer. “I cannot say if you are right or wrong. There is smoke lying upon the water, and a small cloud of smoke can appear to be a vessel at this distance on such a night.”

  The gunfire fell silent again.

  “I wonder if they could be firing at the ships’ boats,” Griffiths said.

  “It would not be impossible, Doctor, though boats are very hard to hit at any distance, as you well know, especially by darkness.” Archer did not believe the surgeon did know, which is why he had taken the trouble to inform him.

  “Have we not fired at boats at any time?” Griffiths asked testily. “I believe we have.”

  “And you are quite correct,” Barthe told him soothingly, “and particularly so if there are several boats close together. In such cases there is a very real chance of striking them. I have seen it done on more than one occasion.”

  Again the guns fell silent, and the crew of the Themis drew breath and did not seem to let it out. A protracted silence, and then guns fired again.

  “That was a broadside, or I have never doubled a cape,” Barthe pronounced.

  They strained to hear a moment more, and then another ragged broadside—muffled, distant, the flashes half buried in lingering smoke. A long silence before the guns spoke, yet again. And then musket fire, carried to them over the breathing waters.

  It was sparse to begin with, and then concentrated. Archer was quite certain he heard the clash of steel on steel, and men shouting and calling out, but the wind carried so much of this away. It went on sporadically for the next forty minutes and then died away.

  Archer began to pace back and forth the length of the quarterdeck, stopping now and then to listen or to call up to the lookouts, who then reported nothing. He was about to conclude that he would never know what had happened inshore, when there was a hail, in English, out of the darkness.

  Boats appeared, and Sir William Jones drew near.

  “I fear the crews of your boats have been taken prisoner, Archer,” he called across the few yards of dark water.

  Archer could not quite credit what he had heard.

  “But what of our captain?” he called, leaning his hands upon t
he rail.

  “And Captain Hayden, as well. We shall tarry half an hour, but then we must make sail. There are frigates and at least two seventy-fours anchored in the bay. They will be upon us at first light if we linger.”

  Jones did not tarry but ordered his boats on, leaving Archer at the rail with Barthe and the doctor, the sailing master muttering a stream of curses.

  “I, for one, should like to know what occurred,” Griffiths told them.

  “Jones said he feared ‘the crews of the boats had been taken.’ Did that mean he was not certain?” Archer asked. “If he is not certain, should we not linger as long as we dare on the chance that our captain will return?”

  “Several frigates and two seventy-four-gun ships . . .” Barthe waved a hand at the darkened bay. “The French have reinforced the islands, then. That is what I would conclude.”

  “Why, then, did they attempt to cut out a ship?” Archer asked. “Does that not seem the height of folly?”

  “Only if one fails,” the doctor observed softly. “If one succeeds . . . then it is the stuff of legend.”

  Nineteen

  As one, they all turned and leapt down into the boats below. Some French came over the rail after them, but the boats were quickly pushed clear and the French either thrown over the side or beaten into the bottom of the boats by the English. Oars went into the water and drew quickly off into the murk, followed by a volley of pistol and musket shot.

  To Hayden’s relief, he found Childers at the helm.

  “What is our course, sir?” he asked.

  Before Hayden could answer, a boat of shouting Frenchmen appeared out of the darkness and made straight at them. Hayden grabbed a musket and fired it out to the open waters.

  He pointed and shouted in French, “The English have set off out to sea!”

  Taking his cue, Hawthorne fired a musket out to sea and another marine did the same. Wickham began calling out in French from the cutter, “After them! After them!”

  Immediately, the French boats set off in the direction Hayden had pointed. He ordered Childers to follow but in a few strokes had the oarsmen slacken their pace. The instant the French boats were absorbed into the darkness, he ordered Childers to turn south and watched to be certain Ransome and Wickham did the same.

  Seeing how few men were left, and how few could man an oar, Hayden took up a sweep himself.

  “I will have that oar, sir,” Childers protested.

  “Stay at the helm, Childers,” Hayden ordered softly. “I will row for a while. Mr Hawthorne? How do we stand for powder and shot?”

  “But poorly, sir. Though it hardly matters, we have so few muskets.”

  A quick tally was taken: four muskets and six pistols among them. One of the pistols belonged to Hayden.

  “Load them all, if you please,” he ordered, passing his pistol, powder, and shot forward. “We may have to fight our way free of this island.”

  “How long do you think this ruse will hold?” Childers asked.

  “I do not know. Row as quietly as you can,” Hayden whispered to the hands. “We will slip along the shore until we are well clear, and then out to sea.”

  Shots were fired to seaward of them—the flashes seen first, then the sharp reports coming to them over the waters. Distant shouting in French followed.

  The two British boats slipped along, side by side, as silently as they were able. Every man strained to hear the sound of other boats, to see any danger lurking in the dark. Hayden had studied Barthe’s chart before he set off to cut out the brig, but the areas beyond the harbour had received less of his attention than the harbour itself . . . something he should have known would come back to injure him in the end.

  A voice called out in French, some distance off, and was answered by others, apparently astern of Hayden.

  “I believe they have smoked us, sir,” Gould whispered. He, too, had taken his place among the oarsmen and handled his sweep like a seasoned hand, Hayden was gratified to see.

  “Bear a point to starboard, Childers,” Hayden said.

  “Are there not shoals here, sir?” Childers asked nervously.

  “There are. I hope to skirt them . . . and remain as distant from the French boats as possible.”

  Hayden looked up at the sky. Broken cloud streamed overhead, jagged bands of sky appearing in between. Here and there about the bay the thin, wintry light of stars made a faint glimmer on the water. Hayden prayed that none of these frail patches of light would find them. The boats’ black hulls and the men in their dark blue jackets made the Themises hard to see on such a night, but silhouettes could be made out, and that was both Hayden’s fear and the reason he wanted to stay near the land, where boats farther out to sea would not discern them against the dark background. It was also not where the French would expect them to be—or so he hoped.

  The splash of oars and the hard sound of sweeps working against thole-pins came over the bay. Sound travelled easily over water, so even whispers could be heard at a distance.

  Every man aboard strained to hear—and then voices, speaking French, Hayden was certain. Gould made a motion with his hand, towards the boat’s larboard quarter—behind and out to sea. And then the sounds of oars astern.

  “More to starboard,” Hayden whispered, and Childers drew his tiller a little towards him.

  “Who is that?” someone called out in French.

  “Laval of the Saint Amond,” came the reply from out of the darkness.

  “Where are the Anglais?” the first voice called out.

  “Two boats escaped out to sea, but we believe the others came this way. Be silent now; we must listen.”

  Hayden glanced shoreward, trying to gauge how distant the island was. Half a mile? A mile? He could not say. He knew there was a point south of them, perhaps half a mile distant now. A river emptied into the sea there. Farther south again lay a shoal, with somewhat deeper water inshore, where the French would careen their smaller ships. South of that stretched a section of coast—two or three miles—of which, no matter how he tried, Hayden could recall little or nothing . . . until Pointe de la Capesterre, where there was a small marsh at the mouth of yet another river.

  A thunk of wood on wood sounded almost abeam to larboard. Without meaning to or being ordered, the oarsmen increased their pace as one, fear seeping in among them. A whispering was heard, though the words were lost in the breeze. How close were they?

  Hayden wished Wickham were aboard his boat. Strain as he might, he could see nothing but darkness. He made a motion for Childers to steer even more to starboard. How he wished he could cast a lead, but he dared not even speak an order, let alone have a lead splashing into the bay. They could let the boats glide to a stop and slip a lead into the waters without a sound, but Hayden was afraid any boats behind would overtake them. It was a danger. The point was somewhere ahead—not far, Hayden thought. If they ran their boat up on a reef of coral it would be all up for them. The sound would not be mistaken by the French. Were Hayden and his men to be forced ashore, they would be caught within a few hours, unless they could make it to the hills. But what then would they do?

  Now and then there was a small splash like the sound of an oar entering the water—though it was difficult to know its point of origin. Small waves broke upon the shore and were easily confused with any splashes nearby. The tide was high, Hayden knew, which gave them as much water over hidden shoals as they could have.

  Without any warning, there was musket fire out to sea and a little ahead—not so distant. The oarsmen lost their rhythm for a moment and some oars collided.

  “Steady,” Hayden whispered.

  The first fire was returned, and then there was shouting. Hayden wondered if it might be Jones, but then he made out a few words—the French were firing on the French. Hayden almost breathed a sigh of relief. It would make any Frenchmen who discovered th
em less likely to fire without being sure, and Hayden hoped his mastery of the language might pull them through. It had, however, failed conspicuously quite recently.

  There was a splash to larboard, even nearer than before. Childers tilted his head towards the island, and Hayden nodded. Their course was altered in that direction.

  A shout came from seaward—so close Hayden could hear an intake of breath afterwards. It was a challenge. Every man aboard held his breath, he was certain.

  “Does he mean us?” Gould whispered.

  Hayden did not know, but then some other called back out of the dark—a name and the name of a ship.

  They continued on, oars dipping in a slow, steady rhythm. A patch of moonlight appeared across the bay to the north-east. Almost, Hayden thought he could make out the stricken brig. In a moment he had the terrible realisation that this patch of moonlit water moved in their direction.

  He removed his oar from the thole-pins, stood, and thrust it down into the water until he felt it strike solid bottom.

  “Coral.” He hissed. “Half a fathom.”

  An almost imperceptible whisper passed down the boat from the bow. “Mr Hawthorne believes there is land, dead ahead, Captain.”

  Hayden softly ordered the men to ease their cadence. He did not want to run hard onto a coral head.

  “Have Thoms sound with an oar,” he said as quietly as he was able. Thoms was farthest forward of the rowers and could sound without interfering with the others.

  “Half a fathom, yet,” came the whisper aft.

  Land was clearly ahead of them now, and Hayden motioned to Childers to put his helm a little to starboard. He wanted to creep along the shore, not run up on to it.

  Whispering reached them—very near, Hayden was certain. Now he was in a bind: They had shore and shallows to starboard and Frenchmen to larboard.

  “Two feet one half, sir. Mud or silt.”

  “Who is there?” someone called out in French. “Name yourself . . .”