Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  Hayden could see no boat, but the voice was not fifty yards to larboard. He waited, hopefully, for some other Frenchman to answer, as had occurred before, but there was only silence.

  The man behind Hayden spoke close to his ear. “No bottom at one fathom,” he said.

  “I swear . . . I feel a current on my rudder, sir,” Childers whispered, leaning near. “From starboard.”

  The tide was about to turn, Hayden knew, but the ebb would be so small . . . He moved his oar out of place and scooped up a handful of water and brought it to his lips. Fresh . . .

  “Name yourself, or we will fire . . .” came the French voice again.

  Hayden grabbed the tiller, and turned the boat hard to starboard.

  “Row,” he hissed.

  In the darkness, Hayden could not be certain if Childers really looked as alarmed as he thought. Ransome’s boat fell into line on their starboard quarter. Hayden could just make out the movement of the oarsmen as they bent to—rowing as quickly as they dared while staying as quiet as they could.

  Suddenly there was an explosion in the dark as half a dozen muskets were fired, the balls whizzing about their ears but none finding either flesh or plank. Trees loomed up to either side. He could almost feel the small current slowing them, for he was quite certain they were at the mouth of a river.

  The oarsmen dug their oars deep and surged forward with each stroke. The French boat was so near that Hayden could hear the clatter of lead balls as men loaded their muskets. An instant later they fired again, but the shot all went to larboard, cutting up the leaves of overhanging trees.

  “River bends to starboard, Captain,” one of the men behind him whispered.

  Childers altered his course without being told.

  Voices came to them—men calling out in French.

  “Have you found them?—les Anglais?”

  “So we thought . . . but now. We are not certain.”

  “Did they pass up the river?”

  “Perhaps . . . but it is all in shadow there.”

  Hayden could hear the men speaking, as though they were only a few yards distant. If the French came up the river after them, they would be in trouble. He looked about desperately. It was almost black under the trees to starboard—perhaps dark enough to hide their boats. He motioned to Childers, who pushed his helm to larboard, swinging them towards the shadowed tree line.

  The shadow, however, was deeper than Hayden had realised. It took a moment for him to comprehend that they were slipping into a small indentation in the bank. He wondered if it might be a separate arm and the land to one side an island, when they slid to a stop on a soft bottom.

  Hayden passed his oar to the man next to him and slipped over the side as silently as he was able. The bottom was soft, and his feet sank nearly to the ankles in the silt. He walked forward to the bow, a hand on the gunwale. The little arm of the river appeared to go farther yet. There was no current that he could feel, but that might not mean anything. The water was about the same depth for three boat lengths and then began to shallow. To either side were thick, overhanging trees. He returned to the boat quickly.

  “Over the side,” he ordered under his breath. “Silent as you can.”

  Ransome’s cutter lay not far off. Hayden waded over to it.

  “Mr Ransome,” he whispered. “We will pull our boats further in.”

  Lightened of their crews, the boats bobbed up and were easily guided up the waterway, which bent around to the west. When they were as far up the little waterway as they could go, Hayden ordered everyone to hold in place. Under the trees, almost nothing could be seen, but he could hear all the men breathing.

  The splash of an oar came from somewhere out on the main river. The French had muffled their oars—likely wrapping jackets or shirts around the sweeps where they rested between thole-pins.

  The sound of swirling water. A few feet off he heard someone cock a musket—Hawthorne, Hayden guessed. He drew his own pistol from his belt. A little breeze stirred the trees, which hissed all around. Hayden expected muskets to fire from a few feet off, carrying them all away . . . but the sighing wind died off and he could hear nothing.

  One’s imagination, Hayden knew, preyed upon one at such times. It was easy to believe the French lay only a few yards off, having detected the British. One imagined the sounds of men in among the trees. Even in utter darkness—he could not see the man standing before him—the tension of his crew was palpable. And so they remained for an hour, afraid to move, not knowing if the French had come and gone, or if they had ventured into the river at all.

  He could not read his watch in such darkness, but Hayden knew they were now trapped, for morning would soon be upon them and they did not dare show themselves by daylight. Low-hanging branches touched Hayden now and then, as the breeze stirred among them. He reached up and found a thicker branch, of what variety of tree he did not know, and gently pulled it down, hoping it would not snap and give them away. It did not.

  He whispered orders to the men nearest him, and in a moment a few were standing upon the thwarts and pulling down branches, which were then tied to the boat by ropes of various lengths. In the dark it was impossible to assess the success of this enterprise, but they did the best they could, and then Hayden ordered the men into the boats. Watches were assigned and the others allowed to lie down in the bottom of the boat and rest.

  Grey began to creep out of the east so that the trees were silhouetted against the brightening sky. Hayden waded down towards the main river a distance to gauge the effectiveness of their disguise. A few branches were then adjusted aft to hide the boats as completely as possible and to make the scene appear more natural. He then climbed into the stern-sheets, where he found Childers and Gould curled up in the bottom, fast asleep.

  Hawthorne sat forward, and when Hayden caught his eye, he shrugged. The marine lieutenant had exchanged his red coat for a blue one and was on watch, musket laid across the gunwales and pistols to hand.

  The island’s birds began to sing at the first sign of light, and the trees around were alive with them, flitting from branch to branch, some fluttering out to catch insects over the water, where the mosquitoes had found the British sailors. Hayden prayed the heat of the day would drive them to ground.

  As morning brightened, Hayden heard, some distance off, the sound of oars working against wood, and then muted conversation. Not five minutes later two boats went by, manned by French sailors with officers in the stern and armed men in the bow. They laid on their oars and drifted by the opening to Hayden’s little arm of the river, muskets trained towards the British. Hayden and Hawthorne had both ducked low before the boat appeared, and now Hayden peeked over the gunwale, staying perfectly still. But the boats went on, the officers returning to their conversation. In a moment, the sounds of their oars diminished and then were lost altogether.

  Beyond the trees, the eastern sky caught fire and then the light came angling in among the trees in low shafts, the birds weaving between. Hayden took his pistol and slipped up onto the bank. He went, very slowly, from tree to tree, until he had surveyed all around for some distance. He could not be certain how far the wood extended, but some little way, it appeared. They would go unnoticed there unless someone came right upon them, for the boats were invisible from ten yards off.

  “With a little good fortune on our side,” Hayden informed Ransome and Hawthorne, who were both awake and on watch, “we can sit here the entire day without anyone taking note of us. We will slip out at nightfall. If the Themis is not holding position off the bay, we will have to sail to Dominica on the trade.” He paused. “We have fresh water at hand here, but no way to carry any with us to sea.”

  Hawthorne reached down, pulled the folded sail aside a little, and revealed a small wine cask. “Liberated from the brig by persons unknown,” he whispered.

  Hayden shook his head. Sai
lors would risk any number of floggings for a good drunk. “We will drink what we can of it while remaining sober, then tip the rest over the side and fill it with water. The same persons unknown did not liberate any victuals, I would hazard?”

  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 low-hanging 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 gunwales, 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 towards 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 unfocused 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 realised, 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.”