“Schooner, sir . . . at anchor, directly ahead.”
Hayden was about to order a course change when he asked, “How big a crew on that privateer, Childers?”
“Perhaps twenty, sir. Not more than two dozen.”
“And how many men would you have left aboard to man the ship?”
“Six, Captain. Certainly not eight.”
“My thoughts exactly. Mr Gould . . . ? Pass the word to Mr Hawthorne. We will board the schooner and attempt to take her. Have him inform Mr Ransome.”
“Take the schooner, sir?” Gould repeated. “With two muskets and six pistols?”
“Did you not hear Childers say they would leave six men aboard?”
“It was only a guess, sir,” Childers said quickly, “not a certainty.”
“An educated guess. We should have the crew outnumbered, and it will be cutlasses and bayonets, at any rate.”
“Aye, sir.”
Twenty-two
Archer could not bring himself to move into the captain’s cabin, even though it appeared that he would be in command of the Themis at least until they returned to Barbados. Admiral Caldwell would then have the power to confirm him in his temporary position, or replace him. If there were some lieutenant aboard one of the other frigates who was pressed forward by his captain or to whose family Caldwell owed a favour, then Archer could be replaced. It would not be in any way unusual or in the least surprising. Admirals far from England’s shores promoted the officers they patronised. That was the way of the Navy.
Even if Archer was not yet prepared to hang his cot in the captain’s cabin, he immediately began doing paperwork and conducting ship’s business there. The business at hand was placating an indignant sailing master and a quietly seething surgeon.
“The entire enterprise was imprudent from the start,” Barthe complained. “And then, upon discovering that the bay was full of French ships, he displayed the judgement of an idiot child! Our captain and our shipmates are in a French gaol because Jones is a vainglorious ass! There was a very good reason that Oxford and Crawley decamped at first opportunity. They knew what lay ahead.”
“Mr Barthe, I do caution you to lower your voice,” Archer said softly. “I do not think it is wise to let your opinions on this matter circulate throughout the ship.”
“Mr Archer, the entire ship’s company is speaking of Jones in far less generous terms than I am, you may be sure.”
Archer suspected that Barthe was right.
“I am much in favour of venting our spleen in regards to Sir William Jones,” Griffiths said, with just the tiniest tremor in his voice, “but the question remains: What shall we do? If we remain in company with Jones we shall be recruited to his lunatic enterprises, and you, Mr Archer, are not even a junior post captain; you shall be obliged to do as he commands.”
Archer felt as though the planks beneath him grew somehow soft and he was sinking through them—down towards the sea beneath.
The sailing master tapped his index finger upon the table. “I, for one, believe we should—entirely without intent—become separated from Jones this very night . . . before he leads us to our utter destruction!”
“It is one thing for post captains such as Crawley and Oxford to lose sight of Sir William’s ship,” Archer protested. “They will both claim it was due to poor weather, or fog, or whatever excuse they agree upon. Caldwell would never accuse them of doing so by intent. But I am only an acting captain, whom he can replace upon a whim. He might have some other whose career he would like to advance, and he will use my separation from Jones as his excuse to replace me. And then you might well have a new acting captain who will follow Jones through the gates of Hades. I am not certain that is preferable.”
“Without question, Mr Archer,” Griffiths quickly spoke, “having you as our commander is preferable, but remaining with Sir William is to place our ship and crew in danger to no purpose. I do not know why his own crew has not mutinied.”
“The hands idolise him!” Barthe replied. “A coward, like Faint Hart, they might come to despise, but a brave man . . . even if he wastes their lives, they will follow him. I still believe we should separate ourselves from Jones at first opportunity. If we make the admiral enough prize money, I doubt he will replace Mr Archer.”
“I will not do it on a clear night,” Archer informed them. “I need at least a little weather so that I might reasonably claim to have lost sight of Inconstant. To lose sight of him on a fine night is to risk losing command, which I will not do.”
Barthe looked at him oddly. “Mr Archer, if Caldwell has some other he wishes to put in command of our ship, he will not require an excuse. He will do so because he can.”
Twenty-three
Round up on the schooner’s larboard side, Childers,” Hayden informed the coxswain quietly, “and we will let sheets fly as we come alongside.”
“We will have quite a little way on, sir,” Childers said.
“I am afraid you are right. I will attempt to get the stern rope around something and stop us. Mr Gould, I shall trust you to shoot anyone who endeavours to kill me as I am doing this.”
He thought Gould nodded in the dark.
The schooner was an indistinct mass of shadow, then it began to take on definition. Thirty yards off, someone aboard called out, “Boats!”
Hayden stood up and shouted in French, “What ship are you? Identify yourself!”
“La Poulette,” the man shouted in return. “Who are you?”
“Lieutenant Mercier of the La Vengeance. I will speak with your captain.”
“The captain is away in the boats,” one of the men replied.
They were not ten paces off now, and Hayden could just make out the shapes of men lining the rail.
“Prepare to fire,” he said softly in English. He waited, not wanting to waste any shot. The men at the rail became more distinct, if remaining dark silhouettes. If he came too close, they risked being unmasked.
“Fire,” Hayden ordered. He levelled his own pistol and shot at the small mass of men along the rail.
Judging wind and sea, Childers rounded up sharply and brought the barge alongside, backing the mizzen as he did so. Hayden clambered up with one foot on the boat’s gunwale, ran the rope around a stanchion, and leaned back against it. Two of the crew jumped up to aid him and they quickly brought the boat to.
The men went over the rail with cutlasses and tomahawks, but there were only two privateers standing and these threw down their weapons immediately upon seeing the British, apparently in numbers. Ransome’s boat came alongside, aft of Hayden’s, and the men were all quickly aboard.
“We will set sail, Mr Ransome, back a jib to larboard, cut the cable, and set off on the starboard tack. Take the men you need; all others, prepare to repel boarders. The privateers might return at any moment. Mr Hawthorne! Secure the prisoners, then search the ship for hiding Frenchmen. Mr Gould—a loaded weapon for every man . . . and load this swivel gun as well.”
Despite lack of food, the British sailors ran to their appointed tasks.
The mainsail and gaff, though small by frigate standards, were heavy for such a small crew. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to raise and peak the gaff. While this sail luffed and shivered in the wind, the foresail was raised. Before the men could get to the headsail halyards, Wickham shouted and pointed towards the careenage.
“Boat off our larboard quarter, Captain!”
Every man aboard snatched up the weapon they had been given and rushed to the rail. At that instant a cry went up from the French, who realised their schooner had been taken. A musket fired to Hayden’s right, and Hawthorne loudly commanded men to hold their fire until ordered otherwise by the captain.
Twenty yards off, the privateers opened fire with muskets and pistols, and balls began to strike planking and at least one British sailor,
who tumbled back and lay moaning on the deck.
“Fire the swivel gun,” Hayden ordered.
The swivel gun was ignited by match, so took a few seconds to fire. By the sounds of men crying out, Hayden thought they had struck home.
“Fire muskets,” he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard.
A dozen muskets broke the silence. Hayden closed his eyes so the muzzle flash would not destroy his night vision.
“Reload muskets,” Hayden instructed. “Pistols at the ready.”
The boats of the privateers continued on, rowed by desperate men who realised their vessel was about to be lost if they could not take her back.
Before the muskets could be brought into play again, the first boat rounded up alongside the British cutter.
“Fire pistols,” Hayden said, aiming at the man opposite him.
At that range, the British fire was ruinous. Perhaps half a dozen men clambered out of the boat and into the British cutter as the second boat came up and its crew followed. There was a brief, fierce battle at the rail, and then the outnumbered privateers were falling back and leaping for their boats. Oars went clumsily into the water, and, as the single boat containing the survivors pulled away, the British loaded guns and fired two volleys to unknown effect.
Turning his attention back to the schooner, Hayden discovered that the French prisoners who were able had leapt over the side and swum for shore, leaving only the most severely wounded behind. The schooner was quickly got underway and set off into the darkness, free at last of the island of Guadeloupe.
Hayden stood by the helmsman, Childers.
“Will Mr Archer return for us this night, sir?” Childers asked.
“Left to his own devices, I am quite certain he would, but he will be obliged to take orders from Sir William, and I rather doubt Captain Jones believes us still at liberty.”
“Then what should we do, sir?”
“That is what I must decide, but first the crew and her officers must be fed so that decisions are not made with our wit enfeebled by hunger.”
Hawthorne approached then.
“Sir,” the marine lieutenant began, “we discovered two men manacled below. One appears to be English, and the other claims he is a royalist who was caught while attempting to escape Guadeloupe by boat.”
“An Englishman?” Hayden could hardly credit what he had heard.
“A soldier, sir . . . or so he claims.”
“Well, have them carried up, Mr Hawthorne. I shall speak with them upon this instant.”
The men in question were led up, still manacled, by two of Hawthorne’s marines. They were something of a contrast—an ill-kempt man of perhaps thirty-five, small in stature; and a dark young man of rather noble bearing.
“Which of you is English?” Hayden asked.
“Me, sir,” the older man offered, raising his hands slightly. “Jimmy Rusten. And very happy I am to see you, Captain.”
“Mr Hawthorne tells me you were a soldier?”
“I believe I still am, sir, though the Army likely believe me dead. I was a corporal with the 43rd, sir. We were overrun at night while in retreat from Fort Fleur-d’Épée and I was struck on the head and left for dead. I awoke, sir, when I was being rummaged by an old slave woman. When I realised my predicament, I tried to rejoin my company, sir, but I was cut off. I went to ground, Captain, and made my way up into the mountains of Basse-Terre. I’d been living off the land, as it were, for . . . well, I can’t say how long, sir, because I lost track. Two Frenchies tracked me down and caught me, sir, and were taking me in when”—he made a gesture towards the other captive—“Louis, here, stepped out of the bush and shot one with a musket and t’other with a pistol. I didn’t know it then, but he’d been watching me for some time. You see, Louis had escaped the Jacobins and was hiding out, too, when he first saw me. He’d jumped out a window and escaped when the Jacobins came for his family. He’s a good lad, sir. Only nineteen, but he’s got bottom, sir, and steady as they come.”
“Do you speak English?” Hayden asked the young man in French.
“Some small English. Better than Rusten speaks French.”
“Is what he said true? You escaped the Jacobins when they came for your family?”
“Yes. They came at night. They always come at night. I jumped from an upstairs window. Papa feared always that we would be discovered—my family, we were royalists. He hided guns and clothing and some food in case we ever had to make escape to the mountains . . . but I am the only one to escape. They chased me, but I am faster. Then, sometime, I see Rusten. He was very secret, quiet, never having fire by day. Stealing . . . food sometimes, but not too much. Hunting, but only far away from people. I think he must be like me—a royalist, maybe. But then some Jacobins came and catched him. I shoot them and then find he is an English soldier. He showed me his uniform.” He tilted his head towards his fellow captive. “These are stolen clothes he is wearing.” He held up his manacled hands. “Please, can you take them off?”
“Do we have keys, Mr Hawthorne?”
“We do not, sir, but I will set men to searching.”
Hayden turned back to the captives and opened his hands—a small gesture of helplessness. “The instant we have a key . . .”
“Thank you, sir,” Rusten said. “We were for the guillotine, without a doubt. They called me a spy. I thought it was all up for Jimmy Rusten, sir.”
Hayden thought the man might break down and weep, his voice was so laden with emotion, but he turned his face away and mastered himself.
Ransome and Wickham arranged watches and stations, the stove was lit, and food was quickly prepared. It was Hayden’s intention to sail away from Guadeloupe towards the island of Marie-Galante, and then return to lie off the bay and hope Archer returned in the Themis. Beyond that, he had no plan. Certainly, he could return to Barbados with his prize—which would allow him to see his bride much sooner than he had hoped. He could make the short sail to Portsmouth, on the north end of Dominico—a mere ten or eleven leagues on a fair wind. He hoped, however, that he would rendezvous with the Themis that night. He was anxious regarding Archer sailing with Jones. It was very clear to Hayden now why Crawley and Oxford had slipped away at the first opportunity. Hayden had believed it was because they were interested in prize money, but now he was quite certain they did not want to let Jones lead them into disaster. Taking the brig in the midst of a crowded harbour might have been audacious, but it was even more foolish. Hayden had lost nine men in that misadventure. Nine! He had fought engagements with a French frigate and lost fewer men than that. And all for nothing. But then Hayden caught himself. At least they now had this schooner to show for all their losses. Too small a prize for so great a price.
If Archer were to arrive off the bay it would be sometime after midnight—one or two, Hayden thought. The trade commonly eased after dark; Hayden did not want to be left creeping back towards the harbour and arriving too late, but he also wanted to be certain he had left the privateers in their boats behind.
“Sir?” It was one of the hands, with a bowl in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. “French wine, Mr Wickham said to tell you.”
Dinner was salt cod, boiled pease, hard bread, butter, and cheese. A strange sense of relief spread through Hayden’s being as he devoured his food, using the binnacle for a table. Hawthorne appeared.
“Will you join me at table, Mr Hawthorne?”
“I would be honoured, sir.” Hawthorne raised his glass. “To the good men we lost.”
Hayden raised his own. The two ate in silence a moment and then the marine asked, “Do you think Mr Archer will return this night?”
“To do so, I suspect he will have to defy Jones. A difficult thing for a first lieutenant to do.”
“But we will go there, all the same?”
“That is my intention. If the The
mis is not there, we will return with our prize to Barbados.”
“What will the admiral think of that, I wonder?”
“He will calculate his share of the prize money and make his judgement accordingly. If he is pleased with his share, he will excuse me for appointing myself prize captain and returning to my bride while leaving my first lieutenant in command of my frigate.”
“It is not as if you had any choice in the matter. Jones abandoned us. It is a miracle we were not taken prisoner.”
“Very true, but I wonder how the admiral’s particular friend, Jones, will describe what happened. Sir William might suggest that we were foolish not to follow him when he abandoned the brig. If we had done that, we would not have been left behind.”
“Do you think Jones will try to cast some blame on us for what happened?”
“What is the alternative? To admit that it was a vain and risky plan that ended badly and that he ran at first opportunity, leaving us to fight off the French and escape as best we could? I doubt his report to Caldwell will be so honest.” Hayden took a sip of his wine. “Have you found a key to release our captives?”
“Yes. The master of the ship kept one in a trunk.” Hawthorne leaned nearer to Hayden and said quietly, “Do you think Rusten ran?”
“It would be a very unlikely place to decide to desert. And if their story is true, they were attempting to sail to Dominica and had the ill fortune to be discovered by privateers. I am inclined to believe them.”
“I agree, Captain. They had even greater good fortune to have us take their ship. Rusten would have been bound for the guillotine as a spy and Louis for being a royalist.”
As Hayden and Hawthorne finished their meal, and one of the hands cleared away their bowls and glasses, Louis approached. He was rubbing his wrists and grimacing as he did so.
“May I speak with you, Captain Hayden?” he asked.
“Certainly.” He glanced at Hawthorne, who touched his hat and backed into the darkness.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 24