Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  For a moment the young man appeared to search for words.

  “You may speak French,” Hayden said to him. “I comprehend it perfectly.”

  “On Basse-Terre there are many like me—hiding from the Jacobins. The authorities have offered money to capture them so they are every day being hunted—men, women, and children, too. You could save many of these people, Captain.”

  “But they are hiding in the mountains, Louis. How would I find them?”

  “I would find them, Captain Hayden. There are fifty I know of. I would go ashore in a place I know where it is secret and your ship would not be seen. I would gather together some—not too many, for it would be dangerous to bring so many. Sixteen or seventeen each night. Three nights. Otherwise, they will all be hunted and only the youngest children will be spared. Everyone else . . .” He made a slicing motion with his hand at this throat.

  “Where is this secret place you speak of?”

  “On the western shore. Near a small island—the Islets à Goayaves. It is very near the mountains.”

  “Does anyone live nearby?”

  Louis hesitated, and then, without looking at Hayden, he said, “No one to concern us.”

  “Ah.” Hayden knew better than to enquire further. “What you ask, Louis . . . it is very dangerous. I must make four visits to the shore. The chances of being seen and reported will increase each time. A great risk for my crew.”

  “But the men and women hiding in the mountains—their chances of being captured are extreme. It is just a matter of when this will happen. You will be taking a risk—I cannot deny this—but compared to them . . . well, it is smaller, somewhat.” He lowered his voice. “I am told, Captain Hayden, that your mother is French . . .”

  Hayden shook his head. “It is so difficult to keep a secret.”

  “There are many women hiding in the mountains who will go to the guillotine if we cannot help them. That is why I sailed to Dominica—to ask the English for help.”

  “I will consider your request, Louis. I can promise you no more than that. If we rendezvous this night with my senior captain, I will no longer be free to act independently. Do you understand?”

  The young man nodded. He left Hayden standing near the transom rail, a small battle raging between wit and heart. His orders were to harass the enemy’s shipping—to “take, burn, or destroy” French vessels wherever he met them. Caldwell had made no mention of rescuing royalists.

  A memory of Madame Adair came to mind, frightened into distraction as the Jacobins came to her gate . . . and then passed by. Hayden also remembered their desperate coupling and her precious daughter. Was Madame Adair yet alive or had she been drawn into the maelstrom of the guillotine? He did not know, nor did he know what had become of Charlotte, her daughter. The thought of these two—woman and girl—being hunted in the wilderness caused such a wave of anguish it was like being wracked with pain.

  He wondered how dangerous it would be to slip up to the coast in the depths of the night. Were there royalists or sympathisers living in the place Louis had named? Certainly, that was what he had intimated.

  Hawthorne returned at that moment and Hayden waved him near.

  “Shall I allow half my men to sleep?” the marine asked.

  Hayden nodded. “Until we return to lie off the harbour. Then I will have every able-bodied man awake and at his station. I do not want to be caught unawares and unprepared.”

  Hawthorne touched his hat.

  “Mr Hawthorne . . . ?”

  “Sir?”

  “I have just had a conversation with our young royalist. He tells me there are many people hiding in the mountains and slowly being tracked down by the Jacobins, who then put them upon the guillotine. He has implored me to mount a rescue.”

  Hawthorne considered this. “I am not overly fond of royalists myself, but I prefer them to Jacobins, and at least they are nominally our allies. What would we be required to do, Captain, if I may ask?”

  “That is the problem. We would slip in near to the coast and row Louis ashore. He would go searching for the hidden royalists. The difficulty is that he does not think it safe to move large numbers of them at once—no more than sixteen or seventeen at a time—and he believes he can locate fifty.”

  “Then what is he proposing?” Hawthorne asked, confused.

  “That we bring aboard royalists on three consecutive nights.”

  “Four nights in total?”

  “That is correct.”

  “Well, this cove where we are going to pick up royalists had better be very secluded, otherwise we will be discovered.”

  “It is a beach on the western coast of Basse-Terre.”

  “A beach can be a very exposed place, Captain . . . even by darkness. And to go four nights to the same beach . . .”

  “It is a very great danger. And I fear, Mr Hawthorne, that my parentage might influence me in this matter.”

  “I do not think, sir, that feeling compassion for people caught up in a war they did not want indicates an improper conflict on your part. If the admiral had given us orders to take these people off, there would be no question, but I doubt his orders covered such an eventuality . . . ?”

  “No, they did not.”

  “But it would seem, given the number of royalists living on Barbados, that the admiral is not unsympathetic to their cause. In which case, it is only a question of the possible risk to your crew and our prize, Captain.”

  “And would the crew willingly risk their lives—and their prize money—for a passel of Frenchmen?”

  “Fortunately, a ship is not a republic, and they do not have a vote.”

  “No, they do not, but in this case, I shall consult with my officers.” Hayden waved one of the hands near. “Pass the word for Mr Ransome and Mr Wickham, if you please.”

  Wickham and Ransome hurried aft, and Hayden related Louis’ request and asked their opinion. Neither was used to being included in such deliberations, and Hayden could feel them hesitating.

  Not wanting to speak before a lieutenant, Wickham turned to his shipmate. “What think you, Mr Ransome?”

  “I think it is a very dangerous endeavour, but if we do not attempt it . . . well, it sounds as if we shall be condemning these people to the guillotine.”

  “And you, Mr Wickham?” Hayden asked, noting that Ransome had not committed himself one way or another.

  “I think we must try it, Captain, but I for one would be more comfortable with it if we were not returning to the same beach four nights together. Is there not some other place that would serve the same purpose?”

  “It is a fair question, Mr Wickham. Find Louis for me, and we shall put the question to him.”

  A moment later Wickham returned with the Frenchman, and Hayden asked him if there was not some other beach they could use.

  “There are other beaches, but none that will suit our purposes so well. I can bring people there by ways that are safe and where we are unlikely to be seen. Also, the people who are hiding . . . some are very young and others are quite elderly. This beach is not so far for them to travel. As I say, we could use another beach, but I think the risks would be greater.”

  “It sounds as though we are taking more risk so that your royalists may take fewer,” Ransome observed.

  “No, no. For everyone there will be less risk to go to this beach four times than to go to another. If I cannot reach some other place, because the Jacobins are near and we must stay hidden, then you will come and come again to that place. No, this way is better, monsieur, I am certain.”

  The four Englishmen were silent a moment.

  “I know you would only do this out of goodness,” Louis offered. “You have no orders from your commander to save people loyal to the King of France, nor is there prize money to be had. All you will have is the gratitude of people who have nothing
with which to repay you, for most have lost everything. The gratitude of the dispossessed”—he shrugged—“it is a worthless currency.”

  “Thank you, Louis,” Hayden said. “I will inform you of our decision.”

  They watched Louis retreat.

  “If I may, sir?” Hawthorne asked. “We must both take him on trust and also we must believe he can do what he claims—find and deliver the royalists to the beach without the Jacobins getting wind of it. A lot to ask, given that we have not known him more than an hour.”

  “Rusten thinks very highly of him,” Hayden said, “though we have not known that gentleman any longer. I will tell him I will make my decision after we have attempted to rendezvous with Sir William. I do not want to make any promises to Louis only to have Jones set against them. In the interval, you might all take the time to have some conversation with our Frenchman so you can take his measure and tell me then what you think.”

  Hayden had the little schooner stand out towards the island of Marie-Galante until he judged it time, and then he shaped their course to the point off the bay where they had originally launched boats the previous night—which already seemed like many days ago. Under cover of darkness and in deteriorating weather, they stood in towards the bay, Ransome and Wickham taking over the duties of Mr Barthe and piloting them in using the privateer’s charts.

  The little ship was hove-to off the bay sometime after midnight. The sky had been clouding since the sun had set, and a series of squalls appeared to sweep down from the mountains, laying the little schooner over on her beam end and drenching the crew with rain. It was the kind of night, Hayden knew, on which boats could be launched from inside the bay and would be upon the schooner before they were seen. Watches were set and men armed, though keeping locks dry in such weather was not easy.

  Hayden paced about the unlit deck, damp through and surly. The schooner carried but a single lamp, its light shielded from the shore, so that the Themis did not run them down if she did return. Of course, the squalls would hide that light altogether, so Hayden had lookouts on the seaward side, searching desperately for the sight of a ship.

  The winds shifted about the compass rose, forcing Hayden to put down an anchor, which would make any escape that much more difficult.

  An hour passed, and Hawthorne appeared beside Hayden, matching his pace.

  “Mr Archer would choose this night to play coy!” the marine observed.

  “Perhaps he did not receive our invitation . . .”

  “The Royal Mail is going to hell, Captain, there is no question.” The two continued to pace along the starboard deck. “How long will we wait?”

  “Another hour—no more. I want to be distant from this shore when light comes.” A gust struck them suddenly from the south, and the ship seemed to stagger to starboard. “I do wish this weather would pass. It is all but impossible to see another vessel, and we are at some risk of dragging ashore.”

  Hawthorne considered this a moment. “It is also difficult to know what to wish for, Captain. If Mr Archer returns, we will once more be subject to the whims of the vainglorious Sir William Jones. If Archer does not return, then he will be under Jones’ command, which could turn out very badly. On the plus side of that ledger, if Archer does not return, you, Captain Hayden, will be free to rescue or not rescue royalists—whichever you see fit—without either consulting with, or interference from, the redoubtable Captain Jones.”

  “I, for one, am hoping that the Themis appears this night. My ship and crew are in danger of harm or loss while under the command of Jones. And Archer is at risk to do irreparable harm to his career, for it seems Jones never suffers the consequences for his poor decisions. Either he is actually as dear to the royal family as he would have everyone believe, or he is charmed.”

  “In my experience of men like Jones—and Sydney Smith—their luck runs out eventually.”

  “Those two gentlemen appear to have been granted a boundless supply of good fortune. While other men I know have only the opposite—and, often as not, undeservedly so.”

  The hour crept, haltingly, by. When Hayden could wait no longer, he ordered sails set and anchor weighed. A forward gust caught the schooner as she weighed, pressing her towards the shore, but small and handy as she was, the crew quickly had sails drawing and way on. In an instant she was racing through the dark, throwing spray across the deck, a runaway, carrying her riders with her. The squall did not last, but the wind continued to change its direction without rhyme or warning, so that for a time the little ship would be laying her course, and then, not a moment later, she would be hard on the wind going some other way.

  Out of the darkness a sodden Louis appeared—hatless, hair plastered to his forehead.

  “I do not wish to be a bother, Captain . . .” he began, and then appeared to run out of words.

  Hayden and the young Frenchman contemplated each other and then Hayden said, “I have taken my ship and crew into danger on more occasions than I care to name, but I never like to undertake enterprises that both my heart and my head tell me are doomed to failure. Rescuing your people is just such an enterprise, Louis.”

  The young man nodded. “These people, Captain, they have no other hope—”

  Hayden raised a hand to stop him. “I have not said I would not do it . . . I have only told you how I perceive the dangers and the likelihood of success. Here is how it will be managed. We will arrange signals to be made by lamps. Once I have received a signal from you that you deem it safe, I will send a small boat to the beach with but a single man, or perhaps a pair. You will meet them, and if all is well, you will greet them with a certain phrase I will give you. If you deem it unsafe you will offer a different greeting or, if you can, you will warn them away before they land. I will not commit boats and crews until I have been twice reassured that my people are not in danger. Do you understand?”

  “I do, Captain, completely.”

  “We will shape our course away from Guadeloupe this night, but in such a way as to allow us to return to your beach after midnight. We will take you ashore as silently as we can and then return the following night if you think you can gather together some of your people and have them there at that time.”

  “I will bring them there, Captain. You have my word.”

  Hayden contemplated the Frenchman a moment in the dark and then said, “I should not be so quick to give my word in an enterprise as uncertain as this.”

  Twenty-four

  The north-east trade swept up and over and funnelled between the island’s mountains, producing inconstant winds that swirled and sometimes died altogether. After sunset the trade took off a little and left, along the coast, a narrow band of calms and small, sudden gusts. Laying-to in such conditions was difficult, but Hayden felt they had no choice—the noise of both dropping and raising anchor would easily travel to the shore and to the small islands to their south. They had set Louis ashore the night previous and now returned, hoping he would bring his promised fugitives from injustice . . . and that he would not bring a company of French soldiers.

  The two boats from the Themis, and a smaller boat belonging to the schooner, had been lowered into the water farther from shore to reduce the chances of anyone’s hearing. They were brought alongside now and manned. Wickham, a marine and the strongest oarsman aboard, went down into the smaller boat. The other boats were lightly manned in anticipation of bearing back refugees.

  The schooner lay a little more than half a mile from the shore, in twenty-five fathoms. To the south the Islets à Goayaves were darker masses, distinguished from the black waters because they reflected no glimmer of starlight. To the east lay a small, open bay and a narrow beach, towards which Hayden stared, waiting for three quick flashes from a lantern.

  The eyes tended to play tricks, Hayden knew, if one stared intently enough into the darkness. Shapes appeared where there were none, and sometimes littl
e flickers that were manufactured in the brain, or so he had come to believe. He also strained to hear the sound of oars, or of a musket’s lock being cocked. There were no sounds but the breathing of the men, and the breeze rolling down off the nearby mountains, hissing and whispering through the trees, then rippling the waters so that the occasional hollow plunk sounded against the sides of a boat.

  “Sir,” one of the crew whispered, and raised a hand in the dark, indicating a place somewhat north of where Hayden had been looking.

  Three flashes, a count of twenty, then three again. Hayden ordered the man standing by with a lantern, hidden from the shore, to return the signal. He then leaned over the side.

  “Mr Ransome, keep a good offing until Mr Wickham rows back out and assures you it is clear. Mr Wickham, if you have the slightest suspicion that things are not as they should be, do not press on. We are under no orders to rescue these people, and I will leave them on the beach before I see my crew put at risk.”

  “Aye, sir,” Wickham responded, very softly, and then the boats were away.

  Immediately, Hayden began to pace the length of the ship, fearing the flash of sudden musket fire or even guns aimed at the schooner. It was a foolish and dangerous enterprise—the kind of thing Sir William might arrange, had he any interest in rescuing French royalists. Hayden paused a moment to watch the boats dissolve into the darkness and realised what he felt was a growing sense of apprehension.

  Wickham sat in the stern manning a small tiller, Bentley rowed, and a marine named Cooper crouched in the bow holding a musket, another ready to hand and a brace of loaded pistols in his belt. They rowed towards a dark shore where they did not know what might await them—a gathering of frightened and grateful French, or a line of marksmen with muskets pressed to their shoulders. Bentley worked his oars for stealth rather than speed, keeping the blades low to the water on the return and slipping them through the surface like sharpened knives. The little boat made hardly a sound as it went, barely a ripple of wake trailing behind.