Wickham gazed past Bentley at the shadowed shore beyond, thinking as he did so that if there were anything out of the ordinary awaiting them, he would never know. He also strained to hear any warning sounds, though he hardly knew what they might be. A muffled cough reached them, causing him to flinch, but then he told himself that soldiers hiding in ambush would not cough for their lives. This was some innocent—one of Louis’ royalists, he hoped.
A long quarter of an hour, bracing for musket fire the entire time, brought the familiar sound of waves lapping the shore. The boat slid to a gentle stop and Wickham was out and pulling them back, then turning them around so that a quick retreat could be made. He was about to scramble back aboard when he heard a near-whisper in the dark.
“C’est moi. Louis.”
Wickham let out a long breath and took another in to a relaxed chest.
“Is that you, Wickham?”
“Yes. How many?”
“Only ten, but I will have more tomorrow—twenty, perhaps. They have brought what little food they can.”
“I will send the boats immediately. Gather them on the beach. Tell them to say nothing.” Wickham pushed the boat for two steps and then swung himself over the side and took hold of the tiller.
“Slowly,” Wickham whispered to the hand at the oars. “Better to take five minutes more but preserve silence.”
Bentley slacked his pace. In a few moments they found the cutter and the barge, under the command of Gould and Ransome, respectively.
“It appears safe,” Wickham whispered. “Godspeed.”
He did not hesitate, but set Mr Bentley back to his oars. He did not want to linger near the shore any longer than he must. Although Captain Hayden made great effort to hide it, Wickham sensed that he had strong misgivings about this entire enterprise, and if his captain felt this way, Wickham was more than a little concerned. He would not draw a full breath until they were under sail and a mile from shore.
Wickham’s boat appeared out of the darkness and was quickly alongside.
“All well, Mr Wickham?” Hayden whispered down into the boat.
“All appears well, sir,” came the reply.
The occupants of the boat came silently up and over the rail. Two of the crew took charge of the boat, streaming it with care so that it did not strike the topsides. A very long half of the hour dragged past, and finally the boats took form out of the darkness and a moment later were alongside. Children were handed up, and then women and men. A few precious belongings followed, and last, the boats’ crews.
“So few,” Hayden whispered to Ransome.
“Yes, sir. Louis said he would bring twenty tomorrow.”
The ship was got underway and shaped her course immediately to the west to gain as much offing by full light as they could manage. They would then sail north to give them a good slant for returning on the trade.
When they were an hour out from shore, Hayden addressed the gathered French, who had been instructed to sit down on the deck.
“You may speak now, but quietly,” he told them in French.
One man stood. “I am speaking for us all when I thank you, Captain . . .” Words failed him, or perhaps his English was not up to the task. “You and your crew. We would all of us have died if you had not escaped us. We cannot thank you enough.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Hayden realised that a woman was weeping.
The tropical sun burned down upon the little schooner, turning the deck into a surface similar to a stove top. Although the sailors ran over it barefoot, Hayden could not hold his hand to the planks for more than a few seconds. An awning had been rigged amidships between the two masts and the French refugees huddled in its meagre shade. A few slept upon the unforgiving planks, some spoke softly, a few children played at cards, for finding themselves upon a ship was nothing but a great adventure to them. All ate and drank parsimoniously, the parents putting aside some of their own food for their children.
On the south-east horizon, the tops of Basse-Terre’s mountains—impossibly green and crowned with cloud—appeared to hang suspended. Sails could be seen here and there upon the blue, but none seemed to offer any threat, so the schooner sailed on, trying to appear to be hurrying north on some urgent errand of commerce. The officers, young gentlemen, and marines had removed their coats to maintain this appearance of innocence, and they were all grateful for it.
Forward, Wickham moved among the refugees, employing his excellent French and seeing to their needs as best he could. Two of the men stood and engaged the young nobleman in serious conversation, and immediately Hayden wondered if there was someone among them ill with fever. Fever aboard this small ship would be catastrophic.
Hayden could see Wickham nodding, and then he gestured towards the stern—towards the captain, Hayden feared. Wickham stepped gingerly among the sprawled bodies and made his way quickly aft.
“You have a most thoughtful look upon your face, Mr Wickham,” Hayden said.
“I have just been given rather unsettling information, Captain, if it proves true.” Wickham turned and nodded in the direction of the two men to whom he had been speaking, both of whom stood watching him expectantly. “Would you hear these gentlemen, Captain?”
“If you think it important, yes. Send them aft.”
Wickham waved to the men and Hayden retreated to the taffrail, where they might speak in something like privacy.
The men were both dressed in expensive clothing that was now dirty, worn, and in some places patched. Their very fine riding boots were in ruin and both men looked gaunt and fatigued to their very limits. They introduced themselves—life in the mountains had not eroded their manners—and thanked Hayden again for his kindness.
“How might I be of service?” Hayden enquired of them in French.
“To begin, Capitaine, we must beg that you be most circumspect with the information we are about to impart. Many lives will depend upon your discretion.”
“I am under some obligations to my service and King, but if I can keep your secret without compromising my duty, I will do so.”
The Frenchmen exchanged a look, then one nodded. The younger-looking of the two was spokesman.
“We have a friend, Capitaine, who has hidden his true beliefs so successfully that the Jacobins have recruited his services. He has secretly warned many a family to flee and saved them from capture. This man, at great risk, got word to us that a man we have all trusted and believed in has been playing us falsely. He is neither who he claims to be, nor does he hold the beliefs he so passionately espouses. In fact, he has been betraying us so cunningly that we did not suspect him.”
“I am sorry to hear it, but I am not certain what I might do about it.”
“Our friend believes that this man is in the pay of the English, Capitaine, and is a false informant. His name is de Latendresse and he styles himself a comte.”
Perhaps Hayden did not hide his response to this news well.
“Do you know this man, Capitaine Hayden?”
“We have met. Do you have any proof of his treachery, other than the word of your friend?”
The two men looked at each other again. “Nothing that a magistrate might hold in his hands. But once we were warned about him, suddenly there were a hundred small coincidences and things that we had explained in some other way that fit more easily into our changed view of him. Our friend . . . he had no doubt. He had been in the room when de Latendresse betrayed a royalist family. These people were taken unawares and . . .” He did not need to tell Hayden what had become of them.
“My commander”—Hayden searched for a tactful way of describing Caldwell’s attitude—“he has a great deal of faith in de Latendresse, I am sorry to say.”
“Do not mention our friend to your superior! Our friend would be in very grave danger.”
“You need not wo
rry. I will not betray your confidence. There is a convoy anchored in the bay off Le Gosier . . . do you know how long it has been there?”
Between them, they did a hasty calculation. “Nine days, Capitaine. We are quite certain.”
“De Latendresse was reputedly on Guadeloupe in the last week. Could he have been on the island and not known the convoy had arrived?”
The men tried not to smile. “The islands are very small, Capitaine. Everyone would know. We knew, and we were isolated deep in the mountains.”
“De Latendresse did not reveal the arrival of this convoy to my people.”
“That is because he is entirely false. He does not want the English to know that ships came from France bearing troops and guns.”
“What do they intend for these fresh troops, I wonder?”
The two men shared a look. “They will invade Dominica, Capitaine. Everyone says it is so.”
Twenty-five
The waning moon drifted through a long archipelago of clouds, casting its light down the sounds and channels between. It slipped, now and then, behind the pale islands, illuminating them in a soft glow. In the distance, the lights of Inconstant could be seen, and when the moonlight that flowed over the sea found her, Archer could make the shape of the sails in his night glass.
He glanced up at the sky, gauging the course of the moon, establishing the positions of the islands of cloud, measuring the time it would take for the moon to transit each mass.
“How distant is Sir William?” Griffiths asked.
“Two leagues,” Barthe replied.
Archer would have said five English miles, but two leagues was near enough.
The three men had gathered at the rail and were gazing at Inconstant to windward. Jones always claimed no ship could sail nearer the wind than his, so Archer and Barthe had decided to let him climb to windward of them, which would no doubt feed his substantial vanity and pride. The truth was, the Themis was every bit as weatherly.
Archer glanced up at the sky. “That is great acreage of cloud in the west, Mr Barthe. Do you think it might douse the moon as we require?”
“It might provide an hour of meagre light, Mr Archer. Might I suggest we douse our own lanterns, one by one?”
Archer gave the order, and the larboard stern lantern was snuffed. An area of shadow crept west, slipping over Inconstant so that only the pinpoints of light that were her lanterns could be seen, and those but barely.
“Let us douse another lantern,” Archer ordered, and this was quickly done.
The massive shadow that flowed over the sea approached, silent and slowly roiling, down and up, like a languid sea serpent. It reached them and passed over, more insubstantial than a dream.
“The last lantern,” Archer ordered. “We will shift our yards and wear ship. I should like to see as many sea-miles as can be managed between ourselves and Sir William, come dawn.”
Archer went and stood at the taffrail, from where he could still see the lights of Inconstant as they winked up and down on the trade-driven sea. He could almost imagine it was his first command—even if an acting command—disappearing over the horizon. Jones might find them on the morrow and install some other in his place. It was the greatest good fortune that Sir William had informed him, in great detail, of his plans for the cruise. If Jones stayed with those plans—to any degree—Archer could avoid him. The only difficulty this threw up was that Jones had chosen the best cruising grounds and, as Archer would not be able to go there, the Themis would not likely have as profitable a cruise as her officers might hope, and bringing prizes to Caldwell would likely assure Archer of remaining in command. One choice made seemed to mean another was lost.
The passage north of Guadeloupe would be their cruising grounds for the next few days, and Archer dearly hoped he would find good fortune and never wake to see the sails of Inconstant bearing down upon him.
Twenty-six
In the dark, the schooner crossed an invisible wind line, and the crew found themselves slipping ever so slowly across an ever calmer sea. With his small crew, Hayden could not man all the guns and sail the ship, so men were assigned to stations to which they could be called of an instant, as circumstances dictated. All the pistols aboard were distributed to the men and muskets were laid ready to hand. Everyone knew their station and duty, assuming they could hear orders being called. A few of the Frenchmen aboard were armed, and a couple of the younger men were stationed to aid the sail handlers. Women and children were sent below.
The little ship slid over the surface with barely a ripple in her wake. There was not a whisper aboard unless it was an order, and everyone who could stared out into the darkness, hoping to find any threat before they themselves were discovered.
Hayden had walked forward to gaze a moment through his night glass. Nothing but a shoreline lost in shadow and the dark mass of the small islands. He passed the glass to Wickham and whispered, “I will be aft. Keep a careful watch.”
Hayden walked quietly aft, where he found Ransome standing by Childers at the wheel. This was the third night they had crept in to this same beach, and no one aboard felt the least pleased about it. Smugglers who worked along the English coast never came to the same place two nights running but had many landing places, which they used in as random an order as they could manage. A smuggler would think what Hayden was doing the height of folly, and Hayden realised that he could hardly disagree.
A small gust swept down off the mountains and would have held them in irons if Childers had not been alert and spun his wheel, putting his helm up and keeping his ship hard on the wind. It was not so good a slant as they had been on, but Hayden expected the wind to come back around when the gust took off. The ship picked up speed on the gust, and a soft, babbling wake was heard behind—not something that could be detected at any distance, Hayden hoped.
Hawthorne loomed out of the darkness, his height and gait unmistakable, even by starlight. “No one aboard has drawn breath in half of an hour,” the marine whispered.
“When this gust dies we will lay-to, man the boats, and await Louis’ signal. I shall not risk sailing any nearer.” Hayden waved a hand forward. “Les Islets à Goayaves lie just there in the dark.”
Hawthorne stared into the dark a moment. “If you tell me it is so, Captain, I will believe you.” The marine lieutenant was silent for a few seconds and then whispered, “I do wish this were the last night we were coming to this place.” He touched his hat and hastened forward, no doubt to see that his men were in position, though Hayden did not doubt that they were. Hawthorne was both liked and respected—not something every officer could manage. His men would be where he positioned them and would not falter if ordered to stand and not give way.
The gust finally withered away, allowing Childers to put the schooner back on her course. Hayden ordered the ship laid-to on the starboard tack with her bow pointed more or less north. A leadsman was set to work in the chains forward, keeping Hayden informed of the depths. There was a shoal outboard of them at fourteen fathoms, and Hayden planned to use it to keep position, though in such a little breeze and small tide he did not expect his ship to move very far.
The boats were brought alongside, and Hayden ordered the crews sent down into them. As the men went one by one over the rail, there was a sudden clatter and a pistol fired in the boat. Hayden went immediately to the bulwark.
“Is anyone hurt?” he whispered.
“No, sir,” came the reply from Midshipman Gould. “Blew a hole in the planking just below the gunwale, sir.”
“Who was the man who had his pistol cocked?”
“Me, sir,” one of the hands admitted in a small voice.
“Give your pistol to Mr Gould.” Hayden hissed at him. “You shall not have one again.”
Bloody fool! he thought.
If Louis was watching, and he must be, what would he make of that? A si
ngle pistol shot at sea. No shouting. No sounds of a fight. Would he guess it to be an unlucky accident? Or would he pull his people back and retreat to the mountains?
Hawthorne stood at the rail a few paces away, no doubt reassuring himself that this was not the doing of one of his people—which it was not.
“Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said, trying to calm his voice. “Let us have another marine in each of the larger boats.”
“Aye, sir.”
Two marines were quickly chosen and sent down into the bow of each boat. Wickham’s—the third boat—was small enough that another armed man would simply be in the way. Hayden called for his night glass and went forward.
Time immediately died away to a little zephyr of drifting minutes. The cosmic wind that pressed it on drew breath, and the night was held in suspension. Hayden began to think that morning would never come.
When he could bear it no more, Hayden went quickly below, where there was a lamp lit, and pulled out his watch. It was past the time when they should have seen a signal. His mind made up, he went back up to the deck and quickly forward.
“We will make the countersignal,” he ordered quietly.
The order was acknowledged with a quick knuckle. The lamp was lit and the signal made. For a long moment Hayden did not think that any answer would break through the darkness, but then, dim and distant, the signal flashed.
Hayden leaned over the side. “Mr Wickham? We have a signal. Keep your wits about you.”
The three boats pulled away and were quickly lost in the darkness. Without meaning to, Hayden began to pace across the width of the deck.
Another oarsman would have been useful, Wickham thought, despite the size of the boat—smaller than a British jollyboat, so narrow that one man could handle two oars. One good oarsman, though, would always be quieter, and that was the captain’s main concern. If a rapid escape became a necessity, Wickham planned to take up oars himself.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 26