The beach, which lay half a mile distant, appeared to retreat before them. A low swell broke upon the sand—a ponderous, unrelenting rhythm. Pale crests were visible before the beach, and then the dim expanse of it, running north and south, took form. The boat slid up on the sand and the swell pushed the stern off to one side. All three were in the water immediately, the marine with his rifle shouldered and aimed into the dark forest, Wickham, and the oarsman, pushing the boat around to allow them to set off, bow first.
A now-familiar voice whispered from a few yards distant.
“C’est moi. Louis.”
“How many tonight?”
“Twenty-four, Mr Wickham.”
“So many? I will send the boats at once.”
Louis and another waded into the small surf to push them off.
In but a moment, Wickham found the boats.
“They have two dozen this night,” he told them.
“I hope they have not brought their belongings,” Ransome replied. “We shall be hard-pressed to carry so many.”
“I will return with you,” Wickham told him. “We might take three or four.”
The boats set off all at once, oars softly swirling water, and were soon gliding to a stop on the sand.
Despite finding Louis there and hearing the phrase that meant all was safe, Wickham was anxious to load his passengers and get shut of that beach as quickly as it could be managed. The French remained back in the shadows until the boats had landed, and then the men came out to help turn them around. The women and children appeared at a word, and the men began handing them into the boats.
“Three must come with us,” Wickham whispered in French.
This caused a hushed consultation, and then a woman and two children hurried over and clambered hastily aboard. The refugees were not yet all aboard when an almost simultaneous flash and report came from just south of them. A musket ball whistled overhead.
Before an officer could shout an order, a volley of musket fire came from down the beach and, in the boat farthest south, there were screams and panicked shouting.
“Push them out! Push them out!” Ransome called over the musket fire, and the sailors and a few Frenchmen began shoving the boats out into the small swell. Wickham was doing the same to their boat before he even thought. When the water reached mid-thigh he tumbled over the gunwale and began searching about for oars. They were pulling out into the darkness then. Shouting was heard and then another ragged volley. On the shore he could hear cries and calls to retreat into the trees.
“Pull to starboard,” Wickham grunted, dragging his oar through the water. “To starboard.”
The sounds of fighting came from the shore, and Wickham feared refugees were being bayoneted. Gunfire came from the trees then, and it was the turn of the Jacobins to take fire. This likely saved his life, Wickham realised, for the Jacobins were on the beach dead aft of them and would likely have killed many in the boats if they had not been fired upon. He was near to pulling his arms out, keeping up with Watts, and air was tearing at his throat as he gasped.
An orange flash of light dimly illuminated the boats and a deep boom echoed from somewhere out at sea. Wickham turned his head to see the flashes from several guns fading. Almost immediately there was an answer.
“My God, sir! Are they taking our ship?” Watts managed.
“Not if our captain is still standing.”
Everyone’s eyes were fixed upon the shore, where musket fire had erupted without warning. Hawthorne came running along the deck.
“Is the shore within range of our guns, sir?” he asked.
“Who would we be aiming them at, Mr Hawthorne? I cannot even see the beach, let alone separate friend from foe.”
It was at that instant that guns fired from behind, slamming into the hull with a rending of timber. Both Hawthorne and Hayden staggered and spun around at the same instant, grabbing the rail. In the muzzle flash of the other ship’s guns Hayden could see the shocked faces of every man aboard.
“Man the starboard guns!” he called out.
There was the briefest second of shock, and then the men were running to the guns.
“Traverse that gun aft, Swale,” Hayden ordered. “Further yet. That will answer. Fire!”
The British guns spoke and the crews went to work, swabbing and loading. All his officers were in the boats, so Hayden was master, lieutenant, bosun, midshipman, and captain. He went quickly to the wheel and relieved the helmsman, sending him, and any men to be spared, to raise a headsail.
Even in his instant of surprise, Hayden had realised that the enemy ship had more—and likely larger—guns. With so few men aboard he could not chance being boarded and would not let the other ship alongside, if at all possible. Just as his crew was about to run out their guns, the French ship fired another broadside. Balls beat into the hull and tore through the foresail.
This time Hayden counted them—five small guns—likely six-pounders. He could make out the masts of the other ship and decided it was a brig—perhaps the very ship they had attempted to cut out three nights past. The headsail was sheeted home and the sail handlers ran to raise the main. The ship gathered way and heeled a little to the breeze flowing down from the mountain. The British guns were fired, each as they were loaded—a stuttering fire, but no less effective for it. Hawthorne and two of his marines had manned the aft swivel and were proving quick and able, despite never having fired one before.
Hayden cast an anxious look towards the island, wondering if his boats had escaped the beach or if his men had been cut down. An image of them lying, bleeding on the sand, came to him unbidden. Wickham, Ransome, and Gould were among those men, as was his coxswain and other good men. He had sent them to that beach to rescue his mother’s people, though he had no orders to do so. If he lost his men and officers in this endeavour he knew the remorse would never be outlived.
The brig was pacing his own ship and angling nearer. “Hardy?” Hayden called out, hoping his most experienced able seaman was still standing.
“At the gun, sir,” came the call.
“You are now my sailing master, bosun, and first lieutenant. If this brig comes any nearer, we will tack. Find sail handlers, and do not hesitate to use Frenchmen. They can haul a rope without understanding English.”
Hardy, who appeared to be a large brute of man, was a gentle soul—the guardian of all the ship’s boys. He could have been a bosun’s mate, but he would not beat a fellow sailor for all the world. The hands would lay down their lives for such a man and do his bidding without question.
“Mr Hardy!” Hayden called out. “Set a man to swinging the lead, if you please.” He did not want to run his ship aground in the dark, where distances were difficult to measure.
Tacking would have to be timed correctly or the other ship would have an opportunity to rake them from astern. He wanted to put his helm up as the other ship was abreast so it would pass on before it could fire into their stern. No doubt they would tack after, but Hayden assumed they had not enough men to man the guns, stand by to board, and handle sail, so it would take a moment for them to get men to their stations.
He sent a marine to bring his night glass up from the cabin below, and to enquire of the refugees if any he had ordered below had been hurt. The brig was taking on form in the dark, the masts and yards silhouetted against the low stars.
“The French are huddled in the hold, sir, and not a one injured,” the marine reported, handing Hayden his glass. Bracing himself against the wheel so it could not turn, Hayden fixed his glass on the nearing ship. He thought he could make out men lining the rail between the guns, and wondered if extra hands had been signed on for this particular enterprise; there would be no shortage of men, not with a convoy lying at anchor on the other side of Basse-Terre. On the other hand, the master of the ship likely did not want to spread his prize money any further than he must. H
ayden hoped he was dealing with a parsimonious privateer.
Wickham’s oars were not muffled, and knocked and rapped against the thole-pins, drowning out small, distant sounds. The flutter of luffing sails that would indicate their ship was getting underway could not be heard. The report of guns, however, could not be masked, nor could the shouting and calls of men. Those carried to them across the water and filled Wickham’s heart with dismay.
He was soon gasping. His arms burned and his muscles and tendons stretched and strained. He did not know how much longer he could keep it up. The Frenchmen on the shore, however, appeared to have lost them in the dark and left off firing.
“Mr Wickham?” called the marine in the bow. “The ships appear to be retreating out to sea, sir. We are not gaining.”
Wickham heard himself curse.
“Avast rowing!” Ransome called in the dark, and Wickham and Watts lay upon their oars, heaving and gasping.
A boat came gliding out of the murk, accompanied by the sound of muffled weeping—a child.
“Mr Wickham?” came Ransome’s voice. “Have you any wounded?”
“I do not know.” He twisted around. “Is anyone hurt?”
The Frenchwoman and her children were not, and Watts declared the same.
“Just a scratch, sir,” the marine in the bow whispered, as though embarrassed even to be admitting it.
“Just a scratch? And how did you come by this scratch?”
“Musket ball, sir. Nary a drop of blood.”
Wickham whispered across to Ransome. “As you have no doubt heard, I have one man wounded, and I suspect worse than he will admit.”
The French passengers began whispering back and forth, enquiring who was in the boats and who left on the beach. Wickham ordered them to be still lest the Jacobins begin firing upon them again. Even so, he could not help but ask, “Is Louis in your boat, Mr Ransome?”
“No. Mr Gould . . . ?”
“No, sir.”
There was the briefest second of silence.
Then Ransome whispered, “Mr Gould? How have you fared?”
“One man dead, sir. A Frenchman. Caught a musket ball in the eye, sir.”
“I am very sorry to hear it.”
“May I slip him over the side, sir?”
“Does he have family aboard?”
“No, sir, though some appear to know him.”
“Mr Wickham?” Ransome said softly. “Will you explain to these people that we must put the man over the side? My French is not up to something so delicate.”
Wickham spoke quietly to the people, explaining that sailors were made terribly uncomfortable by having the dead aboard. The people listened in silence and then one man replied at some length.
“I did not quite understand everything he said,” Ransome whispered.
“They are afraid the body will wash ashore, Mr Ransome, and be recognised, which might put the man’s friends or family at risk, especially if they believe any of them were aiding him.”
“Their point is well taken. I will have the dead man in my boat, Gould, if you would prefer it?”
“We will keep him, Mr Ransome. If we can find somewhat to weigh him down with, I shall slip him over the side once we are beyond soundings.”
“If your Frenchmen are in agreement.”
Guns continued to fire from the two ships, illuminating the sea with dark lightning, and it was true that each flash seemed a little more distant.
“But what shall we do now, Mr Ransome?” Wickham heard Gould ask.
“I do not know, Mr Gould. If the captain is outgunned and in fear of being boarded, then he will have to fly from the enemy ship—in which case we will be thrown upon our own resources. It is thirteen leagues to Dominica—but across a very boisterous channel. I am not confident we will manage it. Our boats are crowded with people who are unaccustomed to the sea. I am reticent to make such a passage under sail in an open boat with a cargo of landsmen.”
“Is there some river nearby where we might hide ourselves through the day?” Gould asked. “We might then return here tomorrow night in hope of meeting the captain.”
“I am not aware of any such place. Are you, Mr Wickham?”
“I am not. And even if such a place could be found, I greatly fear we would be discovered, and though we would face the uncertain prospect of prison, these people would face the guillotine. I think our best chance is to make for Dominica. We might complete a good part of the crossing by dark so there would be no fear of discovery before daylight; by that hour we would be halfway there, at the very least.”
Wickham could just make out Ransome in the faint starlight, but could not read the look upon his face. The lieutenant was, no doubt, contemplating all the possibilities and, Wickham assumed, did not much like any of them. The passages between the islands were open to the great fetch of the Atlantic and the winds funnelled between the islands and were stronger than the normal trade. They would have a quartering wind and sea, which meant broaching would be ever a danger. If a boat overturned, it would be difficult in the extreme to right and bail it in such conditions, and especially so with frightened people in the sea, most of whom would not swim. If they did not make for Dominica, they were in great danger of being discovered by the Jacobins, who would certainly be on the lookout for them.
“I believe you are correct, Mr Wickham—we have but one course,” Ransome declared. “We must sail for Dominica.”
“The privateer’s boat has no sail,” Wickham observed, “and might be a bit small for such a crossing.”
“I will empty your boat of its people and take it in tow, Mr Wickham. I shall cut it free if it proves a danger.” He turned and spoke to the other boat. “I do not mean to slight your abilities in any way, Mr Gould, but Mr Wickham has had much more experience in open boats in rough conditions, so I shall put him in command of your boat. You shall be his second. We shall rig for sail but must be prepared to reef if we feel broaching is a danger. We will make every effort to keep the boats together, for we may need to come to the other’s aid.” He turned back to Wickham. “I shall take your passengers in my boat, Mr Wickham; Watts and Cooper shall join you in the cutter, Mr Gould. And Mr Cooper? Show your scratch to Mr Gould, if you please.”
Passengers were transferred, masts stepped, sail set, and the schooner’s boat taken in tow on a doubled painter. It was a good little boat, if a little battered from hard use, and they did not want to lose it.
The instant sails were sheeted, the boats gathered way, leaving the small islands to larboard. Wickham left Childers at the helm, as there was no better man for the job on their ship, unless it was their captain or Mr Barthe. He would take his own trick, as it was forty miles to Dominica and would very likely take eight or ten hours—perhaps longer, loaded as they were.
They had left too many refugees on the beach—only fifteen had made it into the boats—and of these one had since been killed and three were wounded—all in Ransome’s boat, which had been nearest the Jacobins on the beach and had shielded the other boats somewhat.
The winds coming over the island would gust suddenly, sweeping down upon them with no warning so that the men handling the sheets were ever on the alert to let them run. The wind would then die away or push their head off for a few moments so that they could not sail within two points of their course but it would come around again, die away, gust, then disappear yet again.
The southern tip of Basse-Terre was a little more than three leagues distant. They must then give a small group of islands called the Saints a reasonable offing. Dawn was yet some four hours off, and sunrise, at this latitude, not long after. The compass was shipped. They bore a lamp, which carried their fire, but this was kept shuttered until needed. Gould used it briefly to examine and bind Cooper’s wound, which he pronounced innocent enough, though any wound could go septic, and this far south,
many did. Wickham counted himself lucky that he was unhurt.
A mile to the north and out to sea a single gun fired and then fell silent. Wickham did not know where the schooner had gone, but the running battle he had expected had been cut quickly short. As there were no sounds of victorious celebration, he assumed that his captain had given the enemy the slip. Where Captain Hayden might be heading in their prize, he could not say.
The stars were bright and sharp, hanging in the depths of the sky and illuminating the boat and its occupants with a faint, chill light. The passengers were arranged to weather and the British sailors made up the moveable ballast, which might have to shift from one side to the other of an instant in these fickle winds. One or two of the refugees slept, exhausted from walking who knew how far. Others lay still, eyes open, perhaps frightened; Wickham could not say. One woman whispered a story in the ear of her son; Wickham caught a few words now and then. A story of a brave boy sent to sea who saved his ship and was made an aspirant—a midshipman. Wickham hoped only to see his cutter and all aboard safely across the Guadeloupe Passage—hardly more than thirty miles. That would be difficult enough for him. He glanced over at the other boat, which was keeping pace to starboard. The idea that his boat might go over while Ransome’s did not filled Wickham with anxiety. And then he chastised himself. He was thinking of his own pride and not the safety of the people who were in his charge. Vanity.
The sea was somewhat confused, as far as could be told in the dark, a low, ponderous swell overridden by smaller seas; though largely striking the port bow, some appeared to come from west and still others from the east, despite the shore being distant less than half a mile. Once they were out of the lee of the two islands, Wickham expected the seas to originate from a single direction, though grow greatly in size.
He wondered how many people had been left dead or wounded on the beach, and if Louis had been among them. Certainly, some of the royalists had run back into the trees, but whether they could escape through the bush he did not know. Under the trees the darkness would be complete, and one could make one’s way only by feel. The captain had been correct when he said that they were returning too often to the same place, not that he would take any pleasure in being right. He had, as everyone knew, great feeling for his mother’s people.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 27