Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  With all sails drawing, the schooner was outpacing the brig by a small but noticeable margin, Hayden was certain. The prize was also, to a degree, more weatherly than the square-rigged brig, which was unable to close with them on this slant for that very reason. For the brig to bring her guns to fire on the schooner they would have to bear off to the west, which would allow the schooner to get that much farther ahead—and it appeared the master of the privateer was not choosing to do that. Hayden was beginning to think that he might lose the brig while it was still dark and return to find his boats. As this thought was forming in his mind, the wind died completely away.

  The prize drifted on, sheer mass carrying her through the dark waters. Hayden fixed his glass upon the brig, which appeared to have some small wind yet.

  Hawthorne left the aft swivel gun, which he had manned with two of his marines, and crossed over to Hayden, who stood staring through his night glass at the inverted image of the brig sailing upon a dark, liquid sky.

  “Will the wind carry her up to us, Captain?” he asked softly.

  “It might. We should prepare to repel boarders, in that event.”

  “I think we are well prepared, Captain.”

  The entire crew fixed their attention upon the distant ship, which every moment appeared to take on form. She was a shadowy apparition, then a black mass moving through the dark air, then a cloud of sails, and finally a ship bearing down on them.

  “How is it that she has wind and we do not?” Hawthorne asked no one in particular.

  “The devil aids them,” Hardy cursed.

  “I thought them papists, not satanists,” the marine replied.

  Hayden chuckled in spite of himself.

  “I believe we have lost steerage, sir,” the helmsman said.

  “Let us hope the French sail into this same calm or their wind precedes them.”

  A gun fired on the brig, and a ball went tearing through the air some few yards to larboard.

  Hayden sent a man below with his night glass and removed a pistol from his belt. The helmsman was right: The ship had lost steerage and was turning slowly to larboard, which would allow the British to bring guns to bear if it would but continue in that fashion.

  A little breeze pressed against the sails, which had begun to thrash slowly from side to side with the rolling of the ship. Everyone glanced up towards the mountains as though they might see a wind. Immediately, it died away, causing sails and spirits to slump. A second ball fired from the chase piece, and it appeared to pass between the masts, miraculously damaging nothing.

  A gust of wind struck them, pressing the ship so far over that Hayden thought masts might carry away or sails part. One instant, the ship lay motionless, and then she was heeled over and tearing through the darkness.

  “Let the mainsheet run!” Hayden hollered above the wind now moaning through the rigging. He jammed the pistol back into his belt and took hold of the rail with both hands, wondering if the ship might be thrown upon her beam ends. He glanced to the brig, which had a moment ago come so near, and was almost certain she had been caught aback.

  Off the schooner went, the wind still pressing her down so that water gushed in the scuppers and the shrouds stretched and creaked like rusted hinges.

  “Sir!” Hayden heard the helmsman cry, and turned to find the young man braced against the wheel as the ship tried to round up.

  Hayden pushed off the rail and struggled up the sloping deck to aid him, and the men eased the mainsheet at that same moment, the schooner righting herself to some degree and the helm suddenly manageable. Under normal circumstances, there would always be two men at the helm—and an officer standing by to give them orders—but with such a small crew and a privateer bearing down upon them, they had needed every man possible for the ship’s defence.

  With the ship back on her feet, Hayden had a moment to take stock. He called another of the hands to the wheel and made his way aft. The brig appeared to have recovered from being caught aback, if that was indeed what had happened, and was also on a westerly course. The gust that had laid them over reached a crescendo, howling for a moment through the rigging and forcing him to brace himself against the force of it, and then it began to take off.

  “Keep your wits about you,” he instructed the helmsman. “This wind might haul aft, and quickly, too.” He glanced forward along the deck. “Pass the word for Hardy, if you please . . .”

  A moment later, Hardy came hurrying out of the gloom.

  “If this wind takes off—and hauls aft—the brig will certainly return to her pursuit. We will fire all our larboard guns to give us a screen of smoke, then wear ship. If we have a little luck on our side in this darkness, we will cut across her bow before she knows what we are about. We will rake her—twice if we can manage it—turn to larboard, and give her another broadside as we pass.”

  Hardy hesitated a moment and then said very softly, “It is a great deal to ask of a small crew, sir.”

  “Yes, but they are steady men and can run between guns and sail handling. I will explain what is to be done to the Frenchmen, and they can give us their aid. I do not believe this privateer will expect us to turn on him, and that is to our great advantage.”

  The crew were quickly assigned stations and duties and stood ready to execute the complex evolution Hayden required—and fire the guns—but the wind took off only a little, pressing both ships on. A quarter of an hour passed and Hayden feared the wind would not alter or take off that night, when it fell suddenly away and the ship came slowly upright and slowed, as though she had run up on the softest mud.

  Although the brig was out of range, Hayden ordered the guns fired and then, as quickly as it could be managed without carrying away any gear, they wore ship and brought the wind onto the larboard beam. They were now bearing down upon the brig, which lay off their starboard bow.

  The master of the brig, perceiving what Hayden did, turned north so that Hayden could not rake him from astern. But that was never Hayden’s plan.

  The two ships converged and appeared about to pass broadside to broadside. Hayden leaned out over the starboard rail to get the clearest view possible. Aboard his ship the gun crews reloaded madly and then all stood ready to fire again.

  The helmsman was also watching the approaching privateer.

  “Shall I port my helm, sir?” he asked, unable to contain himself a moment more.

  “Upon my order . . .” Hayden said.

  He could see the murky shape of the privateer, but distances were so difficult to judge in the dark. If he turned too soon, their small guns would not have the effect he hoped for. If they turned too late, the ships might collide. There was no margin for error, and it would be difficult enough to measure the speed and distance in broad daylight.

  “Fire the starboard guns,” Hayden ordered, and flame and smoke erupted from the muzzles, creating a dense, black cloud that obscured any view of the privateer.

  He ordered the mainsheet eased, counted very slowly to twenty . . .

  “Port your helm,” he said, loud enough to be heard, but no more.

  The little schooner was very handy and turned into the heart of the smoke cloud. He did not know if this small ruse would work, and he was counting on the smoke being carried away by the wind so they could see the enemy to fire.

  Hayden had crossed to the larboard rail and stood staring into the night and the drifting, acrid smoke, which caused his eyes to water to such a degree that he could hardly see and was forced to wipe them constantly. He had ordered the guns traversed so that they might fire, reload, traverse aft, and fire a second time, but he wondered now if this was a mistake. Certainly, the brig should be almost abeam . . . unless she, too, had turned to bring a broadside to bear.

  A little, irregular thinning of smoke, like a jagged window.

  “Fire!” Hayden called.

  The li
ttle six-pounders jumped back, and the men went immediately to reloading.

  The brig was lost in the smoke again.

  Hayden touched one of the men nearby on the shoulder. “Jump up the larboard shrouds and see if you can discover our brig.”

  The man was up on the rail, swinging round the shrouds and climbing as fast as hands and legs could propel him. When he was almost at the main-top he turned and gazed south a moment, and then called out.

  “Almost abeam, sir. Half a point aft.”

  “Traverse guns aft,” Hayden called.

  Immediately bars were employed, the guns scraping over the deck a few inches at a time. Each was fired as it came to bear, and Hayden was not certain all had found their mark, but the effect on the brig was audible as the cries of the wounded penetrated smoke and darkness.

  “Helm to starboard,” Hayden ordered the men at the wheel.

  Gun crews went efficiently about reloading and running out guns.

  The ship turned—too slowly, it seemed to Hayden. As she turned, however, the smoke that clung to her swept away to leeward. The brig emerged from this cloud not twenty yards distant, sails shaking, a yard angling down, and fore-topmast hanging in its gear. At such close range, the small guns had done much damage.

  “Fire as she bears,” Hayden ordered, and the guns spoke one by one, the French running out guns but managing to fire only the two aft-most.

  And then they were past.

  “We are away, Captain!” Hawthorne almost crowed as he came aft. When Hayden did not answer, he enquired, “Are you not pleased, Captain? You look out of sorts.”

  “I am just wondering—if we press our French passengers temporarily—would we have enough men to sail both the brig and schooner to Dominica?”

  Hawthorne appeared dumbfounded for an instant. “You are suggesting we can take the brig . . . ?”

  “Her rig, for the moment, is in ruins and I believe we shot away her wheel. We could tack back up to her, lay our ship across her stern, and rake her until she strikes.”

  Hawthorne almost laughed, partly from disbelief. “And I thought they were chasing us!”

  “And so did they, I expect.”

  Hardy came hurrying aft at that instant. “Captain!” he called out. “I believe there is a fire, sir!”

  Keeping the boats moving and making the best of the inconstant winds required an alert man at the helm and the constant trimming of sails. There was almost always too much wind or hardly any at all. Everyone aboard understood the importance of putting sea room between themselves and Guadeloupe, so no man shirked in the performance of his duties.

  It had come as something of a surprise to Wickham, when he had first come into the Navy, that a boat so small as a cutter was organised with as much structure and discipline as a 110-gun ship. Everyone had their station and, on longer passages such as this, their watch. Orders were just as precise, and their execution even more rapid. The off-duty men were given a place to rest and did not shift from it without permission or orders to do so. An expedition on a small boat was not a holiday from ship’s discipline, and officers made certain that the hands were never for a moment in doubt of it.

  Two hours after the decision to make for Dominica had been made, one of the crew pointed aft into the darkness.

  “Is that fire, Mr Wickham?” he asked.

  The midshipman twisted around and, indeed, there was—fire, some miles distant.

  “Is it on the water or on the land?” Wickham wondered aloud. “Mr Ransome!” he called at the top of his voice. “Fire, sir. To the north.”

  Ransome’s barge was some fifty yards to leeward—just visible in the darkness. A moment of silence followed and then Ransome’s voice carried to them. “Is that a ship, Mr Wickham?”

  “I cannot say, sir. Perhaps it is on the land . . .”

  No one spoke what was in everyone’s mind: Was it Captain Hayden’s prize or an enemy vessel that was afire?

  For a few moments everyone but the helmsman stared aft in horrified fascination, and then the ball of orange flame swelled of an instant, blazed hotter, and within three minutes disappeared altogether, leaving a dark stain upon the stars.

  “Let us hope that was the enemy,” Ransome called out. “May God have mercy on their papist souls.”

  Whispering began among the royalists, and Wickham was forced to remind them—sharply—that they were in enemy waters and that silence was required so that orders could always be heard. Muttered apologies in French followed—and then a deep, troubled silence.

  If the captain’s prize had caught fire and sunk so rapidly, there would almost certainly be loss of life. The enemy ship would no doubt search for survivors, but then they would begin looking for the escaped royalists. It would be a race for Dominica, the boats having a head start but the ship being swifter.

  The four and a half leagues to the southern tip of Basse-Terre used up much of the night’s remaining store of darkness, so capricious were the winds. Dawn found the boats hardly beyond Pointe à l’Aunay, though a league and a half to the west. Wickham knew they must pass by the islands called the Saints next. He would much rather have done so in darkness, but there was nothing for it now.

  The trade winds finally reached them and the boats began to race across the blue, sails full and drawing. A quartering sea would pick them up and almost toss them forward, the boat attempting to yaw and the helmsman fighting it with all his strength. The heat of the day was not far off, and there would be no shade from the sails all through the forenoon.

  The Saints were half drowned in an early-morning mist, which Wickham knew the sun would burn away before it had risen too high. Already, the sails of fishing boats could be seen, running out to their fishing grounds. Some of these boats they might pass quite closely, but Wickham was not overly concerned. The English sailors were well armed and certainly more than a match for any fishermen they met.

  Water from the cask was rationed out carefully to the French and to the hands. They had learned a hard lesson in the recent cutting-out expedition and the captain had made certain the boats set off with small stores of both water and food on the chance that they could not return to the ship when planned. All would be thirsty by the time the boats reached Dominica, but not dangerously so.

  Once daylight was upon them, Wickham twisted around often to survey the horizon to the north and then to quiz the ocean in all quarters. Fishing boats could be seen at almost every point, and several larger vessels—these all at a distance—but no sail that should be feared. The greatest danger was the sea itself, which was steep and swift running. The wind blew a gale in this narrow passage, and that day had more northing in it, bringing the quartering sea aft somewhat and making the threat of broaching more likely. The helmsman was constantly at work, never for a moment allowing his mind to wander and always steering to anticipate the seas rather than reacting to them, which would many a time have been too late.

  The buffeting and constant howling of the wind, Wickham found, deadened the senses somehow, and men turned their backs to it and fell into a kind of lassitude. The sun rose relentlessly and the heat grew by the hour until it baked them, even as the warm wind dried their skin and mouths. Water was rationed with absolute care, and Wickham would not allow parents to preserve their portion for their children lest he have these men and women become ill from thirst.

  Seasickness beset refugees cruelly and they were often helped to leeward to disgorge their rebellious stomachs of their rations. One or two marines, who were not so used to the motion of small boats, also suffered, but not so badly. The hands, however, took no notice of it but fulfilled their duties silently and even slept when not on watch.

  The small boat that Wickham had commanded was towed for some time by Ransome, though it made the barge difficult to manage, for it would fall behind and drag it back or suddenly forge ahead on the face of a wave an
d release its pull on the barge, catching the helmsman unaware. More than once a broach was the near-result. Sometime in the forenoon, it slewed sideways just as the painters pulled taut, and, helped by a breaking crest, the boat overturned. Immediately, the painters parted and snapped like whips into the transom of the barge.

  “We will leave it!” Ransome called out to Wickham, who acknowledged this with a wave and a nod.

  The little boat was abandoned, overturned, its bottom barely awash in the fair blue, where it was carried slowly off by the seas and currents.

  The sun attained its apogee and Wickham ordered his small rations distributed among the many, though they would have needed a miracle of loaves and fishes to satisfy everyone.

  Often the helmsman was relieved, for it was taxing of both strength and wit to keep the boat from broaching, and many a time, when the gusts came, sheets were let run. The day wore on and Wickham, though he was supposed to have his mind on his duty, wondered constantly if the ship that had burned was the schooner with his captain and shipmates aboard.

  Flames climbed up the tarred rigging and into the sails, which set the sea afire all around. In the terrible light, Hayden could see dark figures running about the deck, and boats swinging out. There were shouts and calls—some orders and others clearly panic. Hayden, Hawthorne, and Hardy all stood transfixed, watching the fires spread over the enemy ship beyond all hope of control.

  “What do we do, sir?” Hardy asked, his voice filled with awe and dread.

  This question seemed to shake Hayden out of his dream. “Buckets,” he answered. “Wet down the sails and sluice the deck!”

  Quickly, the crew was organised and buckets were passed up the ratlines to be splashed onto the sails. The decks, too, were sluiced, and water dripped down from above.