Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “There are many small boats to the south, but the Saints has a fishing fleet and I cannot, at this distance, distinguish one boat from another.”

  Hayden handed the glass to Hawthorne, who began to search the blue. “You still believe they will have sailed for Dominica?”

  “If they survived the ambush on the beach? Yes. Where else is there for them to go?”

  “England does seem a bit distant . . .”

  One of the two marines hunkered down in the bow pointed off to the north-west of a sudden. “Mr Wickham! Boat, sir.”

  The midshipman, who was standing his trick at the helm, twisted around to see.

  “I’ll have it, sir, if you like?” It was Childers, reaching immediately for the tiller, not so much helpful as wanting the helmsman concentrating on one thing only.

  Wickham allowed the coxswain to relieve him at the helm and found his glass. A small vessel, perhaps a cutter, was emerging from the narrow Passe des Dames at the eastern tip of Grand Islet, the nearest of the Saints.

  Wickham lowered his glass, stood, and called over to Ransome, whose boat they were now making an effort to keep near, in case of further calamities.

  “A French Navy cutter, Mr Ransome!” he called out. “I cannot tell if there are soldiers from the garrison aboard, but nor can I say there are none.”

  “Are you certain, Mr Wickham?” Ransome called back. “I have lost my glass.”

  Wickham lifted his and examined the little ship again. It was a singlemasted vessel, crossing yards, a bit wall-sided, straight-stemmed. “Fifty or sixty feet, flying the French flag, and uniformed men aboard, Mr Ransome. From this angle I cannot tell you what guns she carries.”

  “Let us hope it is not us they are looking for. No matter, there is little we can do but carry on as swiftly as we dare.”

  The lassitude of the royalists dissolved in that instant, and the hands were suddenly more alert as well. Neither boat dared carry more sail, but more human ballast was shifted to windward and the helmsmen became determined to squeeze every last quarter-knot out of their vessels.

  Ransome reported that aboard his boat there remained no dry powder and that they had lost most of their weapons when they were thrown into the sea. A glance at the sun told Wickham that sunset was perhaps three hours off—and the northern tip of Dominica about the same. To the north, the strange sail was clearly closing, the ship heeled to the trade and rocking over the cresting seas.

  “It appears we might have two Frenchmen bearing down on us, though we might hope the one to the north is nothing more than a transport,” Wickham said quietly to Gould and Childers.

  The coxswain did not look convinced by this. “Will darkness reach us before either of these ships?”

  Wickham tried to gauge the speed of the closing cutter—the nearer of the two vessels. “It will be a close-run thing,” he concluded.

  The sun appeared to hover on the wind, hanging in the sky and barely moving westward at all. The royalists in Wickham’s boat whispered among themselves, cast glances over their shoulders at the French cutter ranging up, and then fell to whispering again.

  Childers made a small gesture with his hand towards the French, clearly wondering what was being said, but Wickham could not hear the whispers, which were carried away on the wind. One did not need to speak French, however, to see the fear in their faces.

  Every quarter of an hour or so Wickham would quiz the French cutter in their wake, more certain on each occasion that it pursued them.

  “Do we dare to carry more sail?” Wickham quietly asked Childers and Gould.

  “We have already had one broach,” Gould answered quickly.

  Childers considered a moment and then nodded. “I agree with Mr Gould, Mr Wickham. Another broach and they will have us, without a doubt. Do you think they will overhaul us before we reach the island?”

  “It is always difficult to be certain of distances over the ocean, especially from so near the surface.”

  “Mr Hawthorne would offer to go up the mast,” Gould said, and they all laughed in spite of themselves.

  Mr Hawthorne climbed onto the foretop, where Hayden sat with an arm looped around a shroud and a glass up to his eye.

  “What do you make of it, sir?”

  “I think it is a Navy cutter, though it is yet too distant to be certain.” He passed the glass to Hawthorne, who took his place opposite Hayden.

  The marine lieutenant stared at the sea a moment and then lowered the glass, a look of concern spreading over his handsome face. “The small sails that I see before the cutter . . . are they fishing boats?”

  “Some might be, but I fear two of them, at least, might be boats bearing our shipmates and perhaps some French royalists as well.”

  Hawthorne raised the glass again, perhaps hoping to see more upon a second look. “If our boats are out there, will this cutter overhaul them before they reach Dominica?”

  “I cannot even be certain our boats are there, Mr Hawthorne, but if the cutter does overhaul them, I hope their people have the wit to surrender rather than fight.”

  “Surely they would not take on a ship—even such a small ship—with a handful of muskets and pistols? Even Ransome has more common sense than that!”

  “I agree, but if the French royalists are captured, their deaths are certain. They might prefer to die fighting. . . . The other royalists who came aboard all bore muskets, and not a few pistols as well. Under such circumstances, they might not be willing to surrender.”

  “In which case our own people would have no choice but to fight . . . even were the situation hopeless.”

  “Exactly so.”

  “Certainly, they must be able to see us?” Hawthorne said, thinking aloud.

  “I am quite certain they can—but can they make out what ship we are on this point of sail? I rather doubt it.”

  “And the French cutter will reach them before we can?”

  “Yes. I am afraid they will.”

  The French cutter did not have a proper chase piece and was forced to round up somewhat to bring a forward gun to bear. This was a dangerous operation that could easily lead to a broach, and the three-pound balls fired never threatened the British boats.

  “They are merely trying to see if we will lose our nerve,” Wickham observed as a ball from the French ship splashed into the back of a wave some thirty yards to larboard and dismally short.

  He twisted around in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the sea; in half of an hour it would be dark—unlike in northern latitudes, where the summer light could linger almost an hour. Dominica floated upon the sea some few miles distant, just out of reach, Wickham feared.

  The royalists aboard were silent and utterly apprehensive, the gunfire from the French cutter causing them all to start. Children hugged their parents and husbands tried to reassure their wives, but they appeared as people being carried to the guillotine.

  Originally, their destination had been Portsmouth in Prince Rupert Bay, but now the boats were shaping their course for the most northerly point of the island, which was also the point nearest to them. If they could, they would try to land in the protection of a small point. If not, they would have to go through the surf to land, which was not to Wickham’s liking with so many landsmen aboard. Turning over in the surf was common enough with lightly loaded boats.

  Wickham took up his glass and fixed it on the distant ship, struggling to keep it in the circle of his lens, especially with his damaged hand, which now clung to things but poorly.

  “I am beginning to believe that is our prize in the offing,” he observed.

  “Our captain?” Childers responded.

  “So I hope—pray, even.”

  “Then it was the French ship that went up in flames, God have mercy on their papist souls.” The coxswain cast an embarrassed glance at the French
passengers, but none had noticed, or perhaps they pretended not to.

  Wickham raised his glass and watched the chasing cutter a moment more, then lowered it and cursed under his breath. “They are mounting a half-pounder swivel on the bow.”

  Even without his glass, and in the failing light, the midshipman could make out men on the bow of the cutter. He glanced again at the island—too distant, he thought.

  “Does the bottom shoal up near the shore?” Childers asked him, tilting his head towards Dominica.

  “Not enough to matter to us. They will be able to sail in as close as they dare to a lee shore and launch boats, if they so desire. If we can get ashore before them, however, they will have a difficult time finding us in the forest.”

  The newly mounted swivel gun fired, and though the ball missed its target, it came a great deal nearer than any previous shot.

  “Pass loaded muskets aft for Mr Gould and myself,” Wickham ordered, and then he arranged to have men load for the two midshipmen.

  Gould and Wickham sat with their muskets aimed at the sky, waiting until the French cutter was within range—which would be too damned close, by Wickham’s estimate. He glanced again at the island, which had grown large in the growing dusk.

  “I think we shall have to chance the surf, Mr Wickham,” Childers said.

  “Yes, I believe we have no choice. Keep the seas dead astern, Mr Childers. It is our only hope.”

  The red and bloody sunset overspread the western horizon and then began to slowly fade. The swivel gun was fired again, and the ball splashed into a wave not two yards distant from Wickham’s cutter, then shot back out at an almost oblique angle, passing just over the heads of his crew.

  Everyone aboard shifted position at once, and there were exclamations and oaths in two languages.

  “Stay in your places!” Wickham ordered. “Restez-là!”

  Wickham felt his heart pounding and forced himself to breathe slowly. It was something Hawthorne drilled home to every man trained to fire a musket—a pounding heart will shake your hands. He began to say it over and over, silently: “A pounding heart will shake your hands. A pounding heart . . .”

  There was a flash and a puff of smoke at the French cutter’s bow, but the boat fell behind a wave at that instant. Wickham raised his own musket, trained it on the ship, and pulled back the cock.

  “Aim for the men at the swivel gun,” he said evenly to Gould. “Wait until the bow reaches the bottom of the trough, Mr Gould, then fire above the men’s heads. Or, when she has reached the crest, fire just below the rail.”

  When the ship next sank into the trough, the instant before she began to heave up again, Wickham fired above the heads of the men and, without looking, passed his musket back to the loader behind. A loaded gun was placed in his hand at almost the same instant, and he could hear the sounds of the first musket being reloaded.

  Gould’s gun went off and Wickham raised his own to fire. The French cutter was a larger target that rose and fell more slowly, but Wickham and Gould were firing from a less stable platform. Wickham did not know who had the advantage. Behind him, parents shifted to shield their children. Small blossoms of smoke appeared at the bow as muskets were fired. The balls whistled by or plugged into the sea, but none struck home.

  The swivel gun fired and the ball sank into the back of the very wave that raised the British cutter. Childers glanced at Wickham—the shots were getting nearer.

  Gould and Wickham kept up a steady fire and were making the men on the forecastle of the enemy vessel pay. A man started up the rigging of the French ship, a musket over his back, and Gould shot him before he’d gone a dozen feet. He slid down the ratlines and shrouds and was caught by another before he could tumble into the sea.

  Ransome’s boat had ranged ahead a little and was not the target Wickham’s boat remained. It was an unfortunate arrangement, Wickham thought, for most of the royalists were aboard his vessel, which was the object of the French gunners.

  Dusk was rapidly turning to darkness, and it was harder to see the individual men on the bow of the enemy ship, but the flash of their muskets gave them away. Gould was just raising his musket to fire when Wickham reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Belay firing. Let us see how easily they can find us in the dark without our powder flash to alert them.”

  “They are overhauling us, Mr Wickham; surely, they will see us.”

  “Work us a little to larboard, if you can,” Wickham said quietly. He turned to gaze forward a moment. Dominica was large now, and he thought he could make out the sound of surf some distance off.

  “Manson? Have you room to heave a lead?”

  “Aye, sir. I will manage,” came the reply.

  The lead was broken out and the splash of it plunging into the sea heard: a moment of someone letting the rope run and then hauling, hand over hand.

  “Nine fathoms, Mr Wickham, sand bottom.”

  Wickham looked back once at the enemy vessel, which had ranged up even nearer.

  “Mr Childers? No matter what occurs now, do not surrender. If Gould and I are shot, keep on for the island; the surf is nearer than it appears.” Wickham glanced over at the other midshipman. “Mr Gould, if they make us out or draw alongside, we will keep up fire until we are felled. Everyone who has a musket or pistol, make ready. We will attempt to fight them off. The shore is very near.”

  A shout was heard on the enemy vessel and volley of musket and swivel-gun fire was unleashed, but it was somewhere to starboard.

  “I think they have discovered the barge, sir,” Childers observed quietly.

  “Yes. Poor Mr Ransome,” Wickham replied softly. “He cannot even return fire.”

  The skilled hand of Childers worked the boat to larboard, little by little, until the enemy ship, which had been dead astern, was on their starboard quarter—the sails dark and angular against the low-hanging stars.

  “They must give this up soon, mustn’t they?” Gould asked, leaning towards Wickham and whispering. “It is a lee shore and no small wind.”

  “Perhaps they know these waters better than we,” Childers offered.

  “Or do not know them at all . . .”

  A shout was heard aboard the enemy ship, and then muskets began to fire, striking one of the young royalist women and hitting the topside strakes with sharp reports.

  “Return fire,” Wickham ordered.

  Every man aboard who held a gun began firing at once. Childers was thrown down suddenly, and lay staring up at the sky, stunned.

  Dropping his musket, Wickham grabbed the helm in time to prevent a broach. Seas were suddenly steeper.

  “Surf ahead, Mr Wickham!” one of the hands forward called out.

  There was shouting aboard the enemy vessel, and immediately her helm was put over, slowly she turned, her mainsail resisting the helm, and then she jibed, all standing with a great crash of breaking gear.

  All musket fire aboard the French cutter ceased in that moment, and from Wickham’s boat only a few more shots were managed.

  “Clap on, everyone. Clap on!” Wickham called out.

  The seas became precipitous and pressed together, crests toppling to either side. The cutter was picked up on the face of a wave, the stern tossed high, and then there was the sound of rushing water as she raced along the face. The wave passed beneath and the boat settled, stern first, into the trough. Again she was lifted, carried forward, and settled, Gould and Wickham together struggling to keep her on course.

  “Childers?” Wickham said, genuinely frightened. “Are you shot, sir?”

  To his surprise, the coxswain sat up, putting a hand to the side of his head and taking the fingers away, stained dark. “I think I was but grazed, though it seemed I had been shot through the brain for a moment.” Without another word, he moved up onto the thwart and took Gould’s place on the helm, the midshipman gi
ving it up gladly.

  Gould then probed the coxswain’s wound. “You will have a hell of a lump, but I believe it was not a ball but a splinter from the gunwale that struck you. Or a ball that deflected off the rail, perhaps. God was looking out for you, I think.”

  Wickham did not know how many waves passed beneath them, and he had lost sight of Ransome’s barge altogether, when they were picked up by the steepest sea yet. A crest broke heavily over the transom, and, of an instant, the stern was thrown to starboard, the boat turned beam-on to the sea, and she rolled over so quickly that Wickham was thrown into the warm water before he could cry a warning to others. He surfaced to the night, feeling himself rising up the face of a wave. Arms flailed the waters nearby, and instinctively he reached out and took hold of a thin wrist. Immediately, a hand clapped onto him so tightly it almost caused him pain. And then a panicked woman had an arm around his neck and he was being forced under. For a moment they wrestled, and then he broke the lock around his neck, ducked under her arm, took hold of her beneath her arms, and began to kick to the surface. A sharp crack on his skull told him he’d surfaced into an oar. He took hold of this and slid it in front of the frightened woman.

  “Take hold of the oar,” he ordered in French, and was relieved when she did as he instructed.

  For a moment he was treading water, attempting to part the darkness and determine their situation. He could hear voices calling out, some not so near. A dozen feet away, the dim whaleback of the capsized boat lay half awash, heads bobbing around and men thrashing the waters to reach it.

  “Mr Wickham . . . ?” someone called.

  “Is that you, Childers?”

  “It is, sir.”

  Before Wickham could reply, a wave lifted him, but as he settled again into the trough, his feet touched soft bottom.

  “There is bottom here, Childers. I felt it just now. We must make an effort to get everyone ashore. I should not be surprised to find an undertow in such a place.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Orders were given that were lost on the wind, and then Wickham realised that the men holding the boat were kicking and paddling, pushing the overturned boat towards the shore. He twisted his neck around, took a bearing on the beach, and began to paddle towards the island, the sodden skirts of his royalist wafting about his legs as he swam.