On his back as he was, Wickham could not see the island, nor could he judge their progress, but he could look out to sea, and little pinpoints of light could be descried some distance off. Calls and voices were carried down the wind.
“Can you make out what they are saying?” he asked the woman, whom he could almost feel fighting her panic and fear.
“They are launching boats,” she whispered, hardly able to speak, she was breathing so rapidly.
Wickham let his legs sink again, and this time there was sand beneath his feet. He began to stand, but a sea knocked him down, the woman landing atop him, and then they were both struggling up, water to their chests. They stumbled ashore, her dress like a sea anchor, resisting her progress so that Wickham had all but to drag her through the water.
Once she was in the shallows, he turned back into the waters, took a moment to find the overturned boat, and then waded out into the breaking surf. A wave lifted him and he struck out towards the cutter. In a moment he found the painter and began swimming for shore with it wrapped about his shoulder and held firmly in one hand. For a time it seemed he made no progress at all, but then the beach appeared before him, nearer than he had dared hope, and he was wading into the shallows, then putting his weight onto the rope, digging in his heels, and pulling with all he had. A sailor came in along the painter, stood, and did as Wickham did. Finally, the boat was picked up and tossed ashore, where it rolled upright, three-quarters full.
Childers staggered up onto the beach and dropped down, gasping. He held something up in the dark.
“I have your glass, Mr Wickham,” he announced.
“My glass! How in this world did you manage that?”
“Just as the boat went over, it rolled almost into my hand and I kept hold of it the whole time, sir.” He passed it to the midshipman rather proudly.
“I cannot begin to express my gratitude. I thought it lost without a doubt, and knew I should never get another like it in Barbados.”
“I knew it was a gift from the marquis, Mr Wickham, and you placed great value upon it.”
“Childers, I shall give you a suitable reward for this kindness, I swear I shall.” Wickham rose and walked among the castaways, counting heads. “Where is Cooper?” he asked suddenly.
“We could not find him, sir,” Childers replied. “I fear he might have received a blow to the head as the boat went over, for he never broke the surface nor was seen by anyone. He is our only loss, Mr Wickham, though a great loss it is, for he was as good a marine and shipmate as any.”
“Mr Wickham . . . ?” a voice called from the darkness.
“Here!” the midshipman answered, like a schoolboy.
The man appeared out of the dark, a sodden sailor, clothes clinging and hair plastered flat to his pate. “Mr Ransome sent me to find you, sir. Have you many lost or hurt?”
“We lost Cooper, sadly. I am not certain of our hurt.” Wickham turned around on the sand. “Mr Gould? Have we many hurt?”
He could just make out the other midshipman, crouched beside a dark form on the beach. “Many a bruise, I suspect, and one Frenchman with a broken arm—or so I believe. The doctor would know better.”
“No one bleeding dangerously?”
“Not a one, Mr Wickham. Except for Cooper, we have fared remarkably well.”
The hand dispatched from Ransome’s boat bent over, hands on knees. “Were you overturned in the surf as well?” he asked.
“We were, and there was little we could do about it. A crest broke over our transom and our stern was swung sideways against anything the rudder could do.”
“It was the same with us, sir. We were overtaken by a sea and then all pitched into the water of an instant. We lost no one, though our boat was not so overburdened as yours . . . We had lost so many before.”
There was a call from out in the surf, Wickham thought, almost certainly in French.
“We have almost no weapons and not a grain of dry powder,” the hand from Ransome’s boat declared, staring out into the dark sea.
“We are no better off.” Wickham turned to the crew and passengers of his boat. “Everyone up; we must make our way into the forest or we will be captured.”
“They may have no better luck landing than we,” Gould observed.
“Unless they know what to expect here . . . And they will not be racing along under sail, as were we, though there was bloody little we could do about that.”
The hands and the French were helping one another to their feet. Ransome and his people came along the beach at that moment, and they all made their way towards a gap in the trees. Just as they were about to proceed into the impenetrable darkness of the forest, without a single light to aid them, guns fired out at sea, and everyone brought up and turned to look.
The entire day they had been chasing this distant cutter, and had closed to within a few miles at sunset.
“Ten three-pounders, and as many half-pound swivels,” Hayden guessed. He was answering Hawthorne’s question about the guns likely carried by the cutter.
“Then she has a greater weight of metal than we?” the marine lieutenant asked. Despite his time at sea, he would always be something of a landsman, Hayden thought.
“I could carry our entire broadside in my pockets,” Hayden told him, “and I do not exaggerate when I say this.” Hayden looked up at the shadowy sails, full and drawing. “I even wonder if they believe this is the privateers’ schooner yet—news might not have reached them.”
The two men stood upon the forecastle of the schooner, gazing out over the briefly twilit sea, the mountains of Dominica rising up out of the waters, solid and unmoving in the ever-changing seascape.
Hayden called up to the lookout on the foremast. “Bradley? Can you make her out yet?”
“I can, sir. Dead before us. Not half a league distant, Captain.”
There had been time, through the long afternoon, to train the royalists in the firing of guns and to take some basic orders. Hayden had paired most of the Frenchmen with an experienced sailor and given the French instructions to aid them in every way. The islanders were intelligent, practical people used to doing a variety of tasks and would quickly comprehend what was required, even without anyone telling them. It did not take much native wit to realise that they could jump to and aid men hauling ropes, and they did just that whenever needed. Some of the women had clapped onto ropes during the day and aided the men hauling, much to the amusement of the British sailors.
“I don’t think you’d see my missus turning her delicate hands to such work,” Hayden had heard one of the hands observe.
“I’ve seen your missus, Huxley, and I don’t think ‘delicate’ is the proper term for her claws.”
Of course, traducing the honour of one’s wife was not acceptable at any station, so threats were made, apologies offered, Mrs Huxley’s hands rated as delicate as a duchess’, and they all laughed, for they were a kindly and good-natured crew and Hayden held them in great affection for this as much as anything.
The firing aboard the French cutter ceased, and the musket fire from the British boats went silent as well. Hayden guessed the French had lost sight of the Themis’ boats, painted black as they were, and Ransome and Gould or Wickham had the good sense not to fire and alert the French to their position—or they had run out of powder, he could not say which.
A few moments passed and then the swivel and muskets were fired at once. Then silence again. Hayden had no desire to fight this French vessel, which was almost certainly better armed than his privateer and would have trained men aboard—not a crew that spoke two languages, half of whom were landsmen. He could not, however, stand by and allow the British boats to be taken. All the afternoon he had endeavoured to overhaul the Frenchman and force him into a running battle, which would allow the British boats to make Dominica. Hayden’s hope had been that the schoone
r would prove swifter and he would keep enough distance between the two vessels that the French would not be able to batter his prize into submission. Once the boats were safely clear, Hayden would then crack on and race the French for the town of Portsmouth and the bay, which certainly would have British vessels at anchor and where the French would not venture.
But the French were so near his boats, and the north end of Dominica so close by, that this plan was no longer to be contemplated. Darkness might let the boats escape, he thought, and then he would do the same, keeping distance between himself and the French cutter, which would likely not wish to be discovered so near the British island at dawn.
Hayden did not like his position overly. The north shore of Dominica was a lee shore, and the winds, which commonly took off somewhat after the sunset, had been making for the last few hours and showed no signs of easing.
For a short time, the schooner bore on, rising and falling with the quartering sea, the wind moaning softly in the rigging. And then there was an unholy crash and distant shouting.
“On deck! Somewhat has happened aboard the Frenchman, sir! Perhaps she’s lost her topmast, Captain.”
“Has she run aground?” Hayden called up into the dark.
“I don’t know, sir. She seems to have sheered to starboard, sir. Mayhap she jibed all standing.”
“Mr Hardy! Sail handlers to their stations.” Hayden began hurrying back towards the quarterdeck. “We shall tack ship!”
The moment the men were at their stations, he ordered the helm put over and the ship was brought around and through the wind. Immediately she was on the other tack, Hayden ran her down towards the position where the French cutter had last been seen, a leadsman calling the depths as they went.
“Bradley? Hayden called to the lookout. “Can you see the Frenchman?”
“I have kept my eye on her, sir,” came the lookout’s voice from above. “Point off the larboard bow. Half a mile distant. I believe she’s come to anchor, sir.”
“Well, let us thank the imprudence of French captains,” Hayden muttered, and crossed to the larboard rail, where he leaned out to see if he could make out the enemy. And there she was, some distance off, bow to wind, or so he thought, and riding up and over the waves.
“On deck!” the lookout cried again. “Captain? I believe she is anchored just outside the line of surf, sir.”
Hayden ordered the helmsman to shape their course to come across her bow. Sheets were eased accordingly.
“We have luck on our side again, it seems,” he told Hawthorne, as the marine appeared on the quarterdeck. “They must have run in too near, realised they were almost in the surf, jibed all standing, and carried away gear. They have anchored to effect repairs, and we can rake them as often as we are able.”
Almost broadside to the waves, the schooner rolled terribly, so their fire would have to be timed perfectly. Steady men had been made the gun captains, and Hayden had cautioned them to hold their fire. It was his intention to come as near as he dared to the cutter to make the most of their small broadside and reduce the chance of missing. The silhouette of the enemy vessel was almost lost against the darker island, but Hayden could see it, even with the sails off her.
They ranged in at speed, the brisk trade pressing their little ship on, and then as they passed, on the roll, Hayden ordered the guns fired and the three-pounders kicked back, spewing smoke and fire. There was distress aboard the French ship, he could hear, but then, as Hayden was about to call for sail handlers, the French cutter swung to larboard, turned broadside to the seas, and carried towards the surf line.
“My God!” Hayden said to no one, not quite able to believe what he saw. “We have shot away her anchor cable . . .”
Aboard the French cutter all thought of defence was given up, even though their broadside came to bear upon the schooner. Men scrambled to make sail, though he could see numbers yet aloft undertaking repairs.
“Can she make sail, Captain?” the helmsman asked. “Had she not too much damage to her rig? They would never have anchored in such a place otherwise.”
“I do not know . . .” Hayden watched as the ship was carried into the surf. The mainsail crept slowly up, luffing and snapping, the gaff only half under control.
Hawthorne had stepped away from his swivel gun and come to the rail beside Hayden. “Can they sail out of such a place?” he asked quietly.
“Only if God has taken notice.”
But all deities appeared to have their attention elsewhere that evening, for the French ship was carried into the surf and in a moment had found bottom, her mainsail not yet raised. Her decks tilted wildly towards the beach as she was driven higher with each wave. Hayden had been aboard a ship wrecked some distance from the shore, though in harsher conditions than these—a late-spring gale—and he knew the horror of it. There might be fifty men aboard the cutter, and if lucky, half might survive. Boats could be taken through the surf and perhaps back out again, though much would depend upon the nature of the shore. Was there a landing place?
Where, for that matter, were his own ship’s boats and their crews? How many of them had been lost?
“We have no boats to send to their aid . . .” Hawthorne said.
“No,” Hayden replied, “but we shall stand by until daylight. Let us hope this cutter is driven ashore. If she comes to rest some distance out . . . well, God have mercy on their souls.”
The castaways stopped at the shadowy edge of the bush and turned to look seaward where the flashes and reports of guns had originated.
“Is it Captain Hayden?” someone asked.
No one knew the answer. The chasing ship—the vessel they had seen closing all the long afternoon—had no doubt found the cutter, and she was not a French privateer, that was clear. She was British or perhaps Spanish, for the Spaniards plied these seas in numbers.
“What shall we do?” someone asked. “We cannot stand here. The French have launched boats.”
“Tarry but a moment,” Ransome ordered. “Let us see what will happen now. I believe the boats will return to their ship if they can. They will not risk being left ashore should their ship make sail.”
In the darkness it was difficult to see what went on, even a few hundred yards distant. The rigs of the ships tended to be more visible than the hulls, which were lost against the dark sea. Starlight glittered dimly off the moving waves and the breaking crests were palely visible. Wickham would have given anything for a night glass, but they had only his single glass remaining and it was of little use by darkness.
Something changed in the appearance of the French cutter, and voices were carried to them over the sound of breaking seas. For a moment Wickham was confused by what he saw, and then he realised. “She has swung broadside to the seas! Her cable has parted!”
“Are you certain, Mr Wickham?” Ransome asked.
“I am. Look! She is rolling and thrashing. They attempt to raise the main.”
“Never will they sail out of there,” one of the hands asserted, and Wickham thought he was likely correct. If they could not make sail immediately, they would be in the surf.
“Whatever led them to anchor so near?” someone asked, but no one replied. Clearly, it had not been by choice.
Wickham started down the beach and in a moment was standing with the waves dying about his ankles. There was shouting out among the seas now, distinct from the voices carried from the ship. For a moment he stared, and then, there on the back of a wave, he made out a boat being frantically rowed out, away from the shore.
He turned back towards the people still standing at the margin of the wood. “Do you see? The boats are attempting to return to their ship. They have given up on us.”
En masse, the castaways hastened across the beach and gathered in a line where the seas died.
“Mr Wickham.” Childers broke the silence. “That ship is
in the surf. There can be no doubt.”
“I believe you are correct,” Wickham replied.
A terrible cry reached them—distress from every soul aboard—and then an odd lurch from the French ship. She seemed suddenly to stop in her progress towards the shore, and Wickham thought her deck was slanted heavily towards the land.
“Hard aground,” one of the hands declared. “There is no saving her now. The seas will drive her up the beach and there will be no getting her off without a dead calm to allow it. Otherwise, she is a loss there.”
“Mr Ransome?” Wickham said softly to the lieutenant. “Should we not empty our boats and launch them if we can? We might preserve some lives this night if we act smartly.”
Ransome nodded. “All able-bodied men to the boats. Mr Wickham, can you ask the French to search along the shore? We will need our oars.”
The boats lay half submerged and were being battered back and forth by the seas. They would soon have been damaged, left to the whims of nature. Water was thrown out by the bucket until each was light enough that all the men together could roll her on her side and pour the remaining water out. Sweeps had been gathered off the beach and now were shipped. Most of the French were left ashore but helped launch the boats into the surf, wading in waist deep and steadying each one until a sea passed beneath and then the boat was shoved out bodily on the ebbing wave.
Immediately, they met a sea and dug in to crest it, for if the first few seas could not be surmounted, the boat would be tossed back ashore.
It took everything the men aboard could muster to pass over those first few waves. Wickham and a young Frenchman had manned the aftsweep and pulled for all they were worth.
After the initial seas, the waves grew less steep, though they were commonly as high. Childers was at the helm and steered them unerringly towards the stricken French vessel, Wickham was certain. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to ascertain their course, though he was constantly curious as to their progress.
Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead Page 31