Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “How distant is she, Childers?”

  “Some way off, sir. I can make her out quite clearly, even by starlight.”

  Over the sound of the surf—a constant low thunder in which no individual breaking wave could be discerned—apparitional voices carried to them now and then, barely within the range of hearing and so leaving Wickham to wonder if he imagined them. He realised, as he rowed, that he grew tired more quickly than he should, and knew this was exhaustion. Desperately, he needed sleep and a few days’ rest to recover his strength. All the men were in the same state, he was certain, and yet had forced their way out through the seas breaking on the beach despite barely having the strength to stand.

  “Can you make out the French boats?” he asked Childers, who stood to look over the seas.

  “One, I believe, Mr Wickham. No . . . there is another. Both making their way back to the ship, the first all but there.” He was silent a second, his knees flexing to keep his balance in the rough conditions, done as easily as a dancer. “I do hope these men are steadier than those of Les Droits de l’Homme, sir.”

  A memory of Franks’ boat being overwhelmed by panicked French sailors and being swamped and turned over . . . and lost. Their poor bosun, who had volunteered to take the boat through the surf, a victim of the chaos in the French Navy. And here they were again, taking a boat to rescue the same, barely governed sailors—sailors who believed in ideas of liberty and equality, both noble sentiments but with no place upon a stricken vessel where only order would save lives.

  “Fifty yards, Mr Wickham,” Childers informed him.

  The midshipman left his French rowing partner to handle the sweep and stood to get a better view. The stricken vessel lay with the tips of her yards in the surf, her masts angled low, the deck slanted and half awash. Seas broke over her windward side and the wind howled and moaned, luffing Wickham’s coat, which was being rapidly dried by the warm trade. Wickham could see men in the rigging and up the masts, clinging to these last little islands of hope. The two French boats, which had been dispatched not so long before to hunt down the British sailors and royalists, made their way to the rigging hanging down into the sea to take off the men clinging there.

  Wickham made a quick assessment of the situation and ordered Childers to lie off the quarterdeck. “Five yards off, hold our place a moment and let me speak with the French. Let us hope there is an officer there whom the hands respect.”

  Childers nodded and brought the boat near in the tumultuous seas. The oars were backed a moment and Wickham found himself staring at a dozen men clinging to the windward rail, frightened beyond description. He had half a mind to pull away, for these men were past taking orders from their officers.

  Wickham pulled the pistol from his belt and held it up where all could see. “You will come aboard this boat one at a time in an orderly fashion,” he told them in French. “The first man who jumps into my boat out of order I will shoot through the heart. We will then back our boat away and leave the rest of you here. Do you comprehend what I am saying?” There were nods and words of acceptance. Wickham ordered the boat brought alongside and lines were thrown to the men on the French vessel.

  Wickham hoped his bluff would stand; his pistol had been soaked through and the powder drenched when they were thrown into the sea, but the French did not know that.

  “Line handlers,” Wickham said loudly. “Be prepared to cut those lines of an instant upon my order.”

  Behind him, where the French boats were taking men from the rigging, Wickham could hear shouting and cursing, but he dared not turn to see what went on. He was determined that his boat would not be swamped by panicked men.

  The strongest French sailors formed a chain down the deck and the men slid on their buttocks, passed from man to man and then into the boat, which rose and fell with each sea, slamming now and then into the submerged rail, which threatened to turn them over. Finally, several French sailors stood upon the French cutter’s rail, in water that rose as high as their necks at times, and held the English boat off, other men steadying them.

  Men were coming aft along the windward rail and being warned to stay in their places by the other Frenchmen, who nodded to the young English officer, who stood, sternly, holding aloft a pistol.

  Behind him he heard what sounded like fighting, the night full of curses and threats.

  “Mr Wickham,” came Ransome’s voice from out of the night, “when your boat is full, we will take your place.”

  “Draw your pistol, Mr Ransome,” Wickham called back, not turning away from the men coming aboard his boat. “I have told these Frenchmen that the first man to jump aboard my boat out of order will be shot and we would leave the rest of them here to drown. You must tell them the same.”

  “My pistols are drawn and ready, Mr Wickham.”

  When the midshipman thought he could carry no more in safety, he informed the officer present that he would return as soon as he had carried his cargo ashore. He then ordered his boat away and, loaded to the point of overcrowding, the men took up the oars and sent them towards the beach. Immediately, Mr Ransome’s boat manoeuvred to take his place.

  The distance to shore was covered in less than half the time it took to reach the wreck, for the seas picked them up and carried them along, like great hands passing them from one to the next with only a brief lull between. As they neared the beach and the waves mounted up, Wickham and Childers had a brief conversation as to how they would get their boat in without the same calamity that had befallen them before. Wickham gave careful orders in both English and French, and at a word from him, the rowers reversed their positions so that they faced forward and took hold of the oar that had previously been manned by the hands at their backs. All the oarsmen now faced forward and could back oars with all their strength.

  As the boat was lifted on the face of the wave, the men rowed for all they were worth, keeping the speed of the boat manageable. In this way they approached the beach but slowly. When the last wave before the sand picked them up, and at the very last second, Wickham and Childers unshipped the rudder lest it be broken, and the boat was cast up, not too urgently, on the beach. It did slew to starboard to some small degree, but the sailors all clambered out and very quickly slid the boat up the beach, where the waves died around it.

  The Frenchmen gave thanks to their saviours and even pounded them on the back, they were so relieved to find themselves on land and not swimming for their lives. A moment of rest, and then Wickham ordered the boat turned round, which was done bodily by all the men who could muster about it.

  The British sailors took their places and manned oars again, the rudder was shipped, and at an order from Wickham, they began again to battle their way out through the seas towards their enemy’s ship, to rescue the men who had been intent on their murder not two hours before. It was, Wickham thought, the strangest irony that sailors would risk their very lives to kill their enemy and then, when an enemy’s ship was discovered sinking, risk their lives to save the men aboard. He rather thought the latter was the finer impulse.

  They had not gone fifty yards when Ransome passed them in the barge.

  “How many remain?” Wickham called out to him.

  “Your boat shall be the last, I think. And Mr Wickham . . . ? Be prepared to defend your boat from the French both as you return and when you are upon the shore.”

  The idea of the French taking their boats and sailing for Guadeloupe, or some other possession, had not occurred to the midshipman, and he thought it a sign of his terrible fatigue.

  “We shall have our pistols ready,” he called back, largely for the sake of the French aboard Ransome’s boat, some of whom likely had a little English.

  “Godspeed, Mr Wickham.”

  “And you, sir.”

  The wreck lay much as they had left it, the masts perhaps a little nearer the water. The seas continued to break ov
er it, and Wickham thought it unlikely that she would ever swim again.

  “Mr Gould, do you have a pistol?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Do we have any other firearms?”

  A musket and another pistol were reported; all the guns had wet powder and would not fire. Wickham ordered these distributed to the steady men.

  “Blackwood,” he said to their remaining marine, “you will take station in the bow, and Rusten, you will stand by him. When we approach the wreck, stand and make your weapons seen. Gould and I shall do the same. Let them see that we are vigilant and that we are prepared to defend our lives and our vessel with blood, if it is required.”

  The others took their stations, and an air of seriousness settled over the little vessel. None had thought of fighting the men they attempted to rescue, let alone killing any, but it was clear now that they must be prepared to do so. After all, their captain had done almost that exact thing, taking the schooner of the privateers who hunted them.

  As they neared the wreck, Wickham could make out the last of the men gathered at the stern, more grim now than frightened.

  Wickham had Childers keep clear, and he gave this group the same warning before he would lay his vessel alongside. It was the same exercise again, holding off the boat and loading the men one at a time. As the men came aboard, Wickham ordered them to sit down in the bottom and crowded them all in the middle, so that they would have to overcome the oarsmen before they could reach the men bearing arms.

  That being done, he set out for Dominica for what he hoped would be the last time this night. Landing on the beach was managed as before, and they were soon wading ashore as men dashed out from the beach to pull the boat up out of reach of the breakers. Both the French and the British collapsed on the sand, but noting Ransome and several others standing with guns in hand, Wickham touched Gould on the arm and then did the same. The French, it must be made clear, had only very briefly been castaways—they now were prisoners.

  “Where have the French boats landed?” Wickham asked, looking around and seeing only their own two boats.

  “They did not come ashore, Mr Wickham,” Ransome replied. “I should think they have sailed for Guadeloupe.”

  “Well, they shall have a wet passage. It was difficult enough with a fair wind. I should not like to make it in an open boat hard on the wind. I wish them luck.”

  “They have not had much luck this night,” Gould observed softly. “They would have been wise to come ashore. Better to be a live prisoner . . .” He did not finish his thought, nor did he need to.

  At that moment, guns fired aboard the ship that yet lay off the shore.

  “The private signal,” Gould declared. “That is our captain.”

  “We will send a boat out to him at first light,” Ransome announced quietly. “And Mr Wickham? Inform the French sailors that a British ship lies offshore. Let them not have any ideas of escape.”

  Wickham relayed the message to the prisoners, who outnumbered the British sailors. They appeared to accept their lot, glad, no doubt, to be alive.

  Wickham could have lain down on the sand and slept for a day, he was certain, but as an officer, he was required to stay on his feet and be an example for the hands. He almost trembled with exhaustion.

  “What will tomorrow bring?” Gould asked him.

  “We will all be taken aboard the prize and the prisoners likely deposited in Portsmouth. After that . . . Barbados, I will wager, and perhaps a few days of shore leave and respite.”

  “A little holiday from making war will not go amiss,” Gould replied.

  “No, it will not,” Wickham said with feeling. “I could sleep for a sennight and not be recovered.”

  Twenty-seven

  After three frustrating days in delicate negotiations with the authorities in Portsmouth, on the island of Dominica, they had finally agreed to accept Hayden’s rescued royalists if he would take the prisoners on to Barbados. The crossing to Barbados had required a further two days, due to the trade choosing those particular days to become indecisive. Barbados was raised, finally, and Hayden’s excitement could hardly be hidden. How happy Mrs Hayden would be to find him home weeks before expected!

  When the anchor was well and firmly down and the schooner holding her position without doubt, Hayden ordered the boats launched and, leaving Ransome in command of the prize, went ashore and hurried through the twilight streets to his island home. His pulse was speeding somewhat, and his colour high when he reached the door, his imagination running ahead of him to the sweet delights of married life and his comely bride, who would be more than surprised to find him returned so soon.

  The house, however, was dark, not a candle burning, though the smell of smoke permeated the air. Hayden found himself rushing from room to room, lest there was a fire as yet undiscovered. Very quickly he found the source. A family of Africans were crouched around a fire built on the tile of the covered porch that looked out over the small garden. They were in the process of cooking a fish on a makeshift spit, and the smoke was being carried through an open door and into the house.

  “Where is Madame?” Hayden asked. “Mrs Hayden. Where is she?”

  They looked at him as though he were nothing more than a mild curiosity—a strange animal making unintelligible noises. He hurried inside, banging the door closed behind him.

  Very quickly, he mounted the stairs, calling out as he went, but there was no reply. Their chamber was empty, the bed unmade. The windows were open and leaves had blown in and collected in the eddies behind furniture. The other rooms were undisturbed.

  Frantic, Hayden pummelled down the stairs and was out the front door, where he collided with Rosseau, who was so red-faced and gasping that he could not speak immediately.

  “Where is Mrs Hayden? Where is my wife?” Hayden demanded, as though Rosseau might somehow be responsible for her absence.

  “Gone . . .” the little Frenchman gasped. He held up a hand and tried to master his breathing. “They have taken her . . .” he managed after a moment.

  “Who have taken her?”

  “’er brother . . . and the comte.”

  “The comte!” Hayden realised he had shouted.

  Rosseau nodded and then went on in his native tongue. “Oui. Le comte. He . . .” Then he shook his head. “Let me begin in the proper place. You were right, Captain ’ayden. The comte is not a royalist but a Jacobin and a spy. Miguel, he knew something—a secret that he never told to you. The Spanish frigates . . . they sailed to Vera Cruz for silver. That was their commission. The Spaniard, the merchant whom the admiral sent to Miguel, he never found a ship to carry Miguel to his uncle. He wanted only to lend Miguel money at interest and keep him here as long as possible. Miguel, I think he suspected the comte from the very beginning. He went to him and they made some arrangement—I cannot say precisely what—and then they took Madame in the middle of the night and they were gone.”

  “Madame is gone? Where?”

  “On a boat for Guadeloupe, I think.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “I found a woman, a maid in the comte’s house, and I put the suggestion in her mind that her employer was not a royalist but a Jacobin spy. At first she said it was impossible, but then she began to see that there were little things—many little things—that could better be explained by the comte being a spy than by him being a royalist. It was she who told me Miguel had come to meet with the comte. And now she has come to me to tell that the comte and Miguel and Mrs ’ayden all went off in the night, leaving the comtesse and her children behind.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Two nights past.”

  “Have you gone to Admiral Caldwell?”

  “I have only just learned of it myself this evening. You are the first I tell.”

  Hayden considered only a moment. “I will see the ad
miral this night.”

  He closed the door behind him and began down the street.

  “Do not tell him it was me,” Rosseau said, trotting along beside him, as he walked as quickly as he was able. “Do not even whisper my name. The Jacobins must not learn it was me.”

  “I will keep your name back,” Hayden told him. “Do not be concerned. Your part will not be known. I have other evidence that the comte is a traitor to us.”

  “Where is it they have taken Madame, do you think?”

  “I do not know, Rosseau, but I would wager all I have that Miguel and de Latendresse will have hired or come to an arrangement with French privateers to apprehend this Spanish frigate.”

  Caldwell’s residence was not distant, and Hayden was there, knocking upon the door, in short order. The admiral was at table and came away from it rather offended and surly. He did not invite Hayden to join him.

  “What is this matter, Hayden, that could not wait until I had finished my meal?”

  “Mrs Hayden has been abducted against her will, by her brother and de Latendresse—”

  “De Latendresse!”

  “Yes, Admiral. I have recently taken a group of royalists from the island of Guadeloupe and they are certain, beyond any doubt, that de Latendresse betrayed a number of them to the Jacobins and that he has been in the employ of the Jacobins all along, only masquerading as a royalist.” Hayden did not add that the man was likely only pretending to be a comte as well.

  “Royalists . . .” The admiral took a chair. “I can see you are distraught, Hayden, but you must begin at the beginning so that I might catch up.”

  Hayden was too agitated to sit and paced forth and back across Caldwell’s office, relating the events of his recent cruise. Caldwell did not interrupt once the entire telling but sat behind his massive desk, following Hayden’s progress as he tacked back and forth across the room. Finally, Hayden brought it all to a conclusion with news of the Spanish treasure frigates and his own “spy’s” observations of the comte.