Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  His hand, holding the paper, dropped down in apparent anger. “Then it is Campillo and that Frenchman who abducted Mrs Hayden.”

  Archer shrugged. “I was not given that information. I am relieved beyond words to learn that our captain and shipmates are not in a French gaol, but where we might find him in this maze of islands I cannot say.”

  Thirty

  For several days they followed the privateer convoy, into the Old Channel of Bahama and along the coast of Cuba. The fickleness of the trade, highly uncommon at that time of year, continued to plague them, making an already difficult feat of pilotage even more dangerous.

  Whether the privateers would pass through the Windward Channel or continue on became a question hotly debated. For his part, Hayden did not know what they would do. Clearly, they would want to get their prizes as far away from the Spanish islands as quickly as they could manage, but the Windward Channel saw a great deal of Spanish traffic and might be more dangerous even than the course they were on now.

  Hayden went aloft often and watched the ships they followed. A privateer went first, then the frigate Hayden believed bore both the bullion and the passengers, Mrs Hayden among them. In the rear came the second Spanish frigate, so a powerful vessel always separated Hayden from the main prize. This arrangement never seemed to vary, no matter how often he went aloft to quiz the convoy.

  Two nights before the Windward Channel was reached, the winds fell so light that the schooner lost steerage and Hayden was forced to anchor lest the current sweep his vessel onto a reef. It was a particularly dark night with ragged cloud passing over—high up where the wind had retreated. Hayden took his night glass and climbed to the topsail yard. It required a moment, but he found the privateers and their prizes—nearer than he expected.

  He leaned over and called quietly down to the men below. “Pass the word for Mr Wickham.”

  A moment later the midshipman climbed onto the topmast yard, and Hayden immediately passed the young man his night glass.

  “There away,” he said, pointing. “Do you see?”

  Wickham gazed a moment. “Yes, sir. I can make them out clearly.”

  “Which ship is in the rear?”

  Wickham continued to hold the brass tube to his eye. “I cannot be certain, Captain. It has ever been the frigate with the missing topmast, sir.”

  “But you cannot be certain . . . ?”

  “I am sorry to say that I am not, sir.”

  Hayden considered only a moment. “Have Mr Ransome call all hands, if you please, silent as can be managed.”

  Wickham did not ask a single question but merely touched his hat and began to climb back down to the deck. Hayden took one last look through the glass towards the distant ships, and then followed the midshipman down.

  Acreages of moonlight moved slowly over the surface of the flat, calm sea, shifted here and there by passing cloud. Hayden watched them for a moment while the men streamed up from below. There was no pattern to it, he was certain of that.

  Ransome, Gould, Hawthorne, and Wickham gathered about him on the quarterdeck. Hayden motioned them near and spoke to them quietly.

  “We will launch the Themis’ boats, and man them for cutting-out. Arm the men, Mr Ransome, and have everyone wear their blue jackets. Let no light colour show. We will all darken our faces with burnt cork. With all haste, Mr Ransome. The moonlight wanders here and there over the sea, and we want to manage all of this by darkness.”

  Hawthorne remained by his captain as the others hastened off to execute their orders.

  “Are you sure of this, sir?” he asked, with some difficulty, Hayden could tell. “There are half a dozen enemy ships not too distant. I should think these are odds Sir William would relish, but Charles Hayden . . .”

  “I hope only to take one of them, and in this I believe we shall have aid. I have a special task for you, Mr Hawthorne. You will need half a dozen strong men you can rely upon . . .”

  The boats were quickly readied and swung out, the men careful not to let them knock against the topsides or splash into the sea—these vessels might have been made of china, so carefully were they treated.

  Ransome chose the steadiest men, leaving most who had come recently from their sick-beds to man the schooner, which Gould would command in the captain’s absence—much to the young gentleman’s chagrin.

  Down into the boats the men climbed. The darkly painted sweeps were manned, and the boats set out for the convoy that lay at anchor ahead. The men, with their blackened faces, would almost have appeared comical if their looks and manner had not been so grim.

  Ransome had the cutter, with Wickham there to take his place should the lieutenant be wounded. Hayden took command of the barge. He had only two dozen men in the boats, all well armed and seasoned in such endeavours, but even so, very small numbers. Hayden and Wickham had been observing the aft-most frigate in the convoy for several days and were both convinced the prize did not have forty privateers aboard. All the frigate’s evolutions had been executed terribly slowly, and there were never enough men aloft to take in or loose sail efficiently. Prize crews were often small, and this one, he hoped, was no exception.

  Clearly, the privateers did not believe the schooner sailing in their wake could be a threat to them. Hayden’s few three-pounders did not compare to a gun-deck of eighteen-pounders and an upper deck with carronades and chase guns. Whatever the purpose of the little schooner that dogged them, it was not to take any of the ships but likely only to follow and report where they had made port.

  Oars had been carefully muffled between thole-pins, and the rowers took up a cadence that allowed them to keep near-silence, oars entering the water cleanly and staying low to the surface on the return.

  Hayden kept gazing around at the patches of moonlight that swept across the darkened sea, trying to gauge their speed and direction. As they moved, these patches changed shape and size, some growing, others shrinking, and some even disappearing altogether. Areas of light would suddenly appear, as though a lens were uncovered in the heavens, allowing the moonlight through.

  “Avast rowing,” Hayden ordered quietly, and a moment later Ransome’s boat followed suit.

  For a long while they lay upon their oars, as Hayden watched the progress of a small lawn of moonlight that came rippling over the sea. It changed shape and size as it flowed, as though some monstrous, glowing jellyfish slipped along just beneath the surface. All the while, he glanced up at the cloud, attempting in vain to find where the cloud might send this illumination, but to no avail. The cloud would send it where it would.

  Just when Hayden thought it should pass over them, revealing two boats of British sailors, it shrank a little and passed a hundred yards to the west, leaving them yet hidden by darkness. Every man aboard breathed a deep sigh, and Hayden set the oarsmen to work again, bearing them on towards the anchored ships.

  How far apart the privateers had anchored was a concern to Hayden, as he knew the other ships would send boats or even train their guns upon the aft-most frigate if they believed it was attacked or in danger of being taken. With no wind, all the ships streamed to a small current that ran more or less towards the west, lining up the ships bow to stern. This meant that the privateer lying ahead could train only her stern chase pieces on the Spanish frigate, unless they could clap a spring onto their anchor cable or row out an anchor.

  There had been no sign of wind for some time, but Hayden knew full well it could return without the least warning. In such a case, the undermanned frigate would require all hands to make sail. Hayden was counting on there being lookouts awake, a watch sleeping below, and the watch on deck largely asleep at their stations. The discipline of the British Navy—or even the French Navy, for that matter—would not be found among privateers . . . or so he hoped.

  The only real advantage the English sailors had in this matter was surprise. No sane officer wo
uld expect the captain of so small a schooner to attempt to board a powerful frigate with five other ships anchored only a few cable lengths distant. Hayden had taken advantage of this kind of thing before. In Corsica the French had not believed it possible to carry guns to the hilltops, and so had made no defence against this—Hayden had proven them wrong. He hoped he was about to catch his enemy unawares again.

  Wickham had been ordered to keep his keen eye fixed upon the aft-most frigate and warn Hayden of any untoward movement of men upon the deck. At this distance Hayden could make out the mass of the ship and lamps upon the transom, but nothing more. The posted lookouts and the guards were invisible to him.

  If the British boats were spotted, Hayden hoped the lookout would cry out, thus warning the British. A smart lookout and an astute master might keep it all silent, man guns, and blast the boats as they came near. Although he thought the latter unlikely, it was still in Hayden’s mind, and he continued to approach the frigate from astern, where only the chase pieces might be brought to bear.

  Hayden’s thoughts were drawn back to Corsica again, where he and his men had cut out the French frigate Minerve by painting their boats black and doing exactly as they did now, slipping up on the ship from astern as silently as they could manage.

  The men rowed on and the frigate came more and more into focus. Hayden felt his own stomach and muscles begin to tighten. He checked that he had a pair of pistols in his belt yet and that his cutlass would not hang up as he rose to climb onto the frigate’s deck. His mouth was utterly dry, and he would have given almost anything for a drink of water—anything that his orders would not sound as though they were formed in a mouth stuck together by fear.

  Upon the frigate’s deck he saw a man pass through the illumination of a stern-lamp, but he could see nothing more than that. Hayden expected the cry to go up at any moment, but none did, and the rowers continued in their slow, steady cadence.

  Ten yards distant, Hayden began to believe they would not be detected until they mounted the deck, when a voice cried out, “Bateaux! Bateaux! Les Anglais sont ici!”

  At an order from Hayden, the oarsmen dug in and shot the boats forward so that they were alongside just as men appeared at the rail with muskets. Hayden had pistol in hand and fired immediately, but did not know if he hit anyone at all. Of an instant he was climbing over the rail, pressed upwards by the men behind.

  He shot a man at two yards, clubbed another with his pistol before he cast it down, and drew his sword. Privateers were rushing up the companionway and spewing out onto the deck, some shirtless and without a weapon.

  The British were on the deck in numbers and flew at the French, screaming like madmen. Hayden saw the red coats of Hawthorne and his marines crouching and jumping down to the gun-deck.

  The combat was now general all across the deck, the British fighting in small knots and attempting never to allow one man to become isolated from the others. It was a melee in which neither side appeared to be winning. Hayden stepped over fallen British sailors as often as privateers.

  There was, in the darkness, no way to be certain which side was winning and which losing. Men fell, with the thud of bones and flesh on wood, but Hayden had no idea if they were British or French. He thrust his sword at a man, struck his sternum direct, and immediately drew back and put the blade into the man’s stomach, crumpling him to the deck.

  There was shouting at the head of the companionway, and voices crying out in Spanish. Hayden could see Hawthorne at the head of this column, and in a moment privateers were casting down their weapons and crying for quarter.

  There was a great “Huzzah!” from the British, and Hayden stood a moment, gathering his wits and trying to catch his breath, for he was gasping for air, heart racing. The sound of more distant voices shouting came to him, and he realised it came from across the water—the other privateers were launching boats.

  “Where is Mr Ransome?” Hayden called out.

  In a moment the lieutenant came staggering out of the mass of men, his hat gone, coat torn across the front.

  “Are you hurt, Mr Ransome?”

  “Man ran into my chest with his head, sir. Knocked the wind from me.”

  “Have Mr Hawthorne take charge of these prisoners, if you please. We must clap a spring onto the anchor cable on the starboard side and run it out the aft-most gunport.”

  “I do not know the explanation, but she is anchored by her small bower, sir.”

  “Then we shall run it out the larboard side, Mr Ransome. Have Wickham make up gun crews for both batteries and make ready to fire. We shall require the aid of the Spaniards, for we have not enough men ourselves.” Hayden did not have to be any more explicit. Ransome would know what he meant and what he planned.

  The lieutenant went running off, calling the names of men.

  Hawthorne came forward then, a Spanish officer beside him.

  “Captain Hayden, this gentleman claims to be the former captain of this frigate.”

  The man made a courtly bow. “Agapito Serrano,” he said in good English. “At your service, Captain Hayden.”

  Hayden made a quick leg; there was no time for courtly formalities. “I will need your aid and the aid of your men to sail this ship, Captain Serrano,” he said. “We are about to be attacked by boarders.”

  “I shall resume my command,” Serrano said, “and dispose my men to defend the ship. When that is done, Captain Hayden, I shall have the time to express my gratitude properly.”

  “I believe you have mistaken the situation, Captain Serrano,” Hayden informed the man. “This ship was taken from French privateers and I consider her a British prize of war. She is no longer yours to command; she is mine.”

  Hawthorne took a step away, pulled a pistol from his belt, and began immediately to load it.

  The Spaniard was so taken aback that he was unable to form words for a moment. “Captain Hayden, this ship is the property of the Spanish Crown! You have liberated us from the French, for which we are grateful, but I demand this ship be returned to Spanish control . . . this instant.”

  Hawthorne pulled back the cock on the now loaded pistol and handed it to Hayden, who held it, finger on the trigger, pointed at the deck. Around him British sailors began picking up discarded pistols and muskets and loading them. The Spanish had them outnumbered, and Hawthorne had clearly found the arms room and given their “allies” weapons, so Hayden hoped this Spanish captain would realise that he would not hesitate to shoot him if he attempted to take back the ship.

  “When we reach Barbados, sir,” Hayden said evenly, “you may plead your case to my admiral. Until then, you must give me your entire support or we will all be the prisoners of privateers within the hour.”

  “Sir,” the Spaniard said evenly, “this will be considered an act of war against Spain. Are you certain you are willing to create a rift between our nations . . . you, a mere post captain?”

  “If there were no Spanish prisoners aboard this ship,” Hayden said, “she would be considered a British prize without question. It would then be up to our two governments to decide what should be done with her. I am only a mere post captain; it is not my place to return this ship to Spain. We have no time to argue the finer points of the laws of the sea. You will either submit to my command or we will lose this ship to the French. I must have your answer this instant.”

  The Spaniard looked around, glancing towards the not-so-distant privateer, where boats were now in the water.

  Ransome appeared at that moment. “Sir, we have rigged the spring.”

  Hayden looked at the Spanish officer, who hesitated yet.

  “Until we reach Barbados,” the man stated evenly.

  “Thank you, Captain Serrano,” Hayden ceded, making a small bow. “Mr Wickham is forming crews to man the guns. Will you aid him? And we must be prepared to repel boarders.” He glanced up at the rigging. �
��There is not a breath of wind upon which we might escape.”

  “Where is Mr Wickham?” the Spaniard asked.

  “Mr Hawthorne will take you to him.”

  Captain Serrano made a small bow and immediately attached himself to Hawthorne, calling out orders in Spanish as the two retreated towards the companionway.

  “Veer the bower cable, Mr Ransome. Bring us beam-on to the other ships.”

  “Aye, sir.” Ransome went off at a run. Hayden had no doubt that he had men standing ready to veer cable. He was becoming a surprisingly competent officer.

  The deck guns were manned by Spaniards, and Hayden was surprised to find they were all long guns—there were no carronades.

  “Shall we fire grape at the approaching boats, Captain?” one of Serrano’s officers enquired of Hayden.

  Hayden assented to this suggestion.

  The bower cable was veered and the head of the ship payed off so that the ship would have wind on the larboard quarter—assuming the wind, when it returned, would come from the north or north-west. The small current moved the bow of the ship at an almost languid pace, causing Hayden to worry that they would not bring their guns to bear before the first boats reached them.

  He raised his night glass and realised, though boats appeared to be manned and away from the ship, that they were backing oars and hovering in place. Waiting for reinforcements, Hayden realised, knowing that the retaken frigate would now be, with all the prisoners moved aboard her, very-well-manned indeed.

  Hayden estimated that the nearest privateer was just out of range of the Spanish guns, but he went to the waist and called down to the gun-deck. He was very happy to find the Spaniards at their guns, silent and purposeful.

  “Mr Wickham . . . ?”

  “Sir?”

  “Elevate a gun to its greatest degree and fire a shot at that ship. I believe she is out of range, but let us be certain.”