Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “Aye, sir.”

  Orders were given to one of the British gun crews, the gun elevated and, at a word from the midshipman, fired.

  Hayden had walked away a few paces to be clear of the smoke, raised his glass to his eye, and watched with some anticipation. There was a sudden fountain of water, not just short of the ship but shy of the gathering boats as well.

  Wickham’s head appeared at the top of the companionway ladder. “We could remove the aft wheels, sir . . . ?”

  “Let us keep the wheels in place. Rate of fire might be our advantage yet. Reload with grape, Mr Wickham. Some of these boats might reach us, but we will make them pay for it.”

  Hayden returned to the rail and gazed off towards the privateers through his night glass. A wandering patch of moonlight illuminated them a moment, and though it was difficult to be certain, Hayden thought there were at least eight boats gathered there and perhaps as many as ten. There could be two hundred privateers in those boats. He hoped the Spanish gunners knew their business.

  Without any order that carried across the water, the boats all set off at once, their bows aimed directly at the Spanish frigate so recently taken. Hayden was more than a little surprised at this, as he would have divided his force in two, circled round, and approached the ship from both bow and stern, where only chase pieces could be brought to bear.

  Hawthorne appeared at his side at that moment.

  “Do they row directly for us, Captain?” the marine officer asked quietly, as though the privateers might overhear.

  “It appears they do, Mr Hawthorne.”

  “Is that not the height of folly? Do they not realise we have brought our ship around?”

  “I cannot say. A moving boat is a difficult target to hit, especially by night, as you well know. They may simply believe our gunnery is not up to the task . . . but at a hundred yards grape will cause great slaughter.”

  “Perhaps they are admirers of Nelson, Captain, and believe you must always ‘go straight at her.’”

  “Which will catch up with even Nelson one day.”

  “Luck to you, Captain,” Hawthorne said, touching his hat.

  “And you, Mr Hawthorne.”

  The marine retreated to take command of his men and whomever else Ransome had assigned him. Men began to climb aloft with muskets at that moment, many of them Spaniards. Hayden raised his glass again and gazed a moment at the flotilla approaching. Privateers often favoured boarding as a tactic—their ships seldom bore enough guns to offer an advantage—but men could be had at small cost. A privateer usually sailed with a surprisingly large crew. And it appeared the privateers intended to use that advantage here.

  A gun fired on the deck below, catching Hayden entirely by surprise. He stormed over to the opening to the gun-deck, where he could hear shouting in both English and Spanish.

  “Mr Wickham?” Hayden cried over the voices. “What goes on down there? Where is Captain Serrano?”

  Wickham appeared directly below Hayden, his face a shadow surrounded by a halo of pale gold hair. “It was a Spanish gun crew, sir. Captain Serrano has disrated the gun captain and replaced him with another. I believe the man fired the gun as a protest against the British taking his ship, sir.”

  Hayden turned immediately away. “Pass the word for Mr Hawthorne!” he called. He had no time for this now and felt his anger boil up.

  The marine appeared on the run, having no doubt registered the tone of his captain’s voice.

  “Take your marines to the gun-deck, Mr Hawthorne. If there are signs of insubordination or mutiny among the Spaniards, you may deal with it as harshly as you see fit.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Hawthorne replied quickly. He began calling for his men, and in a moment they were thumping down the companionway.

  Hayden returned to the rail, only to find the flotilla of ship’s boats dividing into two. He let out a string of frustrated curses. Ransome appeared just then.

  “Do you see the boats, Captain?”

  “Yes. These privateers are not so foolish as we hoped. Is the spring rigged so we can let it run?”

  “Indeed it is, sir, though it would be quicker and easier to cut it.”

  “We might have need of it again. Clear everything the cable might foul and be prepared to let it run on my command.”

  “Aye, sir!” Ransome touched his hat and went off at a run.

  Hayden went immediately partway down the steps to the gun-deck. “Pass the word for Captain Serrano!” he called out, and the Spanish officer appeared a moment later, very grim-faced and appearing to suppress anger.

  Wickham stood a few paces distant, a pistol in hand, and Hawthorne and his marines claimed the centre of the gun-deck with their muskets ready.

  Hayden had no time to mollify an angry Spaniard. “We shall have the privateer’s boats approaching from bow and stern. Both batteries must be ready. Once the boats are too near to be fired upon, gunports must be closed tight. All men will then be needed to repel boarders.” Hayden turned to Wickham. “Mr Wickham? Have you heard?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Then let us be about our business. Good luck, Captain,” Hayden offered to the sullen Spaniard.

  He mounted the ladder and returned to the rail with his night glass. The privateer’s boats had split into two small flotillas, each of which carried somewhere near a hundred men. Hayden dearly wished he’d had more time to prepare his defence, assign the men to stations, and create a plan with his officers. The truth was, though, that every experienced man aboard—both officers and hands—comprehended exactly what must be done. Fire upon the boats with the great guns until they drew too near, then take up arms and prepare to defend the ship. As his former captain, Bourne, often said, “War at sea is not a complicated business.”

  The two flotillas were giving the frigate a wide berth, but Hayden needed to keep them as distant as possible for as long as possible. “Mr Gould,” he called out to the midshipman who was commanding the forward deck guns. “Jump down to Mr Wickham. Have him traverse a pair of guns, one fore and one aft, and fire on the boats. Let them not become too bold.”

  Gould touched his hat and disappeared to the gun-deck.

  When Hayden anchored his schooner he had been pleased to find the current was not strong—now he wished it were running a great deal faster. He was about to employ it in defence of his ship.

  A forward gun fired at that moment, and he turned to see if there was any possibility that he might make out where the shot struck water . . . but he could not. A second gun fired aft, and that ball landed somewhere in the dark ocean as well. Hayden fixed his glass on the forward flotilla and was quite certain it had altered course to keep out of range of the great guns.

  “Mr Gould! We will use the chase pieces fore and aft to keep these boats honest.”

  Hayden wanted both flotillas to approach from directly fore and aft, and to be as distant as possible when they began that approach. He turned his head from side to side—the faintest zephyr caressed his cheeks.

  Hayden crossed the deck and again called for Mr Wickham.

  “Sir?” The midshipman spoke from the darkened deck.

  “Inform Captain Serrano that I intend to fire both batteries at once.”

  “I will, Captain.”

  Even as Hayden gave this order he wondered if it might be a mistake. He would hide his ship in the smoke so that the enemy could not see what he did, but the smoke would also obscure their view of the enemy, making it difficult to aim their guns. He held his hand up again. Was it enough of a breeze to carry the smoke away in time? Once they began firing guns at the enemy boats the smoke would obscure all anyway . . . but the first clear shot is what would allow the gunners to get the enemies’ range and to gauge their speed.

  Perhaps war at sea was more complicated than Captain Bourne had suggested.

 
Hayden drew a lungful of air. His course was set and there was no changing it now. It was all a matter of timing. He gazed up at the lookout.

  “Aloft there! We shall fire both batteries to hide the ship. Climb as high up as you can to get above the smoke. I will rely on you to tell me what the boats do.”

  “Aye, Captain,” came the cry from above, and the man, who was among the musketeers on the main-top, went crawling up.

  Hayden turned his attention back to the boats, quizzing both flotillas with his night glass. They were only a few moments distant, but he needed them closer yet. He cursed the privateers who had not replaced the frigate’s lost topmast . . . he could have used the mizzen topsail with this little zephyr appearing.

  The boats finally drew almost in line with the frigate and Hayden called for Ransome, who appeared at the ladder head.

  “Fire both batteries, Mr Ransome, and then let the spring cable run. Be certain the guns are reloaded with grape. We will hold our fire until the boats are within range.”

  Ransome repeated Hayden’s orders and disappeared below. There was a mighty blast as all the guns on the gun-deck were fired as one, and a cloud of smoke utterly enveloped the ship and seared Hayden’s nostrils and throat.

  The spring was let run at the same instant and the ship began a slow turn, her stern swinging with the current, aided to the smallest degree by the faint breeze. The movement of the ship, however, appeared to be so slow that she would never swing to the current in time.

  The privateer’s boats were obscured by the cloud and the night, and Hayden began to wonder if he’d misjudged the distance in the dark and that they would be upon them before the ship swung around and the guns brought to bear. It would then be a battle against boarders, and Hayden did not have his steady British crew around him. He did not know if the Spanish were more determined fighters than the French. He was, however, about to find out.

  He could hear, in the distance, the coxswains crying out the beat in French, exhorting their oarsmen to row faster. The ship continued her turn; Hayden believed he had seen seasons turn more quickly. The smoke swirled around the masts and rigging, caught in eddies and backdraughts. It clung to the ship like a skein of silk entangled in thorns. The faint-hearted breeze could not collect it all and carry it off in one single direction. Hayden had the horrifying feeling that he had made a terrible misjudgement: The French would be upon them before the smoke cleared and guns brought to bear.

  Hayden felt himself leaning out over the rail, trying to catch a glimpse of the boats he could hear approaching, but the smoke appeared to mass before him.

  “On deck!” came the cry of the helmsman, who was himself lost in the smoke. “Boats to starboard, three hundred to three hundred fifty yards, sir! To larboard . . . a little less, Captain.”

  Even if the lookout were correct in his distances, the frigate had not yet turned far enough that guns could be brought to bear. The only good thing Hayden could think of was that it would be very unlikely the privateers could see the frigate was being turned.

  “Captain Hayden!” Gould’s voice reached him from somewhere forward. “I can just make them out, sir.”

  Hayden all but ran down the deck to the forecastle, where he found Gould standing on the rail, gazing out to larboard.

  “Can we traverse guns and bring them to bear, Mr Gould?”

  “Not yet, sir. Not quite.”

  Hayden climbed up onto a gun carriage and stared in the same direction as the midshipman. Smoke yet whirled languidly about him, but then, off in the dark . . . movement.

  “I see them!”

  Very quickly, Hayden gauged the position of his ship, how quickly she turned, and then the speed of the enemy’s boats.

  “Shall we prepare to repel boarders, Captain?” Gould asked softly.

  “It will be very close, Mr Gould. Keep the men at the guns a little longer.” Hayden jumped down off the carriage and crossed the deck, climbing onto another carriage there. The vague little breeze did not hold its course for a moment together but came most of the time from the north-west, so the smoke was eddying behind the starboard topsides. Hayden could see nothing here.

  “On deck! Two hundred and fifty yards, Captain.”

  Hayden cursed almost silently. He realised then that if the smoke cleared, they would only be given a single clear shot, and then new-made smoke would obscure the sea again. As it was, the boats would soon be too near to be fired upon, as the guns could be lowered only a small degree more before they would come up against the sills.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the smoke began to clear, as though someone drew back a curtain, but an inch at a time. Gould ordered a gun traversed to its furthest degree. The gun captain sighted along it and shook his head.

  “Not yet, sir,” he reported, then aimed his gun a little lower.

  As the curtain of smoke drew back, the flotilla to either side came into clear focus, the men sending the boats on with long, powerful strokes. A small star of flame appeared on one of the boats and the report reached the frigate a moment later, but the boats were not yet within musket range.

  Gould turned from his position at the rail and raised an eyebrow towards the gun captain, who dutifully sighted along his gun again.

  “Almost there, sir.”

  Hayden suspected the privateers were saying the same.

  The captain of the starboard chase gun stood tall suddenly. “We have a shot, Captain.”

  “I wish to keep the ship free of smoke until all the guns can be fired at once. Do not fire until I give you the order.”

  The man made a knuckle but was clearly disappointed. Left to their own devices, the hands would ever waste shot and powder.

  The small current pushed the ship, little by little, even as the boats drew nearer, a few feet to each thrust of the oars. Hayden envied the men in the boats, who drove towards the frigate under their own power while he was forced to wait upon the whims of a dilatory current.

  “Sir?” the captain of the first gun said. “I believe we can risk a shot . . .”

  Hayden walked back to the next gun aft and sighted along it. Quickly, he went and called down to the gun-deck. “Mr Wickham? Can your guns be brought to bear?”

  “Very nearly, sir.”

  “Inform me the moment they can.”

  Hayden could feel the tension on the ship, the men urgently wishing to fire their guns, the captain holding them in check. The silence on both decks was so complete that Hayden thought he could hear the ticking of his watch, even within its pocket. How slowly it measured time!

  “Captain Hayden . . .” came the voice of Wickham out of the darkness. “We have a shot, sir.”

  Hayden raised his voice only the smallest degree. “On my order . . . fire!”

  Both batteries exploded in flame and smoke, the blast assaulting the ears, disturbing the very air. It was not uncommon for gun crews to need more than one shot to find the range—powder was ever varied in its strength—so Hayden wondered if there was any chance they might get their shot near.

  The crews set to work immediately, reloading and running out the guns.

  He gazed up and called to the lookout, “Aloft, there! Did we hit a single boat?”

  “One to larboard, sir. Most of our shot went fifty yards long.”

  Hayden looked down onto the gun-deck. “Did you hear, Mr Wickham? Fifty yards long and the boats draw nearer by the moment. Lower your guns and fire again.” He gave the same order to the captains of the upper deck guns, and in a moment the heat of a second volley swept up and over the ship, smoke so dense that Hayden could not see thirty yards.

  “On deck!” the lookout sang out. “We struck two boats to starboard, Captain Hayden. One appears to be going down.”

  “Do they stop to aid that boat?” Hayden called back.

  “They don’t ’ppear to be, sir.”
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  “What is the range?”

  “Hundred yards, sir . . . a little less.”

  Guns were being run out at that instant.

  “A hundred yards, Mr Wickham . . . one last shot and then close gunports—let us fight them on one deck only.”

  Guns were lowered one last time, fired, and Hayden heard the creak and slam of gunports being shut and sealed. Men came streaming up the companionway, armed with cutlasses, tomahawks, and short pikes. Some of the older hands were given pistols, and marines and seamen bore muskets with bayonets fixed. Captain Serrano and Ransome soon had the men organised into larboard and starboard watches and spread along the rail.

  “There they are, sir!” one of the hands shouted. He pointed out through the slowly clearing smoke.

  And so they were, not fifty yards distant and coming straight at them.

  The privateers began firing muskets, and Hayden ordered the musketeers in the rigging to return fire. Lead balls began to hiss by and bury themselves in the bulwarks. Hayden had been blessed with an active and vivid imagination, and at such times it was best to keep it well in check. To imagine being struck by one of these invisible balls was enough to give any man pause, and officers were expected and obliged to stand resolutely on the quarterdeck under the most concentrated fire and show not a sign of trepidation.

  A man not ten feet distant was struck in the eye by a ball and fell to the deck like a dropped doll, never to move again. Hayden tried to swallow, but there was no moisture in his mouth.

  Pulling back the cock on his pistol, Hayden raised it so that it pointed at the sky. The smoke was wafting away, finally, and the boats, loaded with armed men, could be made out clearly. They shouted and screamed threats as they came, but the Spaniards held their peace, standing in their places with what Hayden hoped was resolution. Their ship had been taken once by privateers, and that was not a comforting thought. His twenty-some steady British sailors would not be enough to fight off such numbers.

  Judging the boats near enough that even the worst marksmen could not miss, he ordered muskets fired from the deck, and all around him the crack of musket fire was followed by rapid reloading. He intended to wait until the boats were alongside before employing his pistol so that there was almost no chance of wasting a shot. His second pistol he would hold in reserve; it might save his life or the life of one of his crew.