Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “Aye, sir.” The man ran off.

  “What see you, Mr Ransome?” asked Hayden.

  “A bloody, dark night, sir, but neither ship nor land.”

  “Mmm. My eyes have not failed me yet, then.”

  The hand returned with the lookout a moment later.

  “This is him, sir, though I don’t know his name. We call him Georgie, sir, because he looks somewhat like the Prince of Wales.”

  Hayden had not realised previously that one could hear a smirk, but he certainly did in this statement—though its intent did not seem malicious.

  “You were aloft when the privateers disappeared?” Hayden asked the man in Spanish.

  “I was, Captain. We had lost sight of one ship or another throughout the night.” He waved a hand at the sea. “Squalls and mounting seas, sir. When we lost all three I thought nothing of it, but we have not caught sight of them since.”

  “And when did you lose sight of them for the last time?”

  “About four bells, Captain.”

  “About or exactly four bells?”

  The man shifted from one foot to the other. “I heard the ship’s bell, sir, and within a few minutes we lost sight of all the ships’ lamps.”

  “And how distant were they when you lost sight of them?”

  “More than a league, sir, but not two.”

  Wickham had arrived on the forecastle as the man spoke, and hovered on the edge of the conversation.

  “You may go,” Hayden told the Spaniard. He turned to the lieutenant. “We shall beat to quarters, Mr Ransome.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Ransome hastened off, calling out orders.

  Hayden beckoned the midshipman forward. “Mr Wickham, have a look through my night glass, if you please, and see if you cannot find our privateers.”

  Wickham took the glass and went immediately to the barricade. “You think they are lying in wait, sir?” he said, as he peered through the glass.

  “Their lamps all disappeared at the same instant—at four bells—as though it had been so arranged. If I were them I should darken my ships so that we would come up to them just before dawn. We would not perceive them lying in wait, but there would be light for the battle.”

  “Should we heave-to, Captain?”

  “If we have merely lost sight of them in the dark, heaving-to will let them slip farther away, increasing the chance of us losing sight of them altogether.” Hayden found himself looking around as though someone would fall upon him out of the darkness.

  “I do not care for either possibility, sir.”

  “Nor do I, Mr Wickham.”

  The Spanish crew came up the ladders into the rain and darkness, sullen looks upon their faces as though to say, What does this Englishman want of us now? Can he not see it is a dark night and we have need of sleep?

  Reverte hastened onto the forecastle and Hayden informed him of their situation. The Spaniard looked positively alarmed, and he went about the ship exhorting the men to take their stations and stand ready.

  After interrogating the darkness for some minutes, Wickham handed the glass back to his captain. “I can make out nothing, sir. Though perhaps there is an area of more concentrated darkness off our larboard bow, some miles distant. Hispaniola, I should think.”

  “I shall feel better once we have weathered the cape,” Hayden growled. He looked around again. “Damn this black night.”

  The men stooped by their guns, backs to the wind, which was surprisingly cool for the latitude.

  “I shall keep you on the deck for your sharp eyes, Mr Wickham. Send Gould down with Reverte to command the gun-deck.”

  Wickham went off, calling the midshipman’s name.

  Hayden took one last look into the darkness with his glass and then made his way along the gangway, which was both slanted and heaving in the quartering seas.

  As he came onto the quarterdeck, he met Hawthorne, who was bearing a musket.

  “You have heard our small news?” Hayden asked, as the marine fell into step beside him.

  “I have. And where have these ships gone?” he asked.

  As they reached the binnacle there came a flash of light aft and then the report reverberated over the water. Hayden did not know where the shot went, but he stood all but transfixed a moment.

  “Should I thank them for answering that most pressing question?” Hawthorne wondered in the silence.

  And then came another shot, from their larboard quarter, which struck the back of a wave not two dozen feet aft of their transom.

  And then the night was illuminated for an instant as a broadside was fired to starboard, though too distant to do damage.

  Hayden took one look around, comprehension coming over him like cold rain. “They intend to trap us against the lee shore of the peninsula.”

  A moment of silence, and then the gun aft fired again. Then the gun to larboard.

  Hayden turned his head, listening carefully.

  Guns fired again from somewhere out to the west.

  Hayden pointed to this last. “That is the frigate,” he announced, “so the others are the privateers. Mr Hawthorne, would you be so good as to find Lieutenant Reverte on the gun-deck and send him to me?”

  Hawthorne made a quick salute and went for the companionway ladder at a trot. As his head disappeared below, Ransome shot out of the companionway.

  “They have come after us, sir!” he blurted.

  “Mmm. But their timing is imperfect. We still have a little darkness left to us, and we had best exploit it to our greatest advantage. Ah, here is Reverte.”

  The Spaniard remained significantly calmer than Ransome, who was clearly in a lather.

  “Will our ship tack in this wind?” Hayden asked of the Spaniard.

  Reverte looked about, assessing the wind a moment, and then nodded. “I believe she will, Captain.”

  “I would like to turn to larboard, rake the privateer on our larboard quarter if we can, carry on until we are well clear, and then come through the wind onto the starboard tack. The seas are not so great as to prevent us opening gunports.”

  Ransome and Reverte acknowledged the orders and hurried off to prepare the men for these evolutions. Hayden sent men to the ship’s lamps with orders to snuff them just before the helm was put over.

  He then called for Wickham and stationed the young reefer on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, clear of the gunners, and had him fix his glass upon the enemy lurking there in the dark.

  “I have her, sir,” Wickham announced.

  “Do not take your eyes off her, Mr Wickham. I shall need you to tell me when she is directly abeam.”

  The privateer was almost invisible in the darkness, and Hayden was counting on her continuing to fire the chase piece to give his gunners a target. Like all such manoeuvres, this one relied for its success upon timing. The privateer would have a chance to rake Hayden’s frigate as it passed by, but Hayden hoped to turn through the wind at that instant and prevent this. Whether the ship would prove as handy as the Themis, he could not say. There was also a question as to how distant the privateer was . . . If she were nearer than Hayden believed, then he would not have time to turn into the wind, and he might well get raked—and at close range, too. If she were farther away, then Hayden’s broadside would likely do little damage.

  To the east lay a deep, open bay—over a hundred miles to its head—encompassing one large island and several smaller ones. Its southern shore was made up of the long peninsula that grew out of Hispaniola’s south-western corner. Its eastern shore curved up somewhat towards the west and terminated at the point that made up the northern entrance to the Windward Channel. Despite the great size of the bay, Hayden believed that, had he a squadron of three ships under his command, he could trap a ship in it by daylight. This was why he felt he must get on
to the starboard tack before dawn. He could not let the enemy ships herd him into a corner.

  It occurred to him, at that moment, that he might be better not to fire his broadside, which would alert the other ships that he had changed course, although they would not know if it was to the east or to the west. He weighed this option for only a few seconds before deciding that opportunity to do damage to one of the three ships—especially at close range—could not be passed up. Who knew what the result might be? The privateer might lose a mast and be out of any subsequent action. It was not particularly likely, but the outcome of a broadside at such range could not be predicted.

  When all was in readiness, Hayden gave the order, lamps were doused, and the ship began her turn, yards being shifted and sails sheeted in. He went and stood by Wickham, who braced himself in the aft corner where transom met bulwark, Hayden’s night glass fixed upon the enemy ship.

  “Will she pass astern of us?” Hayden asked, still unable to make her out.

  “I do not believe so, Captain, but it will be very near. We might traverse guns aft . . . ?”

  The order was given, and the sound of carriage wheels being forced across the planking ground around the ship. The chase gun fired on the privateer, but she had clearly lost sight of them, for the ball went well aft.

  “We have a shot, sir,” the nearest gun captain announced quietly, sighting along his gun to the place where the flash had been seen.

  “Mr Wickham . . . ?” Hayden prompted.

  “I agree, sir.”

  The order was given, and the larboard battery fired, shaking the deck beneath Hayden’s feet. All listened for the sound, and a terrible rending and crash of iron on wood came to them over the water, though the extent of the damage could not even be guessed.

  Immediately, yards were braced and the helm put over. The frigate forced her way up into the wind. Before she had come into irons, the privateer fired her own broadside, and much of it struck home, some passing through the sails and rigging, and other balls striking the hull. Nothing carried away, and the ship, after hovering a moment in indecision, came through the wind and in a moment settled onto the starboard tack.

  Gunports were closed, though guns had been reloaded and were in all ways ready to fire. Every eye was now fixed to the west, trying to find the other ships to see what they did. None bore lamps, for they had come upon the frigate by stealth, and now that they realised Hayden had changed his course, they left off firing, rendering them near to invisible on such a dark night.

  “There away!” one of the hands called out. “A light, sir.”

  Hayden stared into the dark and, after a moment, found it, wafting slowly up and down.

  “Why would they light a lamp?” Wickham wondered.

  “They have lost sight of one another and cannot risk collision—a great boon for us, for we may remain dark for the little night that remains.”

  “What shall we do now, sir?” Wickham asked.

  “Remain on this course until we see what they intend. Will they chase us yet, or will they continue on for whatever island is their destination?”

  “I would certainly choose to go on, sir. We cannot challenge three ships alone, and they would be foolish to let us lure them back up the channel. British ships do come here, even if not often.”

  “I agree, Wickham. Let us see if they are coolheaded or still desire revenge for our murdering so many of their fellows.”

  Wickham continued to search the darkness with Hayden’s glass.

  “Have they worn, Wickham?” Ransome asked as he came aft. “Can you not see?”

  “I believe they might have, Mr Ransome, but cannot yet be certain.”

  The frigate stood on for a short time, when signal guns were fired on one of the enemy ships and then answered by the others, extinguishing any doubts as to their positions.

  “They are wearing now,” Wickham told the others. “Even the ship we raked seems to be able to wear, so we did not damage her as we had hoped, I should guess.”

  “Will they come after us again or will they bear off and pass south of the cape?” Ransome asked.

  It was the question in everyone’s mind, Hayden was certain, but it would not be answered until daylight found them. Dawn, however, lay concealed behind a thick layer of woolly grey that had overspread the Caribbean sky that night. When it did finally come, slowly revealing the heaving sea and the great islands to both east and west, it cast only a dim light over the silvery-grey waters. There was no doubt, however, that the privateers had chosen to stand on and were nearing Cape Tiburon.

  Hayden felt a strange hollowness inside at this sight. A heavy lassitude and something like melancholy came to fill the void. The ships bearing his wife were slipping off.

  “On deck!” came the cry from aloft. “Sail! Sail, just rounding the cape!”

  Thirty-two

  Aloft there!” Hayden called up to the lookout. “Does she bear colours?”

  “No, Captain. Not that I can see.”

  Wickham, who stood by the rail, hatless, the wind ranging his gold curls about his face, handed Hayden his night glass. “Shall I fetch my glass and go aloft, sir?”

  “If you please, Mr Wickham.”

  “Immediately, sir.”

  A moment later, Wickham was climbing slowly up the ratlines, his glass slung over his back. He settled himself on the main-top and fixed his glass upon the distant ship.

  “She’s a three-master, Captain,” he called down. “Painted like a transport.”

  In itself, this did not signify a great deal, as Sir William had ordered all his captains—including Hayden—to paint their ships a single colour so that they were not obviously Navy ships.

  “Are there other ships, Mr Wickham, perhaps just behind the cape? Can you see?”

  “Just a single sail so far, Captain.”

  “A single French cruiser in the Windward Channel, sir,” Ransome observed quietly. “That seems improbable. Much more likely that she is either the transport her appearance claims or a Spanish ship. She might be British, but our cruisers have tended to sail in squadrons.”

  “She is very likely a transport, Mr Ransome, and a most fortunate one as well, for these privateers will not dare harass her with our frigate so near.” Hayden glanced up at the sails, gauging the wind. “We will stand on for half an hour more and then wear ship, Mr Ransome. Once we have worn, we will send the men to their breakfast.”

  “I shall send word to the Spanish cooks,” Ransome replied. “Though I do miss a good English breakfast,” he confided softly.

  Hayden, who had grown up with French cooking, nodded. “What man, Mr Ransome, could find fault with the English breakfast?”

  “My thinking exactly, sir.”

  No other ships appeared around the cape, distant now only a few miles, and the strange ship bore off, hard on the wind on the starboard tack, prudently giving the unknown ships sea room.

  “On deck, Captain!” Wickham called down. “She is sending colours aloft, sir—British colours.”

  Hayden considered this a moment, and then summoned one of the English hands. “Pass the word for Reverte and Mr Gould.”

  Hayden stood at the rail, gazing off towards the four ships. He could make out the British colours without a glass now.

  The frigate taken by the privateers sent aloft colours at that moment, and these, Hayden was quite certain, were Spanish.

  “Aloft, there! Is that the Spanish flag, Mr Wickham?”

  “So it is, sir.”

  Reverte and Gould arrived at the same instant.

  “Who is your signal officer?” Hayden asked the Spaniard, uncertain of the proper term in Spanish and using a less-than-correct translation.

  “He went with Captain Serrano on the prize, Captain Hayden,” Reverte answered.

  “Do you know if you carry a Brit
ish ensign?”

  Reverte’s countenance did not change in the least. “I shall have the colour-chest carried up, but I believe that it is possible.”

  Hayden refrained from commenting on allies bearing British colours. Of course, his own ship had carried Spanish colours—such was the fragile nature of the two nations’ alliance.

  Hayden turned to the midshipman. “Mr Gould. Do I recall correctly that you committed much of the signal book to memory?”

  “I did make an effort to, sir.”

  “We may have need of signals. You might be forced to tear apart the Spanish flags and improvise, but you should stand ready.”

  Gould looked a little perplexed. “What signal will be required, sir?”

  “I wish I knew; we shall see what transpires.”

  The colour-chest arrived on the deck, and to the slight embarrassment of the Spanish, there was indeed a British ensign therein. Hayden ordered it sent aloft.

  Gould went through the Spanish flags, laying out those of different colours.

  “On deck, sir!” Wickham called down. “The strange ship, sir—I do not find her so strange, after all. I believe she is ours, sir. I believe she is the Themis!”

  Hayden called for a glass and quizzed the distant ship. French and British frigates were much alike and easily mistaken one for the other, but there was something about the proportion of this particular ship’s rig that did seem familiar.

  As Hayden looked, the rig began to change shape.

  “She is clewing up her mainsail, Captain,” Wickham called down.

  “No, Mr Archer,” Hayden muttered.

  “What are they about, sir?” Mr Gould asked.

  “They are heaving-to so that they might speak to one of these ships they believe to be Spanish. Can you make up ‘Chasing enemy ships,’ Mr Gould . . . this very instant?”

  Gould looked over at the flags he had laid out on the deck. “It will be very makeshift, sir.”

  “It does not matter. Do the best you can, and quickly as you can.”

  Gould began tearing up the Spanish signal flags for the colours he would require. Reverte called for the sail maker and his mates, and they began furiously making up flags to Gould’s directions. The stitches were so far apart that Hayden wondered if they would hold together in the wind, but in a little more than a quarter of an hour, something that resembled the signal for “chasing enemy ships” went aloft. Hayden ordered a gun fired at the same time to draw the attention of the Themis, and prayed that their lookouts were not so focused on the nearby “Spanish” vessels that they did not notice.