Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “Mr Ransome. Lieutenant Reverte. Let us wear ship and run down upon our privateers.”

  Hayden looked up into the rigging. “Aloft there, Wickham. Has Archer seen our signal? Can you see what they do?”

  “He has heaved-to, sir. That is all I can tell you.”

  “Have they gone to quarters, Mr Wickham?”

  “I cannot be certain, sir. Gunports are closed.”

  “Damn!” Hayden whispered. Archer was about to have three enemy vessels fire broadsides into him, and he seemed utterly innocent of their intent.

  It occurred to Hayden then to wonder how the Themis had arrived at this place, but he decided Caldwell’s messenger must have found her. He kept hoping that Jones would round the headland in Inconstant, but no other ship appeared. There was only the Themis, hove-to some distance off the headland, with the three ships bearing down on her.

  “Aloft, Mr Wickham?” Hayden called out. “How distant are the privateers from the Themis?”

  “Not a mile, sir, I should not think.” Wickham raised his glass again. “Sir? Mr Archer is getting her underway. Mayhap, he has made out our signal, Captain.”

  Getting a frigate underway could not be done instantly, even under the most pressing need, which no doubt Archer felt at that moment. Hayden watched as yards were braced around and sails loosed. Staysails jerked aloft, flailed for a moment, and then were sheeted tight.

  The instant sails were set and drawing, he saw gunports open, and not, it appeared, an instant too soon. The nearest privateer began a turn to larboard and unleashed her broadside of twelve-pounders. Before Hayden could even wonder at the effect on Archer’s command, smoke erupted all around the Themis, and the privateer, whose deck canted towards the Themis on that point of sail, was a scene of carnage, sails torn and flailing and men strewn across the deck.

  Immediately, the other privateers bore off, shaping their course to weather the cape.

  “Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “We will pass that privateer to weather and give her a broadside.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Ransome and Reverte went immediately about the ship, disposing the men to their proper stations.

  Hayden stood at the rail, holding a shroud as the ship rolled on the quartering sea. A bit of rain rattled down around him, though Hayden hardly took notice but to note that powder must be kept dry, something of which the Spanish gun crews were cognizant.

  Aboard the nearest privateer, men were scrambling about, trying to put their ship to rights. They dared not bear off, lest Hayden rake them, so they stood on, knowing that the Spanish frigate flying a British flag was about to bring ruin to them. Hayden wondered if they would strike, given that a much more powerful ship was about to engage them, but their false ensign continued to stream.

  The Spanish frigate was the swifter vessel, but not by a great deal, so overhauling the privateer took half of the hour.

  “On deck, Captain! The Themis is wearing, sir.”

  “Climb down, Mr Wickham,” Hayden ordered. “I shall need you on the deck.”

  The frigate finally drew abreast of the privateer, just beyond musket shot, and both ships fired their broadsides at almost the same instant. Smoke obscured all for a moment and then the wind carried the cloud away. The privateer was a ruin of dangling rigging and unmounted guns. Almost reluctantly, Hayden ordered the guns reloaded and fired, and then they passed the privateer by, leaving her bobbing on the waves, her wheel shot away and turning slowly broadside to the seas.

  The remaining privateers disappeared behind the cape at that moment, and Hayden ordered their course altered so that he might sail within hailing distance of the Themis. Gunports were conspicuously closed, and he sent Wickham out to the end of the jib-boom with a speaking trumpet to hail Archer. There were a few moments of wary hesitation, and then the Themises recognised their shipmate and there was a great cheer aboard the British vessel.

  The two ships drew abeam and Hayden found himself standing at the rail, looking over at his ship and officers, gathered at the rail, grinning like men in their cups.

  “We were told to look for a schooner, Captain,” Archer called, “but it has been miraculously transformed into a frigate—a Spanish frigate.”

  “I shall tell you the story entire at some time, Mr Archer,” Hayden called back, suspecting that his own grin was not immoderate. “For now you should know that we chase a privateer like the one you just dished, and a Spanish frigate bearing both bullion and Mrs Hayden—or so I believe.”

  “Have you a plan, sir?” Archer asked.

  “A very simple one. We overhaul them and disable the privateer first. We then range up to either side of the frigate and hope her master has the sense to strike.”

  “Then we should not let them get any farther ahead, sir.”

  “I agree, Mr Archer. Luck to you, sir.”

  “And you, Captain.”

  The two ships swiftly made sail and shaped their respective courses to weather the tip of Hispaniola, which lay less than a mile distant. Although the Spanish ship had the longer water line, Hayden was not displeased to see that the Themis kept pace with her. The two crews, Spanish and British, were immediately competing, and the lieutenants and sailing masters of both vessels were all about the deck, bracing yards and trimming sails to get every tenth of a knot from their respective vessels.

  Hayden took a glass and went forward to the forecastle, where he might get a better view of their chases. The masters of these ships were not fools and gave the cape a wide berth, not wishing to be becalmed in its lee. The wind, which had been blowing north by east to north-north-east for some hours, chose that moment to shift to north-east by north, and the privateers found themselves in the lee of the hills all the same, where they rolled terribly in the quartering sea.

  Reverte and Ransome came forward, and the three considered their best course for a moment, studying the dog-vane and pennants at the masthead and quizzing the sea all around.

  Ransome pointed to a flight of white-feathered birds some distance before them. “Those gulls have wind beneath their sails, sir. Have they not?”

  A quick look with a glass confirmed this observation.

  “Perhaps this wind will carry us up to them, Captain,” Reverte observed.

  “Perhaps, but in this sea a small wind will be rolled out of our sails in an instant, as you both well know.”

  It was, perhaps, one of the most frustrating experiences of sailors—and not an uncommon one—to have seas greater than the wind justified. The wind would then be too small to steady the ship, and the seas would roll and throw the sails about so that they might flog themselves to ribbons. If the seas, however, were the proper height such a wind should make, this would not occur, and the ship would slip along happily.

  It was decided to shape their course more to the south-west, trying to skirt the area of calms beneath the cape and hope the wind did not shift back into the north, sending their chases on their way east, while Hayden’s frigate and the Themis had gone farther west. It was a gamble, and Hayden could not guess how it might pay off.

  All through the forenoon they made their way south-west, the lookouts aloft trying to discern the edge of the calm so as to keep their ships in wind, though the area of fickle winds grew and shrank without any apparent cause.

  For half of an hour before noon, the privateers found wind and shaped their course south-east, but then the wind left them again and they rolled and slatted about in the seas, gear threatening to carry away, such was the violence of their motion.

  By four bells Hayden’s two ships were some seven miles south-west of the privateers, which Hayden did not care for, but Ransome, Reverte, and Mr Barthe, aboard the Themis, all concurred that they might risk altering their course into the east. Yards were shifted and the helms put over, and the two ships, now broadside to seas blown out of the Windward Channel
, rolled on towards the west at good speed.

  When they had covered perhaps five miles, the two privateers found their wind and shaped their own courses to skirt the southern coast of Hispaniola.

  When Hayden’s little squadron was due south of the Cape Tiburon, the fetch grew so short that the seas went down to a low, long swell and the ships suddenly surged forward, their motion eased so that the worst landlubber aboard could dance a jig upon the deck without fear of falling.

  The two ships raced on, carrying every sail they could safely send aloft. Wickham asked permission to climb to the foremast tops, where his view would not be impeded by sails, and there he watched their chases for half an hour before leaning over and calling down to Hayden on the forecastle.

  “Sir, we are gaining on the privateer, but the frigate ranges ahead.”

  Hayden turned to Reverte. “Will the frigate reduce sail to protect her consort, or will she abandon her and run?”

  Reverte shook his head. “I cannot say what the master will do. This frigate and the one we chase were built from the same draught. One is as swift as the other.”

  “Then it might come down to which has the cleaner bottom,” Hayden replied.

  “Or the better seamanship,” Reverte observed.

  “This is your ship, Lieutenant,” Hayden said. “Can she be made to sail faster?”

  “Perhaps, if I might suggest a few small things? She is like every ship and has her own little likes and dislikes.”

  “By all means, do with her as you will.”

  For the next hour, it seemed the master of the frigate could not make up his own mind as to what to do, but then he began to crowd on sail and left the other privateer to her fate, a rather cowardly act, all aboard the chasing ships agreed.

  Hayden went back and forth between quarterdeck and forecastle, trying not to look as unsettled as he felt. After chasing these ships for so many days it now appeared he might actually overhaul them, which forced him to consider another matter. His bride was aboard one of them . . . and he might be forced into battle with the ship that bore her, endangering her life.

  Upon one of his visits to the foredeck he found Reverte standing at the forward barricade.

  “I realise I have asked this before, Lieutenant,” Hayden began, taking his place beside the Spaniard, “but you are quite certain no bullion was transferred off the frigate?”

  “I am quite certain.”

  “And the lady you saw—the woman I believe was Mrs Hayden—she is aboard the same ship?”

  “Certainly, she was at the time our ships were taken.” Reverte paused. “Even privateers would put such a woman down into the deepest part of the hold so that she would be in no danger in the event of a battle.”

  “I have seen ships explode—more than once—catch fire, and even founder. I have witnessed vessels sinking after collisions, and I have been aboard a ship wrecked upon the coast with great loss of life. There is no place aboard a ship that is truly safe.”

  “There is no place in this life that is truly safe, Captain Hayden. I once saw a man run down by a carriage that had escaped and rolled down a hill. He later died of his injuries. Mrs Hayden will be as safe as is possible. I cannot say, ‘Do not worry’—you are her husband, so that would not be possible—but I am quite certain all of your concern shall be for naught. Mrs Hayden will not be harmed. You might ask yourself how many times you have seen a ship’s surgeon wounded in a battle.”

  “I have never seen it, unless the ship itself was destroyed.”

  “Because he is down in the cockpit, deep in the ship where Mrs Hayden will be.”

  Hayden felt himself nod, his anxiety very slightly eased but not erased.

  It became apparent that the course set by the privateers would not take them to Guadeloupe but to the north of it. It did not take Hayden long to realise that de Latendresse and his allies were likely steering for one of the neutral islands that lay nearer. At the speed they were presently sailing, St Croix was not four days distant, and that island’s port would shelter them from the British more than adequately. Hayden could not let the enemy ships reach that island.

  The wind gods seemed to have taken the side of the privateers that day, providing them wind when Hayden’s ships were left floundering in near-calms that appeared ever to impede them. Day gave way to darkness and the lookouts were on the alert for any attempts by their chases to slip off in some other direction. Hayden slept as poorly that night as he could remember, and was on deck often, assuring himself that neither frigate nor converted transport had disappeared but remained always before them.

  Well before first light, he gave up sleep altogether and found himself on the forecastle when dawn began to brighten in the east, silhouetting the enemy vessels as they dipped their bows into each sea.

  Wickham and Reverte came up to the barricade, where Hayden stood with a night glass tucked beneath his arm. The Spaniard pointed towards their chases.

  “The frigate was not so far ahead at sunset,” he observed. “And look . . . we are drawing up to the privateer.”

  Hayden nodded. Even in the thin light he was certain Reverte was correct; they would overhaul the aft ship before midday.

  “I do not think that the frigate has any intention of protecting her consort. She is more than a mile ahead, perhaps a mile and a half.” Hayden turned to Wickham and Reverte. “We will beat to quarters but keep the fire in the galley stove yet. Send the hands down for breakfast a few gun crews at a time. I want a well-fed crew ready to give battle.”

  Hayden crossed to the starboard rail, where he found the Themis, almost a mile distant on their quarter. Archer was not risking collision by night—he had been witness to that variety of calamity—but now he would almost certainly have to tack to bring his ship up to Hayden’s.

  Apparently, the privateers came to this same realisation, for at that moment the lookout called down, “On deck, Captain! The frigate is making ready to tack, sir.”

  Ransome came running along the gangway at that moment, coatless and shaking off sleep.

  “Ah, Mr Ransome,” Hayden said to his lieutenant. “Call sail handlers to their stations and coil down. We shall wear ship upon my order.” He turned to his other officers. “Mr Wickham. Lieutenant Reverte. You have the gun-deck.”

  The two touched hats and hurried off at the same moment as Hawthorne appeared, bearing a musket.

  “What are the French about now?” he asked as he passed Ransome, who was calling orders as he went.

  “They were hoping to catch us unawares, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden informed the marine, “and pass us to either side, allowing each ship to fire at least one broadside. I suspect they would target our rig, and then hope to do something similar to the Themis.”

  “But the second ship does not appear to be tacking.” Hawthorne pointed.

  “No, Mr Hawthorne, but we shall soon see how deeply he comprehends the situation—the master of the privateer, I mean. He should allow the frigate to pass ahead of him, for if they approach us at the same time we will wear and rake the privateer—unless she also wears, of course. If the frigate is allowed to range ahead, then we will not dare wear ship for fear of being raked ourselves.”

  The crew, both Spaniards and Englishmen, came streaming onto the deck and began immediately to coil down ropes in preparation to wear ship. Ransome stationed himself on the gangway just forward of the quarterdeck so he could relay Hayden’s orders to the hands who would brail up the mizzen, allowing the ship to turn downwind.

  The distant frigate came through the wind, sails flailing and beating the air a moment, and then calming as they were set to drawing properly. The second ship was doing as Hayden’s command was, sail handlers at their stations, ropes removed from their belaying pins and coiled down on the deck so that they might run freely.

  “It would appear that this captain comprehends t
he situation well enough,” Hawthorne said, clearly disappointed.

  “I expected no less,” Hayden replied.

  “Shall we wear ship, then, sir?” Gould asked anxiously.

  “Mr Gould, are you not assigned a station at this time?” Hayden enquired peevishly.

  “Most certainly I am, sir. The forecastle, Captain.”

  “Then see to your duties, Mr Gould, and I shall see to mine.”

  “Aye, sir. My apologies, sir.”

  Although it was Hayden’s policy to allow his young gentlemen to ask questions of him, on the principle that this would aid them in acquiring their trade, there were, clearly, some questions that served only to vex him, and these he felt should be discouraged . . . sharply, when necessary.

  He turned to find that Archer was tacking the Themis in an attempt to get to windward so he might bring his ship into the action. The privateer’s frigate was now coming towards them on a slant that would take it to windward of Hayden’s ship.

  “Mr Ransome,” Hayden called. “Open the larboard gunports, if you please.”

  “Larboard gunports, Captain,” Ransome called back, and relayed the order to Reverte and Wickham.

  There was a moment of utter silence on the forecastle. The gun crews had released their guns, removed tompions and run them out, and now they waited.

  “At the risk of sounding like a green reefer,” Hawthorne said quietly to his captain, “do you plan to stand on or wear ship?”

  “That depends, Mr Hawthorne, on what our enemies do. I will order whichever seems most advantageous, but it will be determined by the arrangement of the enemy’s vessels and when each will reach us. Do have a little patience, Mr Hawthorne. I have not gone to sleep.”