Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by S. thomas Russell

  “Aye, sir.”

  Hayden assured himself of the Themis’ position and then estimated the speed of the approaching captured frigate. It had the wind more or less on the quarter and was closing with them at what appeared to be great speed, for the combined velocity of the converging vessels was easily eleven or twelve knots, he was certain.

  The second privateer began to turn into the wind, but her master seemed to have incorrectly estimated the speed of the other vessels and was making his turn too soon.

  “There,” Hayden announced. “Mr Ransome! We will alter our course to pass to leeward of the first privateer.”

  Ransome repeated his orders and went immediately to the helmsman.

  “Do you see, Mr Hawthorne? We shall attempt to manoeuvre the privateer between ourselves and the captured frigate, which will not be able to turn downwind to rake us, for fear of running afoul of his consort. If he wishes to come after us, he must tack, which I intend to do myself the moment we have passed the privateer.”

  Hayden turned and made his way back along the gangway so that he might be upon the quarterdeck before the ships met. The helm was put up a little and the bow of the ship fell off the wind. Hayden could see the privateer tacking.

  “Will she not try to force us up by sailing below us, Captain?” Ransome asked quietly.

  “I do not think she can tack so quickly.” Hayden exchanged his night glass for one made for the day and quizzed the nearest ship. “Does it not appear, Mr Ransome, that she is undermanned?”

  Hayden passed his glass to the lieutenant, who gazed into it a moment. “Could he have manned both batteries, Captain?”

  “Perhaps, but I wonder if much of the crew has not been transferred to the other ships.”

  Ransome brightened noticeably. “I do hope you are correct, sir.”

  “Let us prepare to fire our larboard battery as we pass, Mr Ransome.”

  Ransome moved immediately to the break in the deck so that he might relay his captain’s orders to the gun-deck.

  Marines and other men with muskets were settling themselves on the tops, preparing to fire on the enemy’s deck as she passed. Hayden would not, under different circumstances, have left his lower square sails drawing where they might be set afire accidentally from sparks blown back by the wind, but he had need of all the speed he could manage. Ransome had ordered the hands to wet down the sails with buckets, but the trade would dry them in a moment. It was simply an unavoidable risk.

  Despite the number of actions Hayden had been through, he still felt both his heart pounding madly in his chest and a shortness of breath. A sea officer might steel himself to stand upon the quarterdeck in the midst of gunfire, but fear could never be eliminated. It was elemental, he believed, more animal than human.

  As the sun broke free of the horizon, the enemy vessels appeared to grow larger, the light picking out the details of the ships and casting long, stark shadows. The privateer came through the wind just before her sister ship reached her, and just as Hayden’s own vessel passed her to leeward. Had she tacked a moment sooner, she could have turned downwind and raked Hayden’s ship, but as it was, she was forced to pass him beam-on, and almost dead in the water after tacking. Her gunports, however, were open.

  “Mr Ransome, we will fire our larboard battery all at once,” Hayden said, loud enough for the lieutenant to hear. There was silence all along the deck at that moment.

  The two ships came up to each other, and their respective guns fired almost at the same instant, a great, jarring explosion of fire and smoke. All about Hayden there was a rending of timbers and shouting. Shards of wood and deadly slivers spun by in the pall of smoke. Hayden picked himself up and began tugging slivers out of his coat, some with bloody ends.

  He wondered that he remained whole and could still stand. The smoke blew off quickly, revealing the damage all around and men thrown down on the deck, twisted into unnatural positions and some still as stones.

  He tore his eyes from this horrible scene and looked aft to the enemy ship, which was in far greater ruin than his own. Hayden had half expected her to turn downwind in an attempt to rake him from astern, but she did not.

  “We shall tack, Mr Ransome.”

  Immediately, the lieutenant began calling out orders.

  The privateers’ captured frigate stood on, and Hayden wondered if she would tack. But then he realised that the Themis was tacking, even as he did, and would be on a course to intercept the frigate in but a moment.

  The master of the captured frigate must have come to the conclusion that his ships would be overtaken and so had chosen to turn and fight, likely hoping to inflict damage on Hayden’s rig, but the captain of the second ship had not perfectly understood his intentions and came about too soon, allowing Hayden to avoid the heavier broadside of the frigate. Ship handling and tactics would now come to the fore, as the privateers had no hope for escape but to run off downwind, into the great expanse of the Caribbean Sea, where there was no land to impede them for a hundred leagues.

  Hayden watched the two ships, fascinated. What would they do now that their plan had failed?

  “We appear to have taken no damage below the water line, Captain,” Ransome called out.

  “And how have the men on the gun-deck fared?” Hayden enquired, not taking his eyes from the enemy.

  “We have lost some men and we have one gun dismounted, sir, but it is no danger to us.”

  Hayden’s ship came through the wind with a shaking of sails and gear, and then the sudden, percussive thup! of sails filling. Yards were shifted and braced, sheets drawn home. The frigate gathered way and set off in the wake of her sister ship—the ship carrying Hayden’s bride, or so he prayed.

  Hawthorne trotted along the deck to where Hayden stood at the rail, watching his adversaries and trying to divine what they might do.

  “I do not know how best to station my musket men, Captain,” he said. “Will Mr Archer come up into the wind and attempt to rake the frigate?”

  “I do not believe he will, Mr Hawthorne—not with two ships bearing down on him. I believe he will stand on and exchange broadsides.”

  “Two knights riding along the barrier . . . ?”

  “It is very much like that. Rate of fire will count for nothing, as there will be opportunity for only a single broadside. There is, however, a very great change in our situation. In a few moments, our ships will lie between the privateers and any French or neutral islands to which they might reasonably sail. They have, I think, made a very grave error.”

  “If you were the master of the French frigate, Captain, what would you do?”

  “I would run off downwind and hope to slip away by darkness.”

  “That sounds like an act of desperation,” the marine lieutenant stated. “The Frenchman made an error turning to fight.”

  “The master of the converted transport made an error. He tacked at the wrong moment and allowed us to use him as a shield. Now they are in a difficult situation, as our two ships have the greater weight of broadside.”

  The gun crews and sail handlers on the upper deck all stood silently at their stations, eyes fixed upon the three ships before them. The frigate and the Themis were closing on each other rapidly. Gunports of both ships were open, and on the upper decks the gun captains could be seen elevating or lowering their weapons. The Themis was not going to pass as near to the French ship as Hayden had, he could now see, but even so, they would be close enough that much damage could be inflicted.

  Hayden’s own ship was being put to rights by the Spanish sailing master, the bosun and his crew, who hurried about the decks and climbed aloft, shouting to one another in rapid Spanish.

  The two combatant ships came abreast of each other, and Hayden was sure every man on deck held their breath an instant. At such short distance the flash of powder and the sound of the explosion were simul
taneous. Dense, roiling smoke enveloped both vessels. Immediately, it began to blow off in long tendrils, even as it swirled into the back eddies of the sails.

  The ships emerged from this darkness, and Hayden could see that the enemy frigate had much damage to her sails and rig.

  Hayden pointed. “I believe Mr Archer has fired bar and chain, Mr Hawthorne. Do you see the ruin he has made of the Frenchman’s rig?”

  As the Themis emerged from the veil of smoke that clung to her, the second French ship—the converted transport—sheered off, shifting her yards to run dead before the wind.

  “At least that privateer has mastered rudimentary sums,” Hawthorne observed. “A dozen twelve-pounders opposed to a broadside of eighteen-pounders . . . Clever lad.”

  “And his rig has less damage than Mr Archer’s, so he will have the advantage for a short while.”

  The two British ships converged in but a few moments, and Hayden climbed up on the rail, holding onto the mizzen shrouds. He pointed off at the retreating privateer. “That ship is yours, Mr Archer,” he called.

  Archer waved back and nodded, turning to call out orders. The two ships passed of an instant, and Hayden’s vessel held her course, quickly gaining on the frigate that Archer had partially disabled.

  Hayden went striding forward onto the forecastle, where he might see his chase more clearly. Gould was there with a glass screwed into his eye, though the ship was so near Hayden had to wonder why.

  One of the hands quietly warned the midshipman that the captain approached, and he hastily lowered his glass and touched his hat. “There is a great deal of damage to her rig, sir,” he reported. “I think her topmasts might carry away with but a little more encouragement, and they are taking in all sail above the topsails.”

  Even without a glass, Hayden could see that this was true. He could also see that they would overhaul this ship in but a few moments.

  “Mr Gould, go down to the gun-deck, if you please, and inform Ransome that I intend to range up to windward of this frigate and engage her at close range. Pass the word for the Spanish officers.”

  “Aye, sir.” The midshipman went off at a run.

  A moment later, sailing master and junior lieutenants hurried onto the deck.

  “We will overhaul this Frenchman in a moment,” Hayden informed them in Spanish. “Let us clew up our courses. We will be to windward of her, so she will be in much smoke, but I do not want to give them an opportunity to board, as I believe they have numbers.”

  The Spaniards nodded approvingly and immediately began sending men to stations. Hayden took one last look at the frigate before them and strode back to the quarterdeck. Two ships built to the same draught and identically armed were about to engage each other at short range. Around him, Hayden could see a smouldering and determined anger. These were the Spaniards who had fallen victim to and been made fools of by these same French privateers. The opportunity for redemption, if not revenge, was welcomed most heartily.

  Hayden’s frigate slowed just as they caught up to the privateers, the Spanish sailing master estimating the speed of the two vessels precisely, and clewing up sails at the appropriate instant.

  Hayden returned to the quarterdeck, where he could stand near the helmsman and where Ransome could both relay his orders to the gun-deck and take his place should he fall. As his ship drew near the privateer, Hayden found himself hoping above all things that Angelita would be deep within the ship, as Reverte had suggested, and would remain untouched by the violence.

  As the bow of Hayden’s ship came abreast of the privateers’ aft-most gun, it fired, and then the next. Clearly, the French hoped to do damage and kill members of Hayden’s gun crews before his ship could fire a broadside—and it was certainly worth trying, in Hayden’s view.

  “Mr Ransome,” he called out between shots, “order Mr Wickham to fire as she bears, if you please.”

  Immediately, the forward guns spoke and then each gun aft of that in order. It took a moment for Hayden’s ship to come abreast of the Frenchman, as the difference in their speed was so small, but then they were firing guns as quickly as they could be loaded and run out.

  Around Hayden, chaos erupted. Splinters from the bulwarks spun past, even as musket fire and iron balls from the deck guns murdered his crew and tore away his rigging. When men of the larboard battery fell, others stationed at the starboard guns took their places, sometimes pulling the dead or wounded clear, and sometimes leaving thick smears of blood upon the planks.

  The binnacle exploded not a yard from Hayden, and he picked himself up from the deck a second later, dazed and uncertain if he was injured. A moment he stood, searching his side, where he felt pain, but decided he was bruised only.

  For a quarter of the hour the two ships battered each other from close range, until it became clear that the guns on the privateer spoke less and less frequently, and then they fell silent altogether. The enemy vessel was half hidden in smoke, but Hayden ordered his own crew to leave off firing, and in a moment, the wind cleared away the great cloud. There lay their sister ship, her rig in ruins, her decks littered with bodies and debris, her guns blasted from their carriages.

  Men draped a flag over the ruined bulwark of the quarterdeck, but it was not, as Hayden expected, a British flag to signal their surrender—it was a yellow ensign. The Yellow Jack.

  Thirty-three

  Hayden ordered boats launched and went himself aboard the prize, anxious the entire way and searching among the Frenchmen at the rail for a sign of Angelita. As he came up the side, he found the crew gathered on the quarterdeck—a smoke-stained and beaten group who to a man appeared to bear some small wound or other. Among these downcast sailors he found both de Latendresse and Don Miguel Campillo, the latter with his arm bound in what appeared to be a bloody shirt.

  “Who is the master of this vessel?” Hayden asked in French.

  De Latendresse replied. “The captain was killed in the action—may God have mercy on his soul.”

  May he have mercy on yours, Hayden thought.

  “I am in command,” de Latendresse admitted. “I am the captain.”

  “You are no officer,” Hayden said coldly. “You, sir, are nothing more than a spy. And you,” he said to Miguel, “aided this man. In good faith, I offered you my help, and you chose this course instead—to become a traitor to your own nation.”

  “Better than accepting handouts from the likes of you,” Miguel replied in Spanish.

  The blood drained from his face as he said this, he wavered an instant, and then slumped slowly down onto the deck. Although he looked as though he might pass into unconsciousness, no one seemed to care or even to take notice.

  “Mr Wickham? See to their surrender. And Mr Gould?”

  “Sir?” The midshipman stepped quickly forward.

  “Will you examine Don Miguel’s wounds? God help me, he is my brother-in-law yet.” He turned his attention back to de Latendresse. “Where is Mrs Hayden? What has been done with her?”

  “She is below,” de Latendresse said, and ordered a man to lead Hayden to her.

  Marines went ahead with muskets at the ready, but there was no resistance, only wounded and dead lying on the ruined gun-deck, which was slippery with blood.

  Hayden was taken down to the hold, where he found all the ship’s sick and hurt, lying upon barrels, but for one cot, suspended and screened off from the others by a bit of sail.

  Hayden went there, unable suddenly to breathe. And there he found his bride, shiny with sweat, her beautiful face a sickly yellow hue.

  “Do not come near,” she whispered. “I have the fever.”

  Hayden went immediately to her side, all but collapsing down on a short stool that stood on planks by her cot. He took up her small hand, which was inhumanly hot.

  “You are always a bit late,” she said, her voice so thin it was not even a whis
per. “But here you are, all the same.”

  “I will have Griffiths here of an instant,” Hayden told her. “He has physic for every hurt. He—”

  She put up her hand to quiet him. “There is no physic that will heal this hurt . . . The true apothecary comes for me.” She closed her eyes and tears pressed between the lids, and though she made no sound, her shoulders shook.

  “Is Mr Smosh nearby?” she managed after a moment.

  “He is . . .”

  She nodded, and then with effort whispered, “I will be buried in the religion in which we were married.”

  “You are not going to die.”

  “Charles . . .” she said softly, but very firmly. “That is my wish.”

  Hayden found he could not speak, but nodded.

  She put a hand upon his heart. “You will keep me there—I know. There, safe . . . until we are both called from our long sleep.” Tears flowed freely then. “So short was our time together in this life, but all of eternity awaits us.”

  Thirty-four

  Hayden had arrayed her in the dress in which she had been wed and then sewn her into a cocoon of sail cloth. He paused then to weep the most bitter tears of his life. She appeared so very small when they bore her up to the deck, as though whatever had made up Angelita in life had already fled.

  The officers and crew gathered on the quarterdeck, where Smosh spoke in his deep, sonorous voice. His words, as kind and profound as they might have been, seemed nothing more than bits of air to Hayden. They hardly registered.

  The day appeared somehow imbued with solemn beauty, the sea of tropical blue spreading out to the south, a little whisper of wind, and hardly a cloud to sully the sky. Gulls ranged about the ship, mewling sorrowfully.

  What occurred seemed somehow impossible to Hayden, and he had difficulty believing that he attended the funeral of his young wife, who but a few weeks before had been vibrant to the point of overflowing with the life she had been given.