Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by Sean Thomas Russell

  Wickham whispered across to Ransome. ‘As you have no doubt heard, I have one man wounded, and I suspect worse than he will admit.’

  The French passengers began whispering back and forth, enquiring who was in the boats and who left on the beach. Wickham ordered them to be still lest the Jacobins begin firing upon them again. Even so, he could not help but ask, ‘Is Louis in your boat, Mr Ransome?’

  ‘No. Mr Gould …?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  There was the briefest second of silence.

  Then Ransome whispered, ‘Mr Gould? How have you fared?’

  ‘One man dead, sir. A Frenchman. Caught a musket ball in the eye, sir.’

  ‘I am very sorry to hear it.’

  ‘May I slip him over the side, sir?’

  ‘Does he have family aboard?’

  ‘No, sir, though some appear to know him.’

  ‘Mr Wickham?’ Ransome said softly. ‘Will you explain to these people that we must put the man over the side? My French is not up to something so delicate.’

  Wickham spoke quietly to the people, explaining that sailors were made terribly uncomfortable by having the dead aboard. The people listened in silence and then one man replied at some length.

  ‘I did not quite understand everything he said,’ Ransome whispered.

  ‘They are afraid the body will wash ashore, Mr Ransome, and be recognized, which might put the man’s friends or family at risk, especially if they believe any of them were aiding him.’

  ‘Their point is well taken. I will have the dead man in my boat, Gould, if you would prefer it?’

  ‘We will keep him, Mr Ransome. If we can find somewhat to weigh him down with, I shall slip him over the side once we are beyond soundings.’

  ‘If your Frenchmen are in agreement.’

  Guns continued to fire from the two ships, illuminating the sea with dark lightning, and it was true that each flash seemed a little more distant.

  ‘But what shall we do now, Mr Ransome?’ Wickham heard Gould ask.

  ‘I do not know, Mr Gould. If the captain is outgunned and in fear of being boarded, then he will have to fly from the enemy ship – in which case we will be thrown upon our own resources. It is thirteen leagues to Dominica – but across a very boisterous channel. I am not confident we will manage it. Our boats are crowded with people who are unaccustomed to the sea. I am reticent to make such a passage under sail in an open boat with a cargo of landsmen.’

  ‘Is there some river nearby where we might hide ourselves through the day?’ Gould asked. ‘We might then return here tomorrow night in hope of meeting the captain.’

  ‘I am not aware of any such place. Are you, Mr Wickham?’

  ‘I am not. And even if such a place could be found, I greatly fear we would be discovered, and though we would face the uncertain prospect of prison, these people would face the guillotine. I think our best chance is to make for Dominica. We might complete a good part of the crossing by dark, so there would be no fear of discovery before daylight; by that hour we would be halfway there, at the very least.’

  Wickham could just make out Ransome in the faint starlight but could not read the look upon his face. The lieutenant was, no doubt, contemplating all the possibilities and, Wickham assumed, did not much like any of them. The passages between the islands were open to the great fetch of the Atlantic and the winds funnelled between the islands and were stronger than the normal trade. They would have a quartering wind and sea, which meant broaching would be ever a danger. If a boat overturned it would be difficult in the extreme to right and bail it in such conditions, and especially so with frightened people in the sea, most of whom would not swim. If they did not make for Dominica they were in great danger of being discovered by the Jacobins, who would certainly be on the lookout for them.

  ‘I believe you are correct, Mr Wickham, we have but one course,’ Ransome declared. ‘We must sail for Dominica.’

  ‘The privateer’s boat has no sail,’ Wickham observed, ‘and might be a bit small for such a crossing.’

  ‘I will empty your boat of its people and take it in tow, Mr Wickham. I shall cut it free if it proves a danger.’ He turned and spoke to the other boat. ‘I do not mean to slight your abilities in any way, Mr Gould, but Mr Wickham has had much more experience in open boats in rough conditions, so I shall put him in command of your boat. You shall be his second. We shall rig for sail but must be prepared to reef if we feel broaching is a danger. We will make every effort to keep the boats together, for we may need to come to the other’s aid.’ He turned back to Wickham. ‘I shall take your passengers in my boat, Mr Wickham; Watts and Cooper shall join you in the cutter, Mr Gould. And Mr Cooper? Show your scratch to Mr Gould, if you please.’

  Passengers were transferred, masts stepped, sail set and the schooner’s boat taken in tow on a doubled painter. It was a good little boat, if a little battered from hard use, and they did not want to lose it.

  The instant sails were sheeted, the boats gathered way, leaving the small islands to larboard. Wickham left Childers at the helm, as there was no better man for the job on their ship, unless it was their captain or Mr Barthe. He would take his own trick, as it was forty miles to Dominica and would very likely take eight or ten hours – perhaps longer, loaded as they were.

  They had left too many refugees on the beach – only fifteen had made it into the boats – and of these one had since been killed and three were wounded – all in Ransome’s boat, which had been nearest the Jacobins on the beach and had shielded the other boats somewhat.

  The winds coming over the island would gust suddenly, sweeping down upon them with no warning so that the men handling the sheets were ever on the alert to let them run. The wind would then die away or push their head off for a few moments so that they could not sail within two points of their course but it would come around again, die away, gust, then disappear yet again.

  The southern tip of Basse-Terre was a little more than three leagues distant. They must then give a small group of islands called the Saints a reasonable offing. Dawn was yet some four hours off and sunrise, at this latitude, not long after. The compass was shipped. They bore a lamp, which carried their fire, but this was kept shuttered until needed. Gould used it briefly to examine and bind Cooper’s wound, which he pronounced innocent enough, though any wound could go septic and, this far south, many did. Wickham counted himself lucky that he was unhurt.

  A mile to the north and out to sea a single gun fired and then fell silent. Wickham did not know where the schooner had gone, but the running battle he had expected had been cut quickly short. As there were no sounds of victorious celebration he assumed that his captain had given the enemy the slip. Where Captain Hayden might be heading in their prize, he could not say.

  The stars were bright and sharp, hanging in the depths of the sky and illuminating the boat and its occupants with a faint, chill light. The passengers were arranged to weather and the British sailors made up the moveable ballast, which might have to shift from one side to the other of an instant in these fickle winds. One or two of the refugees slept, exhausted from walking who knew how far. Others lay still, eyes open, perhaps frightened; Wickham could not say. One woman whispered a story in the ear of her son; Wickham caught a few words now and then. A story of a brave boy sent to sea who saved his ship and was made an aspirant – a midshipman. Wickham hoped only to see his cutter and all aboard safely across the Guadeloupe Passage – hardly more than thirty miles. That would be difficult enough for him. He glanced over at the other boat, which was keeping pace to starboard. The idea that his boat might go over while Ransome’s did not filled Wickham with anxiety. And then he chastised himself. He was thinking of his own pride and not the safety of the people who were in his charge. Vanity.

  The sea was somewhat confused, as far as could be told in the dark: a low, ponderous swell overridden by smaller seas; though largely striking the port bow, some appeared to come from the west and still others from th
e east, despite the shore being distant less than half a mile. Once they were out of the lee of the two islands, Wickham expected the seas to originate from a single direction, though grow greatly in size.

  He wondered how many people had been left dead or wounded on the beach and if Louis had been among them. Certainly some of the royalists had run back into the trees, but whether they could escape through the bush he did not know. Under the trees the darkness would be complete and one could make one’s way only by feel. The captain had been correct when he said that they were returning too often to the same place, not that he would take any pleasure in being right. He had, as everyone knew, great feeling for his mother’s people.

  With all sails drawing, the schooner was outpacing the brig by a small but noticeable margin, Hayden was certain. The prize was also, to a degree, more weatherly than the square-rigged brig, which was unable to close with them on this slant for that very reason. For the brig to bring her guns to fire on the schooner they would have to bear off to the west, which would allow the schooner to get that much further ahead – and it appeared the master of the privateer was not choosing to do that. Hayden was beginning to think that he might lose the brig while it was still dark and return to find his boats. As this thought was forming in his mind, the wind died completely away.

  The prize drifted on, sheer mass carrying her through the dark waters. Hayden fixed his glass upon the brig, which appeared to have some small wind yet.

  Hawthorne left the aft swivel gun, which he had manned with two of his marines, and crossed over to Hayden, who stood staring through his nightglass at the inverted image of the brig sailing upon a dark, liquid sky.

  ‘Will the wind carry her up to us, Captain?’ he asked softly.

  ‘It might. We should prepare to repel boarders, in that event.’

  ‘I think we are well prepared, Captain.’

  The entire crew fixed their attention upon the distant ship, which every moment appeared to take on form. She was a shadowy apparition, then a black mass moving through the dark air, and then a cloud of sails, and finally a ship bearing down on them.

  ‘How is it that she has wind and we do not?’ Hawthorne asked no one in particular.

  ‘The devil aids them,’ Hardy cursed.

  ‘I thought them Papists, not Satanists,’ the marine replied.

  Hayden chuckled in spite of himself.

  ‘I believe we have lost steerage, sir,’ the helmsman said.

  ‘Let us hope the French sail into this same calm or their wind precedes them.’

  A gun fired on the brig, and a ball went tearing through the air some few yards to larboard.

  Hayden sent a man below with his nightglass and removed a pistol from his belt. The helmsman was right: the ship had lost steerage and was turning slowly to larboard, which would allow the British to bring guns to bear if it would but continue in that fashion.

  A little breeze pressed against the sails, which had begun to thrash slowly from side to side with the rolling of the ship. Everyone glanced up toward the mountains as though they might see a wind. Immediately, it died away, causing sails and spirits to slump. A second ball fired from the chase piece, and it appeared to pass between the masts, miraculously damaging nothing.

  A gust of wind struck them, pressing the ship so far over that Hayden thought masts might carry away or sails part. One instant, the ship lay motionless, and then she was heeled over and tearing through the darkness.

  ‘Let the main sheet run!’ Hayden hollered above the wind now moaning through the rigging. He jammed the pistol back into his belt and took hold of the rail with both hands, wondering if the ship might be thrown upon her beam ends. He glanced to the brig, which had a moment ago come so near, and was almost certain she had been caught aback.

  Off the schooner went, the wind still pressing her down so that water gushed in the scuppers and the shrouds stretched and creaked like rusted hinges.

  ‘Sir!’ Hayden heard the helmsman cry, and turned to find the young man braced against the wheel as the ship tried to round up.

  Hayden pushed off the rail and struggled up the sloping deck to aid him, and the men eased the main sheet at that same moment, the schooner righting herself to some degree and the helm suddenly manageable. Under normal circumstances, there would always be two men at the helm – and an officer standing by to give them orders – but with such a small crew and a privateer bearing down upon them, they had needed every man possible for the ship’s defence.

  With the ship back on her feet, Hayden had a moment to take stock. He called another of the hands to the wheel and made his way aft. The brig appeared to have recovered from being caught aback, if that was indeed what had happened, and was also on a westerly course. The gust that had laid them over reached a crescendo, howling for a moment through the rigging and forcing him to brace himself against the force of it, and then it began to take off.

  ‘Keep your wits about you,’ he instructed the helmsmen. ‘This wind might haul aft, and quickly too.’ He glanced forward along the deck. ‘Pass the word for Hardy, if you please …’

  A moment later Hardy came hurrying out of the gloom.

  ‘If this wind takes off – and hauls aft – the brig will certainly return to her pursuit. We will fire all our larboard guns to give us a screen of smoke, then wear ship. If we have a little luck on our side in this darkness we will cut across her bow before she knows what we are about. We will rake her – twice if we can manage it – turn to larboard and give her another broadside as we pass.’

  Hardy hesitated a moment and then said very softly, ‘It is a great deal to ask of a small crew, sir.’

  ‘Yes, but they are steady men and can run between guns and sail handling. I will explain what is to be done to the Frenchmen, and they can give us their aid. I do not believe this privateer will expect us to turn on him, and that is much to our advantage.’

  The crew were quickly assigned stations and duties and stood ready to execute the complex evolution Hayden required – and fire the guns – but the wind took off only a little, pressing both ships on. A quarter of an hour passed and Hayden feared the wind would not alter or take off that night, when it fell suddenly away and the ship came slowly upright and slowed, as though she had run up on the softest mud.

  Although the brig was out of range, Hayden ordered the guns fired and then, as quickly as it could be managed without carrying away any gear, they wore ship and brought the wind on to the larboard beam. They were now bearing down upon the brig, which lay off their starboard bow.

  The master of the brig, perceiving what Hayden did, turned north, so that Hayden could not rake him from astern. But that was never Hayden’s plan.

  The two ships converged and appeared about to pass broadside to broadside. Hayden leaned out over the starboard rail to get the clearest view possible. Aboard his ship the gun crews reloaded madly and then all stood ready to fire again.

  The helmsman was also watching the approaching privateer.

  ‘Shall I port my helm, sir?’ he asked, unable to contain himself a moment more.

  ‘Upon my order …’ Hayden said.

  He could see the murky shape of the privateer, but distances were so difficult to judge in the dark. If he turned too soon their small guns would not have the effect he hoped for. If they turned too late the ships might collide. There was no margin for error, and it would be difficult enough to measure the speed and distance in broad daylight.

  ‘Fire the starboard guns,’ Hayden ordered, and flame and smoke erupted from the muzzles, creating a dense, black cloud that obscured any view of the privateer.

  He ordered the main sheet eased, counted very slowly to twenty …

  ‘Port your helm,’ he said, loud enough to be heard, but no more.

  The little schooner was very handy and turned into the heart of the smoke cloud. He did not know if this small ruse would work, and he was counting on the smoke being carried away by the wind so they could see the enemy to fire.


  Hayden had crossed to the larboard rail and stood staring into the night and the drifting, acrid smoke, which caused his eyes to water to such a degree that he could hardly see and was forced to wipe them constantly. He had ordered the guns traversed so that they might fire, reload, traverse aft and fire a second time, but wondered now if this was a mistake. Certainly, the brig should be almost abeam … unless she, too, had turned to bring a broadside to bear.

  A little, irregular thinning of smoke, like a jagged window.

  ‘Fire!’ Hayden called.

  The little 6-pounders jumped back, and the men went immediately to reloading.

  The brig was lost in the smoke again.

  Hayden touched one of the men nearby on the shoulder. ‘Jump up the larboard shrouds and see if you can discover our brig.’

  The man was up on the rail, swinging around the shrouds and climbing as fast as hands and legs could propel him. When he was almost at the maintop he turned and gazed south a moment, and then called out.

  ‘Almost abeam, sir. Half a point aft.’

  ‘Traverse guns aft,’ Hayden called.

  Immediately bars were employed, the guns scraping over the deck a few inches at a time. Each was fired as it came to bear, and Hayden was not certain all had found their mark, but the effect on the brig was audible as the cries of the wounded penetrated smoke and darkness.

  ‘Helm to starboard,’ Hayden ordered the men at the wheel.

  Gun crews went efficiently about reloading and running out guns.

  The ship turned – too slowly, it seemed to Hayden. As she turned, however, the smoke that clung to her swept away to leeward. The brig emerged from this cloud, not twenty yards distant, sails shaking, a yard angling down and foretopmast hanging in its gear. At such close range, the small guns had done much damage.

  ‘Fire as she bears,’ Hayden ordered, and the guns spoke one by one, the French running out guns but managing to fire only the two aftmost.

  And then they were past.

  ‘We are away, Captain!’ Hawthorne almost crowed as he came aft. When Hayden did not answer, he enquired, ‘Are you not pleased, Captain? You look out of sorts.’