Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead

by Sean Thomas Russell

  ‘I am just wondering – if we press our French passengers temporarily – would we have enough men to sail both the brig and schooner to Dominica?’

  Hawthorne appeared dumbfounded for an instant. ‘You are suggesting we can take the brig …?’

  ‘Her rig, for the moment, is in ruins and I believe we shot away her wheel. We could tack back up to her, lay our ship across her stern, and rake her until she strikes.’

  Hawthorne almost laughed, partly from disbelief. ‘And I thought they were chasing us!’

  ‘And so did they, I expect.’

  Hardy came hurrying aft at that instant. ‘Captain!’ he called out. ‘I believe there is a fire, sir!’

  Keeping the boats moving and making the best of the inconstant winds required an alert man at the helm and the constant trimming of sails. There was almost always too much wind or hardly any at all. Everyone aboard understood the importance of putting sea room between themselves and Guadeloupe, so no man shirked in the performance of his duties.

  It had come as something of a surprise to Wickham, when he had first come into the Navy, that a boat so small as a cutter was organized with as much structure and discipline as a 110-gun ship. Everyone had their station and, on longer passages such as this, their watch. Orders were just as precise, and their execution even more rapid. The off-duty men were given a place to rest and did not shift from it without permission or orders to do so. An expedition on a small boat was not a holiday from ship’s discipline, and officers made certain that the hands were never for a moment in doubt of it.

  Two hours after the decision to make for Dominica had been made, one of the crew pointed aft into the darkness.

  ‘Is that fire, Mr Wickham?’ he asked.

  The midshipman twisted around and, indeed, there was – fire, some miles distant.

  ‘Is it on the water or on the land?’ Wickham wondered aloud. ‘Mr Ransome!’ he called at the top of his voice. ‘Fire, sir. To the north.’

  Ransome’s barge was some fifty yards to leeward – just visible in the darkness. A moment of silence followed and then Ransome’s voice carried to them. ‘Is that a ship, Mr Wickham?’

  ‘I cannot say, sir. Perhaps it is on the land …’

  No one spoke what was in everyone’s mind: was it Captain Hayden’s prize or an enemy vessel that was afire?

  For a few moments everyone but the helmsmen stared aft in horrified fascination and then the ball of orange flame swelled of an instant, blazed hotter and within three minutes disappeared altogether, leaving a dark stain upon the stars.

  ‘Let us hope that was the enemy,’ Ransome called out. ‘May God have mercy on their Papist souls.’

  Whispering began among the royalists and Wickham was forced to remind them – sharply – that they were in enemy waters and that silence was required so that orders could always be heard. Muttered apologies in French followed – and then a deep, troubled silence.

  If the captain’s prize had caught fire and sunk so rapidly there would almost certainly be loss of life. The enemy ship would no doubt search for survivors, but then they would begin looking for the escaped royalists. It would be a race for Dominica, the boats having a head-start but the ship being swifter.

  The four and a half leagues to the southern tip of Basse-Terre used up much of the night’s remaining store of darkness, so capricious were the winds. Dawn found the boats hardly beyond Pointe à l’Aunay, though a league and a half to the west. Wickham knew they must pass by the islands called the Saints next. He would much rather have done so in darkness, but there was nothing for it now.

  The trade winds finally reached them and the boats began to race across the blue, sails full and drawing. A quartering sea would pick them up and almost toss them forward, the boat attempting to yaw and the helmsman fighting it with all his strength. The heat of the day was not far off and there would be no shade from the sails all through the forenoon.

  The Saints were half drowned in an early-morning mist which Wickham knew the sun would burn away before it had risen too high. Already, the sails of fishing boats could be seen, running out to their fishing grounds. Some of these boats they might pass quite closely, but Wickham was not overly concerned. The English sailors were well armed and certainly more than a match for any fishermen they met.

  Water from the cask was rationed out carefully to the French and to the hands. They had learned a hard lesson in the recent cutting-out expedition and the captain had made certain the boats set off with small stores of both water and food on the chance that they could not return to the ship when planned. All would be thirsty by the time the boats reached Dominica, but not dangerously so.

  Once daylight was upon them, Wickham twisted around often to survey the horizon to the north and then to quiz the ocean in all quarters. Fishing boats could be seen at almost all points, and several larger vessels – these all at a distance – but no sail that should be feared. The greatest danger was the sea itself, which was steep and swift running. The wind blew a gale in this narrow passage, and that day had more northing in it, bringing the quartering sea aft somewhat and making the threat of broaching more likely. The helmsman was constantly at work, never for a moment allowing his mind to wander and always steering to anticipate the seas rather than reacting to them, which would many a time have been too late.

  The buffeting and constant howling of the wind, Wickham found, deadened the senses somehow, and men turned their backs to it and fell into a kind of lassitude. The sun rose relentlessly and the heat grew by the hour until it baked them, even as the warm wind dried their skin and mouths. Water was rationed with absolute care and Wickham would not allow parents to preserve their portion for their children lest he have these men and women become ill from thirst.

  Seasickness beset refugees cruelly and they were often helped to leeward to disgorge their rebellious stomachs of their rations. One or two marines, who were not so used to the motion of small boats, also suffered, but not so badly. The hands, however, took no notice of it but fulfilled their duties silently and even slept when not on watch.

  The small boat that Wickham had commanded was towed for some time by Ransome, though it made the barge difficult to manage, for it would fall behind and drag it back or suddenly forge ahead on the face of a wave and release its pull on the barge, catching the helmsman unaware. More than once a broach was the near-result. Sometime in the forenoon, it slewed sideways just as the painters pulled taut and, helped by a breaking crest, the boat overturned. Immediately, the painters parted and snapped like whips into the transom of the barge.

  ‘We will leave it!’ Ransome called out to Wickham, who acknowledged this with a wave and nod.

  The little boat was abandoned, overturned, its bottom barely awash in the fair blue, where it was carried slowly off by the seas and currents.

  The sun attained its apogee and Wickham ordered his small rations distributed among the many, though they would have needed a miracle of loaves and fishes to satisfy everyone.

  Often the helmsman was relieved, for it was taxing of both strength and wit to keep the boat from broaching and, many a time, when the gusts came, sheets were let run. The day wore on and Wickham, though he was supposed to have his mind on his duty, wondered constantly if the ship that had burned was the schooner with his captain and shipmates aboard.

  Flames climbed up the tarred rigging and into the sails, which set the sea afire all around. In the terrible light Hayden could see dark figures running about the deck, and boats swinging out. There were shouts and calls – some orders and others clearly panic. Hayden, Hawthorne and Hardy all stood transfixed, watching the fires spread over the enemy ship beyond all hope of control.

  ‘What do we do, sir?’ Hardy asked, his voice filled with awe and dread.

  This question seemed to shake Hayden out of his dream. ‘Buckets,’ he answered.‘Wet down the sails and sluice the deck!’

  Quickly, the crew was organized and buckets were passed up the ratlines to be
splashed on to the sails. The decks, too, were sluiced and water dripped down from above.

  When less than half a mile distant from the brig, there was a sudden eruption of flame through the side of the enemy’s hull. Not a great, horrifying explosion, but still the heat from it carried to the British and the report could be felt through one’s body. Everyone, including the officers, ducked and threw up their hands, but whatever debris was blown out did not reach them. The burning ship began to go down. Her mainmast toppled forward and the ship listed heavily to larboard. Hayden could see men leaping into the sea and others into the only boat that appeared to have been launched.

  ‘Hardy!’ Hayden called. ‘Immediately this gust takes off we shall wear ship and search for survivors!’

  The gust, which was not so great as many they had experienced that night, did not die away for some minutes, and then the British wore ship and came back as quickly as the wind would allow, reaching the brig on one tack.

  Here and there, pieces of the ship floated, some still burning, and men who were in the water or clinging to bits of wreckage called out. The single boat that had been launched was filled to overflowing, but still made its way through the wreckage, pulling men from the water.

  Hayden had no boats to aid in the rescue – Wickham had taken ashore the only one the privateers had left when they had gone chasing the British. Quickly, though, he called out in French and assured the men in the boat that he would take them aboard and they would not be harmed. The boat was swiftly emptied alongside the schooner, and then set out again. A few men swam to the British prize, which lay-to in the fickle wind. Many more called out and waved, just visible in the light of burning debris.

  Of the men who came aboard, many had small blisters, but a few had been burned horribly and lay on the deck moaning and praying in French. Hayden had no doctor aboard, likely little physic, and the only man with any understanding of medicine – Gould – had gone off with the boats. There would be little they could do for these poor men, and Hayden feared that most would die in agony.

  One of the royalists came up on the deck at that moment, took one look at what was going on and crossed straight to Hayden.

  ‘Capitaine,’ he began in French, ‘I am a physician, and, though these men would hunt me and put me upon the guillotine, I cannot leave them to suffer. If you will allow it, I will do what little I can …’

  ‘By all means, yes. I will send men to search below for any physic that might be found.’

  A few other men and one woman came up the ladder and went among their enemies. From the captain’s cabin, a box was carried up that contained a few instruments and even less physic – bottles with names even Hayden did not recognize. The physician, though, was in no doubt and was quite certain none would offer any aid. Burns were commonly treated by oil of olive, of which there was none.

  The night turned dusky and then greyed to a pale dawn. Beyond Basse-Terre the sun coloured the horizon then floated up, searing the sky. The last of the survivors were found and brought aboard. Hayden and Hawthorne stood watching the brig’s boat being lifted aboard.

  ‘What shall we do now, sir?’ the marine lieutenant asked.

  ‘We shall search for our shipmates, Mr Hawthorne.’

  ‘Do you think they made it off the beach, Captain?’

  Hayden shook his head. ‘I do not know. We shall head back to the bay where we saw them last and see if the boats are on the beach. If not, we will sail south along the coast and hope to find them.’

  ‘If they did escape the beach, sir, what would they do?’

  Hayden had been contemplating this very question. ‘They cannot know what happened to us. We were caught unawares by a more powerful ship. They must have seen the fire and cannot know which ship it was.’ He considered only a few seconds. ‘I believe they would set out for Portsmouth on the northern end of Dominica; getting out of French waters would be imperative. It is not so far, though the winds in the channel can be strong and seas short and steep. Even so, I think they would be up to it. We shall see.’

  The boats were overburdened. Wickham was taking his trick at the helm and felt how ponderously the cutter responded to the tiller. Each wave would pick the small boat up and carry it forward, then slide by, leaving it to settle a moment in the trough. It was that moment when the wave lifted the stern that the boat would begin to yaw and the helmsman would pull with all his strength to keep the boat from broaching.

  The boats sat deep in the water, so the waves, as they raced beneath, rose up within inches of the gunwale. Only once, when they had transported 18-pounder guns at the island of Corsica, could he remember the boats sitting so deep, and that had been on calm waters. The men all sat farthest to windward, the women were in the centre and the children perched to leeward. It was the best arrangement Wickham could make, as there was not room for everyone on the windward side. Heavily ballasted boats were inherently more stable, as any fisherman could attest, but this assumed the ballast was both deep in the hull and fixed in position. Human ballast fulfilled these conditions but poorly.

  Sometime around midday, one of the men exclaimed something incoherent and pointed to leeward. Wickham turned just in time to see Ransome’s barge broach to and then slowly go over, throwing all her occupants first to leeward and then into the sea. Of an instant, this boat was left behind.

  ‘Childers,’ he said as calmly as he was able, ‘we shall have the sails off her and oars shipped. Oarsmen, take your places.’

  ‘Can we not sail back to the barge, Mr Wickham?’ Childers stood and fixed his eye upon the overturned vessel so it would not be lost among the seas.

  ‘I will not risk wearing ship with so many inexperienced people aboard, for all the men must shift from one side to the other at the right instant, or we will be swimming. When I give the order we will back the starboard oars at the same instant as we go forward with the larboard.’

  He then explained in French exactly what must be done. As soon as he had nods of understanding from the passengers and the oarsmen had taken their places, Wickham began watching the seas coming up behind, looking for a suitable moment to turn, for a miscalculation would see them rolled as well.

  When a smaller sea approached the order was given and the boat turned in place. The crew were aided by French passengers, who rowed with a will, for their people were in the water, too, and Wickham could only guess how few were swimmers.

  It took almost a quarter of an hour for the cutter to reach the overturned boat where men and women could be seen struggling to find some purchase on the hull. A few children lay over the bottom like dolls.

  As they drew near, Wickham stood and tried to count the heads, which was difficult in the high-running sea. Fewer than he hoped – perhaps many fewer.

  As they ranged up, they found the barge, beam on to wind and seas, bottom awash, and a few frightened souls clinging to whatever purchase they could find. Hair was plastered flat and, even in the hot sun, all seemed pale with fear.

  Childers threw a rope to one of the hands in the water so that the boats might be linked together. Ransome and several others were clinging to the rudder, and the lieutenant waved a hand at Wickham.

  ‘Have you places for those who cannot swim, Mr Wickham? I shall send you children and women first.’

  ‘We have, but we are overburdened as it is, Mr Ransome.’

  ‘There is nothing for it,’ Ransome called back. ‘They are not strong enough to hold on much longer.’

  ‘Then send them one at a time; we do not want our own boat overturned.’

  The English sailors maintained order among the passengers, passing the children over first and then aiding those who could not swim. Swimming was such a simple art Wickham was always surprised how few had mastered it.

  ‘We will get a rope across the hull and to the masthead, and pull the barge over, Mr Wickham,’ Ransome informed him.

  Ransome himself was not a strong swimmer, Wickham knew.

  ‘Have you someo
ne to swim down, Mr Ransome?’ the midshipman asked. ‘I will do it if you wish.’

  ‘Very kind of you, Mr Wickham, but Gould assures me he can manage.’

  Gould stripped off his blue coat and threw the sodden mass to one of the hands in the cutter. Catching the rope as it was thrown across the overturned barge, he dived under the boat. All waited, holding their breath in sympathy.

  ‘Should he not be up by now?’ Childers whispered after a moment.

  ‘A moment more …’

  Wickham began to count the passing seconds and, when he could bear it no more, he stood and pulled off his shoes, but, before he could go over the side, Gould broke the surface, gasping and coughing. An oar was thrust out from the cutter for him to cling to and in a moment he recovered and passed the end of the rope to Childers. The men remaining in the water were rearranged so their weight might be employed to right the boat, the rope to the masthead was fastened to the stern of the cutter and, at a word from Ransome, the cutter began to pull and the men stood up on the gunwales of the overturned boat and, with aid from a wave, the boat rolled slowly over, where it floated with only an inch or so of the gunwales above the water.

  The cutter was manoeuvred back alongside and made fast. Buckets were employed from the cutter, though with each passing wave the barge appeared to fill again, but then slowly the gunwales began to rise and, as they did so, less water flowed back in with each wave. After an hour, the boat was floating high enough that men were able to stand in the boat and bucket water out, which they did for only a short while before their places were taken by others.

  ‘Mr Wickham,’ said one of the hands bailing, ‘shall I cut loose the water cask and put it over the side? It is weighing the boat down, sir.’

  ‘Nash,’ Wickham replied peevishly, ‘do you not know that a cask filled with seawater weighs more than the same cask filled with fresh? The drinking water is providing buoyancy at this time, not weight. Bail on.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’