Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (19 page)

The deck-gun crews all looked very downcast as Archer's conclusion went whispering along the deck. Their prize was slipping away.

“Go forward and take command of the chase guns, Mr Archer. The brig might lose her wind as she comes near the island.”

The first lieutenant hurried forward, where he ordered a gaggle of loiterers off the forecastle. It was the problem of not beating to quarters—the watch below all wanted to see the action.

The trade would take off a little near sunset, and between wind and darkness, night would be bearable, for Hayden often felt he was being baked under the tropical sun.

The brig was clear to the naked eye now—and though still deep in the water she would make it into the bay before the
Themis
could bring her to. Hayden turned to find
Inconstant
. She was almost two miles distant, he believed. Would Jones expect him to sail in after this brig?

“Well, I am damned if I will,” he muttered.

He remained on the quarterdeck and watched the little brig disappear into the darkness and shadows created by the island, the men around all downcast and silent. “Mr Barthe?” Hayden summoned the sailing master, who stood at the leeward rail.

“Captain?”

“Let us reduce sail. I wish to tack, stand out from the land, and then heave-to.”

“Aye, sir.”

Royals and top-gallants were quickly taken in, the ship tacked to give them a little offing, and then hove-to. Very shortly thereafter,
Inconstant
hove-to a pistol shot distant. Hayden admired how smartly she was handled.

“I did not deem it prudent to chase her into waters I do not know well,” Hayden called out to Sir William, who was standing at the rail.

“Come over, Hayden,” the man called back. “I am sending a boat for you.”

A cutter was quickly in the water and her crew crossing the small distance between ships. Hayden climbed down and was aboard the other frigate in but a moment.

“I am sorry, Sir William, she was too distant for us to bring her to with our guns.”

“Yes, I could see. But come below.”

Hayden followed the man down into his cabin, where a chart was spread upon a table. Wine was offered, which Hayden accepted, and then Sir William leaned his small hands upon the table and gazed at the chart.

“I think we might cut her out by darkness,” he declared after a moment.

“It is a large bay. Will she not be difficult to find by night?”

“I believe her master will take her as deep into the bay as he can and anchor under the guns.” He looked up at Hayden. “Would you not do the same?”

“If I knew that Sir William Jones had chased me in here, I would. The French know your reputation . . . which makes me wonder if they would not expect you to come into the bay this night.”

“I do not believe the brig could make out my ship at that distance—not given the light when we closed. And your ship is thirty-two guns, so they will know the
Themis
was not
Inconstant
.” He turned his attention back to the chart. “We will slip in very late—two boats from each ship—board, and sail her out. What do you say?”

“It might be done. Certainly, they will rig boarding nets and ferry out more men from the shore, but we might carry her all the same. Let us hope the night is dark.”

Sir William nodded. “What I propose is I lead the boats in and you will follow—”

“You will lead the boats . . . ?” Hayden interrupted.

Jones turned to him and smiled. “Why should our lieutenants have all the sport? I will lead two boats and you the others.” He turned again to the chart, putting his finger on the shoreline. “We will row in towards this little point, Hayden. We will then hug the shore where it will be darkest, all along the north side of the bay.”

“Will we not be at risk of being discovered—so close to shore?”

“We will have to muffle the oars and go along very softly. If we are out in the middle of the bay, we will almost certainly be seen . . . and fired upon. The bay has been heavily invested with cannon since we landed our troops there last year. The French are on the watch for us.”

It was a very daring plan, as Hayden should have expected. He stared at the chart and tried to imagine how this plan would unfold in real life.

“The master of the brig put all his guns over the side,” he observed, “but the crew will have muskets and pistols, no doubt.”

“Yes, I doubt she can be taken without fight. It is a war, after all. I propose that we make sail and shape our course east, as close to the wind as we can manage—let them at least imagine we have given up. Once it is truly dark, we will slip back and heave-to just outside the bay,” he tapped a finger on the chart, “launch boats, and slip in as quietly as can be managed.”

“I shall man a barge and a cutter with my strongest men.”

Sir William almost glowed with excitement and pleasure. He raised a wineglass. “To our success, Hayden.”

“Hear.”

Hayden was climbing back aboard his own ship in but a few minutes.

“Mr Archer,” he called out. “We will wear ship and shape our course east.”

Archer passed this order along to Barthe, and soon the bosun and his mates had the men running to their stations. No one wanted to bring any shame upon their ship, so yards were braced and sheets hauled with a will, the
Themis
es performing their evolution every bit as smartly as had the crew of
Inconstant
. The order “luff and touch it” was given to the helmsman and the two frigates were put hard on the wind.

Hayden gathered his officers on the quarterdeck.

“It is Sir William's desire that we sail east for two hours, at which point we shall turn back. Just outside the bay, each ship will heave-to and launch a pair of boats. We will slip in under cover of darkness and cut out the brig that escaped us this day.”

There was great approval of this plan by all concerned.

“Who will command the boats, sir?” Wickham asked.

“Mr Ransome shall have the cutter and I shall take command of the barge.”

Archer looked as though he had been punched.

“Am I not to go, sir?”

“No, Mr Archer. I will need you to command the ship. It is Sir William's desire that he and I shall lead the cutting-out parties, so that is how it will be done.”

This dampened the officers' mood.

“I, for one, think it a damned foolish thing to do,” Barthe stated flatly, “and I don't care who hears me say it. Two captains leading a cutting-out expedition—putting their lives at risk for a little
brig
!”

No one else said a word, but apparently, Barthe had spoken for them all, as the others, to a man, nodded agreement.

“Mr Barthe
 . . .
”
Hayden cautioned the sailing master, who made a little bow of concession. He turned back to the others. “Mr Archer, you will choose the crews. Mr Hawthorne's marines will make up a part of each complement and, Mr Hawthorne, you will sail with Mr Ransome, if you please.”

Hawthorne touched his hat, happy to learn that he at least was not going to be shut out of the fun.

“Have the armourer see to the muskets and pistols. Cutlasses should be sharpened, and we will carry axes as well. I expect they will have rigged boarding nets.”

The two frigates hauled their wind forward and, under reduced sail, shaped their course to leave Pointe la Chaise to larboard. Neither captain wanted to go too far lest the wind took off to the point where it would not bear them back before daylight—not that Hayden was expecting the trade to die away that night. The weather glass was steady and the sky cloudless. The moon would be far into the west by the time they entered the bay—they did not want the moon behind them, that was certain.

There was a buzz about the ship that night, the hands chosen to man
the boats the object of much attention and some good-natured ballyragging. The hours seemed to creep by, but finally, the appointed hour arrived and the boat crews set about darkening their faces with burnt cork. Hayden had ordered the boats painted black some months before, when they had cut out a frigate in Corsica, and he had not changed the colour since, quite convinced that black boats were a great advantage for night work.

The ship eventually made her way back to the point Jones had indicated on the chart, and hove-to not far from the
Inconstant
. Boats were lifted on tackles and swung out over the side as silently as the crews could manage. This was a familiar bit of work to any ship's crew, and Hayden was quite certain his men could do it without a single order from an officer. The crews went down into the boats, taking their places—marines in the bows, officers in the stern-sheets. The coxswains ordered the boats away, and the four boats quickly formed two lines, Jones' and Hayden's boats in the fore. Hayden had stepped off the distance into the anchorage at eight and a half miles, so it would likely be two and a half to three hours before they would have the brig in sight. There would no doubt be many other boats in the anchorage, but Jones was strangely determined to take the brig that had eluded them that day—as though this was an affront he could not tolerate.

The muffled oars dipped and lifted, dripping water from the blades. Hayden could hear the men breathing, smell the sweat of their effort and fear. They were heavy, dark shadows in the night, moving in a ponderous, constant rhythm. Hayden knew all the men by now but could hardly recognise any in the darkness.

The coxswain steered towards the land, using the stars as an aid. Not fifteen yards distant, Hayden could see Jones' barge, his men bending to their work. Despite his reputation for recklessness, the hands followed Jones without the least reserve. To say one had gone on a cutting-out expedition with Sir William Jones was like bragging one had crossed the Styx and returned alive. Assuming one did, of course.

It occurred to Hayden to wonder again what the cargo of this little
brig might be. He hoped it was worth risking their lives for. There was no guarantee, however. He knew damned well that, had the choice been his, he would not have risked the lives of his men for this little ship with her unknown cargo. If she had been an armed brig in the French Navy, or a privateer . . . well, that would be a different matter. But this . . . this was exactly the kind of dangerous expedition with little thought to its outcome or advantage for which Jones had become notorious. Was it any wonder that the other two frigates of their squadron had mysteriously “disappeared” at the first opportunity?

Hayden hunched his back against the relentless wind. It was a little less than three nautical miles—a league—to the first landmark, the little nameless point at the entrance to the large, open bay. The island called Grande Terre was a black and featureless mass stretching off to the west. Barthe had given the commanders of the boats and their coxswains a bright star to steer towards. A compass was carried, of course, but they did not dare to light a lamp by which to see it.

An hour passed, the boats crabbing against the north-east wind, which never eased its efforts to carry them to the distant side of the bay. Hayden could hear the men breathing hard and bracing themselves to pull.

Childers raised a hand and gestured, and Hayden nodded in return—their point loomed out of the darkness and seemed to separate itself from the mass of Guadeloupe. Many times, Hayden had seen points of land, often joined to the larger landmass by a narrow neck, mistaken for an island. Too often, ships would go aground trying to sail to the wrong side of such points, and he had served aboard one little brig that had nearly been lost doing just that. There was no doubt that night, however—this was their point and landmark.

The trade was affected by land and curled around the island so that it blew far more from the west, and a small chop rocked them and slapped against the topsides now and then, throwing a little spray aboard. Hayden strained to hear any sound that might indicate people ashore or out on the bay in boats. The wind hissed and whispered across the land,
masking any voices or small human sounds. They must carry on, uncertain the entire way if they had been detected and the alarm raised.

As they penetrated farther into the bay, towards the Islet du Gosier, Grande Terre put up its shoulder to the wind, providing the English sailors with calmer waters. The scent of the land carried to them, and the wind felt warmer, as though it passed over hot coals.

“Does Sir William intend to go inside the island?” Childers whispered.

Shoals extended both to the north-west and south-east of Islet du Gossier, and though it was possible they might pass over these, Hayden would not have taken the chance, given his limited knowledge of the bay. Sir William and his two boats lay to starboard, so it was impossible to alter course in that direction without the oarsmen of the different boats running afoul of one another.

“Perhaps Sir William knows the depths better than we,” Hayden whispered.

They carried on for another five minutes, but Hayden could sense Childers' anxiety, as the coxswain stared into the darkness, looking around constantly in an attempt to be more certain of their position.

When he could bear it no more, Childers whispered again: “Mr Barthe cautioned me to give the shoals around this island a wide berth, sir.”

Hayden nodded. The sailing master had issued him the same warning. He considered for only the briefest moment.

“Alter our course to starboard a little, Childers. I will attempt to speak to their boat.”

Childers edged them marginally nearer, a difficult thing to manage in the dark, where distances were always deceiving. When the two boats were almost oar tip to oar tip, Sir William began to motion Hayden to keep off.

“There is a shoal, sir,” Hayden hissed, hoping his voice would carry.

He could see Sir William consult with his coxswain—perhaps over what Hayden had said—and then Jones cupped hands to his mouth and whispered, “Follow me.”