Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (21 page)

“Men in the rear into the boats!” Hayden shouted. “Men in the fore, hold your ground.”

There was a shout at that instant, and gunfire from behind the French. A moment of confusion, and then the fight was not being pressed; the wall of hostile, dark bodies jostled and lost confidence.

“Press forward! Press on!” Hayden shouted. “Sir William has come! Sir William is upon them!”

The men around him all shouted, and suddenly they were thrusting cutlasses and swinging their tomahawks with deadly energy and purpose. And now it was the French giving ground, frightened and confused, beset from both sides. Men were falling to the deck before them, and the British balanced upon the bodies as they fought their way forward. And then the French were casting down their weapons and calling for quarter.

Jones came striding through the surrendering French, and even in the dark Hayden could see the smile upon his face, the triumph in his step.

“Hayden! Well done! The ship is ours.” He waved a hand at the vessel, unaware that half the still bodies lying upon the deck were British. “They have a boat streaming aft. I will put all the wounded French and any other prisoners we can into it and set it adrift. Then we will cut the cable and slip out of here before the dawn finds us.”

Jones did not seem to notice that Hayden made no reply. He only turned away and began shouting orders.

The soldiers on the nearby batteries must have decided that the brig had been taken, and they opened fire. Cannon balls screamed through the air and plunged heavily into the waters to either side.

“They will find the range soon enough,” Hayden said aloud. “Mr Wickham?”

“Here, sir.”

“We will offer aid where we can. Gather some men to go aloft to loose sail, and two men with axes to cut the cable—but not before they are so ordered.” Hayden turned and found another midshipman nearby. “Mr Gould—see to our wounded, if you please.”

The marines had taken charge of the prisoners, a great number of whom were wounded and, like their British counterparts, crumpled on the deck, many praying and moaning.

An iron ball struck the transom aft, sending up a shower of slivers.

“Captain Jones!” Hayden called out. “Shall I get this vessel underway?”

“If you please, Hayden.”

Hayden went to the wheel himself. “Lay out aloft, there!” he called to the men climbing onto the top.

Galvanised by the situation, hands were on the foot-ropes and the yards manned in a trice.

“Loose mainsail!”
The sail came shivering down and immediately backed against mast and rigging. “Mr Wickham? Cut the bower cable, if you please.”

There was a dull chopping forward, and then Hayden felt the vessel begin to make sternway. He put the helm to starboard and, though it seemed to take forever, very slowly the stern began to swing to larboard.

The men had scrambled in off the mainsail yard, and Hayden ordered it braced and then the staysails set. The latter shot up their stays with the buzz of rings on tarred rope. The mizzen sail was released from its brails and run out.

The ship's movement aft began to ease, she appeared to hover a moment, and then very slowly she began to make way, but not towards the harbour entrance; they would never lay that narrow channel on this
wind. They would have to slip out to the south, skirting around all the anchored ships—a task difficult enough by daylight when the shallows could be clearly seen from aloft.

“I need a leadsman forward,” Hayden called.

“I'll find the sounding lead, sir,” an unknown hand called back, and hurried off. In a moment, Hayden heard the splash of the lead being cast, and then,
“Six fathoms, sand, and shell!”

“Mr Hawthorne, is that you?” Hayden called to the tall figure standing, musket in hand, by the prisoners.

“It is, sir, and very happy I am to see you among the standing.”

“And you, Mr Hawthorne. I need the binnacle lamp lit.”

“I shall have it done in a trice.”

More prisoners were being sent into the boat alongside, where the wounded were passed down with more haste and less care than Hayden would have approved. He set his course by what he could see of islands and headlands, but he was only guessing. Jones came out of the dark.

“Shall I con us out, Hayden?” he enquired. “I have been in here before.”

Hayden relinquished the wheel with the greatest relief—almost gratitude. He had made a careful study of Barthe's chart, but that would be no substitute for local knowledge—there were shoals and reefs and shallows all around.

A man appeared with a ship's lamp and quickly transferred fire from it to the binnacle lamp. Hayden hoped the compass did not require a large correction.

Wickham hove out of the darkness then. “I have a lookout forward, sir,” he reported, then stood, saying nothing, his face concealed by the darkness. “We have a great many wounded, sir.” He took a deep breath. “And dead, too, I fear.”

Hayden nodded. “We were struck astern, Mr Wickham. Take some of the hands below, if you please, and see if we are making water.”

“Aye, sir.”

Hayden feared that Wickham was absolutely right—there would be a
butcher's bill that could never be justified by this little two-sticker and her cargo. The French boat was filled to its gunwales with wounded and prisoners and then cut loose. There were not a dozen prisoners left sitting on the deck.

“Carry the compass up from the barge,” Hayden ordered Childers, “then stream the boats, if you please.”

More iron balls plunged into the water nearby, and one tore open a staysail, which then hung, wafting, in rags.

The coxswain appeared, with the barge's compass in hand. He consulted the brig's compass and compared the heading with his own.

“Their compass is half a point off, sir,” Childers informed him. “Our true heading is south-south-east. The brig's compass reads east by south, half a point south, sir.”

“You have an excellent, steady crew, Hayden,” Jones said. “They do you credit.”

Despite himself, Hayden thanked the man.

“So what do you think of our little brig, Hayden?” Jones asked. “She is light on her helm and appears properly built. Seventy-five feet, I should think. Small, but handy.”

Hayden could not help himself. “I should like her a great deal better had her cost not been so great.”

Jones nodded. “Yes. I should like war better if it could be fought with wooden swords and broken off each day at supper. But it is not so.”

A ball crashed into the midst of the prisoners, smashing the deck and throwing shards of oak in all directions. Both Hayden and Jones fell back themselves, but were quickly on their feet, grabbing hold of the spokes as the little ship tried to round up.

There was then a mewling and calling out in French, as half the prisoners, it seemed, were down and wounded—those who had not been killed outright. There was a moment of stunned helplessness from the English, and then some of the older hands waded into the devastation and began staunching wounds and endeavouring to find who among the very still remained among the living.

“Bloody lucky shot . . .” Jones cursed, half under his breath.

“Not so for the prisoners.”

“No, Hayden. Killed by their own gunners . . .” Jones shook his head.

“I will look to the ship forward,” Hayden said, unable to bear the man's company a second more.

There was calling out from many of the nearby anchored ships now, and lights were appearing. Hayden blessed the dark night. Maybe they could slip out before the French realised what went on. It would be Jones' luck—and would add to his ever-growing myth. Hayden made his way forward to the forecastle.

Wickham reappeared then.

“We are not making water, sir,” he told Hayden. “But I have the butcher's bill from Mr Gould, Captain.”

Hayden held his breath.

“Seven dead, sir. And four more wounded—two very gravely.”

“Not seven dead just among our own people, surely?”

“I am afraid that is the tally, sir. Sir William has his own losses, which I am informed are not small, either.”

Hayden closed his eyes a moment.

“Do you wish to know the cargo, Captain?”

“I am afraid to know it.”

“Bar iron, paper, and sundry other goods. Mr Ransome believes it would be valued at four thousand pounds.”

Hayden said nothing.

“Not an insubstantial sum, sir . . .”

“Two thousand pounds less the admiral's share. Is a man's life worth two hundred pounds, do you think?”

“That is not for me to say. I should like to think my own worth somewhat more, though.”

“Mmm. I want you all about the ship, Mr Wickham, keeping lookout. If we run aground, we shall likely be forced to leave this brig behind, which I am now loath to do.”

“I am on watch, sir. And I shall see to the leadsman. It must be a man who knows what he is about.” A quick touch of hand to hat and the midshipman hurried off.

The cannon balls were sending up heavy plumes of water astern now, as the brig sailed beyond their range. Hayden felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck release to the smallest degree. If the wind held, they would be free of the harbour in an hour, and out to sea.

“Eight fathoms!”
came the leadsman's call.

In this darkness, distances to the low-lying shores around the bay were difficult to gauge. There was, Hayden knew, a long shoal that reached out into the bay almost directly south of them. On this wind they might just weather it, if their leeway was not great. He was tempted to enquire after a pilot among the prisoners but suspected any Frenchman who was not a fool might run the brig aground. They were going to have to find their way out of this bay by their own seamanship—and luck.

“Seven fathoms!”

Hayden knew it was something like a mile and one half to the point of the shoal. Their speed could only be estimated at that moment, but he did not think it more than five knots, so a little more than a quarter of an hour. Jones would alter course then.

“Six fathoms and one half!”

Taking out his night glass, Hayden quizzed the bay to all points of the compass. They were going to sail rather near some of the anchored ships when they passed the tip of the shoal.

“Six fathoms!”

The guns from the shore fell silent. Either the French gunners realised the brig was out of range, or they had lost sight of her in the murk. Hayden made his way aft along the deck, among the wounded being tended by their shipmates.

“Five fathoms!”
the leadsman called from the chains.

As he made the quarterdeck, Hayden saw Jones consult a pocket watch. No doubt he was using it to estimate when he had passed the end of the shoal. The man's seamanship was just shy of legendary, and he appeared
almost shockingly calm, as though unaware of the gravity of their situation. They would, however, come very near the shoal on this tack, and could not afford the smallest error.

“Four fathoms!”

Jones stared out into the darkness ahead, then back to Hayden. “We will alter our course to starboard once we have weathered the point of this little shoal,” he said. “Will you arrange the crew to shift our yards and handle sail, Hayden?”

Hayden made a small bow. In a moment he found Ransome, who said quietly, “I have sail handlers at their stations, Captain.”

“Then we will await Sir William's order.”

“I hope he knows where the end of this shoal lies, sir . . .” Ransome all but whispered.

“No one has ever faulted the man on his bravery or seamanship.”

“
Three fathoms and one half!”

The men on the deck had fallen silent, half watching Jones, the rest staring out into the dark at the invisible dangers that lay there.

“Three fathoms!”

The ship continued to slip over the calm bay, heeling but a little to the warm trade.

“I believe we may safely bear off,” Jones said, as though commenting upon some rather fine weather.

“Mr Ransome,” Hayden said quietly, “I do not think we shall need to slack the mainsheet.”

“Aye, sir.”

Orders were given and, just as Jones began to turn his wheel, there was sudden shouting to larboard and then a flash so bright Hayden could see the face of every man aboard. Then he heard a terrible report and all about them the horrifying sound of iron balls tearing apart the night. The deck shook beneath Hayden's feet as at least two balls struck the topsides. A few more passed through the sails, but most, he realised, must have missed the mark.

“Bearing off, Hayden,” Jones informed him.

Ransome and Hayden went about the deck, sending men to their stations. The yards were braced around and sails quickly trimmed. Jones had altered course about six points, and their wind hauled aft accordingly.

The guns on the ship were reloaded, but not with the speed of British gunners, and another broadside was fired, most of the shot penetrating the night but missing its mark.

“I thought they would rake us, sir,” Ransome whispered.

“They traversed their guns as though we had held our course.”

Ransome peered into the darkness. “I can barely make them out, sir. They must have lost us against the land. Thank God.”

Jones leaned forward to consult his watch by the binnacle light. “Are we making five knots, Hayden?”

“Barely so.”

“The wind will freshen and haul back into the north-west as we go. It is only the land that has caused it to blow from this unnatural direction.” He turned the wheel a spoke. “In seven minutes I will bring us back, almost to our original course. That should take us out through a narrow pass.”

A British gun crew would fire two broadsides in that time, Hayden thought, and looked up at the sky. Tattered cloud continued to sail over, bands of stars sprayed across the heavens between. Across the anchorage, the vague forms of ships could barely be seen, but in the areas of cloud-shadow, all remained dark. Tails of smoke drifted to them, down the wind, stinging eyes and nostrils.