Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (26 page)

“Where is this secret place you speak of?”

“On the western shore. Near a small island—the Islets à Goayaves. It is very near the mountains.”

“Does anyone live nearby?”

Louis hesitated, and then, without looking at Hayden, he said, “No one to concern us.”

“Ah.” Hayden knew better than to enquire further. “What you ask, Louis . . . it is very dangerous. I must make four visits to the shore. The chances of being seen and reported will increase each time. A great risk for my crew.”

“But the men and women hiding in the mountains—their chances of being captured are extreme. It is just a matter of when this will happen. You will be taking a risk—I cannot deny this—but compared to
them . . . well, it is smaller, somewhat.” He lowered his voice. “I am told, Captain Hayden, that your mother is French . . .”

Hayden shook his head. “It is so difficult to keep a secret.”

“There are many women hiding in the mountains who will go to the guillotine if we cannot help them. That is why I sailed to Dominica—to ask the English for help.”

“I will consider your request, Louis. I can promise you no more than that. If we rendezvous this night with my senior captain, I will no longer be free to act independently. Do you understand?”

The young man nodded. He left Hayden standing near the transom rail, a small battle raging between wit and heart. His orders were to harass the enemy's shipping—to “take, burn, or destroy” French vessels wherever he met them. Caldwell had made no mention of rescuing royalists.

A memory of Madame Adair came to mind, frightened into distraction as the Jacobins came to her gate . . . and then passed by. Hayden also remembered their desperate coupling and her precious daughter. Was Madame Adair yet alive or had she been drawn into the maelstrom of the guillotine? He did not know, nor did he know what had become of Charlotte, her daughter. The thought of these two—woman and girl—being hunted in the wilderness caused such a wave of anguish it was like being wracked with pain.

He wondered how dangerous it would be to slip up to the coast in the depths of the night. Were there royalists or sympathisers living in the place Louis had named? Certainly, that was what he had intimated.

Hawthorne returned at that moment and Hayden waved him near.

“Shall I allow half my men to sleep?” the marine asked.

Hayden nodded. “Until we return to lie off the harbour. Then I will have every able-bodied man awake and at his station. I do not want to be caught unawares and unprepared.”

Hawthorne touched his hat.

“Mr Hawthorne . . . ?”

“Sir?”

“I have just had a conversation with our young royalist. He tells me there are many people hiding in the mountains and slowly being tracked down by the Jacobins, who then put them upon the guillotine. He has implored me to mount a rescue.”

Hawthorne considered this. “I am not overly fond of royalists myself, but I prefer them to Jacobins, and at least they are nominally our allies. What would we be required to do, Captain, if I may ask?”

“That is the problem. We would slip in near to the coast and row Louis ashore. He would go searching for the hidden royalists. The difficulty is that he does not think it safe to move large numbers of them at once—no more than sixteen or seventeen at a time—and he believes he can locate fifty.”

“Then what is he proposing?” Hawthorne asked, confused.

“That we bring aboard royalists on three consecutive nights.”

“Four nights in total?”

“That is correct.”

“Well, this cove where we are going to pick up royalists had better be very secluded, otherwise we will be discovered.”

“It is a beach on the western coast of Basse-Terre.”

“A beach can be a very exposed place, Captain . . . even by darkness. And to go four nights to the
same
beach . . .”

“It is a very great danger. And I fear, Mr Hawthorne, that my parentage might influence me in this matter.”

“I do not think, sir, that feeling compassion for people caught up in a war they did not want indicates an improper conflict on your part. If the admiral had given us orders to take these people off, there would be no question, but I doubt his orders covered such an eventuality . . . ?”

“No, they did not.”

“But it would seem, given the number of royalists living on Barbados, that the admiral is not unsympathetic to their cause. In which case, it is only a question of the possible risk to your crew and our prize, Captain.”

“And would the crew willingly risk their lives—and their prize money—for a passel of Frenchmen?”

“Fortunately, a ship is not a republic, and they do not have a vote.”

“No, they do not, but in this case, I shall consult with my officers.” Hayden waved one of the hands near. “Pass the word for Mr Ransome and Mr Wickham, if you please.”

Wickham and Ransome hurried aft, and Hayden related Louis' request and asked their opinion. Neither was used to being included in such deliberations, and Hayden could feel them hesitating.

Not wanting to speak before a lieutenant, Wickham turned to his shipmate. “What think you, Mr Ransome?”

“I think it is a very dangerous endeavour, but if we do not attempt it . . . well, it sounds as if we shall be condemning these people to the guillotine.”

“And you, Mr Wickham?” Hayden asked, noting that Ransome had not committed himself one way or another.

“I think we must try it, Captain, but I for one would be more comfortable with it if we were not returning to the same beach four nights together. Is there not some other place that would serve the same purpose?”

“It is a fair question, Mr Wickham. Find Louis for me, and we shall put the question to him.”

A moment later Wickham returned with the Frenchman, and Hayden asked him if there was not some other beach they could use.

“There are other beaches, but none that will suit our purposes so well. I can bring people there by ways that are safe and where we are unlikely to be seen. Also, the people who are hiding . . . some are very young and others are quite elderly. This beach is not so far for them to travel. As I say, we could use another beach, but I think the risks would be greater.”

“It sounds as though we are taking more risk so that your royalists may take fewer,” Ransome observed.

“No, no. For everyone there will be less risk to go to this beach four
times than to go to another. If I cannot reach some other place, because the Jacobins are near and we must stay hidden, then you will come and come again to that place. No, this way is better, monsieur, I am certain.”

The four Englishmen were silent a moment.

“I know you would only do this out of goodness,” Louis offered. “You have no orders from your commander to save people loyal to the King of France, nor is there prize money to be had. All you will have is the gratitude of people who have nothing with which to repay you, for most have lost everything. The gratitude of the dispossessed”—he shrugged—“it is a worthless currency.”

“Thank you, Louis,” Hayden said. “I will inform you of our decision.”

They watched Louis retreat.

“If I may, sir?” Hawthorne asked. “We must both take him on trust and also we must believe he can do what he claims—find and deliver the royalists to the beach without the Jacobins getting wind of it. A lot to ask, given that we have not known him more than an hour.”

“Rusten thinks very highly of him,” Hayden said, “though we have not known that gentleman any longer. I will tell him I will make my decision after we have attempted to rendezvous with Sir William. I do not want to make any promises to Louis only to have Jones set against them. In the interval, you might all take the time to have some conversation with our Frenchman so you can take his measure and tell me then what you think.”

Hayden had the little schooner stand out towards the island of Marie-Galante until he judged it time, and then he shaped their course to the point off the bay where they had originally launched boats the previous night—which already seemed like many days ago. Under cover of darkness and in deteriorating weather, they stood in towards the bay, Ransome and Wickham taking over the duties of Mr Barthe and piloting them in using the privateer's charts.

The little ship was hove-to off the bay sometime after midnight. The sky had been clouding since the sun had set, and a series of squalls appeared to sweep down from the mountains, laying the little schooner
over on her beam end and drenching the crew with rain. It was the kind of night, Hayden knew, on which boats could be launched from inside the bay and would be upon the schooner before they were seen. Watches were set and men armed, though keeping locks dry in such weather was not easy.

Hayden paced about the unlit deck, damp through and surly. The schooner carried but a single lamp, its light shielded from the shore, so that the
Themis
did not run them down if she did return. Of course, the squalls would hide that light altogether, so Hayden had lookouts on the seaward side, searching desperately for the sight of a ship.

The winds shifted about the compass rose, forcing Hayden to put down an anchor, which would make any escape that much more difficult.

An hour passed, and Hawthorne appeared beside Hayden, matching his pace.

“Mr Archer would choose this night to play coy!” the marine observed.

“Perhaps he did not receive our invitation . . .”

“The Royal Mail is going to hell, Captain, there is no question.” The two continued to pace along the starboard deck. “How long will we wait?”

“Another hour—no more. I want to be distant from this shore when light comes.” A gust struck them suddenly from the south, and the ship seemed to stagger to starboard. “I do wish this weather would pass. It is all but impossible to see another vessel, and we are at some risk of dragging ashore.”

Hawthorne considered this a moment. “It is also difficult to know what to wish for, Captain. If Mr Archer returns, we will once more be subject to the whims of the vainglorious Sir William Jones. If Archer does not return, then
he
will be under Jones' command, which could turn out very badly. On the plus side of that ledger, if Archer does not return, you, Captain Hayden, will be free to rescue or not rescue royalists—whichever you see fit—without either consulting with, or interference from, the redoubtable Captain Jones.”

“I, for one, am hoping that the
Themis
appears this night. My ship and crew are in danger of harm or loss while under the command of Jones. And Archer is at risk to do irreparable harm to his career, for it seems Jones never suffers the consequences for his poor decisions. Either he is actually as dear to the royal family as he would have everyone believe, or he is charmed.”

“In my experience of men like Jones—and Sydney Smith—their luck runs out eventually.”

“Those two gentlemen appear to have been granted a boundless supply of good fortune. While other men I know have only the opposite—and, often as not, undeservedly so.”

The hour crept, haltingly, by. When Hayden could wait no longer, he ordered sails set and anchor weighed. A forward gust caught the schooner as she weighed, pressing her towards the shore, but small and handy as she was, the crew quickly had sails drawing and way on. In an instant she was racing through the dark, throwing spray across the deck, a runaway, carrying her riders with her. The squall did not last, but the wind continued to change its direction without rhyme or warning, so that for a time the little ship would be laying her course, and then, not a moment later, she would be hard on the wind going some other way.

Out of the darkness a sodden Louis appeared—hatless, hair plastered to his forehead.

“I do not wish to be a bother, Captain . . .” he began, and then appeared to run out of words.

Hayden and the young Frenchman contemplated each other and then Hayden said, “I have taken my ship and crew into danger on more occasions than I care to name, but I never like to undertake enterprises that both my heart and my head tell me are doomed to failure. Rescuing your people is just such an enterprise, Louis.”

The young man nodded. “These people, Captain, they have no other hope—”

Hayden raised a hand to stop him. “I have not said I would not do
it . . . I have only told you how I perceive the dangers and the likelihood of success. Here is how it will be managed. We will arrange signals to be made by lamps. Once I have received a signal from you that you deem it safe, I will send a small boat to the beach with but a single man, or perhaps a pair. You will meet them, and if all is well, you will greet them with a certain phrase I will give you. If you deem it unsafe you will offer a different greeting or, if you can, you will warn them away before they land. I will not commit boats and crews until I have been twice reassured that my people are not in danger. Do you understand?”

“I do, Captain, completely.”

“We will shape our course away from Guadeloupe this night, but in such a way as to allow us to return to your beach after midnight. We will take you ashore as silently as we can and then return the following night if you think you can gather together some of your people and have them there at that time.”

“I will bring them there, Captain. You have my word.”

Hayden contemplated the Frenchman a moment in the dark and then said, “I should not be so quick to give my word in an enterprise as uncertain as this.”

T
he north-east trade swept up and over and funnelled between the island's mountains, producing inconstant winds that swirled and sometimes died altogether. After sunset the trade took off a little and left, along the coast, a narrow band of calms and small, sudden gusts. Laying-to in such conditions was difficult, but Hayden felt they had no choice—the noise of both dropping and raising anchor would easily travel to the shore and to the small islands to their south. They had set Louis ashore the night previous and now returned, hoping he would bring his promised fugitives from injustice . . . and that he would not bring a company of French soldiers.

The two boats from the
Themis
, and a smaller boat belonging to the schooner, had been lowered into the water farther from shore to reduce the chances of anyone's hearing. They were brought alongside now and manned. Wickham, a marine and the strongest oarsman aboard, went down into the smaller boat. The other boats were lightly manned in anticipation of bearing back refugees.

The schooner lay a little more than half a mile from the shore, in twenty-five fathoms. To the south the Islets à Goayaves were darker masses, distinguished from the black waters because they reflected no glimmer of starlight. To the east lay a small, open bay and a narrow
beach, towards which Hayden stared, waiting for three quick flashes from a lantern.

The eyes tended to play tricks, Hayden knew, if one stared intently enough into the darkness. Shapes appeared where there were none, and sometimes little flickers that were manufactured in the brain, or so he had come to believe. He also strained to hear the sound of oars, or of a musket's lock being cocked. There were no sounds but the breathing of the men, and the breeze rolling down off the nearby mountains, hissing and whispering through the trees, then rippling the waters so that the occasional hollow
plunk
sounded against the sides of a boat.

“Sir,” one of the crew whispered, and raised a hand in the dark, indicating a place somewhat north of where Hayden had been looking.

Three flashes, a count of twenty, then three again. Hayden ordered the man standing by with a lantern, hidden from the shore, to return the signal. He then leaned over the side.

“Mr Ransome, keep a good offing until Mr Wickham rows back out and assures you it is clear. Mr Wickham, if you have the slightest suspicion that things are not as they should be, do not press on. We are under no orders to rescue these people, and I will leave them on the beach before I see my crew put at risk.”

“Aye, sir,” Wickham responded, very softly, and then the boats were away.

Immediately, Hayden began to pace the length of the ship, fearing the flash of sudden musket fire or even guns aimed at the schooner. It was a foolish and dangerous enterprise—the kind of thing Sir William might arrange, had he any interest in rescuing French royalists. Hayden paused a moment to watch the boats dissolve into the darkness and realised what he felt was a growing sense of apprehension.

Wickham sat in the stern manning a small tiller, Bentley rowed, and a marine named Cooper crouched in the bow holding a musket, another
ready to hand and a brace of loaded pistols in his belt. They rowed towards a dark shore where they did not know what might await them—a gathering of frightened and grateful French, or a line of marksmen with muskets pressed to their shoulders. Bentley worked his oars for stealth rather than speed, keeping the blades low to the water on the return and slipping them through the surface like sharpened knives. The little boat made hardly a sound as it went, barely a ripple of wake trailing behind.

Wickham gazed past Bentley at the shadowed shore beyond, thinking as he did so that if there were anything out of the ordinary awaiting them, he would never know. He also strained to hear any warning sounds, though he hardly knew what they might be. A muffled cough reached them, causing him to flinch, but then he told himself that soldiers hiding in ambush would not cough for their lives. This was some innocent—one of Louis' royalists, he hoped.

A long quarter of an hour, bracing for musket fire the entire time, brought the familiar sound of waves lapping the shore. The boat slid to a gentle stop and Wickham was out and pulling them back, then turning them around so that a quick retreat could be made. He was about to scramble back aboard when he heard a near-whisper in the dark.

“C
'
est moi. Louis.”

Wickham let out a long breath and took another in to a relaxed chest.

“Is that you, Wickham?”

“Yes. How many?”

“Only ten, but I will have more tomorrow—twenty, perhaps. They have brought what little food they can.”

“I will send the boats immediately. Gather them on the beach. Tell them to say nothing.” Wickham pushed the boat for two steps and then swung himself over the side and took hold of the tiller.

“Slowly,” Wickham whispered to the hand at the oars. “Better to take five minutes more but preserve silence.”

Bentley slacked his pace. In a few moments they found the cutter and the barge, under the command of Gould and Ransome, respectively.

“It appears safe,” Wickham whispered. “Godspeed.”

He did not hesitate, but set Mr Bentley back to his oars. He did not want to linger near the shore any longer than he must. Although Captain Hayden made great effort to hide it, Wickham sensed that he had strong misgivings about this entire enterprise, and if his captain felt this way, Wickham was more than a little concerned. He would not draw a full breath until they were under sail and a mile from shore.

Wickham's boat appeared out of the darkness and was quickly alongside.

“All well, Mr Wickham?” Hayden whispered down into the boat.

“All appears well, sir,” came the reply.

The occupants of the boat came silently up and over the rail. Two of the crew took charge of the boat, streaming it with care so that it did not strike the topsides. A very long half of the hour dragged past, and finally the boats took form out of the darkness and a moment later were alongside. Children were handed up, and then women and men. A few precious belongings followed, and last, the boats' crews.

“So few,” Hayden whispered to Ransome.

“Yes, sir. Louis said he would bring twenty tomorrow.”

The ship was got underway and shaped her course immediately to the west to gain as much offing by full light as they could manage. They would then sail north to give them a good slant for returning on the trade.

When they were an hour out from shore, Hayden addressed the gathered French, who had been instructed to sit down on the deck.

“You may speak now, but quietly,” he told them in French.

One man stood. “I am speaking for us all when I thank you, Captain . . .” Words failed him, or perhaps his English was not up to the task. “You and your crew. We would all of us have died if you had not escaped us. We cannot thank you enough.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Hayden realised that a woman was weeping.

The tropical sun burned down upon the little schooner, turning the deck into a surface similar to a stove top. Although the sailors ran over it barefoot, Hayden could not hold his hand to the planks for more than a few seconds. An awning had been rigged amidships between the two masts and the French refugees huddled in its meagre shade. A few slept upon the unforgiving planks, some spoke softly, a few children played at cards, for finding themselves upon a ship was nothing but a great adventure to them. All ate and drank parsimoniously, the parents putting aside some of their own food for their children.

On the south-east horizon, the tops of Basse-Terre's mountains—impossibly green and crowned with cloud—appeared to hang suspended. Sails could be seen here and there upon the blue, but none seemed to offer any threat, so the schooner sailed on, trying to appear to be hurrying north on some urgent errand of commerce. The officers, young gentlemen, and marines had removed their coats to maintain this appearance of innocence, and they were all grateful for it.

Forward, Wickham moved among the refugees, employing his excellent French and seeing to their needs as best he could. Two of the men stood and engaged the young nobleman in serious conversation, and immediately Hayden wondered if there was someone among them ill with fever. Fever aboard this small ship would be catastrophic.

Hayden could see Wickham nodding, and then he gestured towards the stern—towards the captain, Hayden feared. Wickham stepped gingerly among the sprawled bodies and made his way quickly aft.

“You have a most thoughtful look upon your face, Mr Wickham,” Hayden said.

“I have just been given rather unsettling information, Captain, if it
proves true.” Wickham turned and nodded in the direction of the two men to whom he had been speaking, both of whom stood watching him expectantly. “Would you hear these gentlemen, Captain?”

“If you think it important, yes. Send them aft.”

Wickham waved to the men and Hayden retreated to the taffrail, where they might speak in something like privacy.

The men were both dressed in expensive clothing that was now dirty, worn, and in some places patched. Their very fine riding boots were in ruin and both men looked gaunt and fatigued to their very limits. They introduced themselves—life in the mountains had not eroded their manners—and thanked Hayden again for his kindness.

“How might I be of service?” Hayden enquired of them in French.

“To begin, Capitaine, we must beg that you be most circumspect with the information we are about to impart. Many lives will depend upon your discretion.”

“I am under some obligations to my service and King, but if I can keep your secret without compromising my duty, I will do so.”

The Frenchmen exchanged a look, then one nodded. The younger-looking of the two was spokesman.

“We have a friend, Capitaine, who has hidden his true beliefs so successfully that the Jacobins have recruited his services. He has secretly warned many a family to flee and saved them from capture. This man, at great risk, got word to us that a man we have all trusted and believed in has been playing us falsely. He is neither who he claims to be, nor does he hold the beliefs he so passionately espouses. In fact, he has been betraying us so cunningly that we did not suspect him.”

“I am sorry to hear it, but I am not certain what I might do about it.”

“Our friend believes that this man is in the pay of the English, Capitaine, and is a false informant. His name is de Latendresse and he styles himself a comte.”

Perhaps Hayden did not hide his response to this news well.

“Do you know this man, Capitaine Hayden?”

“We have met. Do you have any proof of his treachery, other than the word of your friend?”

The two men looked at each other again. “Nothing that a magistrate might hold in his hands. But once we were warned about him, suddenly there were a hundred small coincidences and things that we had explained in some other way that fit more easily into our changed view of him. Our friend . . . he had no doubt. He had been in the room when de Latendresse betrayed a royalist family. These people were taken unawares and . . .” He did not need to tell Hayden what had become of them.