Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (28 page)

“At the gun, sir,” came the call.

“You are now my sailing master, bosun, and first lieutenant. If this brig comes any nearer, we will tack. Find sail handlers, and do not hesitate to use Frenchmen. They can haul a rope without understanding English.”

Hardy, who appeared to be a large brute of man, was a gentle soul—the guardian of all the ship's boys. He could have been a bosun's mate, but he would not beat a fellow sailor for all the world. The hands would lay down their lives for such a man and do his bidding without question.

“Mr Hardy!” Hayden called out. “Set a man to swinging the lead, if you please.” He did not want to run his ship aground in the dark, where distances were difficult to measure.

Tacking would have to be timed correctly or the other ship would have an opportunity to rake them from astern. He wanted to put his helm up as the other ship was abreast so it would pass on before it could fire into their stern. No doubt they would tack after, but Hayden assumed they had not enough men to man the guns, stand by to board, and handle sail, so it would take a moment for them to get men to their stations.

He sent a marine to bring his night glass up from the cabin below, and to enquire of the refugees if any he had ordered below had been hurt. The brig was taking on form in the dark, the masts and yards silhouetted against the low stars.

“The French are huddled in the hold, sir, and not a one injured,” the marine reported, handing Hayden his glass. Bracing himself against the wheel so it could not turn, Hayden fixed his glass on the nearing ship. He thought he could make out men lining the rail between the guns, and wondered if extra hands had been signed on for this particular enterprise; there would be no shortage of men, not with a convoy lying at anchor on the other side of Basse-Terre. On the other hand, the master of the ship likely did not want to spread his prize money any further than he must. Hayden hoped he was dealing with a parsimonious privateer.

Wickham's oars were not muffled, and knocked and rapped against the thole-pins, drowning out small, distant sounds. The flutter of luffing
sails that would indicate their ship was getting underway could not be heard. The report of guns, however, could not be masked, nor could the shouting and calls of men. Those carried to them across the water and filled Wickham's heart with dismay.

He was soon gasping. His arms burned and his muscles and tendons stretched and strained. He did not know how much longer he could keep it up. The Frenchmen on the shore, however, appeared to have lost them in the dark and left off firing.

“Mr Wickham?” called the marine in the bow. “The ships appear to be retreating out to sea, sir. We are not gaining.”

Wickham heard himself curse.

“Avast rowing!” Ransome called in the dark, and Wickham and Watts lay upon their oars, heaving and gasping.

A boat came gliding out of the murk, accompanied by the sound of muffled weeping—a child.

“Mr Wickham?” came Ransome's voice. “Have you any wounded?”

“I do not know.” He twisted around. “Is anyone hurt?”

The Frenchwoman and her children were not, and Watts declared the same.

“Just a scratch, sir,” the marine in the bow whispered, as though embarrassed even to be admitting it.

“Just a scratch? And how did you come by this scratch?”

“Musket ball, sir. Nary a drop of blood.”

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 recognised, 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 west and still others from the 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.