Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (23 page)

A
s one, they all turned and leapt down into the boats below. Some French came over the rail after them, but the boats were quickly pushed clear and the French either thrown over the side or beaten into the bottom of the boats by the English. Oars went into the water and drew quickly off into the murk, followed by a volley of pistol and musket shot.

To Hayden's relief, he found Childers at the helm.

“What is our course, sir?” he asked.

Before Hayden could answer, a boat of shouting Frenchmen appeared out of the darkness and made straight at them. Hayden grabbed a musket and fired it out to the open waters.

He pointed and shouted in French, “The English have set off out to sea!”

Taking his cue, Hawthorne fired a musket out to sea and another marine did the same. Wickham began calling out in French from the cutter, “After them! After them!”

Immediately, the French boats set off in the direction Hayden had pointed. He ordered Childers to follow but in a few strokes had the oarsmen slacken their pace. The instant the French boats were absorbed
into the darkness, he ordered Childers to turn south and watched to be certain Ransome and Wickham did the same.

Seeing how few men were left, and how few could man an oar, Hayden took up a sweep himself.

“I will have that oar, sir,” Childers protested.

“Stay at the helm, Childers,” Hayden ordered softly. “I will row for a while. Mr Hawthorne? How do we stand for powder and shot?”

“But poorly, sir. Though it hardly matters, we have so few muskets.”

A quick tally was taken: four muskets and six pistols among them. One of the pistols belonged to Hayden.

“Load them all, if you please,” he ordered, passing his pistol, powder, and shot forward. “We may have to fight our way free of this island.”

“How long do you think this ruse will hold?” Childers asked.

“I do not know. Row as quietly as you can,” Hayden whispered to the hands. “We will slip along the shore until we are well clear, and then out to sea.”

Shots were fired to seaward of them—the flashes seen first, then the sharp reports coming to them over the waters. Distant shouting in French followed.

The two British boats slipped along, side by side, as silently as they were able. Every man strained to hear the sound of other boats, to see any danger lurking in the dark. Hayden had studied Barthe's chart before he set off to cut out the brig, but the areas beyond the harbour had received less of his attention than the harbour itself . . . something he should have known would come back to injure him in the end.

A voice called out in French, some distance off, and was answered by others, apparently astern of Hayden.

“I believe they have smoked us, sir,” Gould whispered. He, too, had taken his place among the oarsmen and handled his sweep like a seasoned hand, Hayden was gratified to see.

“Bear a point to starboard, Childers,” Hayden said.

“Are there not shoals here, sir?” Childers asked nervously.

“There are. I hope to skirt them . . . and remain as distant from the French boats as possible.”

Hayden looked up at the sky. Broken cloud streamed overhead, jagged bands of sky appearing in between. Here and there about the bay the thin, wintry light of stars made a faint glimmer on the water. Hayden prayed that none of these frail patches of light would find them. The boats' black hulls and the men in their dark blue jackets made the
Themis
es hard to see on such a night, but silhouettes could be made out, and that was both Hayden's fear and the reason he wanted to stay near the land, where boats farther out to sea would not discern them against the dark background. It was also not where the French would expect them to be—or so he hoped.

The splash of oars and the hard sound of sweeps working against thole-pins came over the bay. Sound travelled easily over water, so even whispers could be heard at a distance.

Every man aboard strained to hear—and then voices, speaking French, Hayden was certain. Gould made a motion with his hand, towards the boat's larboard quarter—behind and out to sea. And then the sounds of oars astern.

“More to starboard,” Hayden whispered, and Childers drew his tiller a little towards him.

“Who is that?” someone called out in French.

“Laval of the
Saint Amond
,” came the reply from out of the darkness.

“Where are the
Anglais
?” the first voice called out.

“Two boats escaped out to sea, but we believe the others came this way. Be silent now; we must listen.”

Hayden glanced shoreward, trying to gauge how distant the island was. Half a mile? A mile? He could not say. He knew there was a point south of them, perhaps half a mile distant now. A river emptied into the sea there. Farther south again lay a shoal, with somewhat deeper water inshore, where the French would careen their smaller ships. South of that stretched a section of coast—two or three miles—of which, no
matter how he tried, Hayden could recall little or nothing . . . until Pointe de la Capesterre, where there was a small marsh at the mouth of yet another river.

A
thunk
of wood on wood sounded almost abeam to larboard. Without meaning to or being ordered, the oarsmen increased their pace as one, fear seeping in among them. A whispering was heard, though the words were lost in the breeze. How close were they?

Hayden wished Wickham were aboard his boat. Strain as he might, he could see nothing but darkness. He made a motion for Childers to steer even more to starboard. How he wished he could cast a lead, but he dared not even speak an order, let alone have a lead splashing into the bay. They could let the boats glide to a stop and slip a lead into the waters without a sound, but Hayden was afraid any boats behind would overtake them. It was a danger. The point was somewhere ahead—not far, Hayden thought. If they ran their boat up on a reef of coral it would be all up for them. The sound would not be mistaken by the French. Were Hayden and his men to be forced ashore, they would be caught within a few hours, unless they could make it to the hills. But what then would they do?

Now and then there was a small splash like the sound of an oar entering the water—though it was difficult to know its point of origin. Small waves broke upon the shore and were easily confused with any splashes nearby. The tide was high, Hayden knew, which gave them as much water over hidden shoals as they could have.

Without any warning, there was musket fire out to sea and a little ahead—not so distant. The oarsmen lost their rhythm for a moment and some oars collided.

“Steady
,
”
Hayden whispered.

The first fire was returned, and then there was shouting. Hayden wondered if it might be Jones, but then he made out a few words—the French were firing on the French. Hayden almost breathed a sigh of relief. It would make any Frenchmen who discovered them less likely to fire without being sure, and Hayden hoped his mastery of the language
might pull them through. It had, however, failed conspicuously quite recently.

There was a splash to larboard, even nearer than before. Childers tilted his head towards the island, and Hayden nodded. Their course was altered in that direction.

A shout came from seaward—so close Hayden could hear an intake of breath afterwards. It was a challenge. Every man aboard held his breath, he was certain.

“Does he mean us?” Gould whispered.

Hayden did not know, but then some other called back out of the dark—a name and the name of a ship.

They continued on, oars dipping in a slow, steady rhythm. A patch of moonlight appeared across the bay to the north-east. Almost, Hayden thought he could make out the stricken brig. In a moment he had the terrible realisation that this patch of moonlit water moved in their direction.

He removed his oar from the thole-pins, stood, and thrust it down into the water until he felt it strike solid bottom.

“Coral.”
He hissed.
“Half a fathom.”

An almost imperceptible whisper passed down the boat from the bow. “Mr Hawthorne believes there is land, dead ahead, Captain.”

Hayden softly ordered the men to ease their cadence. He did not want to run hard onto a coral head.

“Have Thoms sound with an oar,”
he said as quietly as he was able. Thoms was farthest forward of the rowers and could sound without interfering with the others.

“Half a fathom, yet,”
came the whisper aft.

Land was clearly ahead of them now, and Hayden motioned to Childers to put his helm a little to starboard. He wanted to creep along the shore, not run up on to it.

Whispering reached them—very near, Hayden was certain. Now he was in a bind: They had shore and shallows to starboard and Frenchmen to larboard.

“Two feet one half, sir. Mud or silt.”

“Who is there?” someone called out in French. “Name yourself . . .”

Hayden could see no boat, but the voice was not fifty yards to larboard. He waited, hopefully, for some other Frenchman to answer, as had occurred before, but there was only silence.

The man behind Hayden spoke close to his ear.
“No bottom at one fathom,”
he said.

“I swear . . . I feel a current on my rudder, sir,”
Childers whispered, leaning near.
“From starboard.”

The tide was about to turn, Hayden knew, but the ebb would be so small . . . He moved his oar out of place and scooped up a handful of water and brought it to his lips.
Fresh . . .

“Name yourself, or we will fire . . .” came the French voice again.

Hayden grabbed the tiller, and turned the boat hard to starboard.

“Row
,
”
he hissed.

In the darkness, Hayden could not be certain if Childers really looked as alarmed as he thought. Ransome's boat fell into line on their starboard quarter. Hayden could just make out the movement of the oarsmen as they bent to—rowing as quickly as they dared while staying as quiet as they could.

Suddenly there was an explosion in the dark as half a dozen muskets were fired, the balls whizzing about their ears but none finding either flesh or plank. Trees loomed up to either side. He could almost feel the small current slowing them, for he was quite certain they were at the mouth of a river.

The oarsmen dug their oars deep and surged forward with each stroke. The French boat was so near that Hayden could hear the clatter of lead balls as men loaded their muskets. An instant later they fired again, but the shot all went to larboard, cutting up the leaves of overhanging trees.

“River bends to starboard, Captain
,
”
one of the men behind him whispered.

Childers altered his course without being told.

Voices came to them—men calling out in French.

“Have you found them?—
les Anglais?
”

“So we thought . . . but now. We are not certain.”

“Did they pass up the river?”

“Perhaps . . . but it is all in shadow there.”

Hayden could hear the men speaking, as though they were only a few yards distant. If the French came up the river after them, they would be in trouble. He looked about desperately. It was almost black under the trees to starboard—perhaps dark enough to hide their boats. He motioned to Childers, who pushed his helm to larboard, swinging them towards the shadowed tree line.

The shadow, however, was deeper than Hayden had realised. It took a moment for him to comprehend that they were slipping into a small indentation in the bank. He wondered if it might be a separate arm and the land to one side an island, when they slid to a stop on a soft bottom.

Hayden passed his oar to the man next to him and slipped over the side as silently as he was able. The bottom was soft, and his feet sank nearly to the ankles in the silt. He walked forward to the bow, a hand on the gunwale. The little arm of the river appeared to go farther yet. There was no current that he could feel, but that might not mean anything. The water was about the same depth for three boat lengths and then began to shallow. To either side were thick, overhanging trees. He returned to the boat quickly.

“Over the side,” he ordered under his breath. “Silent as you can.”

Ransome's cutter lay not far off. Hayden waded over to it.

“Mr Ransome,” he whispered. “We will pull our boats further in.”

Lightened of their crews, the boats bobbed up and were easily guided up the waterway, which bent around to the west. When they were as far up the little waterway as they could go, Hayden ordered everyone to hold in place. Under the trees, almost nothing could be seen, but he could hear all the men breathing.

The splash of an oar came from somewhere out on the main river. The French had muffled their oars—likely wrapping jackets or shirts around the sweeps where they rested between thole-pins.

The sound of swirling water. A few feet off he heard someone cock a musket—Hawthorne, Hayden guessed. He drew his own pistol from his belt. A little breeze stirred the trees, which hissed all around. Hayden expected muskets to fire from a few feet off, carrying them all away . . . but the sighing wind died off and he could hear nothing.

One's imagination, Hayden knew, preyed upon one at such times. It was easy to believe the French lay only a few yards off, having detected the British. One imagined the sounds of men in among the trees. Even in utter darkness—he could not see the man standing before him—the tension of his crew was palpable. And so they remained for an hour, afraid to move, not knowing if the French had come and gone, or if they had ventured into the river at all.

He could not read his watch in such darkness, but Hayden knew they were now trapped, for morning would soon be upon them and they did not dare show themselves by daylight. Low-hanging branches touched Hayden now and then, as the breeze stirred among them. He reached up and found a thicker branch, of what variety of tree he did not know, and gently pulled it down, hoping it would not snap and give them away. It did not.