Until the Sea Shall Give Up Her Dead (31 page)

“Then send them one at a time. We do not want our own boat overturned.”

The English sailors maintained order among the passengers, passing the children over first and then aiding those who could not swim. Swimming was such a simple art that Wickham was always surprised how few had mastered it.

“We will get a rope across the hull and to the masthead, and pull the barge over, Mr Wickham,” Ransome informed him.

Ransome himself was not a strong swimmer, Wickham knew.

“Have you someone to swim down, Mr Ransome?” the midshipman asked. “I will do it if you wish.”

“Very kind of you, Mr Wickham, but Gould assures me he can manage.”

Gould stripped off his blue coat and threw the sodden mass to one of the hands in the cutter. Catching the rope as it was thrown across the overturned barge, he dived under the boat. All waited, holding their breath in sympathy.

“Should he not be up by now?” Childers whispered after a moment.

“A moment more . . .”

Wickham began to count the passing seconds, and when he could bear it no more, he stood and pulled off his shoes, but before he could go
over the side, Gould broke the surface, gasping and coughing. An oar was thrust out from the cutter for him to cling to, and in a moment he recovered and passed the end of the rope to Childers. The men remaining in the water were rearranged so their weight might be employed to right the boat, the rope to the masthead was fastened to the stern of the cutter, and, at a word from Ransome, the cutter began to pull and the men stood up on the gunwales of the overturned boat, and, with aid from a wave, the boat rolled slowly over, where it floated with only an inch or so of the gunwales above the water.

The cutter was manoeuvred back alongside and made fast. Buckets were employed from the cutter, though with each passing wave the barge appeared to fill again, but then slowly the gunwales began to rise, and as they did so, less water flowed back in with each wave. After an hour, the boat was floating high enough that men were able to stand in the boat and bucket water out, which they did for only a short while before their places were taken by others.

“Mr Wickham,” said one of the hands bailing, “shall I cut loose the water cask and put it over the side? It is weighing the boat down, sir.”

“Nash,” Wickham replied peevishly, “do you not know that a cask filled with seawater weighs more than the same cask filled with fresh? The drinking water is providing buoyancy at this time, not weight. Bail on.”

“Aye, sir.”

The men continued to bail, though it was heavy work in a boat rising and falling and rolling as well.

“Mr Wickham,” Cooper said, standing in the crowded boat. “Might I draw your attention to these boats downwind of us? They appear to have called a parliament, sir.”

Wickham twisted around, and there, a mile off, a group of fishing boats had congregated, but there was no sign of active fishing.

“What do you think they are about?” Ransome asked. The lieutenant had pulled himself over the transom and was seated on a thwart, water washing about his buttocks.

“I doubt they have gathered to plan our rescue,” Wickham stated.

Cooper trained Wickham's glass on the distant boats. “More like crows, perched on branches, trying to decide if they can eat us or not. Half an hour ago, a boat set off for the Saints with all haste—it did not appear to be loaded down with fish.”

“If they begin to draw near, Mr Cooper,” Ransome ordered, “fire a warning shot.”

Wickham asked for his glass and fixed it on the distant islands. The Saints were an odd little outpost of France. There was no sugar production, nor any wealth to speak of, so slaves were rare. The French occupants were employed in fishing and market gardening, but there was a small fortress, Wickham thought, and certainly a French garrison.

“Mr Ransome,” he said, lowering his glass. “I think we should get underway as soon as humanly possible. I believe we shall have French soldiers coming our way as swiftly as it can be arranged.”

“Damn Sir William and this entire enterprise,” Ransome muttered, clearly exhausted and out of patience. “We shall find ourselves in a French gaol yet.”

This spurred on the efforts of the men bailing, and buckets of water splashed over the side with a speed Wickham would not have thought possible in the heat. An old sailing adage ran: “There is no pump so efficient as a frightened man with a bucket.”

Even so, a boat the size of a frigate's barge held several tons of water and it had to be emptied out one bucket at a time, which, no matter how frightened the bailers, could not be managed quickly.

Ransome shifted on his seat and beckoned Wickham near.

“We lost eight when the boat capsized,” he said quietly, “two of them women and three children.”

“I am very sorry to hear it,” Wickham whispered.

“I believe the stern was thrown up on a steep sea and the rudder left the water. There was naught we could do.”

“It was bad luck, not poor seamanship, I am quite certain,” Wickham replied. “No one is to blame for it. This is a dangerous crossing for overloaded, open boats. We have been lucky not to do the same ourselves.”
Wickham waved a hand at the distant fishermen. “Even they turn over occasionally, who sail here almost every day of the year.”

“It is kind of you to say, Wickham, but it was the boat under my command that capsized and people under my care who were lost. There is no one else to blame . . .” The young officer looked entirely miserable, sitting drenched to the skin, his hat lost, hair plastered tight to his skull.

“We all knew this crossing would be dangerous, but we had no choice. To try to hide on Guadeloupe would have resulted in capture—and the guillotine for the royalists. Every one of them would have made the choice to attempt the crossing. Do not doubt it.”

Ransome nodded, but Wickham did not believe his words provided much comfort.

The bailing continued for some time, the sea occasionally breaking over the boat and replacing water that had so recently, and at great cost, been thrown out. Handling the bucket required two hands, so the men in the boat were constantly being thrown off balance as the boats rose and fell, which slowed the process terribly. Finally, Wickham sent other men into the barge, who knelt and steadied the men bailing, and the water level in the boats dropped much more quickly.

The French passengers were ill and frightened, the children exhausted and crying. Everyone was overly hot and not a few peevish. Dominica, which had been in view since the sun had risen, seemed never to grow nearer.

“Sail to the north, Mr Wickham,” Childers reported, and pointed off towards the western edge of Guadeloupe.

Wickham retrieved his glass and gazed at this distant vessel—not an easy task aboard a small boat on such seas.

“Is it our captain?” Ransome asked.

“I can make out course and topsail. Whether it is a schooner or a brig I cannot say. It is, at the moment, shaping its course towards us, so we shall know soon enough.”

By midafternoon the barge was finally declared sea-ready, and the crew and occupants returned to their boat. The two vessels made sail
and were again sliding over the steep seas, the helmsmen both more vigilant and more anxious. The crew of the barge continued to bail for some time after, and Wickham could see the pails being emptied regularly over the side.

The capsize had taken several hours to remedy, and Wickham glanced up at the sun now, wondering if they would make Dominica by sunset.

The boats were not on the beach, where Hayden had sent them into an ambush. There was no way of knowing what had happened—if the British sailors had been taken prisoner, or, if they had escaped, how many might have been wounded or even killed. If the French ambush had succeeded and the boats were captured, the French might well have sailed them south, it being the quickest way back to Gosier.

Hayden shaped his course down the coast, staying inshore as far as was safe. Unfortunately, near the shore the winds were even more fickle and often absent altogether. Ship's boats could be rowed through the calms, but the schooner, though a small ship, was far too large for that.

The coastline was empty of the
Themis
' boats and their crews—just long stretches of sand backed by palms and dense forest with hardly a living soul to be seen. Pointe à l'Aunay came abreast late in the afternoon and the wind finally found them not long after. It came like a great sigh after so many hours of drifting and frustration.

Hawthorne found Hayden doing a circuit of the ship, and the two stopped on the forecastle for a moment to speak. Hayden had found a glass aboard and employed it to quiz the horizon at all points.

“I do hope you are not finding French warships in the offing?” the marine said.

“Not at this precise moment.”

“Excellent. I do need a day's holiday from the war occasionally. A terrible admission of weakness upon my part.”

“We all need such days, Mr Hawthorne, and, fortunately, the war provides many of them.”

“Not so many under your command, Captain, if I may say so. You appear to follow the fighting, so that we have far more than our share of it.”

“Poor luck, is all I can say. Speaking of war, how do we stand for powder?”

“More than enough for this war, I should think.”

“That much?”

“Well, perhaps I exaggerate to some small degree. Enough to see us home.”

“And I thought we were about to go into the business of selling powder. Well, we shall have to make our fortunes some other way. Piracy, perhaps?”

Hawthorne laughed. “When I was a boy, it was my only dream.”

“If every boy who ever dreamt of becoming a pirate grew up to do so, Mr Hawthorne, it would be a frighteningly lawless world.”

“Indeed, sir. I understand they have all retired to Jonathan's Coffee House in recent years.”

“They have called it the ‘Stock Exchange' for some time now.”

“Ahh . . . piracy by another name.”

“Not a good place for the unwary to take their morning coffee, that is certain.” Hayden raised his glass to search the sea again. “Have you heard? The brig that had the misfortune to burn last night was the very brig Sir William ran aground and almost saw us all killed.”

“Even war has its ironies, I suppose, Captain.”

“More than its share.”

“No sign of our boats, sir?”

“There are many small boats to the south, but the Saints has a fishing fleet and I cannot, at this distance, distinguish one boat from another.”

Hayden handed the glass to Hawthorne, who began to search the blue. “You still believe they will have sailed for Dominica?”

“If they survived the ambush on the beach? Yes. Where else is there for them to go?”

“England does seem a bit distant . . .”

One of the two marines hunkered down in the bow pointed off to the north-west of a sudden. “Mr Wickham! Boat, sir.”

The midshipman, who was standing his trick at the helm, twisted around to see.

“I'll have it, sir, if you like?” It was Childers, reaching immediately for the tiller, not so much helpful as wanting the helmsman concentrating on one thing only.

Wickham allowed the coxswain to relieve him at the helm and found his glass. A small vessel, perhaps a cutter, was emerging from the narrow Passe des Dames at the eastern tip of Grand Islet, the nearest of the Saints.

Wickham lowered his glass, stood, and called over to Ransome, whose boat they were now making an effort to keep near, in case of further calamities.

“A French Navy cutter, Mr Ransome!” he called out. “I cannot tell if there are soldiers from the garrison aboard, but nor can I say there are none.”

“Are you certain, Mr Wickham?” Ransome called back. “I have lost my glass.”

Wickham lifted his and examined the little ship again. It was a singlemasted vessel, crossing yards, a bit wall-sided, straight-stemmed. “Fifty or sixty feet, flying the French flag, and uniformed men aboard, Mr Ransome. From this angle I cannot tell you what guns she carries.”