Upon the sun rising, Hayden found that only a single frigate remained in view—that of Sir William Jones. As the moon had been all but full the previous night, this seemed near to impossible.
“Do you think, Mr Barthe,” Hayden asked the sailing master, “that they could have lost sight of us when the night had grown so clear?”
“I do not, Captain.”
“Perhaps they went in pursuit of a strange sail in the night and we did not take note of their signals?”
Mr Barthe made a growling sound in his throat. “I think the explanation will be that they did not believe Sir William quite interested enough in prize money.”
“Perhaps they will return before the day grows much older.”
“And perhaps I will begin to grow again and finally attain the stature that my circumstances merit.”
“You loom large in the opinion of all who know you, Mr Barthe,” Hayden said.
“You refer to his girth, I assume?” It was Hawthorne, making his usual entrance.
Hayden smiled. “Not at all, Mr Hawthorne. You slept well, I trust?”
“After my mind was put at ease over a certain matter, I slept like a child.” Hawthorne lowered his voice so that the sailing master, who had wandered a few paces off to stare up into the rigging, could not hear. “Fowler has admitted that he made an asinine mistake yesterday—claiming poor Aldrich had risen from the dead—and feels rather the fool for it.”
“Who among us has not made a mistake?” Hayden observed.
“On deck!” the lookout called down. “Land ho! Land three points off the larboard bow!”
“Martinico,” Barthe announced, his attention drawn away from the rig. “The current has set us more to the west than I had allowed for, though not by a great deal.”
Hawthorne turned to the sailing master, his look quizzical. “Was I not informed that the tides in this part of the world were all but imperceptible?”
“So they are, Mr Hawthorne,” the master told him, “barely a foot or two, but there are powerful ocean currents here not caused by tides. A very strong current flows in through these very islands, but there are countercurrents along the coasts and narrow passes where the current flows north, while not so far off it flows south. Most islands have eddies behind them where the current is strong.”
“But you have been in these waters before, Mr Barthe,” Hawthorne almost insisted. “You must know these currents well.”
“Only the local men know them, Mr Hawthorne, and then commonly only in their own localities. Ships run aground in these waters with greater frequency than any place on earth, I think.”
“I shall not sleep well again, I am sure,” the marine said, and he did look distressed to a small degree.
Hayden called for his glass and went to the larboard rail. There, upon the horizon, appeared a jagged, green island beneath a bonnet of pure white cloud. In reality, Hayden knew this was the top of a tall volcano—4,600 feet, if he remembered correctly—and the great mass of the island was below the horizon yet. He had a sudden desire to explore this place, for he dearly loved to go ashore in new lands.
“Captain?”
Hayden turned to find the surgeon emerging from the companionway in some haste.
“Doctor,” Hayden replied, “we have raised the isle of Martinico.” He offered the doctor his glass, which the doctor hardly seemed to notice.
“Might I have a word, Captain?”
“Yes, of course.” Hayden beckoned, and they crossed to the windward side and all the way aft to the transom. The two had been shipmates long enough that Hayden had learned to read the small signs of distress in the doctor’s face—signs that most others did not see.
“What is it, Doctor?” he enquired quietly.
“I believe we have fever aboard, sir.”
Hayden shut his eyes for a second, as though he had felt a quick stab of pain.
“Who is it?”
“Drury and James, sir.”
“Two men!”
“I fear so.”
“How ill are they?”
“Not so bad at the moment, but Yellow Fever commonly progresses with great rapidity.”
Neither man spoke for a moment. Hayden could hardly have imagined less welcome news. Yellow Jack was almost invariably fatal.
“Let us hope it spreads no further. We have physic for this, I trust?”
“There is much that is recommended, but I have little faith that any of it will effect a cure. Bark, I believe, helps with the fever.”
“You are too honest, Doctor. Others of your profession are more prone to overstating what they can accomplish.”
“I should never say as much to the crew, sir, but I thought you would prefer the truth.”
“I do, and I thank you for revealing it. Let us hope that these men heal apace.”
Griffiths nodded but said nothing. He touched his hat and returned to the companionway, where he disappeared down to the secret decks below.
Hayden crossed to the leeward rail, where he stood for a long time, observing the distant green hill, made dramatic by sunlight and shadows. How this drew him, as though it were some promised, mystical isle where man lived at peace with both nature and himself. An isle free of war and disease, and even death itself.
He shook his head. The rest of that long day he found himself glancing often towards the companionway, wondering if the surgeon would emerge again with news. The crew were unsettled to learn that the Yellow Jack had crept aboard, but the older hands kept assuring the others that after a week at sea the fever would be gone—it came out to the ship from the land and clung to it for only so long. Several times over the course of the day Hayden wondered if he was sweating unnaturally. Each time he decided it was only the heat and nothing more, but even so, he was as unsettled as his crew, even if he was at pains to hide it. The invisible terror, which chose its victims by some process men could not fathom, was as frightening to an educated officer as it was to an illiterate seaman.
Perhaps two hours before darkness fell there was a sudden call from aloft.
“On deck! Sail! Sail, dead ahead!”
Hayden took up his glass and hurried forward, where he found several officers gathered around Midshipman Wickham, who was standing at the barricade, a glass to his eye.
“A little two-sticker, I think, Mr Ransome,” he said, not realising Hayden was there.
Ransome looked rather uncomfortable. “Mr Wickham believes it to be a small brig, Captain.”
Wickham quickly lowered his glass and touched his hat. “My apologies, Captain, I did not know you were there.”
“It is quite all right, Wickham. I am certain you meant no disrespect. Is she an armed brig or a transport?” Hayden asked.
“I cannot say, sir. She is too distant yet.”
Hayden raised his own glass just to be certain they were not looking at one of the missing British frigates. “Make the signal for strange sail to the north, if you please,” Hayden ordered. “Mr Ransome, I believe she will take more sail.”
“I agree, sir. There is not as much weight in this trade, as we have often seen.” Ransome turned and began calling out orders.
“Could you make out her point of sail, Mr Wickham?”
The midshipman shook his head. “I could not, sir, but perhaps from the foretop I might see more . . .”
“Then lay aloft, Mr Wickham, with all speed.”
Wickham clambered up the ratlines with two of the newer middies at his heels. They were soon all in the foretop, where only Wickham showed the sense to sit and clap on while he used his glass, the other two bouncing about like excited children.
“On deck!” Wickham called down. “I should think she is making for Guadeloupe, Captain, and crowding on sail.”
“How distant is she, Mr Wickham?”
Wickham raised his glass again, then looked down to Hayden. “Two leagues, or a little less.”
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out, setting off towards the quarterdeck. “We will shape our course to intercept.”
A gun was fired and signals run aloft. Almost immediately, Inconstant altered her course to converge with Hayden’s at some not-too-distant point. There was a great deal of murmuring around the deck and the watch below came streaming up to see this strange sail. Nothing excited the crew more than the promise of prize money with little or no danger involved, for even an armed brig was no match for a thirty-two-gun frigate and would almost certainly strike if she could not escape.
This was the distraction that all aboard needed. Thoughts of the Yellow Jack were pushed to the rear, and all hands looked forward to the promise of excitement.
When the Themis had up all the canvas that she would bear—courses, topsails, top-gallants, and royals—Ransome came hurrying aft.
“Shall we beat to quarters, sir?”
“Let us wait a little yet, Mr Ransome. We will know how many guns she boasts in an hour or two. With two frigates upon her, her master would be very foolish not to strike.”
During the course of two hours, the three ships drew nearer the point where they would all converge. The brig, it became clear, was armed and, as she was running towards Guadeloupe, almost certainly French. To the crew of the Themis, this meant only one thing—prize money. They fixed their eyes and hopes upon the distant vessel, constantly gauging their speed against that of the chase.
“She’ll pass before us,” one man would claim.
“Never will she,” another would declare with equal certainty.
“She has more wind than we.”
“No, it makes here and takes off there.”
And so they argued as the sun slipped towards the west.
The officers were little better, speculating upon whether the brig carried any cargo, how swiftly she sailed, how experienced was her crew. When Hayden could bear it no more, he climbed to the foremast top himself. He found Mr Wickham there, dining on bread and cheese.
“Have I interrupted your meal, Mr Wickham?”
Wickham looked positively alarmed. “No, sir. I am sorry, sir. I had no supper, Captain, as I was up the mast.”
“Do not rise, Mr Wickham,” Hayden told the boy. “You are as much deserving of food as any other man. Let me keep the watch for a short while.”
Wickham began to bolt down his meal so quickly that Hayden was certain it would result in dyspepsia. Hooking an arm around a shroud, Hayden fixed his gaze on the brig. He then stepped back and lined it up with a shroud. Very slowly, the brig inched to the left of it.
“She is going to pass before us!” Hayden declared.
“She must have caught a gust, sir,” Wickham suggested. “That was not the case a quarter of an hour past.”
“Let us hope it is only that,” Hayden agreed. But his own observation belied this and after half an hour he leaned over and called down to the deck. “Pass the word for Mr Barthe, if you please.”
The sailing master soon appeared below, gazing up at Hayden, from that angle looking more than a little like a dumpling in a hat and coat.
“I believe she is going to pass ahead of us, Mr Barthe,” Hayden called down.
“Never will she, Captain,” the sailing master assured him, but in not fifteen minutes Barthe’s own observation concurred with his captain’s.
Hayden went hand over hand down a stay and found Barthe and Archer awaiting him on the deck.
“I wouldn’t advise more sail, sir,” Barthe said, and Archer nodded in agreement.
“We will alter our course to larboard, Mr Barthe, but I think our chase might make Guadeloupe before we can fire a gun to bring her to.”
The master scratched absentmindedly at a spot on his cheek. “Our bottom must be somewhat foul, sir,” he offered. “We might be forced to careen, Captain.”
“Let us hope not.”
The ship’s helm was put up a little, and the yards braced and sails trimmed to draw every tenth of a knot from the frigate. Sir William’s ship was yet some distance off and would soon be in the Themis’ wake, Hayden thought. When Barthe was done trimming sails, he and Hayden repaired below to quiz the chart.
Guadeloupe was actually two islands separated by a narrow channel. At either end of this channel lay a good-sized bay, both well guarded by batteries. Off-lying islands lay to port, but Hayden did not think the brig was headed there. Barthe put a finger on the chart.
“She is making for Gosier, Captain, or somewhere in the bay, I would wager.” Barthe made a rough measurement using his thumb and forefinger. “She will make the bay on the last light, but it will be dark when we arrive.”
“Do we dare follow?”
Barthe pressed his lips together and a deep crease appeared between his brows. “There are shoals and coral near the entrance and throughout the bay, Captain, not to speak of the batteries that command much of the bay. I should think it a great risk, sir.” Barthe looked up at his commander. “Do you think Sir William will attempt it?”
“He might have more local knowledge than we . . . and he is known to be audacious.”
Barthe lowered his voice. “Some would say ‘imprudent,’ sir. If he goes in after the brig, will we follow?”
“I cannot very well let him go in alone, now, can I, Mr Barthe?”
“No, sir. It would be impolitic.”
“Let us hope even Sir William would judge it too great a risk.”
Hayden took a last look at the chart, committing all the major features to memory, and then he and the sailing master mounted the ladder to the quarterdeck, where dusk was quickly turning to night, the sunset fading behind the nearby island.
Archer was standing behind the binnacle, sighting over the compass to the now not-so-distant brig.
“What think you, Mr Archer?” Hayden asked. “Will she be ours, or no?”
“She will not, Captain. I have readied the forward chase pieces in case we might bring her to.” He pointed at the distant vessel. “We believe they heaved their guns over the side, sir, and pumped their water, too.”
The deck-gun crews all looked very downcast as Archer’s conclusion went whispering along the deck. Their prize was slipping away.
“Go forward and take command of the chase guns, Mr Archer. The brig might lose her wind as she comes near the island.”
The first lieutenant hurried forward, where he ordered a gaggle of loiterers off the forecastle. It was the problem of not beating to quarters—the watch below all wanted to see the action.
The trade would take off a little near sunset, and between wind and darkness, night would be bearable, for Hayden often felt he was being baked under the tropical sun.
The brig was clear to the naked eye now—and though still deep in the water she would make it into the bay before the Themis could bring her to. Hayden turned to find Inconstant. She was almost two miles distant, he believed. Would Jones expect him to sail in after this brig?
“Well, I am damned if I will,” he muttered.
He remained on the quarterdeck and watched the little brig disappear into the darkness and shadows created by the island, the men around all downcast and silent. “Mr Barthe?” Hayden summoned the sailing master, who stood at the leeward rail.
“Captain?”
“Let us reduce sail. I wish to tack, stand out from the land, and then heave-to.”
“Aye, sir.”
Royals and top-gallants were quickly taken in, the ship tacked to give them a little offing, and then hove-to. Very shortly thereafter, Inconstant hove-to a pistol shot distant. Hayden admired how smartly she was handled.
“I did not deem it prudent to chase her into waters I do not know well,” Hayden called out to Sir William, who was standing at the rail.
“Come over, Hayden,” the man called back. “I am sending a boat for you.”
A cutter was quickly in the water and her crew crossing the small distance between ships. Hayden climbed down and was aboard the other frigate in but a moment.
“I am sorry, Sir William, she was too distant for us to bring her to with our guns.”
“Yes, I could see. But come below.”
Hayden followed the man down into his cabin, where a chart was spread upon a table. Wine was offered, which Hayden accepted, and then Sir William leaned his small hands upon the table and gazed at the chart.
“I think we might cut her out by darkness,” he declared after a moment.
“It is a large bay. Will she not be difficult to find by night?”
“I believe her master will take her as deep into the bay as he can and anchor under the guns.” He looked up at Hayden. “Would you not do the same?”
“If I knew that Sir William Jones had chased me in here, I would. The French know your reputation . . . which makes me wonder if they would not expect you to come into the bay this night.”
“I do not believe the brig could make out my ship at that distance—not given the light when we closed. And your ship is thirty-two guns, so they will know the Themis was not Inconstant.” He turned his attention back to the chart. “We will slip in very late—two boats from each ship—board, and sail her out. What do you say?”
“It might be done. Certainly, they will rig boarding nets and ferry out more men from the shore, but we might carry her all the same. Let us hope the night is dark.”
Sir William nodded. “What I propose is I lead the boats in and you will follow—”
“You will lead the boats . . . ?” Hayden interrupted.
Jones turned to him and smiled. “Why should our lieutenants have all the sport? I will lead two boats and you the others.” He turned again to the chart, putting his finger on the shoreline. “We will row in towards this little point, Hayden. We will then hug the shore where it will be darkest, all along the north side of the bay.”
“Will we not be at risk of being discovered—so close to shore?”
“We will have to muffle the oars and go along very softly. If we are out in the middle of the bay, we will almost certainly be seen . . . and fired upon. The bay has been heavily invested with cannon since we landed our troops there last year. The French are on the watch for us.”
It was a very daring plan, as Hayden should have expected. He stared at the chart and tried to imagine how this plan would unfold in real life.
“The master of the brig put all his guns over the side,” he observed, “but the crew will have muskets and pistols, no doubt.”
“Yes, I doubt she can be taken without fight. It is a war, after all. I propose that we make sail and shape our course east, as close to the wind as we can manage—let them at least imagine we have given up. Once it is truly dark, we will slip back and heave-to just outside the bay,” he tapped a finger on the chart, “launch boats, and slip in as quietly as can be managed.”
“I shall man a barge and a cutter with my strongest men.”
Sir William almost glowed with excitement and pleasure. He raised a wineglass. “To our success, Hayden.”
“Hear.”
Hayden was climbing back aboard his own ship in but a few minutes.
“Mr Archer,” he called out. “We will wear ship and shape our course east.”
Archer passed this order along to Barthe, and soon the bosun and his mates had the men running to their stations. No one wanted to bring any shame upon their ship, so yards were braced and sheets hauled with a will, the Themises performing their evolution every bit as smartly as had the crew of Inconstant. The order “luff and touch it” was given to the helmsman and the two frigates were put hard on the wind.
Hayden gathered his officers on the quarterdeck.
“It is Sir William’s desire that we sail east for two hours, at which point we shall turn back. Just outside the bay, each ship will heave-to and launch a pair of boats. We will slip in under cover of darkness and cut out the brig that escaped us this day.”
There was great approval of this plan by all concerned.
“Who will command the boats, sir?” Wickham asked.
“Mr Ransome shall have the cutter and I shall take command of the barge.”
Archer looked as though he had been punched.
“Am I not to go, sir?”
“No, Mr Archer. I will need you to command the ship. It is Sir William’s desire that he and I shall lead the cutting-out parties, so that is how it will be done.”
This dampened the officers’ mood.
“I, for one, think it a damned foolish thing to do,” Barthe stated flatly, “and I don’t care who hears me say it. Two captains leading a cutting-out expedition—putting their lives at risk for a little brig!”
No one else said a word, but apparently, Barthe had spoken for them all, as the others, to a man, nodded agreement.
“Mr Barthe . . .” Hayden cautioned the sailing master, who made a little bow of concession. He turned back to the others. “Mr Archer, you will choose the crews. Mr Hawthorne’s marines will make up a part of each complement and, Mr Hawthorne, you will sail with Mr Ransome, if you please.”
Hawthorne touched his hat, happy to learn that he at least was not going to be shut out of the fun.
“Have the armourer see to the muskets and pistols. Cutlasses should be sharpened, and we will carry axes as well. I expect they will have rigged boarding nets.”
The two frigates hauled their wind forward and, under reduced sail, shaped their course to leave Pointe la Chaise to larboard. Neither captain wanted to go too far lest the wind took off to the point where it would not bear them back before daylight—not that Hayden was expecting the trade to die away that night. The weather glass was steady and the sky cloudless. The moon would be far into the west by the time they entered the bay—they did not want the moon behind them, that was certain.
There was a buzz about the ship that night, the hands chosen to man the boats the object of much attention and some good-natured ballyragging. The hours seemed to creep by, but finally, the appointed hour arrived and the boat crews set about darkening their faces with burnt cork. Hayden had ordered the boats painted black some months before, when they had cut out a frigate in Corsica, and he had not changed the colour since, quite convinced that black boats were a great advantage for night work.
The ship eventually made her way back to the point Jones had indicated on the chart, and hove-to not far from the Inconstant. Boats were lifted on tackles and swung out over the side as silently as the crews could manage. This was a familiar bit of work to any ship’s crew, and Hayden was quite certain his men could do it without a single order from an officer. The crews went down into the boats, taking their places—marines in the bows, officers in the stern-sheets. The coxswains ordered the boats away, and the four boats quickly formed two lines, Jones’ and Hayden’s boats in the fore. Hayden had stepped off the distance into the anchorage at eight and a half miles, so it would likely be two and a half to three hours before they would have the brig in sight. There would no doubt be many other boats in the anchorage, but Jones was strangely determined to take the brig that had eluded them that day—as though this was an affront he could not tolerate.
The muffled oars dipped and lifted, dripping water from the blades. Hayden could hear the men breathing, smell the sweat of their effort and fear. They were heavy, dark shadows in the night, moving in a ponderous, constant rhythm. Hayden knew all the men by now but could hardly recognise any in the darkness.
The coxswain steered towards the land, using the stars as an aid. Not fifteen yards distant, Hayden could see Jones’ barge, his men bending to their work. Despite his reputation for recklessness, the hands followed Jones without the least reserve. To say one had gone on a cutting-out expedition with Sir William Jones was like bragging one had crossed the Styx and returned alive. Assuming one did, of course.
It occurred to Hayden to wonder again what the cargo of this little brig might be. He hoped it was worth risking their lives for. There was no guarantee, however. He knew damned well that, had the choice been his, he would not have risked the lives of his men for this little ship with her unknown cargo. If she had been an armed brig in the French Navy, or a privateer . . . well, that would be a different matter. But this . . . this was exactly the kind of dangerous expedition with little thought to its outcome or advantage for which Jones had become notorious. Was it any wonder that the other two frigates of their squadron had mysteriously “disappeared” at the first opportunity?
Hayden hunched his back against the relentless wind. It was a little less than three nautical miles—a league—to the first landmark, the little nameless point at the entrance to the large, open bay. The island called Grande Terre was a black and featureless mass stretching off to the west. Barthe had given the commanders of the boats and their coxswains a bright star to steer towards. A compass was carried, of course, but they did not dare to light a lamp by which to see it.
An hour passed, the boats crabbing against the north-east wind, which never eased its efforts to carry them to the distant side of the bay. Hayden could hear the men breathing hard and bracing themselves to pull.
Childers raised a hand and gestured, and Hayden nodded in return—their point loomed out of the darkness and seemed to separate itself from the mass of Guadeloupe. Many times, Hayden had seen points of land, often joined to the larger landmass by a narrow neck, mistaken for an island. Too often, ships would go aground trying to sail to the wrong side of such points, and he had served aboard one little brig that had nearly been lost doing just that. There was no doubt that night, however—this was their point and landmark.
The trade was affected by land and curled around the island so that it blew far more from the west, and a small chop rocked them and slapped against the topsides now and then, throwing a little spray aboard. Hayden strained to hear any sound that might indicate people ashore or out on the bay in boats. The wind hissed and whispered across the land, masking any voices or small human sounds. They must carry on, uncertain the entire way if they had been detected and the alarm raised.
As they penetrated farther into the bay, towards the Islet du Gosier, Grande Terre put up its shoulder to the wind, providing the English sailors with calmer waters. The scent of the land carried to them, and the wind felt warmer, as though it passed over hot coals.
“Does Sir William intend to go inside the island?” Childers whispered.
Shoals extended both to the north-west and south-east of Islet du Gossier, and though it was possible they might pass over these, Hayden would not have taken the chance, given his limited knowledge of the bay. Sir William and his two boats lay to starboard, so it was impossible to alter course in that direction without the oarsmen of the different boats running afoul of one another.
“Perhaps Sir William knows the depths better than we,” Hayden whispered.
They carried on for another five minutes, but Hayden could sense Childers’ anxiety, as the coxswain stared into the darkness, looking around constantly in an attempt to be more certain of their position.
When he could bear it no more, Childers whispered again: “Mr Barthe cautioned me to give the shoals around this island a wide berth, sir.”
Hayden nodded. The sailing master had issued him the same warning. He considered for only the briefest moment.
“Alter our course to starboard a little, Childers. I will attempt to speak to their boat.”
Childers edged them marginally nearer, a difficult thing to manage in the dark, where distances were always deceiving. When the two boats were almost oar tip to oar tip, Sir William began to motion Hayden to keep off.
“There is a shoal, sir,” Hayden hissed, hoping his voice would carry.
He could see Sir William consult with his coxswain—perhaps over what Hayden had said—and then Jones cupped hands to his mouth and whispered, “Follow me.”
“What are we to do, sir?” Childers whispered.
“Assume Jones knows what he is about. Avast rowing, and we will take up a position aft of their cutter.”
Hayden began waving his own cutter back so it did not lumber into their transom, and the oarsmen in the following boat left off rowing. For a moment the two boats drifted, the men lying on their oars, and then they took them up again, Childers bringing them into line with Sir William’s two boats.
Hayden thought the tip of the shoal that lay to the north of the little island was less than a mile distant. Half of the hour would see them over it—assuming Barthe was wrong and they could pass over it.
The rowers kept up their relentless pace. Hayden would have chosen to proceed more slowly, allowing his men to preserve much of their strength for the coming fight. They would have to speed the last halfmile or so and he did not want his men all in when they arrived at the brig. But they were following Jones’ lead, and the Themises would not be left behind and accused of being shy for all the world. Like all men, they needed some things in which they could take pride, and they would protect these with their very lives.
A quarter of the hour had passed when there was a dull thump and grinding sound from ahead and the cutter they followed was backing oars and the men all muttering. Hayden ordered his men to back oars, as well.
“What has happened?” Ransome whispered as his cutter ranged up near Hayden’s barge.
“Sir William, I believe, has gone aground. Back the oars, Childers, let us give them room.”
This was done. Through the darkness, Hayden could just make out the shape of the boat, the shadows of men slipping over the side to heave it up and off. Shore was only a quarter of a mile distant, and anyone there would certainly have heard this.
Looking about, Hayden estimated that he could make out a boat at sixty or seventy yards, and a group of four boats would likely be visible farther off. Given that, he wondered if they would not have been better to come down the very centre of the large bay, as distant from the shores as could be—but he had not been the one making the decisions. He had deferred to Jones, whose experience in those waters was much greater than his.
It took a few moments for Jones to get his barge afloat again, and the other boats to give him room to manoeuvre. Once all was sorted, they set off again, this time giving the shoal room. They bore on in this manner for a short while and then Jones altered course again, almost due west.
“Do you know, Childers, I am beginning to have my doubts about coming so near the entrance to the careenage.”
“I agree, sir. There are batteries there, and men on watch, I have no doubt.”
Hayden did not want to alter his course and lose sight of Sir William, but he was also losing his faith in the man’s plan to skirt the shore. He gazed out into the bay. The dark mass of a vessel seemed to materialise out of the smoky darkness, riding lights aglow.
“That does not look like a fishing vessel,” Hayden whispered to his coxswain.
“I agree, sir. It would appear to be a transport.”
Then, to the right of this, another vessel came into view, and then another not so very distant from that. And then, as though a little mist had hung over the water and been swept away, a bay filled with ships opened up to them.
“Is it a fleet, Captain?” Gould whispered.
“A convoy, perhaps. I wonder how long it has been in port.” His mind went immediately back to the meeting between the comte and Caldwell at which he had acted as translator. “The French have no plans for further attacks this season,” the Frenchman had told the admiral. “They have not got the ships for such adventures.”
“Will they not be reinforced from France?” Caldwell had asked him.
“Not this season, Admiral.”
Either the comte did not have the correct information . . . or he had lied.
“Catch us up with Jones,” Hayden said softly.
The oarsmen increased their pace and Hayden’s barge quickly overtook that of Sir William, who stood in the stern-sheets of his boat, gazing about, his white breeches appearing almost to glow palely.
As Hayden drew alongside, he ordered his men to avast rowing and Jones did the same, the two boats drifting on.
“Where is our little brig?” Jones muttered, as he stared into the darkness.
“Sir William,” Hayden almost hissed, “there is a convoy here . . . and at least one frigate that I can make out. This is almost certainly a military convoy . . . bearing troops.”
“Yes,” Jones said distractedly. “We shall inform the admiral.” He pointed into the night. “She must be up in the very head of the bay, where it is too shallow for the larger ships.” He sat down and ordered his boats on.
Hayden sat, dumbfounded.
“Sir,” Childers said softly, “he is not going after this brig yet . . . There must be five thousand French sailors aboard these ships.”
“Yes . . . Follow Sir William. I shall try to dissuade him from this folly.”
It took a moment for Hayden’s boat to overhaul Jones’, and when it did, Sir William pointed up the bay.
“That must be her there,” he informed Hayden.
“Sir William,” Hayden replied, “there must be thirty ships in this convoy—at the very least. Two of them appear to be frigates—”
“That is the beauty of it, Hayden,” Jones whispered. “They will never for a moment be expecting us. We can slip aboard, take the ship by stealth, and sail it out without the French being any the wiser.” He pointed again. “Do you see those lights? I would wager our ship is there.”
“But, Sir William, why this little brig? There is a harbour full of ships.”
“Come along, Hayden,” Jones replied testily. “I will lead the way.”
He set his men to the oars again, leaving Hayden again shaking his head and all but speechless.
“What shall I do, sir?” Childers asked.
“We have no choice. I cannot leave him to cut out this brig on his own.”
Hayden put his boats in train aft of Jones’. He could sense the mood of the men, though they made not a sound. Like him, they thought this the height of folly.
Hayden looked up at the clear sky and the expanse of bright stars sweeping across the vault. Cloud would have been preferable—cloud and a little rain to mask both the sight and sounds of their approach.
Hayden kept his eyes on Sir William’s boats, wondering at what distance they were still visible. He was distressed to find it to be much greater than he had hoped. If there were alert watchmen aboard any of these ships, the British would be spotted at a distance. He could only hope they would be mistaken for Frenchmen.
The stretch to the back of the bay was short—a mile and a half, Hayden thought. He could feel his excitement and anxiety growing; his traitorous stomach gave an audible growl, much to his chagrin. The tension among the men was palpable now, especially among the marines in the bow, who sat stock-still, staring into the darkness ahead as though the gates of Hades lay there. Jones was taking them near the little island that lay to the west of the narrow channel that divided the two large islands that made up Guadeloupe. Hayden was certain it was invested with cannon to guard the entry to the channel beyond. He could only hope the gunners stationed there were in their cups or sleeping.
The head of the island drew abreast. Hayden could make out the dark forms of vessels in the anchorage. And then the sounds of voices reached him over the water. He turned his head this way and then that, trying to discern from what direction the sounds came.
Gould pointed at the nearby island, and Childers nodded agreement. The oarsmen slowed their pace without being told, dipping their oars as silently as they were able. It was when the oars returned to the surface, dripping, that they inevitably made noise—a small patter of drops on the surface.
“Listen!” a voice said in French, and Hayden held up his hand; the oarsmen stopped in midstroke—oars in the water. Behind him, Wickham, fluent in their enemy’s language, had his men do the same. To his great relief, so did Jones—who often bragged that he had sailed up to the mouth of Brest Harbour and spoken a French Navy cutter there in such impeccable French that they had never for a moment suspected him of being English.
For some minutes they lay there in the dark, trying to control the sound of their breathing, no one moving in the slightest. And then another voice drifted out to them.
“Have some more wine, Mathias,” it said, “to calm your excited nerves.”
They waited until the conversation resumed, and then a man began a song in French and others joined in. Hayden ordered the oarsmen on. “Easy. Silent as you can, lads.”
The singing went on without interruption, and every man aboard began again to breathe. At the head of the bay lay another, smaller bight, too shallow for larger vessels and almost enclosed by shoals and reefs and islands. Their brig would certainly draught too much to have got in so far, so Hayden expected her to be lying just short of it if she was not out among the larger ships.
Jones stood up in his boat, which was now twenty yards ahead and to starboard. He fixed his gaze forward and then turned and began waving Hayden up. While he was seating himself, his oarsmen suddenly picked up their pace.
“It seems Captain Jones has found his quarry,” Gould intoned.
“Yes, and right up in the back of the bay, where we must sail her out through a French convoy. At least he is right about one thing—they will not be expecting us to come this night; such a thing would be beyond foolish.” Hayden leaned forward a little. “Put your backs into it,” he whispered, “let us not have Sir William take the ship before we arrive.”
After a very lengthy ten minutes, Hayden descried a smaller dark mass ahead and ordered Childers to steer for that. He drew his cutlass, felt down into the shadowy bottom of the boat to be certain he could lay his hand on an axe, and prepared to stand.
“Bring us up on her starboard side, head to wind, Mr Childers.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden glanced towards the shore. All still seemed quiet, the soft notes of the French song drifting slowly out to them, quieter by the moment.
The smooth cadence of the oarsmen increased to Childers’ urging, and the boat surged over the calm bay. Hayden glanced aft, where he found Ransome’s cutter keeping pace. The distant brig did not seem to grow larger, but instead appeared to be receding, the distance to it mysteriously growing.
Without warning, the brig materialised out of the murk, appearing larger than it should. Childers brought the barge, almost silently, alongside, the oarsmen unshipping sweeps and sliding them silently down onto the thwarts. Fore and aft, men climbed quickly up and made ropes fast to the brig—to their surprise, they found boarding nets! In a bay full of ships! But all remained quiet aboard; if there were watchmen awake, they remained unaware of the English.
Hayden stepped up onto the barge’s gunwale and began cutting through the boarding net. Upon the cutter, which had come alongside immediately aft of them, men were doing the same, when a heavy thump sounded. Someone in the cutter had dropped an axe. Immediately, Hayden ducked his head.
“They are upon us!” came a cry in French.
Hayden rose and went back to cutting through the net with renewed energy. He could hear the thudding of feet upon ladders, and then there was a flash hardly ten paces distant.
Musket balls buried themselves in the bulwark planks. A man on the cutter dropped into the bottom of the boat like a sack of meal tossed down. Hayden braced himself, drew a pistol, rose up, and fired into the mass of men who were now crossing the deck towards him. The marines in both British boats began firing, the air bright with flashes.
Hayden dropped down, shouldered a man aside, and came up with an axe. He took this to boarding nets, hewing through the ropes. A Frenchman came at him with a cutlass, which Hayden managed to evade on first thrust. Gould, who was climbing up beside him, shot the man in the gut and, pressing back the boarding net, tumbled onto the deck, where he immediately became the target for the Frenchmen surging towards them.
Gould scrambled up, drew his other pistol, fired, and then, realising the odds, turned to lunge back into the barge but came up against the netting. Hayden drew his own pistol and shot one of Gould’s attackers.
“Turn and fight! Turn and fight!” he screamed at the midshipman, who was the lone Englishman on the French side of the netting.
The boy began madly thrusting and twisting, trying to keep from being run through.
Just then, the boarding net was thrust upwards and the hands surged over the rail as a single mass. Hayden was pushed upwards and over the bulwark, whether he wished to go or not. And then he was alongside Gould, wielding a cutlass and screaming what he did not know.
The battle was fierce and brutal, neither side giving a foot of deck without a man falling. The planks were quickly wet and slick with blood, the footing treacherous.
There were too many Frenchmen aboard to be accounted for by the little brig’s crew, so Hayden had been right—they had been reinforced, which meant they had expected—or feared—the English were coming.
A man threw himself upon Hayden, stabbing at him with a dagger and managing, despite all Hayden did, to cut him twice, how seriously could not be gauged. And then this man was torn free and thrown down upon the deck by some of Hayden’s crew, and stabbed again and again until he lay still.
Hayden was standing on bodies now. The British had not managed to push the French back but only to hold their little beachhead of deck, and Hayden thought they might not even keep that much longer. The tide turned as Hayden was thinking this, and the British began to step back, even as they fought furiously against the dark mass of shadowy men who tried to murder them with almost invisible iron. A step, and then another, and the British sailors were forced into a little crescent of deck so that the men in the centre of the half-moon were hemmed in by their own kind and unable to fight. All forward momentum had been lost, and now it was only a question of jumping down into the boats and getting clear before the French followed them over the side and forced them either to swim or to surrender.
“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.
Not a hundred yards distant, the night opened in a blossom of orange flame and roiling smoke. Hayden froze in place, holding his breath as the report reached them, sails suddenly thrashing about in their gear and balls passing to either side, only to skip off the surface a hundred yards beyond.
“They have found us, Captain,” Wickham whispered. He had loomed up out of the darkness to stand beside Hayden.
“Yes, but they do not have our range. Much of their shot was too high.”
“Let us hope they do not know it.”
Before the next broadside could be fired, Jones ordered the men to their stations again, then spun his wheel, altering their course five points to larboard. Hayden expected another broadside, but none came.
“They have lost us . . . at last,” Jones announced. “Half of the hour and we will be in open waters.”
Ten minutes slipped by and Hayden began to hear the men around him breathing more easily; they worked their shoulders to loosen the muscles. In but a few moments they would be beyond the shoals and shallows and into deep water again. The cost in lives had been great, but at least these lives had not been lost to no end.
Hayden himself began to feel a lessening of the fear and anxiety that had beset him all that night. He heard a low chuckle somewhere forward, followed of an instant by an officer warning the man to silence.
The wind felt to be making a little, Hayden thought, though it still showed no sign of swinging back into the north-west, where it properly belonged. The slap of wavelets against the sides as they pressed forward, the little sighing breeze, and the tiller ropes running through their blocks below were the only sounds. And then without warning Hayden was thrown forward, staggered three or four steps, but somehow kept his feet beneath him. The rending sound of timbers running up on rock or coral came to him, and immediately the stern of the brig swung to leeward and was instantly grinding upon coral. All forward motion stopped, and as the ship swung, the sails luffed and beat the air like broken wings.
“She’s hard aground,” came the call from forward, as though every man aboard did not know it.
Men who had been thrown down on the deck got quickly to their feet. Wickham had the presence of mind to grab the lead and begin sounding all along the starboard side.
“Hard bottom all along, Captain,” he informed Hayden. “I can feel it.”
He made his way quickly aft. “Three fathoms here, sir. Soft bottom. Sand, I should think.”
Jones looked around the vessel once and then turned to Hayden, his mind clearly made up. “I will row out the small bower, and my boats will haul as well. I leave the ship in your charge, Hayden.”
He began calling out orders, and his men jumped to with a will. Jones’ boats, which had been streamed astern, were brought alongside. Cables were passed up from below and quickly coiled down in the boats. The small bower was lowered with much care, so that it hung under and astern of the barge and could be released of an instant.
Hayden sent men aloft to hand the sails, for the canvas was doing nothing but heeling the ship and pushing it farther onto the reef. The capstan was manned. In the dark silence Hayden heard Jones order the anchor let go, and Hayden ordered the men at the capstan to be ready for the cable to be returned to the ship. He took his place on the end of one capstan bar, for there were so few men aboard.
The crack of musket fire sounded then, and Hayden jumped back from the capstan to see muzzle flashes coming from out in the dark bay. Upon the instant, Jones’ crew began to return fire.
“Mr Hawthorne!” Hayden shouted. “All your marines to the larboard quarter. Do not fire on Sir William’s boats!”
The marines, many of whom were at the capstan bars, took up their guns and hurried aft.
“Mr Ransome! Bring our boats alongside to starboard. An armed boatman in each.”
“Aye, sir.”
Hayden hurried aft, where he found Hawthorne, a musket to his shoulder, peering into the gloom, where musket fire came from several places.
“How many boats are there?” Hayden asked the marine.
“I cannot be sure . . . Four . . . at the very least. And nearer than I had hoped.”
Hayden heard himself curse. A man was dropping the lead to starboard. “Are we drawing off?” Hayden asked him.
“Not that I can tell, sir,” was the answer.
Without warning, fire blossomed from several points in the darkness, all very near, and shouting was heard in both French and English. Jones’ men returned fire, and splashed oars into the bay without concern for discovery.
“He must come back to the ship!” Hawthorne said in exasperation. “I do not know who to fire upon.”
Hayden could now make out what the French were shouting, and clearly, they had found the brig.
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “Every able-bodied man to repel boarders!”
Hayden could hear boats rowing directly at the brig, and then they appeared.
“Captain Jones!” Hayden shouted at the top of his lungs. “Call out, or we will fire.”
There was no response.
“Those are your Frenchmen, Mr Hawthorne. Fire as you will.”
Hayden took out his own pistols, which he had failed to load after they had taken the brig, and began madly loading. Ransome ordered the men to the larboard rail, aft, and they lined it, brandishing pikes and tomahawks and shouting defiance at the French.
Hawthorne’s marines all fired at once, but there were suddenly many boats appearing. Six, Hayden counted, and then more behind those.
“Where is Sir William?” Wickham asked. He stood beside Hayden with a pistol in one hand and a cutlass in the other.
“Driven off, I fear,” Hayden replied, as he finished loading his pistols.
“Fix bayonets!” Hawthorne ordered.
When the first boat was but two boat lengths distant, Hayden stepped up to the rail, levelled a pistol, and shot the man in the bow. Along the rail other guns went off, and there was much carnage in the first French boat. But behind came many more.
British sailors were desperately loading their firearms when Hayden realised that the French boats were in such numbers that they were impeding each other in their rush to the brig. He did not need to think a moment more but called out, “Mr Ransome! All our wounded into the boats . . . upon this instant!”
“Marines, stand in your places!” Hawthorne shouted over the chaos. He looked over at Hayden. “We will hold them until the men are in the boats.”
“I admire your resolve, Mr Hawthorne, but the French have numbers.”
The first French boat thumped alongside, and another immediately astern of that. For the second time that night, a brutal battle began upon the deck of the little brig. The first wave of Frenchmen were held at the rail, murdered, and fell back into their boats, but soon more boats came alongside the first, and more after them, so that the hostile mass became too great. The English were pressed back across the decks, foot by foot. Hayden fought shoulder to shoulder with Hawthorne and another marine, but soon they were hemmed in so tight that only a half-circle of deck was left to them.
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “Begin getting the men into the boats.”
He did not look back but trusted his men not to break and run. They must cling to their bit of deck until most of the crew was in the boats. The British sailors managed to hold their line so that the fighting did not break up into isolated engagements, which would have been of great advantage to the more numerous French. Pikes thrust out of the dark and Hayden struck them aside with his cutlass, thrusting at the mass of men before him. He held a discharged pistol in his left hand and used it as a small but effective club. The marine to his right was pulled back out of the line, and Hayden and the next man closed ranks. A musket fired from among the French, and the man to his right tumbled back. The English were being driven back to the rail. Hayden could not look away to see how many of his men still stood, but finally, when the rail was but two feet behind him, he called out, “Englishmen! Into the boats!”