Hayden awoke to a shot, not certain if it was a dream or real. Gould was crouched down, staring into the wood, pistol held ready. Along the boat, others were awakened as well, shaking off their dreams.
“Did I hear a shot?” Hayden whispered.
“Musket, sir,” Gould replied softly.
All the men stirred now, as silently as they were able. They crouched down, peering over the gunwales, apprehensive and struggling to breathe quietly. A little gust pushed through the wood, stirring the leaves and setting branches asway. Above this, nothing could be heard.
Then, nearer, a report muffled by the trees. Hayden guessed, by the sound, that the musket had not been aimed in their direction, so he hoped that meant whoever fired it was not walking towards them. An hour passed without another shot or any sounds of men. The sun had progressed into the west now and darkness was but two hours off, he thought. If they could lie there, hidden, for that short time, they would slip out and pray the Themis was hove-to off the bay.
His stomach had begun to complain of hunger, and the others were suffering the same. The confiscated wine had been portioned out, carefully, to the men in both boats, and drunk with officers watching, so none could sell their portion to another. Drunken hands were not what Hayden needed now. Wine—even good French wine—was no substitute for food.
Morris, who was one of the several wounded, awoke at that moment and cried out in pain. The men nearest entreated him to remain silent, but he was clearly fevered, unaware of what went on, and in terrible agony. In vain, they whispered, cajoled, and even threatened the man to keep silent, but to no avail.
Hayden could not help but remember the accidental smothering of a man in a similar situation not so long ago. Finally, Gould gave the man several folds of leather belt to bite down on, and this quieted him at last.
Every man now stared into the shadowy wood beyond and listened apprehensively. For a long time they heard nothing: no sound, no voices. Hayden was beginning to think that whoever was shooting—hunters, he hoped—had passed by. And then a stick snapped.
Immediately, Hayden turned to the right, from where the noise had come, and there, crouched down, musket in hand, was a boy of perhaps fifteen, looking at them curiously.
Gould twisted around and levelled a pistol at the lad, who leapt up and fled.
“Les Anglais! Les Anglais!” he cried.
Hayden, Gould, and Hawthorne vaulted out of the boat and waded ashore. By the time they had climbed the low bank and gone a few yards into the bush, the boy was already lost to sight.
Hawthorne tore apart the air with an array of curses that would have done Mr Barthe proud.
“What are we now to do?” the marine asked.
“We have no choice,” Hayden answered without hesitation. “We set out this instant and hope darkness finds us before the French do.”
There was no discussion, but only nods from both Gould and Hawthorne. Ransome had climbed up the bank by then and hung back a few paces.
“We are discovered, Mr Ransome,” Hayden informed him as he returned to the boats. “We must put to sea this instant.”
They clambered down the embankment, into the water, and then into the boats . . . but then he stopped. “We’ll leave Bamfield here, under the branches, where he is not likely to be discovered immediately.”
None of the men met his eye, but a few nodded.
The dead man was handed out of the boat, stripped of his British sailor’s garb, and laid to rest on the shore. No one felt good about treating a shipmate so, but they were in narrow straits now and had no choice.
“Don’t leave me here,” Morris whispered, his eyes unfocused and face flushed and slick with sweat.
“We will not leave you,” Gould whispered. “Now stay silent, or you will have us all in gaol.”
The midshipman glanced back at Hayden, his look very grave. He did not expect Morris to live, Hayden realised, and wondered if poor Morris comprehended this as well.
The knots that bent the branches low were undone and the able hands all slid over the side and ran the boats over the silt and into deeper water.
“Is our cask full of water?” Hayden asked as the oars were shipped.
“It is, sir,” one of the marines reported.
“As soon as we are in the main river we will rig for sail.”
In a moment they were turning downstream towards the sea. They surprised the occupants of a small fishing boat returning upriver, who stared at them with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
Masts were quickly stepped, gear rigged, and as soon as they emerged from the river’s mouth, sails were set. The boat heeled to the trade. Without being ordered, the men all shifted to windward. A scattering of sails could be made out across the pale, evening blue—fishing boats and schooners—but no mass of sail large enough to be a frigate.
“What is our course, sir?” Childers asked.
Hayden pointed. “We will work our way out to sea and then return after nightfall and hope to find the Themis there.”
He did not really expect Archer to return until late in the night, but it was always difficult to predict the actions of others. The usual brisk trade was blowing—twelve or fifteen knots—but altered in direction by the islands.
Hayden had only a night glass, which was of little use by day, so he called out to the other boat just off their larboard quarter.
“Mr Wickham? Can you see our ship?”
The midshipman stood up in the stern-sheets and scanned the sea to the west and south. He turned back to Hayden after a moment. “I cannot, sir, but this schooner seems to be taking an interest in us.” He pointed at a little schooner about half a league to windward.
Hayden could just make out the men on deck, but not why Wickham thought they were interested in their boats, and then the schooner began to wear. She was not large for her type—sixty feet, Hayden thought. Were she a navy ship, she would have a crew of sixty or sixty-five men, but if she were a trading vessel, she might act as privateer if opportunity arose, and then her numbers could be either substantially smaller or—if she were dedicated to prize hunting—greater.
As the starboard side of the distant ship came into the light, Wickham turned to Hayden and called out, “She does have guns, Captain!”
“Privateer!” Childers muttered.
“Not necessarily,” Hayden cautioned. “I cannot make out more than two dozen men on her deck.”
The little ship crossed two yards on her forward mast but had her square sails neatly furled.
“Mr Ransome!” Hayden called out. “We shall have to keep to the shallows, and hope to lose her come darkness. Stay near. We may yet need to fight.”
Ransome repeated Hayden’s order and the two boats altered course to the south. The shoal that protected the careenage was perhaps one mile distant. They would have to stay off that. Once beyond, they could keep to the shallows. Schooners were employed by navies for inshore work because of their shallow draught, but the ship’s boats drew barely more than a foot, even heavily laden.
A gust caught the boats then, heeling them down and dashing spray over the crew. The water, however, was blood warm, or so it seemed, unlike their home waters, where a good dousing would leave a boat’s crew shivering and stiff with cold.
Childers glanced apprehensively to windward. “Will we pass by this shoal, sir, before the schooner reaches us?”
“It will depend, Childers, on how fast this schooner might prove to be.” Hayden considered the privateer that was now most certainly shaping her course to intercept them. “How much water do you think this schooner draws, Childers?”
“I don’t know, sir. That would depend on what work she was intended for and where she was built. If she came from the Chesapeake she might draw very little. If she came from somewhere up north she might draw ten or twelve feet, Captain. If she’s local . . . well, I cannot say, sir.” Childers turned his attention south. “We will be on a lee shore, sir, and I think the seas will build as we go.”
“Yes. We shall have to sail along the surf line and hope the master of this schooner will not dare come so near.”
“Is it not likely, Captain,” Gould began, “that he knows these waters better than do we?”
“I am afraid that is very likely true, Mr Gould, and that confers upon him a clear advantage.”
“If I were him, sir, I would pick a place where I might sail in near and drive us up on a shoal, Captain.”
“They might be thinking the same, but any waters that shallow could be clearly seen. He might consider launching boats and coming after us, which he would have to do before it grows dark. Once night has fallen, our boats are not easily seen.”
Hayden looked into the western sky. The sun was now sinking below Basse-Terre and casting an ever-lengthening shadow east. There was very little twilight at this latitude—when the sun set, darkness descended swiftly after. The sun, however, could not be hurried in its course.
Childers was an excellent helmsman and the other boat had Dryden and Wickham aboard, both of whom Hayden would trust at the helm in any situation. Gould was not so experienced, but Hayden could take his tricks at the helm if need be.
Hayden turned back to quizzing the privateer, and began to suspect she was both nearer and faster than he had hoped, though very likely on her most advantageous point of sail. She very quickly loomed up, shaping her course to cut Hayden off at the southern tip of the shoal that protected the careenage. Every man aboard twisted about every few minutes, attempting, with a dreadful fascination, to gauge the speed of the schooner.
A quarter of an hour later, smoke blossomed from its side and, a few seconds after, an iron ball tore into the back of a wave some hundred yards aft.
“They cannot bring their guns to bear yet,” Hayden noted, trying to keep his voice calm.
“Is that a nine-pounder, sir?” Gould enquired.
“Six, I should think, though quite large enough to sink us if we are struck.” Hayden waved a hand at the boat. “But we are a small target, Mr Gould, on a moving sea. We will soon see how good their gunnery is.”
“I would put money on some of our crews to hit a boat at this distance,” Gould told him.
“But a frigate’s decks would not be moving so much in this sea,” Childers pointed out.
The schooner was, however, drawing distressingly near. There was little more than a fathom over the shoal, and the waves mounted up there and became steep. Breaking crests could only be seen over the southern tip, where it became very shallow.
With wind abeam and the sea from the same direction, Hayden did not want to get into the steeper waves and risk being knocked down by a gust. Skirting the edge of shallow water was the best they might do here. It was not necessary to heave the lead; the bottom could be seen down to forty feet, and it was but two fathoms presently.
The schooner fired its “broadside” of three six-pounders, but the shot all fell astern.
Shading his eyes, Hayden stood and gazed towards the careenage, where he could see another schooner hove down and several smaller vessels swinging to anchors. He then turned his attention to the privateer, trying again to gauge her speed.
“Will we make it, sir?” Gould asked.
“I am not certain where this shoal ends, but it will likely be a close-run thing.”
The privateer held her fire for the next five minutes, realising, Hayden assumed, that there was no point wasting shot. She was sailing hard towards the end of the shoal, hoping to beat the British boats there and either force them onto the shallow end of the reef or bring them to with her guns. Hayden had no chart for this area, but with the tide near low, he could make out areas of the shoal that were dry.
Again Hayden gazed at the enemy ship for a moment, then he stood and called out to the boat aft. “Mr Ransome! If that privateer makes the end of this shoal before us, we shall wear and sail north . . . upon my order.”
“Aye, sir!” Ransome called back.
“All hands to wear ship,” Hayden said, gaining smiles from all the hands, for she was hardly a ship and did not require even all the men aboard to bring the wind across her stern.
“Will we not be heading back towards the bay, sir?” Gould asked softly.
“Indeed, Mr Gould, but it will be dark before we reach that place, and with a little fortune on our side, the Themis will appear off the bay sometime after midnight.” Hayden took another look at the schooner. “I wonder if we can bring her in so close that she will not risk wearing to come after us but will have to pass some distance south and tack in clear waters.”
It was always Hayden’s way to plan for as many different eventualities as he could imagine. Given the vagaries of wind and weather, plans must often be abandoned, and on short notice, too. Officers committed to one plan, and one plan only, did not last long in the King’s Navy. Wind and sea were forces too great to master—men must ever and always adapt to them.
The present matter, Hayden thought, had come down to a three-way race between the ship’s boats, the privateer, and the descending darkness. The white crests of small breaking waves could be seen, marking the areas where the falling tide had exposed the shoal.
“Helm half a point to larboard, Childers. Let us get as near this reef as we dare.”
“Half a point to larboard, sir.”
Hayden peered over the side, but it was now too dark to make out the bottom, which was one advantage lost. The schooner was yet some distance to windward, sailing fast. She had given up firing, perhaps realising that seasoned British sailors were not merchantmen who would strike at the first shot. They were clearly hoping to reach the end of the reef before the Themises, and Hayden was now beginning to think that she would do just that.
Reaching under the plank-thwart, he took out the folded tracing of Mr Barthe’s chart. It covered only the harbour and immediate surroundings; it did not extend to the end of the careenage, as Hayden had never thought for a moment that he would be sailing the brig in these shallow waters. He cursed his foolishness. The brig was on a shoal in the bay and he was without the proper chart.
No one aboard had eaten, now, for a day entire, and Hayden was beginning to feel weak and lethargic, although he was uncertain how much of this might be in his mind and not his body. The schooner passed them now, still too distant to bother wasting more shot.
“Is there deep water off the end of this reef, Captain?” Childers enquired quietly.
“I cannot recall,” Hayden told him. It embarrassed him to do what he did next, but he stood and called out to the other boat. “Mr Ransome! Is there deep water to the south of this shoal?”
Ransome consulted with Wickham hurriedly, then stood so he could see Hayden. “Mr Wickham believes there may be, Captain.”
“He is not certain?” Hayden called back.
“No, sir, he is not.”
“Mr Wickham? Can you make out the end of the dried shoal?”
Ransome sat and Wickham rose in his place, leaning out and low to look under the boom. His hand shot up.
“There, sir,” the midshipman called out. “Not half a mile, I should think.”
Hayden waved and sat back down. The schooner altered her course at that moment, angling in towards the shore. The sun must have set, for the brief dusk was upon them. Hayden could just make out the men aboard the schooner, gathered at the rail.
Three simultaneous blossoms of flame and a shroud of roiling smoke almost hid the hull for a moment. The report reached them, and then shot landed nearby, one ball skipping across the wave tops and passing between the two British boats.
“Imagine missing us at that distance,” Hawthorne observed from the bow. “Shall I stand and afford them a larger target?”
“In truth, Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden replied, “their gunnery appears to be up to the task.”
Hayden looked quickly around. If Wickham was right and there was deep water off the end of the reef, then the schooner would cut them off. For a moment he hesitated, and then Hayden called out, “Mr Ransome! We are going into the careenage.”
“The careenage?” the lieutenant shouted back.
“That is correct.” Hayden nodded to Childers. “As close to the breaking waves as we dare.”
“Aye, sir.”
Orders were given and sheets started as Childers brought the wind around onto the boat’s starboard quarter. They were angling in towards the shore. The schooner unleashed another small broadside, but the balls all fell short this time.
“Captain!” came the call from Ransome. “Mr Wickham believes they are preparing to launch boats, sir.”
“Will they heave-to, Captain?” Gould asked.
“I believe they will anchor. There is not enough surf to matter, and with such a handy little ship they can readily sail off.”
Darkness deepened by the moment, and in fifteen minutes the schooner was lost to sight completely. They were sailing inside the reef now, into a dark anchorage with a narrow pass and spotted with irregular reefs to either side.
“Are you . . . content with our course, sir?” Childers enquired.
“I am not the least content, Childers,” Hayden told the coxswain. “But we shall hold it for a short time, tuck in near the shore where it is darkest, let the privateers pass us by in their boats, and slip back out again. Or so I hope.”
The boats went gliding along now across glassy waters. Overhead, the sky was thinly clouded—starless and moonless. The trade began to take off a little, but on such calm waters, their speed remained the same. Hayden strained to hear the splash of oars, but over the small waves breaking on the windward side of the reef no such sounds could be discerned.
Perhaps a little more than half a mile into the careenage, Hayden’s boat suddenly ground to a halt, the wind immediately pushing the stern to leeward.
“Let run the sheets!” Hayden ordered.
Before he could call out a warning, Ransome’s boat ran up on the same reef to windward of them, the stern lurching to larboard and the sails beginning to flog.
The men went quickly over the side.
“Do not push her off!” Hayden hissed at the crew. “We must get the sails off her.”
The sails were down of an instant. Hayden ordered the men to crouch behind the boats and distributed arms to the most experienced hands.
“Do not fire until I order it,” he whispered, and the order was passed down the line of men to the crew of the second boat. He waded to the bow of his own boat, where he would be in the centre of the line and his orders were most likely to be heard. He had one knee in shallow water and steadied his pistol on the gunwale. If he was correct, the pass was so narrow at this end of the anchorage that a pistol could be fired across it with the very real expectation of inflicting damage.
He could hear no sound of oars over the breaking seas—at least no sound of which he could be certain. And then the privateers’ boat seemed to take shape out of the darkness . . . not twenty yards distant.
All breathing stopped.
Hayden prayed that none of his men would lose their nerve. The master of the schooner, if he knew his business, would not have sent only a single boat, even if he did hope to raise the alarm in the careenage.
The French boat, painted some light colour, was going to pass to the right of them, down what was very likely the passage Hayden’s boats had missed. The privateers bent to their oars, which had been muffled. Hayden could feel them looking every which way more than he could see them, but no French voice raised the alarm.
Just when Hayden thought he must either order the men to fire or let the boat pass by, a second boat materialised before them.
Hayden leaned near to Ransome. “If we must fire, the second boat is yours.”
Ransome nodded.
Under the sound of waves, the order passed from man to man. The crew of Hayden’s boat tracked the first privateer with their muskets and pistols.
“There!” one of the French sailors cried out, and he leapt up to point, rocking the boat. “There!”
“Fire!” Hayden ordered.
It was a small volley—four muskets and six pistols, one of which misfired. Ransome’s broadside was no larger. Even so, at such close range, every shot likely found its mark. Immediately, French voices cried out in anguish and pain.
“Reload!” Hayden ordered.
A ragged fire was returned, but Hayden’s men had ducked behind their boat. When pistols were loaded, Hayden ordered a second volley. The privateers who could still man an oar were pulling for all they were worth, but the range was still very short and Hayden guessed that the harm done among the enemy was very great.
“Into the boats!”
Sails were set and quickly sheeted, and the boats set off south, out of the mouth of the careenage. In the dark, and over calm waters, the boat seemed almost to be in flight, soaring low over the sea.
“Mr Gould,” Hayden said quietly to the midshipman, “ask if any were wounded and have Mr Hawthorne load all the muskets and pistols.” He handed Gould his own pistol, and his shot and powder as well.
“No one hurt, sir,” came Gould’s report a moment later. “Captain? Morris has departed this life. Shall we slip him into the sea, sir?”
“Yes, may God have mercy on his soul.”
With barely a splash, the able seaman known as Morris was put over the side and slid past Hayden, his face barely visible in the dark waters. Hayden closed his eyes a second. Nine men, he counted.
“Captain?” came Gould’s voice. As he returned Hayden’s loaded pistol, he said, “Mr Hawthorne asked me to inform you that we have not enough shot to load all the muskets, sir.”
“How many can we load?”
“Two, sir. But he has loaded all the pistols and can load half that number once more.”
It was clear to every man who had heard Hawthorne’s report that they had not enough shot to fight off a sustained attack by men in boats. They were on the run and relying far too much on luck.
Within five minutes the boats emerged from behind the cover of the reef and began to bob over the short seas. Ransome’s cutter was very slightly ahead and to leeward of Hayden, so when someone aboard quietly hailed him, Hayden could not hear. Word, however, was passed back to him in whispers.
“Schooner, sir . . . at anchor, directly ahead.”
Hayden was about to order a course change when he asked, “How big a crew on that privateer, Childers?”
“Perhaps twenty, sir. Not more than two dozen.”
“And how many men would you have left aboard to man the ship?”
“Six, Captain. Certainly not eight.”
“My thoughts exactly. Mr Gould . . . ? Pass the word to Mr Hawthorne. We will board the schooner and attempt to take her. Have him inform Mr Ransome.”
“Take the schooner, sir?” Gould repeated. “With two muskets and six pistols?”
“Did you not hear Childers say they would leave six men aboard?”
“It was only a guess, sir,” Childers said quickly, “not a certainty.”
“An educated guess. We should have the crew outnumbered, and it will be cutlasses and bayonets, at any rate.”
“Aye, sir.”