Twenty-six

In the dark, the schooner crossed an invisible wind line, and the crew found themselves slipping ever so slowly across an ever calmer sea. With his small crew, Hayden could not man all the guns and sail the ship, so men were assigned to stations to which they could be called of an instant, as circumstances dictated. All the pistols aboard were distributed to the men and muskets were laid ready to hand. Everyone knew their station and duty, assuming they could hear orders being called. A few of the Frenchmen aboard were armed, and a couple of the younger men were stationed to aid the sail handlers. Women and children were sent below.

The little ship slid over the surface with barely a ripple in her wake. There was not a whisper aboard unless it was an order, and everyone who could stared out into the darkness, hoping to find any threat before they themselves were discovered.

Hayden had walked forward to gaze a moment through his night glass. Nothing but a shoreline lost in shadow and the dark mass of the small islands. He passed the glass to Wickham and whispered, “I will be aft. Keep a careful watch.”

Hayden walked quietly aft, where he found Ransome standing by Childers at the wheel. This was the third night they had crept in to this same beach, and no one aboard felt the least pleased about it. Smugglers who worked along the English coast never came to the same place two nights running but had many landing places, which they used in as random an order as they could manage. A smuggler would think what Hayden was doing the height of folly, and Hayden realised that he could hardly disagree.

A small gust swept down off the mountains and would have held them in irons if Childers had not been alert and spun his wheel, putting his helm up and keeping his ship hard on the wind. It was not so good a slant as they had been on, but Hayden expected the wind to come back around when the gust took off. The ship picked up speed on the gust, and a soft, babbling wake was heard behind—not something that could be detected at any distance, Hayden hoped.

Hawthorne loomed out of the darkness, his height and gait unmistakable, even by starlight. “No one aboard has drawn breath in half of an hour,” the marine whispered.

“When this gust dies we will lay-to, man the boats, and await Louis’ signal. I shall not risk sailing any nearer.” Hayden waved a hand forward. “Les Islets à Goayaves lie just there in the dark.”

Hawthorne stared into the dark a moment. “If you tell me it is so, Captain, I will believe you.” The marine lieutenant was silent for a few seconds and then whispered, “I do wish this were the last night we were coming to this place.” He touched his hat and hastened forward, no doubt to see that his men were in position, though Hayden did not doubt that they were. Hawthorne was both liked and respected—not something every officer could manage. His men would be where he positioned them and would not falter if ordered to stand and not give way.

The gust finally withered away, allowing Childers to put the schooner back on her course. Hayden ordered the ship laid-to on the starboard tack with her bow pointed more or less north. A leadsman was set to work in the chains forward, keeping Hayden informed of the depths. There was a shoal outboard of them at fourteen fathoms, and Hayden planned to use it to keep position, though in such a little breeze and small tide he did not expect his ship to move very far.

The boats were brought alongside, and Hayden ordered the crews sent down into them. As the men went one by one over the rail, there was a sudden clatter and a pistol fired in the boat. Hayden went immediately to the bulwark.

“Is anyone hurt?” he whispered.

“No, sir,” came the reply from Midshipman Gould. “Blew a hole in the planking just below the gunwale, sir.”

“Who was the man who had his pistol cocked?”

“Me, sir,” one of the hands admitted in a small voice.

“Give your pistol to Mr Gould.” Hayden hissed at him. “You shall not have one again.”

Bloody fool! he thought.

If Louis was watching, and he must be, what would he make of that? A single pistol shot at sea. No shouting. No sounds of a fight. Would he guess it to be an unlucky accident? Or would he pull his people back and retreat to the mountains?

Hawthorne stood at the rail a few paces away, no doubt reassuring himself that this was not the doing of one of his people—which it was not.

“Mr Hawthorne,” Hayden said, trying to calm his voice. “Let us have another marine in each of the larger boats.”

“Aye, sir.”

Two marines were quickly chosen and sent down into the bow of each boat. Wickham’s—the third boat—was small enough that another armed man would simply be in the way. Hayden called for his night glass and went forward.

Time immediately died away to a little zephyr of drifting minutes. The cosmic wind that pressed it on drew breath, and the night was held in suspension. Hayden began to think that morning would never come.

When he could bear it no more, Hayden went quickly below, where there was a lamp lit, and pulled out his watch. It was past the time when they should have seen a signal. His mind made up, he went back up to the deck and quickly forward.

“We will make the countersignal,” he ordered quietly.

The order was acknowledged with a quick knuckle. The lamp was lit and the signal made. For a long moment Hayden did not think that any answer would break through the darkness, but then, dim and distant, the signal flashed.

Hayden leaned over the side. “Mr Wickham? We have a signal. Keep your wits about you.”

The three boats pulled away and were quickly lost in the darkness. Without meaning to, Hayden began to pace across the width of the deck.

Another oarsman would have been useful, Wickham thought, despite the size of the boat—smaller than a British jollyboat, so narrow that one man could handle two oars. One good oarsman, though, would always be quieter, and that was the captain’s main concern. If a rapid escape became a necessity, Wickham planned to take up oars himself.

The beach, which lay half a mile distant, appeared to retreat before them. A low swell broke upon the sand—a ponderous, unrelenting rhythm. Pale crests were visible before the beach, and then the dim expanse of it, running north and south, took form. The boat slid up on the sand and the swell pushed the stern off to one side. All three were in the water immediately, the marine with his rifle shouldered and aimed into the dark forest, Wickham, and the oarsman, pushing the boat around to allow them to set off, bow first.

A now-familiar voice whispered from a few yards distant.

“C’est moi. Louis.”

“How many tonight?”

“Twenty-four, Mr Wickham.”

“So many? I will send the boats at once.”

Louis and another waded into the small surf to push them off.

In but a moment, Wickham found the boats.

“They have two dozen this night,” he told them.

“I hope they have not brought their belongings,” Ransome replied. “We shall be hard-pressed to carry so many.”

“I will return with you,” Wickham told him. “We might take three or four.”

The boats set off all at once, oars softly swirling water, and were soon gliding to a stop on the sand.

Despite finding Louis there and hearing the phrase that meant all was safe, Wickham was anxious to load his passengers and get shut of that beach as quickly as it could be managed. The French remained back in the shadows until the boats had landed, and then the men came out to help turn them around. The women and children appeared at a word, and the men began handing them into the boats.

“Three must come with us,” Wickham whispered in French.

This caused a hushed consultation, and then a woman and two children hurried over and clambered hastily aboard. The refugees were not yet all aboard when an almost simultaneous flash and report came from just south of them. A musket ball whistled overhead.

Before an officer could shout an order, a volley of musket fire came from down the beach and, in the boat farthest south, there were screams and panicked shouting.

“Push them out! Push them out!” Ransome called over the musket fire, and the sailors and a few Frenchmen began shoving the boats out into the small swell. Wickham was doing the same to their boat before he even thought. When the water reached mid-thigh he tumbled over the gunwale and began searching about for oars. They were pulling out into the darkness then. Shouting was heard and then another ragged volley. On the shore he could hear cries and calls to retreat into the trees.

“Pull to starboard,” Wickham grunted, dragging his oar through the water. “To starboard.”

The sounds of fighting came from the shore, and Wickham feared refugees were being bayoneted. Gunfire came from the trees then, and it was the turn of the Jacobins to take fire. This likely saved his life, Wickham realised, for the Jacobins were on the beach dead aft of them and would likely have killed many in the boats if they had not been fired upon. He was near to pulling his arms out, keeping up with Watts, and air was tearing at his throat as he gasped.

An orange flash of light dimly illuminated the boats and a deep boom echoed from somewhere out at sea. Wickham turned his head to see the flashes from several guns fading. Almost immediately there was an answer.

“My God, sir! Are they taking our ship?” Watts managed.

“Not if our captain is still standing.”

Everyone’s eyes were fixed upon the shore, where musket fire had erupted without warning. Hawthorne came running along the deck.

“Is the shore within range of our guns, sir?” he asked.

“Who would we be aiming them at, Mr Hawthorne? I cannot even see the beach, let alone separate friend from foe.”

It was at that instant that guns fired from behind, slamming into the hull with a rending of timber. Both Hawthorne and Hayden staggered and spun around at the same instant, grabbing the rail. In the muzzle flash of the other ship’s guns Hayden could see the shocked faces of every man aboard.

“Man the starboard guns!” he called out.

There was the briefest second of shock, and then the men were running to the guns.

“Traverse that gun aft, Swale,” Hayden ordered. “Further yet. That will answer. Fire!”

The British guns spoke and the crews went to work, swabbing and loading. All his officers were in the boats, so Hayden was master, lieutenant, bosun, midshipman, and captain. He went quickly to the wheel and relieved the helmsman, sending him, and any men to be spared, to raise a headsail.

Even in his instant of surprise, Hayden had realised that the enemy ship had more—and likely larger—guns. With so few men aboard he could not chance being boarded and would not let the other ship alongside, if at all possible. Just as his crew was about to run out their guns, the French ship fired another broadside. Balls beat into the hull and tore through the foresail.

This time Hayden counted them—five small guns—likely six-pounders. He could make out the masts of the other ship and decided it was a brig—perhaps the very ship they had attempted to cut out three nights past. The headsail was sheeted home and the sail handlers ran to raise the main. The ship gathered way and heeled a little to the breeze flowing down from the mountain. The British guns were fired, each as they were loaded—a stuttering fire, but no less effective for it. Hawthorne and two of his marines had manned the aft swivel and were proving quick and able, despite never having fired one before.

Hayden cast an anxious look towards the island, wondering if his boats had escaped the beach or if his men had been cut down. An image of them lying, bleeding on the sand, came to him unbidden. Wickham, Ransome, and Gould were among those men, as was his coxswain and other good men. He had sent them to that beach to rescue his mother’s people, though he had no orders to do so. If he lost his men and officers in this endeavour he knew the remorse would never be outlived.

The brig was pacing his own ship and angling nearer. “Hardy?” Hayden called out, hoping his most experienced able seaman was still standing.

“At the gun, sir,” came the call.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wickham heard himself curse.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wickham whispered across to Ransome. “As you have no doubt heard, I have one man wounded, and I suspect worse than he will admit.”

The French passengers began whispering back and forth, enquiring who was in the boats and who left on the beach. Wickham ordered them to be still lest the Jacobins begin firing upon them again. Even so, he could not help but ask, “Is Louis in your boat, Mr Ransome?”

“No. Mr Gould . . . ?”

“No, sir.”

There was the briefest second of silence.

Then Ransome whispered, “Mr Gould? How have you fared?”

“One man dead, sir. A Frenchman. Caught a musket ball in the eye, sir.”

“I am very sorry to hear it.”

“May I slip him over the side, sir?”

“Does he have family aboard?”

“No, sir, though some appear to know him.”

“Mr Wickham?” Ransome said softly. “Will you explain to these people that we must put the man over the side? My French is not up to something so delicate.”

Wickham spoke quietly to the people, explaining that sailors were made terribly uncomfortable by having the dead aboard. The people listened in silence and then one man replied at some length.

“I did not quite understand everything he said,” Ransome whispered.

“They are afraid the body will wash ashore, Mr Ransome, and be recognised, which might put the man’s friends or family at risk, especially if they believe any of them were aiding him.”

“Their point is well taken. I will have the dead man in my boat, Gould, if you would prefer it?”

“We will keep him, Mr Ransome. If we can find somewhat to weigh him down with, I shall slip him over the side once we are beyond soundings.”

“If your Frenchmen are in agreement.”

Guns continued to fire from the two ships, illuminating the sea with dark lightning, and it was true that each flash seemed a little more distant.

“But what shall we do now, Mr Ransome?” Wickham heard Gould ask.

“I do not know, Mr Gould. If the captain is outgunned and in fear of being boarded, then he will have to fly from the enemy ship—in which case we will be thrown upon our own resources. It is thirteen leagues to Dominica—but across a very boisterous channel. I am not confident we will manage it. Our boats are crowded with people who are unaccustomed to the sea. I am reticent to make such a passage under sail in an open boat with a cargo of landsmen.”

“Is there some river nearby where we might hide ourselves through the day?” Gould asked. “We might then return here tomorrow night in hope of meeting the captain.”

“I am not aware of any such place. Are you, Mr Wickham?”

“I am not. And even if such a place could be found, I greatly fear we would be discovered, and though we would face the uncertain prospect of prison, these people would face the guillotine. I think our best chance is to make for Dominica. We might complete a good part of the crossing by dark so there would be no fear of discovery before daylight; by that hour we would be halfway there, at the very least.”

Wickham could just make out Ransome in the faint starlight, but could not read the look upon his face. The lieutenant was, no doubt, contemplating all the possibilities and, Wickham assumed, did not much like any of them. The passages between the islands were open to the great fetch of the Atlantic and the winds funnelled between the islands and were stronger than the normal trade. They would have a quartering wind and sea, which meant broaching would be ever a danger. If a boat overturned, it would be difficult in the extreme to right and bail it in such conditions, and especially so with frightened people in the sea, most of whom would not swim. If they did not make for Dominica, they were in great danger of being discovered by the Jacobins, who would certainly be on the lookout for them.

“I believe you are correct, Mr Wickham—we have but one course,” Ransome declared. “We must sail for Dominica.”

“The privateer’s boat has no sail,” Wickham observed, “and might be a bit small for such a crossing.”

“I will empty your boat of its people and take it in tow, Mr Wickham. I shall cut it free if it proves a danger.” He turned and spoke to the other boat. “I do not mean to slight your abilities in any way, Mr Gould, but Mr Wickham has had much more experience in open boats in rough conditions, so I shall put him in command of your boat. You shall be his second. We shall rig for sail but must be prepared to reef if we feel broaching is a danger. We will make every effort to keep the boats together, for we may need to come to the other’s aid.” He turned back to Wickham. “I shall take your passengers in my boat, Mr Wickham; Watts and Cooper shall join you in the cutter, Mr Gould. And Mr Cooper? Show your scratch to Mr Gould, if you please.”

Passengers were transferred, masts stepped, sail set, and the schooner’s boat taken in tow on a doubled painter. It was a good little boat, if a little battered from hard use, and they did not want to lose it.

The instant sails were sheeted, the boats gathered way, leaving the small islands to larboard. Wickham left Childers at the helm, as there was no better man for the job on their ship, unless it was their captain or Mr Barthe. He would take his own trick, as it was forty miles to Dominica and would very likely take eight or ten hours—perhaps longer, loaded as they were.

They had left too many refugees on the beach—only fifteen had made it into the boats—and of these one had since been killed and three were wounded—all in Ransome’s boat, which had been nearest the Jacobins on the beach and had shielded the other boats somewhat.

The winds coming over the island would gust suddenly, sweeping down upon them with no warning so that the men handling the sheets were ever on the alert to let them run. The wind would then die away or push their head off for a few moments so that they could not sail within two points of their course but it would come around again, die away, gust, then disappear yet again.

The southern tip of Basse-Terre was a little more than three leagues distant. They must then give a small group of islands called the Saints a reasonable offing. Dawn was yet some four hours off, and sunrise, at this latitude, not long after. The compass was shipped. They bore a lamp, which carried their fire, but this was kept shuttered until needed. Gould used it briefly to examine and bind Cooper’s wound, which he pronounced innocent enough, though any wound could go septic, and this far south, many did. Wickham counted himself lucky that he was unhurt.

A mile to the north and out to sea a single gun fired and then fell silent. Wickham did not know where the schooner had gone, but the running battle he had expected had been cut quickly short. As there were no sounds of victorious celebration, he assumed that his captain had given the enemy the slip. Where Captain Hayden might be heading in their prize, he could not say.

The stars were bright and sharp, hanging in the depths of the sky and illuminating the boat and its occupants with a faint, chill light. The passengers were arranged to weather and the British sailors made up the moveable ballast, which might have to shift from one side to the other of an instant in these fickle winds. One or two of the refugees slept, exhausted from walking who knew how far. Others lay still, eyes open, perhaps frightened; Wickham could not say. One woman whispered a story in the ear of her son; Wickham caught a few words now and then. A story of a brave boy sent to sea who saved his ship and was made an aspirant—a midshipman. Wickham hoped only to see his cutter and all aboard safely across the Guadeloupe Passage—hardly more than thirty miles. That would be difficult enough for him. He glanced over at the other boat, which was keeping pace to starboard. The idea that his boat might go over while Ransome’s did not filled Wickham with anxiety. And then he chastised himself. He was thinking of his own pride and not the safety of the people who were in his charge. Vanity.

The sea was somewhat confused, as far as could be told in the dark, a low, ponderous swell overridden by smaller seas; though largely striking the port bow, some appeared to come from west and still others from the east, despite the shore being distant less than half a mile. Once they were out of the lee of the two islands, Wickham expected the seas to originate from a single direction, though grow greatly in size.

He wondered how many people had been left dead or wounded on the beach, and if Louis had been among them. Certainly, some of the royalists had run back into the trees, but whether they could escape through the bush he did not know. Under the trees the darkness would be complete, and one could make one’s way only by feel. The captain had been correct when he said that they were returning too often to the same place, not that he would take any pleasure in being right. He had, as everyone knew, great feeling for his mother’s people.

With all sails drawing, the schooner was outpacing the brig by a small but noticeable margin, Hayden was certain. The prize was also, to a degree, more weatherly than the square-rigged brig, which was unable to close with them on this slant for that very reason. For the brig to bring her guns to fire on the schooner they would have to bear off to the west, which would allow the schooner to get that much farther ahead—and it appeared the master of the privateer was not choosing to do that. Hayden was beginning to think that he might lose the brig while it was still dark and return to find his boats. As this thought was forming in his mind, the wind died completely away.

The prize drifted on, sheer mass carrying her through the dark waters. Hayden fixed his glass upon the brig, which appeared to have some small wind yet.

Hawthorne left the aft swivel gun, which he had manned with two of his marines, and crossed over to Hayden, who stood staring through his night glass at the inverted image of the brig sailing upon a dark, liquid sky.

“Will the wind carry her up to us, Captain?” he asked softly.

“It might. We should prepare to repel boarders, in that event.”

“I think we are well prepared, Captain.”

The entire crew fixed their attention upon the distant ship, which every moment appeared to take on form. She was a shadowy apparition, then a black mass moving through the dark air, then a cloud of sails, and finally a ship bearing down on them.

“How is it that she has wind and we do not?” Hawthorne asked no one in particular.

“The devil aids them,” Hardy cursed.

“I thought them papists, not satanists,” the marine replied.

Hayden chuckled in spite of himself.

“I believe we have lost steerage, sir,” the helmsman said.

“Let us hope the French sail into this same calm or their wind precedes them.”

A gun fired on the brig, and a ball went tearing through the air some few yards to larboard.

Hayden sent a man below with his night glass and removed a pistol from his belt. The helmsman was right: The ship had lost steerage and was turning slowly to larboard, which would allow the British to bring guns to bear if it would but continue in that fashion.

A little breeze pressed against the sails, which had begun to thrash slowly from side to side with the rolling of the ship. Everyone glanced up towards the mountains as though they might see a wind. Immediately, it died away, causing sails and spirits to slump. A second ball fired from the chase piece, and it appeared to pass between the masts, miraculously damaging nothing.

A gust of wind struck them, pressing the ship so far over that Hayden thought masts might carry away or sails part. One instant, the ship lay motionless, and then she was heeled over and tearing through the darkness.

“Let the mainsheet run!” Hayden hollered above the wind now moaning through the rigging. He jammed the pistol back into his belt and took hold of the rail with both hands, wondering if the ship might be thrown upon her beam ends. He glanced to the brig, which had a moment ago come so near, and was almost certain she had been caught aback.

Off the schooner went, the wind still pressing her down so that water gushed in the scuppers and the shrouds stretched and creaked like rusted hinges.

“Sir!” Hayden heard the helmsman cry, and turned to find the young man braced against the wheel as the ship tried to round up.

Hayden pushed off the rail and struggled up the sloping deck to aid him, and the men eased the mainsheet at that same moment, the schooner righting herself to some degree and the helm suddenly manageable. Under normal circumstances, there would always be two men at the helm—and an officer standing by to give them orders—but with such a small crew and a privateer bearing down upon them, they had needed every man possible for the ship’s defence.

With the ship back on her feet, Hayden had a moment to take stock. He called another of the hands to the wheel and made his way aft. The brig appeared to have recovered from being caught aback, if that was indeed what had happened, and was also on a westerly course. The gust that had laid them over reached a crescendo, howling for a moment through the rigging and forcing him to brace himself against the force of it, and then it began to take off.

“Keep your wits about you,” he instructed the helmsman. “This wind might haul aft, and quickly, too.” He glanced forward along the deck. “Pass the word for Hardy, if you please . . .”

A moment later, Hardy came hurrying out of the gloom.

“If this wind takes off—and hauls aft—the brig will certainly return to her pursuit. We will fire all our larboard guns to give us a screen of smoke, then wear ship. If we have a little luck on our side in this darkness, we will cut across her bow before she knows what we are about. We will rake her—twice if we can manage it—turn to larboard, and give her another broadside as we pass.”

Hardy hesitated a moment and then said very softly, “It is a great deal to ask of a small crew, sir.”

“Yes, but they are steady men and can run between guns and sail handling. I will explain what is to be done to the Frenchmen, and they can give us their aid. I do not believe this privateer will expect us to turn on him, and that is to our great advantage.”

The crew were quickly assigned stations and duties and stood ready to execute the complex evolution Hayden required—and fire the guns—but the wind took off only a little, pressing both ships on. A quarter of an hour passed and Hayden feared the wind would not alter or take off that night, when it fell suddenly away and the ship came slowly upright and slowed, as though she had run up on the softest mud.

Although the brig was out of range, Hayden ordered the guns fired and then, as quickly as it could be managed without carrying away any gear, they wore ship and brought the wind onto the larboard beam. They were now bearing down upon the brig, which lay off their starboard bow.

The master of the brig, perceiving what Hayden did, turned north so that Hayden could not rake him from astern. But that was never Hayden’s plan.

The two ships converged and appeared about to pass broadside to broadside. Hayden leaned out over the starboard rail to get the clearest view possible. Aboard his ship the gun crews reloaded madly and then all stood ready to fire again.

The helmsman was also watching the approaching privateer.

“Shall I port my helm, sir?” he asked, unable to contain himself a moment more.

“Upon my order . . .” Hayden said.

He could see the murky shape of the privateer, but distances were so difficult to judge in the dark. If he turned too soon, their small guns would not have the effect he hoped for. If they turned too late, the ships might collide. There was no margin for error, and it would be difficult enough to measure the speed and distance in broad daylight.

“Fire the starboard guns,” Hayden ordered, and flame and smoke erupted from the muzzles, creating a dense, black cloud that obscured any view of the privateer.

He ordered the mainsheet eased, counted very slowly to twenty . . .

“Port your helm,” he said, loud enough to be heard, but no more.

The little schooner was very handy and turned into the heart of the smoke cloud. He did not know if this small ruse would work, and he was counting on the smoke being carried away by the wind so they could see the enemy to fire.

Hayden had crossed to the larboard rail and stood staring into the night and the drifting, acrid smoke, which caused his eyes to water to such a degree that he could hardly see and was forced to wipe them constantly. He had ordered the guns traversed so that they might fire, reload, traverse aft, and fire a second time, but he wondered now if this was a mistake. Certainly, the brig should be almost abeam . . . unless she, too, had turned to bring a broadside to bear.

A little, irregular thinning of smoke, like a jagged window.

“Fire!” Hayden called.

The little six-pounders jumped back, and the men went immediately to reloading.

The brig was lost in the smoke again.

Hayden touched one of the men nearby on the shoulder. “Jump up the larboard shrouds and see if you can discover our brig.”

The man was up on the rail, swinging round the shrouds and climbing as fast as hands and legs could propel him. When he was almost at the main-top he turned and gazed south a moment, and then called out.

“Almost abeam, sir. Half a point aft.”

“Traverse guns aft,” Hayden called.

Immediately bars were employed, the guns scraping over the deck a few inches at a time. Each was fired as it came to bear, and Hayden was not certain all had found their mark, but the effect on the brig was audible as the cries of the wounded penetrated smoke and darkness.

“Helm to starboard,” Hayden ordered the men at the wheel.

Gun crews went efficiently about reloading and running out guns.

The ship turned—too slowly, it seemed to Hayden. As she turned, however, the smoke that clung to her swept away to leeward. The brig emerged from this cloud not twenty yards distant, sails shaking, a yard angling down, and fore-topmast hanging in its gear. At such close range, the small guns had done much damage.

“Fire as she bears,” Hayden ordered, and the guns spoke one by one, the French running out guns but managing to fire only the two aft-most.

And then they were past.

“We are away, Captain!” Hawthorne almost crowed as he came aft. When Hayden did not answer, he enquired, “Are you not pleased, Captain? You look out of sorts.”

“I am just wondering—if we press our French passengers temporarily—would we have enough men to sail both the brig and schooner to Dominica?”

Hawthorne appeared dumbfounded for an instant. “You are suggesting we can take the brig . . . ?”

“Her rig, for the moment, is in ruins and I believe we shot away her wheel. We could tack back up to her, lay our ship across her stern, and rake her until she strikes.”

Hawthorne almost laughed, partly from disbelief. “And I thought they were chasing us!”

“And so did they, I expect.”

Hardy came hurrying aft at that instant. “Captain!” he called out. “I believe there is a fire, sir!”

Keeping the boats moving and making the best of the inconstant winds required an alert man at the helm and the constant trimming of sails. There was almost always too much wind or hardly any at all. Everyone aboard understood the importance of putting sea room between themselves and Guadeloupe, so no man shirked in the performance of his duties.

It had come as something of a surprise to Wickham, when he had first come into the Navy, that a boat so small as a cutter was organised with as much structure and discipline as a 110-gun ship. Everyone had their station and, on longer passages such as this, their watch. Orders were just as precise, and their execution even more rapid. The off-duty men were given a place to rest and did not shift from it without permission or orders to do so. An expedition on a small boat was not a holiday from ship’s discipline, and officers made certain that the hands were never for a moment in doubt of it.

Two hours after the decision to make for Dominica had been made, one of the crew pointed aft into the darkness.

“Is that fire, Mr Wickham?” he asked.

The midshipman twisted around and, indeed, there was—fire, some miles distant.

“Is it on the water or on the land?” Wickham wondered aloud. “Mr Ransome!” he called at the top of his voice. “Fire, sir. To the north.”

Ransome’s barge was some fifty yards to leeward—just visible in the darkness. A moment of silence followed and then Ransome’s voice carried to them. “Is that a ship, Mr Wickham?”

“I cannot say, sir. Perhaps it is on the land . . .”

No one spoke what was in everyone’s mind: Was it Captain Hayden’s prize or an enemy vessel that was afire?

For a few moments everyone but the helmsman stared aft in horrified fascination, and then the ball of orange flame swelled of an instant, blazed hotter, and within three minutes disappeared altogether, leaving a dark stain upon the stars.

“Let us hope that was the enemy,” Ransome called out. “May God have mercy on their papist souls.”

Whispering began among the royalists, and Wickham was forced to remind them—sharply—that they were in enemy waters and that silence was required so that orders could always be heard. Muttered apologies in French followed—and then a deep, troubled silence.

If the captain’s prize had caught fire and sunk so rapidly, there would almost certainly be loss of life. The enemy ship would no doubt search for survivors, but then they would begin looking for the escaped royalists. It would be a race for Dominica, the boats having a head start but the ship being swifter.

The four and a half leagues to the southern tip of Basse-Terre used up much of the night’s remaining store of darkness, so capricious were the winds. Dawn found the boats hardly beyond Pointe à l’Aunay, though a league and a half to the west. Wickham knew they must pass by the islands called the Saints next. He would much rather have done so in darkness, but there was nothing for it now.

The trade winds finally reached them and the boats began to race across the blue, sails full and drawing. A quartering sea would pick them up and almost toss them forward, the boat attempting to yaw and the helmsman fighting it with all his strength. The heat of the day was not far off, and there would be no shade from the sails all through the forenoon.

The Saints were half drowned in an early-morning mist, which Wickham knew the sun would burn away before it had risen too high. Already, the sails of fishing boats could be seen, running out to their fishing grounds. Some of these boats they might pass quite closely, but Wickham was not overly concerned. The English sailors were well armed and certainly more than a match for any fishermen they met.

Water from the cask was rationed out carefully to the French and to the hands. They had learned a hard lesson in the recent cutting-out expedition and the captain had made certain the boats set off with small stores of both water and food on the chance that they could not return to the ship when planned. All would be thirsty by the time the boats reached Dominica, but not dangerously so.

Once daylight was upon them, Wickham twisted around often to survey the horizon to the north and then to quiz the ocean in all quarters. Fishing boats could be seen at almost every point, and several larger vessels—these all at a distance—but no sail that should be feared. The greatest danger was the sea itself, which was steep and swift running. The wind blew a gale in this narrow passage, and that day had more northing in it, bringing the quartering sea aft somewhat and making the threat of broaching more likely. The helmsman was constantly at work, never for a moment allowing his mind to wander and always steering to anticipate the seas rather than reacting to them, which would many a time have been too late.

The buffeting and constant howling of the wind, Wickham found, deadened the senses somehow, and men turned their backs to it and fell into a kind of lassitude. The sun rose relentlessly and the heat grew by the hour until it baked them, even as the warm wind dried their skin and mouths. Water was rationed with absolute care, and Wickham would not allow parents to preserve their portion for their children lest he have these men and women become ill from thirst.

Seasickness beset refugees cruelly and they were often helped to leeward to disgorge their rebellious stomachs of their rations. One or two marines, who were not so used to the motion of small boats, also suffered, but not so badly. The hands, however, took no notice of it but fulfilled their duties silently and even slept when not on watch.

The small boat that Wickham had commanded was towed for some time by Ransome, though it made the barge difficult to manage, for it would fall behind and drag it back or suddenly forge ahead on the face of a wave and release its pull on the barge, catching the helmsman unaware. More than once a broach was the near-result. Sometime in the forenoon, it slewed sideways just as the painters pulled taut, and, helped by a breaking crest, the boat overturned. Immediately, the painters parted and snapped like whips into the transom of the barge.

“We will leave it!” Ransome called out to Wickham, who acknowledged this with a wave and a nod.

The little boat was abandoned, overturned, its bottom barely awash in the fair blue, where it was carried slowly off by the seas and currents.

The sun attained its apogee and Wickham ordered his small rations distributed among the many, though they would have needed a miracle of loaves and fishes to satisfy everyone.

Often the helmsman was relieved, for it was taxing of both strength and wit to keep the boat from broaching, and many a time, when the gusts came, sheets were let run. The day wore on and Wickham, though he was supposed to have his mind on his duty, wondered constantly if the ship that had burned was the schooner with his captain and shipmates aboard.

Flames climbed up the tarred rigging and into the sails, which set the sea afire all around. In the terrible light, Hayden could see dark figures running about the deck, and boats swinging out. There were shouts and calls—some orders and others clearly panic. Hayden, Hawthorne, and Hardy all stood transfixed, watching the fires spread over the enemy ship beyond all hope of control.

“What do we do, sir?” Hardy asked, his voice filled with awe and dread.

This question seemed to shake Hayden out of his dream. “Buckets,” he answered. “Wet down the sails and sluice the deck!”

Quickly, the crew was organised and buckets were passed up the ratlines to be splashed onto the sails. The decks, too, were sluiced, and water dripped down from above.

When less than half a mile distant from the brig, there was a sudden eruption of flame through the side of the enemy’s hull. Not a great, horrifying explosion, but still the heat from it carried to the British and the report could be felt through one’s body. Everyone, including the officers, ducked and threw up their hands, but whatever debris was blown out did not reach them. The burning ship began to go down. Her mainmast toppled forward and the ship listed heavily to larboard. Hayden could see men leaping into the sea and others into the only boat that appeared to have been launched.

“Hardy!” Hayden called. “Immediately this gust takes off we shall wear ship and search for survivors!”

The gust, which was not so great as many they had experienced that night, did not die away for some minutes, and then the British wore ship and came back as quickly as the wind would allow, reaching the brig on one tack.

Here and there, pieces of the ship floated, some still burning, and men called out who were in the water or clinging to bits of wreckage. The single boat that had been launched was filled to overflowing, but still made its way through the wreckage, pulling men from the water.

Hayden had no boats to aid in the rescue—Wickham had taken ashore the only one the privateers had left when they had gone chasing the British. Quickly, though, he called out in French and assured the men in the boat that he would take them aboard and they would not be harmed. The boat was swiftly emptied alongside the schooner, and then set out again. A few men swam to the British prize, which lay-to in the fickle wind. Many more called out and waved, just visible in the light of burning debris.

Of the men who came aboard, many had small blisters, but a few had been burned horribly and lay on the deck moaning and praying in French. Hayden had no doctor aboard, likely little physic, and the only man with any understanding of medicine—Gould—had gone off with the boats. There would be little they could do for these poor men, and Hayden feared that most would die in agony.

One of the royalists came up on the deck at that moment, took one look at what was going on, and crossed straight to Hayden.

“Capitaine,” he began in French, “I am a physician, and, though these men would hunt me and put me upon the guillotine, I cannot leave them to suffer. If you will allow it, I will do what little I can . . .”

“By all means, yes. I will send men to search below for any physic that might be found.”

A few other men and one woman came up the ladder and went among their enemies. From the captain’s cabin, a box was carried up that contained a few instruments and even less physic—bottles with names even Hayden did not recognise. The physician, though, was in no doubt and was quite certain none would offer any aid. Burns were commonly treated by oil of olive, of which there was none.

The night turned dusky and then greyed to a pale dawn. Beyond Basse-Terre, the sun coloured the horizon, then floated up, searing the sky. The last of the survivors were found and brought aboard. Hayden and Hawthorne stood watching the brig’s boat being lifted aboard.

“What shall we do, now, sir?” the marine lieutenant asked.

“We shall search for our shipmates, Mr Hawthorne.”

“Do you think they made it off the beach, Captain?”

Hayden shook his head. “I do not know. We shall head back to the bay where we saw them last and see if the boats are on the beach. If not, we will sail south along the coast and hope to find them.”

“If they did escape the beach, sir, what would they do?”

Hayden had been contemplating this very question. “They cannot know what happened to us. We were caught unawares by a more powerful ship. They must have seen the fire and cannot know which ship it was.” He considered only a few seconds. “I believe they would set out for Portsmouth on the northern end of Dominica; getting out of French waters would be imperative. It is not so far, though the winds in the channel can be strong and seas short and steep. Even so, I think they would be up to it. We shall see.”

The boats were overburdened. Wickham was taking his trick at the helm and felt how ponderously the cutter responded to the tiller. Each wave would pick the small boat up and carry it forward, then slide by, leaving it to settle a moment in the trough. It was that moment when the wave lifted the stern that the boat would begin to yaw and the helmsman would pull with all his strength to keep the boat from broaching.

The boats sat deep in the water, so the waves, as they raced beneath, rose up within inches of the gunwale. Only once, when they had transported eighteen-pounder guns at the island of Corsica, could he remember the boats sitting so deep, and that had been on calm waters. The men all sat farthest to windward, the women were in the centre, and the children perched to leeward. It was the best arrangement Wickham could make, as there was not room for everyone on the windward side. Heavily ballasted boats were inherently more stable, as any fisherman could attest, but this assumed the ballast was both deep in the hull and fixed in position. Human ballast fulfilled these conditions but poorly.

Sometime around midday, one of the men exclaimed something incoherent and pointed to leeward. Wickham turned just in time to see Ransome’s barge broach to and then slowly go over, throwing all her occupants first to leeward and then into the sea. Of an instant, this boat was left behind.

“Childers,” he said as calmly as he was able, “we shall have the sails off her and oars shipped. Oarsmen, take your places.”

“Can we not sail back to the barge, Mr Wickham?” Childers stood and fixed his eye upon the overturned vessel so it would not be lost among the seas.

“I will not risk wearing ship with so many inexperienced people aboard, for all the men must shift from one side to the other at the right instant, or we will be swimming. When I give the order we will back the starboard oars at the same instant as we go forward with the larboard.”

He then explained in French exactly what must be done. As soon as he had nods of understanding from the passengers and the oarsmen had taken their places, Wickham began watching the seas coming up behind, looking for a suitable moment to turn, for a miscalculation would see them rolled as well.

When a smaller sea approached, the order was given and the boat turned in place. The crew were aided by French passengers, who rowed with a will, for their people were in the water, too, and Wickham could only guess how few were swimmers.

It took almost a quarter of an hour for the cutter to reach the overturned boat, where men and women could be seen struggling to find some purchase on the hull. A few children lay over the bottom like dolls.

As they drew near, Wickham stood and tried to count the heads, which was difficult in the high-running sea. Fewer than he hoped—perhaps many fewer.

As they ranged up, they found the barge, beam-on to wind and seas, bottom awash, and a few frightened souls clinging to whatever purchase they could find. Hair was plastered flat and, even in the hot sun, all seemed pale with fear.

Childers threw a rope to one of the hands in the water so that the boats might be linked together. Ransome and several others were clinging to the rudder, and the lieutenant waved a hand at Wickham.

“Have you places for those who cannot swim, Mr Wickham? I shall send you children and women first.”

“We have, but we are overburdened as it is, Mr Ransome.”

“There is nothing for it,” Ransome called back. “They are not strong enough to hold on much longer.”

“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.”

“Let us hope it is not us they are looking for. No matter, there is little we can do but carry on as swiftly as we dare.”

The lassitude of the royalists dissolved in that instant, and the hands were suddenly more alert as well. Neither boat dared carry more sail, but more human ballast was shifted to windward and the helmsmen became determined to squeeze every last quarter-knot out of their vessels.

Ransome reported that aboard his boat there remained no dry powder and that they had lost most of their weapons when they were thrown into the sea. A glance at the sun told Wickham that sunset was perhaps three hours off—and the northern tip of Dominica about the same. To the north, the strange sail was clearly closing, the ship heeled to the trade and rocking over the cresting seas.

“It appears we might have two Frenchmen bearing down on us, though we might hope the one to the north is nothing more than a transport,” Wickham said quietly to Gould and Childers.

The coxswain did not look convinced by this. “Will darkness reach us before either of these ships?”

Wickham tried to gauge the speed of the closing cutter—the nearer of the two vessels. “It will be a close-run thing,” he concluded.

The sun appeared to hover on the wind, hanging in the sky and barely moving westward at all. The royalists in Wickham’s boat whispered among themselves, cast glances over their shoulders at the French cutter ranging up, and then fell to whispering again.

Childers made a small gesture with his hand towards the French, clearly wondering what was being said, but Wickham could not hear the whispers, which were carried away on the wind. One did not need to speak French, however, to see the fear in their faces.

Every quarter of an hour or so Wickham would quiz the French cutter in their wake, more certain on each occasion that it pursued them.

“Do we dare to carry more sail?” Wickham quietly asked Childers and Gould.

“We have already had one broach,” Gould answered quickly.

Childers considered a moment and then nodded. “I agree with Mr Gould, Mr Wickham. Another broach and they will have us, without a doubt. Do you think they will overhaul us before we reach the island?”

“It is always difficult to be certain of distances over the ocean, especially from so near the surface.”

“Mr Hawthorne would offer to go up the mast,” Gould said, and they all laughed in spite of themselves.

Mr Hawthorne climbed onto the foretop, where Hayden sat with an arm looped around a shroud and a glass up to his eye.

“What do you make of it, sir?”

“I think it is a Navy cutter, though it is yet too distant to be certain.” He passed the glass to Hawthorne, who took his place opposite Hayden.

The marine lieutenant stared at the sea a moment and then lowered the glass, a look of concern spreading over his handsome face. “The small sails that I see before the cutter . . . are they fishing boats?”

“Some might be, but I fear two of them, at least, might be boats bearing our shipmates and perhaps some French royalists as well.”

Hawthorne raised the glass again, perhaps hoping to see more upon a second look. “If our boats are out there, will this cutter overhaul them before they reach Dominica?”

“I cannot even be certain our boats are there, Mr Hawthorne, but if the cutter does overhaul them, I hope their people have the wit to surrender rather than fight.”

“Surely they would not take on a ship—even such a small ship—with a handful of muskets and pistols? Even Ransome has more common sense than that!”

“I agree, but if the French royalists are captured, their deaths are certain. They might prefer to die fighting. . . . The other royalists who came aboard all bore muskets, and not a few pistols as well. Under such circumstances, they might not be willing to surrender.”

“In which case our own people would have no choice but to fight . . . even were the situation hopeless.”

“Exactly so.”

“Certainly, they must be able to see us?” Hawthorne said, thinking aloud.

“I am quite certain they can—but can they make out what ship we are on this point of sail? I rather doubt it.”

“And the French cutter will reach them before we can?”

“Yes. I am afraid they will.”

The French cutter did not have a proper chase piece and was forced to round up somewhat to bring a forward gun to bear. This was a dangerous operation that could easily lead to a broach, and the three-pound balls fired never threatened the British boats.

“They are merely trying to see if we will lose our nerve,” Wickham observed as a ball from the French ship splashed into the back of a wave some thirty yards to larboard and dismally short.

He twisted around in time to see the upper limb of the sun sink into the sea; in half of an hour it would be dark—unlike in northern latitudes, where the summer light could linger almost an hour. Dominica floated upon the sea some few miles distant, just out of reach, Wickham feared.

The royalists aboard were silent and utterly apprehensive, the gunfire from the French cutter causing them all to start. Children hugged their parents and husbands tried to reassure their wives, but they appeared as people being carried to the guillotine.

Originally, their destination had been Portsmouth in Prince Rupert Bay, but now the boats were shaping their course for the most northerly point of the island, which was also the point nearest to them. If they could, they would try to land in the protection of a small point. If not, they would have to go through the surf to land, which was not to Wickham’s liking with so many landsmen aboard. Turning over in the surf was common enough with lightly loaded boats.

Wickham took up his glass and fixed it on the distant ship, struggling to keep it in the circle of his lens, especially with his damaged hand, which now clung to things but poorly.

“I am beginning to believe that is our prize in the offing,” he observed.

“Our captain?” Childers responded.

“So I hope—pray, even.”

“Then it was the French ship that went up in flames, God have mercy on their papist souls.” The coxswain cast an embarrassed glance at the French passengers, but none had noticed, or perhaps they pretended not to.

Wickham raised his glass and watched the chasing cutter a moment more, then lowered it and cursed under his breath. “They are mounting a half-pounder swivel on the bow.”

Even without his glass, and in the failing light, the midshipman could make out men on the bow of the cutter. He glanced again at the island—too distant, he thought.

“Does the bottom shoal up near the shore?” Childers asked him, tilting his head towards Dominica.

“Not enough to matter to us. They will be able to sail in as close as they dare to a lee shore and launch boats, if they so desire. If we can get ashore before them, however, they will have a difficult time finding us in the forest.”

The newly mounted swivel gun fired, and though the ball missed its target, it came a great deal nearer than any previous shot.

“Pass loaded muskets aft for Mr Gould and myself,” Wickham ordered, and then he arranged to have men load for the two midshipmen.

Gould and Wickham sat with their muskets aimed at the sky, waiting until the French cutter was within range—which would be too damned close, by Wickham’s estimate. He glanced again at the island, which had grown large in the growing dusk.

“I think we shall have to chance the surf, Mr Wickham,” Childers said.

“Yes, I believe we have no choice. Keep the seas dead astern, Mr Childers. It is our only hope.”

The red and bloody sunset overspread the western horizon and then began to slowly fade. The swivel gun was fired again, and the ball splashed into a wave not two yards distant from Wickham’s cutter, then shot back out at an almost oblique angle, passing just over the heads of his crew.

Everyone aboard shifted position at once, and there were exclamations and oaths in two languages.

“Stay in your places!” Wickham ordered. “Restez-là!”

Wickham felt his heart pounding and forced himself to breathe slowly. It was something Hawthorne drilled home to every man trained to fire a musket—a pounding heart will shake your hands. He began to say it over and over, silently: “A pounding heart will shake your hands. A pounding heart . . .”

There was a flash and a puff of smoke at the French cutter’s bow, but the boat fell behind a wave at that instant. Wickham raised his own musket, trained it on the ship, and pulled back the cock.

“Aim for the men at the swivel gun,” he said evenly to Gould. “Wait until the bow reaches the bottom of the trough, Mr Gould, then fire above the men’s heads. Or, when she has reached the crest, fire just below the rail.”

When the ship next sank into the trough, the instant before she began to heave up again, Wickham fired above the heads of the men and, without looking, passed his musket back to the loader behind. A loaded gun was placed in his hand at almost the same instant, and he could hear the sounds of the first musket being reloaded.

Gould’s gun went off and Wickham raised his own to fire. The French cutter was a larger target that rose and fell more slowly, but Wickham and Gould were firing from a less stable platform. Wickham did not know who had the advantage. Behind him, parents shifted to shield their children. Small blossoms of smoke appeared at the bow as muskets were fired. The balls whistled by or plugged into the sea, but none struck home.

The swivel gun fired and the ball sank into the back of the very wave that raised the British cutter. Childers glanced at Wickham—the shots were getting nearer.

Gould and Wickham kept up a steady fire and were making the men on the forecastle of the enemy vessel pay. A man started up the rigging of the French ship, a musket over his back, and Gould shot him before he’d gone a dozen feet. He slid down the ratlines and shrouds and was caught by another before he could tumble into the sea.

Ransome’s boat had ranged ahead a little and was not the target Wickham’s boat remained. It was an unfortunate arrangement, Wickham thought, for most of the royalists were aboard his vessel, which was the object of the French gunners.

Dusk was rapidly turning to darkness, and it was harder to see the individual men on the bow of the enemy ship, but the flash of their muskets gave them away. Gould was just raising his musket to fire when Wickham reached out and put a hand on his arm. “Belay firing. Let us see how easily they can find us in the dark without our powder flash to alert them.”

“They are overhauling us, Mr Wickham; surely, they will see us.”

“Work us a little to larboard, if you can,” Wickham said quietly. He turned to gaze forward a moment. Dominica was large now, and he thought he could make out the sound of surf some distance off.

“Manson? Have you room to heave a lead?”

“Aye, sir. I will manage,” came the reply.

The lead was broken out and the splash of it plunging into the sea heard: a moment of someone letting the rope run and then hauling, hand over hand.

“Nine fathoms, Mr Wickham, sand bottom.”

Wickham looked back once at the enemy vessel, which had ranged up even nearer.

“Mr Childers? No matter what occurs now, do not surrender. If Gould and I are shot, keep on for the island; the surf is nearer than it appears.” Wickham glanced over at the other midshipman. “Mr Gould, if they make us out or draw alongside, we will keep up fire until we are felled. Everyone who has a musket or pistol, make ready. We will attempt to fight them off. The shore is very near.”

A shout was heard on the enemy vessel and volley of musket and swivel-gun fire was unleashed, but it was somewhere to starboard.

“I think they have discovered the barge, sir,” Childers observed quietly.

“Yes. Poor Mr Ransome,” Wickham replied softly. “He cannot even return fire.”

The skilled hand of Childers worked the boat to larboard, little by little, until the enemy ship, which had been dead astern, was on their starboard quarter—the sails dark and angular against the low-hanging stars.

“They must give this up soon, mustn’t they?” Gould asked, leaning towards Wickham and whispering. “It is a lee shore and no small wind.”

“Perhaps they know these waters better than we,” Childers offered.

“Or do not know them at all . . .”

A shout was heard aboard the enemy ship, and then muskets began to fire, striking one of the young royalist women and hitting the topside strakes with sharp reports.

“Return fire,” Wickham ordered.

Every man aboard who held a gun began firing at once. Childers was thrown down suddenly, and lay staring up at the sky, stunned.

Dropping his musket, Wickham grabbed the helm in time to prevent a broach. Seas were suddenly steeper.

“Surf ahead, Mr Wickham!” one of the hands forward called out.

There was shouting aboard the enemy vessel, and immediately her helm was put over, slowly she turned, her mainsail resisting the helm, and then she jibed, all standing with a great crash of breaking gear.

All musket fire aboard the French cutter ceased in that moment, and from Wickham’s boat only a few more shots were managed.

“Clap on, everyone. Clap on!” Wickham called out.

The seas became precipitous and pressed together, crests toppling to either side. The cutter was picked up on the face of a wave, the stern tossed high, and then there was the sound of rushing water as she raced along the face. The wave passed beneath and the boat settled, stern first, into the trough. Again she was lifted, carried forward, and settled, Gould and Wickham together struggling to keep her on course.

“Childers?” Wickham said, genuinely frightened. “Are you shot, sir?”

To his surprise, the coxswain sat up, putting a hand to the side of his head and taking the fingers away, stained dark. “I think I was but grazed, though it seemed I had been shot through the brain for a moment.” Without another word, he moved up onto the thwart and took Gould’s place on the helm, the midshipman giving it up gladly.

Gould then probed the coxswain’s wound. “You will have a hell of a lump, but I believe it was not a ball but a splinter from the gunwale that struck you. Or a ball that deflected off the rail, perhaps. God was looking out for you, I think.”

Wickham did not know how many waves passed beneath them, and he had lost sight of Ransome’s barge altogether, when they were picked up by the steepest sea yet. A crest broke heavily over the transom, and, of an instant, the stern was thrown to starboard, the boat turned beam-on to the sea, and she rolled over so quickly that Wickham was thrown into the warm water before he could cry a warning to others. He surfaced to the night, feeling himself rising up the face of a wave. Arms flailed the waters nearby, and instinctively he reached out and took hold of a thin wrist. Immediately, a hand clapped onto him so tightly it almost caused him pain. And then a panicked woman had an arm around his neck and he was being forced under. For a moment they wrestled, and then he broke the lock around his neck, ducked under her arm, took hold of her beneath her arms, and began to kick to the surface. A sharp crack on his skull told him he’d surfaced into an oar. He took hold of this and slid it in front of the frightened woman.

“Take hold of the oar,” he ordered in French, and was relieved when she did as he instructed.

For a moment he was treading water, attempting to part the darkness and determine their situation. He could hear voices calling out, some not so near. A dozen feet away, the dim whaleback of the capsized boat lay half awash, heads bobbing around and men thrashing the waters to reach it.

“Mr Wickham . . . ?” someone called.

“Is that you, Childers?”

“It is, sir.”

Before Wickham could reply, a wave lifted him, but as he settled again into the trough, his feet touched soft bottom.

“There is bottom here, Childers. I felt it just now. We must make an effort to get everyone ashore. I should not be surprised to find an undertow in such a place.”

“Aye, sir.”

Orders were given that were lost on the wind, and then Wickham realised that the men holding the boat were kicking and paddling, pushing the overturned boat towards the shore. He twisted his neck around, took a bearing on the beach, and began to paddle towards the island, the sodden skirts of his royalist wafting about his legs as he swam.

On his back as he was, Wickham could not see the island, nor could he judge their progress, but he could look out to sea, and little pinpoints of light could be descried some distance off. Calls and voices were carried down the wind.

“Can you make out what they are saying?” he asked the woman, whom he could almost feel fighting her panic and fear.

“They are launching boats,” she whispered, hardly able to speak, she was breathing so rapidly.

Wickham let his legs sink again, and this time there was sand beneath his feet. He began to stand, but a sea knocked him down, the woman landing atop him, and then they were both struggling up, water to their chests. They stumbled ashore, her dress like a sea anchor, resisting her progress so that Wickham had all but to drag her through the water.

Once she was in the shallows, he turned back into the waters, took a moment to find the overturned boat, and then waded out into the breaking surf. A wave lifted him and he struck out towards the cutter. In a moment he found the painter and began swimming for shore with it wrapped about his shoulder and held firmly in one hand. For a time it seemed he made no progress at all, but then the beach appeared before him, nearer than he had dared hope, and he was wading into the shallows, then putting his weight onto the rope, digging in his heels, and pulling with all he had. A sailor came in along the painter, stood, and did as Wickham did. Finally, the boat was picked up and tossed ashore, where it rolled upright, three-quarters full.

Childers staggered up onto the beach and dropped down, gasping. He held something up in the dark.

“I have your glass, Mr Wickham,” he announced.

“My glass! How in this world did you manage that?”

“Just as the boat went over, it rolled almost into my hand and I kept hold of it the whole time, sir.” He passed it to the midshipman rather proudly.

“I cannot begin to express my gratitude. I thought it lost without a doubt, and knew I should never get another like it in Barbados.”

“I knew it was a gift from the marquis, Mr Wickham, and you placed great value upon it.”

“Childers, I shall give you a suitable reward for this kindness, I swear I shall.” Wickham rose and walked among the castaways, counting heads. “Where is Cooper?” he asked suddenly.

“We could not find him, sir,” Childers replied. “I fear he might have received a blow to the head as the boat went over, for he never broke the surface nor was seen by anyone. He is our only loss, Mr Wickham, though a great loss it is, for he was as good a marine and shipmate as any.”

“Mr Wickham . . . ?” a voice called from the darkness.

“Here!” the midshipman answered, like a schoolboy.

The man appeared out of the dark, a sodden sailor, clothes clinging and hair plastered flat to his pate. “Mr Ransome sent me to find you, sir. Have you many lost or hurt?”

“We lost Cooper, sadly. I am not certain of our hurt.” Wickham turned around on the sand. “Mr Gould? Have we many hurt?”

He could just make out the other midshipman, crouched beside a dark form on the beach. “Many a bruise, I suspect, and one Frenchman with a broken arm—or so I believe. The doctor would know better.”

“No one bleeding dangerously?”

“Not a one, Mr Wickham. Except for Cooper, we have fared remarkably well.”

The hand dispatched from Ransome’s boat bent over, hands on knees. “Were you overturned in the surf as well?” he asked.

“We were, and there was little we could do about it. A crest broke over our transom and our stern was swung sideways against anything the rudder could do.”

“It was the same with us, sir. We were overtaken by a sea and then all pitched into the water of an instant. We lost no one, though our boat was not so overburdened as yours . . . We had lost so many before.”

There was a call from out in the surf, Wickham thought, almost certainly in French.

“We have almost no weapons and not a grain of dry powder,” the hand from Ransome’s boat declared, staring out into the dark sea.

“We are no better off.” Wickham turned to the crew and passengers of his boat. “Everyone up; we must make our way into the forest or we will be captured.”

“They may have no better luck landing than we,” Gould observed.

“Unless they know what to expect here . . . And they will not be racing along under sail, as were we, though there was bloody little we could do about that.”

The hands and the French were helping one another to their feet. Ransome and his people came along the beach at that moment, and they all made their way towards a gap in the trees. Just as they were about to proceed into the impenetrable darkness of the forest, without a single light to aid them, guns fired out at sea, and everyone brought up and turned to look.

The entire day they had been chasing this distant cutter, and had closed to within a few miles at sunset.

“Ten three-pounders, and as many half-pound swivels,” Hayden guessed. He was answering Hawthorne’s question about the guns likely carried by the cutter.

“Then she has a greater weight of metal than we?” the marine lieutenant asked. Despite his time at sea, he would always be something of a landsman, Hayden thought.

“I could carry our entire broadside in my pockets,” Hayden told him, “and I do not exaggerate when I say this.” Hayden looked up at the shadowy sails, full and drawing. “I even wonder if they believe this is the privateers’ schooner yet—news might not have reached them.”

The two men stood upon the forecastle of the schooner, gazing out over the briefly twilit sea, the mountains of Dominica rising up out of the waters, solid and unmoving in the ever-changing seascape.

Hayden called up to the lookout on the foremast. “Bradley? Can you make her out yet?”

“I can, sir. Dead before us. Not half a league distant, Captain.”

There had been time, through the long afternoon, to train the royalists in the firing of guns and to take some basic orders. Hayden had paired most of the Frenchmen with an experienced sailor and given the French instructions to aid them in every way. The islanders were intelligent, practical people used to doing a variety of tasks and would quickly comprehend what was required, even without anyone telling them. It did not take much native wit to realise that they could jump to and aid men hauling ropes, and they did just that whenever needed. Some of the women had clapped onto ropes during the day and aided the men hauling, much to the amusement of the British sailors.

“I don’t think you’d see my missus turning her delicate hands to such work,” Hayden had heard one of the hands observe.

“I’ve seen your missus, Huxley, and I don’t think ‘delicate’ is the proper term for her claws.”

Of course, traducing the honour of one’s wife was not acceptable at any station, so threats were made, apologies offered, Mrs Huxley’s hands rated as delicate as a duchess’, and they all laughed, for they were a kindly and good-natured crew and Hayden held them in great affection for this as much as anything.

The firing aboard the French cutter ceased, and the musket fire from the British boats went silent as well. Hayden guessed the French had lost sight of the Themis’ boats, painted black as they were, and Ransome and Gould or Wickham had the good sense not to fire and alert the French to their position—or they had run out of powder, he could not say which.

A few moments passed and then the swivel and muskets were fired at once. Then silence again. Hayden had no desire to fight this French vessel, which was almost certainly better armed than his privateer and would have trained men aboard—not a crew that spoke two languages, half of whom were landsmen. He could not, however, stand by and allow the British boats to be taken. All the afternoon he had endeavoured to overhaul the Frenchman and force him into a running battle, which would allow the British boats to make Dominica. Hayden’s hope had been that the schooner would prove swifter and he would keep enough distance between the two vessels that the French would not be able to batter his prize into submission. Once the boats were safely clear, Hayden would then crack on and race the French for the town of Portsmouth and the bay, which certainly would have British vessels at anchor and where the French would not venture.

But the French were so near his boats, and the north end of Dominica so close by, that this plan was no longer to be contemplated. Darkness might let the boats escape, he thought, and then he would do the same, keeping distance between himself and the French cutter, which would likely not wish to be discovered so near the British island at dawn.

Hayden did not like his position overly. The north shore of Dominica was a lee shore, and the winds, which commonly took off somewhat after the sunset, had been making for the last few hours and showed no signs of easing.

For a short time, the schooner bore on, rising and falling with the quartering sea, the wind moaning softly in the rigging. And then there was an unholy crash and distant shouting.

“On deck! Somewhat has happened aboard the Frenchman, sir! Perhaps she’s lost her topmast, Captain.”

“Has she run aground?” Hayden called up into the dark.

“I don’t know, sir. She seems to have sheered to starboard, sir. Mayhap she jibed all standing.”

“Mr Hardy! Sail handlers to their stations.” Hayden began hurrying back towards the quarterdeck. “We shall tack ship!”

The moment the men were at their stations, he ordered the helm put over and the ship was brought around and through the wind. Immediately she was on the other tack, Hayden ran her down towards the position where the French cutter had last been seen, a leadsman calling the depths as they went.

“Bradley? Hayden called to the lookout. “Can you see the Frenchman?”

“I have kept my eye on her, sir,” came the lookout’s voice from above. “Point off the larboard bow. Half a mile distant. I believe she’s come to anchor, sir.”

“Well, let us thank the imprudence of French captains,” Hayden muttered, and crossed to the larboard rail, where he leaned out to see if he could make out the enemy. And there she was, some distance off, bow to wind, or so he thought, and riding up and over the waves.

“On deck!” the lookout cried again. “Captain? I believe she is anchored just outside the line of surf, sir.”

Hayden ordered the helmsman to shape their course to come across her bow. Sheets were eased accordingly.

“We have luck on our side again, it seems,” he told Hawthorne, as the marine appeared on the quarterdeck. “They must have run in too near, realised they were almost in the surf, jibed all standing, and carried away gear. They have anchored to effect repairs, and we can rake them as often as we are able.”

Almost broadside to the waves, the schooner rolled terribly, so their fire would have to be timed perfectly. Steady men had been made the gun captains, and Hayden had cautioned them to hold their fire. It was his intention to come as near as he dared to the cutter to make the most of their small broadside and reduce the chance of missing. The silhouette of the enemy vessel was almost lost against the darker island, but Hayden could see it, even with the sails off her.

They ranged in at speed, the brisk trade pressing their little ship on, and then as they passed, on the roll, Hayden ordered the guns fired and the three-pounders kicked back, spewing smoke and fire. There was distress aboard the French ship, he could hear, but then, as Hayden was about to call for sail handlers, the French cutter swung to larboard, turned broadside to the seas, and carried towards the surf line.

“My God!” Hayden said to no one, not quite able to believe what he saw. “We have shot away her anchor cable . . .”

Aboard the French cutter all thought of defence was given up, even though their broadside came to bear upon the schooner. Men scrambled to make sail, though he could see numbers yet aloft undertaking repairs.

“Can she make sail, Captain?” the helmsman asked. “Had she not too much damage to her rig? They would never have anchored in such a place otherwise.”

“I do not know . . .” Hayden watched as the ship was carried into the surf. The mainsail crept slowly up, luffing and snapping, the gaff only half under control.

Hawthorne had stepped away from his swivel gun and come to the rail beside Hayden. “Can they sail out of such a place?” he asked quietly.

“Only if God has taken notice.”

But all deities appeared to have their attention elsewhere that evening, for the French ship was carried into the surf and in a moment had found bottom, her mainsail not yet raised. Her decks tilted wildly towards the beach as she was driven higher with each wave. Hayden had been aboard a ship wrecked some distance from the shore, though in harsher conditions than these—a late-spring gale—and he knew the horror of it. There might be fifty men aboard the cutter, and if lucky, half might survive. Boats could be taken through the surf and perhaps back out again, though much would depend upon the nature of the shore. Was there a landing place?

Where, for that matter, were his own ship’s boats and their crews? How many of them had been lost?

“We have no boats to send to their aid . . .” Hawthorne said.

“No,” Hayden replied, “but we shall stand by until daylight. Let us hope this cutter is driven ashore. If she comes to rest some distance out . . . well, God have mercy on their souls.”

The castaways stopped at the shadowy edge of the bush and turned to look seaward where the flashes and reports of guns had originated.

“Is it Captain Hayden?” someone asked.

No one knew the answer. The chasing ship—the vessel they had seen closing all the long afternoon—had no doubt found the cutter, and she was not a French privateer, that was clear. She was British or perhaps Spanish, for the Spaniards plied these seas in numbers.

“What shall we do?” someone asked. “We cannot stand here. The French have launched boats.”

“Tarry but a moment,” Ransome ordered. “Let us see what will happen now. I believe the boats will return to their ship if they can. They will not risk being left ashore should their ship make sail.”

In the darkness it was difficult to see what went on, even a few hundred yards distant. The rigs of the ships tended to be more visible than the hulls, which were lost against the dark sea. Starlight glittered dimly off the moving waves and the breaking crests were palely visible. Wickham would have given anything for a night glass, but they had only his single glass remaining and it was of little use by darkness.

Something changed in the appearance of the French cutter, and voices were carried to them over the sound of breaking seas. For a moment Wickham was confused by what he saw, and then he realised. “She has swung broadside to the seas! Her cable has parted!”

“Are you certain, Mr Wickham?” Ransome asked.

“I am. Look! She is rolling and thrashing. They attempt to raise the main.”

“Never will they sail out of there,” one of the hands asserted, and Wickham thought he was likely correct. If they could not make sail immediately, they would be in the surf.

“Whatever led them to anchor so near?” someone asked, but no one replied. Clearly, it had not been by choice.

Wickham started down the beach and in a moment was standing with the waves dying about his ankles. There was shouting out among the seas now, distinct from the voices carried from the ship. For a moment he stared, and then, there on the back of a wave, he made out a boat being frantically rowed out, away from the shore.

He turned back towards the people still standing at the margin of the wood. “Do you see? The boats are attempting to return to their ship. They have given up on us.”

En masse, the castaways hastened across the beach and gathered in a line where the seas died.

“Mr Wickham.” Childers broke the silence. “That ship is in the surf. There can be no doubt.”

“I believe you are correct,” Wickham replied.

A terrible cry reached them—distress from every soul aboard—and then an odd lurch from the French ship. She seemed suddenly to stop in her progress towards the shore, and Wickham thought her deck was slanted heavily towards the land.

“Hard aground,” one of the hands declared. “There is no saving her now. The seas will drive her up the beach and there will be no getting her off without a dead calm to allow it. Otherwise, she is a loss there.”

“Mr Ransome?” Wickham said softly to the lieutenant. “Should we not empty our boats and launch them if we can? We might preserve some lives this night if we act smartly.”

Ransome nodded. “All able-bodied men to the boats. Mr Wickham, can you ask the French to search along the shore? We will need our oars.”

The boats lay half submerged and were being battered back and forth by the seas. They would soon have been damaged, left to the whims of nature. Water was thrown out by the bucket until each was light enough that all the men together could roll her on her side and pour the remaining water out. Sweeps had been gathered off the beach and now were shipped. Most of the French were left ashore but helped launch the boats into the surf, wading in waist deep and steadying each one until a sea passed beneath and then the boat was shoved out bodily on the ebbing wave.

Immediately, they met a sea and dug in to crest it, for if the first few seas could not be surmounted, the boat would be tossed back ashore.

It took everything the men aboard could muster to pass over those first few waves. Wickham and a young Frenchman had manned the aftsweep and pulled for all they were worth.

After the initial seas, the waves grew less steep, though they were commonly as high. Childers was at the helm and steered them unerringly towards the stricken French vessel, Wickham was certain. He did not need to glance over his shoulder to ascertain their course, though he was constantly curious as to their progress.

“How distant is she, Childers?”

“Some way off, sir. I can make her out quite clearly, even by starlight.”

Over the sound of the surf—a constant low thunder in which no individual breaking wave could be discerned—apparitional voices carried to them now and then, barely within the range of hearing and so leaving Wickham to wonder if he imagined them. He realised, as he rowed, that he grew tired more quickly than he should, and knew this was exhaustion. Desperately, he needed sleep and a few days’ rest to recover his strength. All the men were in the same state, he was certain, and yet had forced their way out through the seas breaking on the beach despite barely having the strength to stand.

“Can you make out the French boats?” he asked Childers, who stood to look over the seas.

“One, I believe, Mr Wickham. No . . . there is another. Both making their way back to the ship, the first all but there.” He was silent a second, his knees flexing to keep his balance in the rough conditions, done as easily as a dancer. “I do hope these men are steadier than those of Les Droits de l’Homme, sir.”

A memory of Franks’ boat being overwhelmed by panicked French sailors and being swamped and turned over . . . and lost. Their poor bosun, who had volunteered to take the boat through the surf, a victim of the chaos in the French Navy. And here they were again, taking a boat to rescue the same, barely governed sailors—sailors who believed in ideas of liberty and equality, both noble sentiments but with no place upon a stricken vessel where only order would save lives.

“Fifty yards, Mr Wickham,” Childers informed him.

The midshipman left his French rowing partner to handle the sweep and stood to get a better view. The stricken vessel lay with the tips of her yards in the surf, her masts angled low, the deck slanted and half awash. Seas broke over her windward side and the wind howled and moaned, luffing Wickham’s coat, which was being rapidly dried by the warm trade. Wickham could see men in the rigging and up the masts, clinging to these last little islands of hope. The two French boats, which had been dispatched not so long before to hunt down the British sailors and royalists, made their way to the rigging hanging down into the sea to take off the men clinging there.

Wickham made a quick assessment of the situation and ordered Childers to lie off the quarterdeck. “Five yards off, hold our place a moment and let me speak with the French. Let us hope there is an officer there whom the hands respect.”

Childers nodded and brought the boat near in the tumultuous seas. The oars were backed a moment and Wickham found himself staring at a dozen men clinging to the windward rail, frightened beyond description. He had half a mind to pull away, for these men were past taking orders from their officers.

Wickham pulled the pistol from his belt and held it up where all could see. “You will come aboard this boat one at a time in an orderly fashion,” he told them in French. “The first man who jumps into my boat out of order I will shoot through the heart. We will then back our boat away and leave the rest of you here. Do you comprehend what I am saying?” There were nods and words of acceptance. Wickham ordered the boat brought alongside and lines were thrown to the men on the French vessel.

Wickham hoped his bluff would stand; his pistol had been soaked through and the powder drenched when they were thrown into the sea, but the French did not know that.

“Line handlers,” Wickham said loudly. “Be prepared to cut those lines of an instant upon my order.”

Behind him, where the French boats were taking men from the rigging, Wickham could hear shouting and cursing, but he dared not turn to see what went on. He was determined that his boat would not be swamped by panicked men.

The strongest French sailors formed a chain down the deck and the men slid on their buttocks, passed from man to man and then into the boat, which rose and fell with each sea, slamming now and then into the submerged rail, which threatened to turn them over. Finally, several French sailors stood upon the French cutter’s rail, in water that rose as high as their necks at times, and held the English boat off, other men steadying them.

Men were coming aft along the windward rail and being warned to stay in their places by the other Frenchmen, who nodded to the young English officer, who stood, sternly, holding aloft a pistol.

Behind him he heard what sounded like fighting, the night full of curses and threats.

“Mr Wickham,” came Ransome’s voice from out of the night, “when your boat is full, we will take your place.”

“Draw your pistol, Mr Ransome,” Wickham called back, not turning away from the men coming aboard his boat. “I have told these Frenchmen that the first man to jump aboard my boat out of order will be shot and we would leave the rest of them here to drown. You must tell them the same.”

“My pistols are drawn and ready, Mr Wickham.”

When the midshipman thought he could carry no more in safety, he informed the officer present that he would return as soon as he had carried his cargo ashore. He then ordered his boat away and, loaded to the point of overcrowding, the men took up the oars and sent them towards the beach. Immediately, Mr Ransome’s boat manoeuvred to take his place.

The distance to shore was covered in less than half the time it took to reach the wreck, for the seas picked them up and carried them along, like great hands passing them from one to the next with only a brief lull between. As they neared the beach and the waves mounted up, Wickham and Childers had a brief conversation as to how they would get their boat in without the same calamity that had befallen them before. Wickham gave careful orders in both English and French, and at a word from him, the rowers reversed their positions so that they faced forward and took hold of the oar that had previously been manned by the hands at their backs. All the oarsmen now faced forward and could back oars with all their strength.

As the boat was lifted on the face of the wave, the men rowed for all they were worth, keeping the speed of the boat manageable. In this way they approached the beach but slowly. When the last wave before the sand picked them up, and at the very last second, Wickham and Childers unshipped the rudder lest it be broken, and the boat was cast up, not too urgently, on the beach. It did slew to starboard to some small degree, but the sailors all clambered out and very quickly slid the boat up the beach, where the waves died around it.

The Frenchmen gave thanks to their saviours and even pounded them on the back, they were so relieved to find themselves on land and not swimming for their lives. A moment of rest, and then Wickham ordered the boat turned round, which was done bodily by all the men who could muster about it.

The British sailors took their places and manned oars again, the rudder was shipped, and at an order from Wickham, they began again to battle their way out through the seas towards their enemy’s ship, to rescue the men who had been intent on their murder not two hours before. It was, Wickham thought, the strangest irony that sailors would risk their very lives to kill their enemy and then, when an enemy’s ship was discovered sinking, risk their lives to save the men aboard. He rather thought the latter was the finer impulse.

They had not gone fifty yards when Ransome passed them in the barge.

“How many remain?” Wickham called out to him.

“Your boat shall be the last, I think. And Mr Wickham . . . ? Be prepared to defend your boat from the French both as you return and when you are upon the shore.”

The idea of the French taking their boats and sailing for Guadeloupe, or some other possession, had not occurred to the midshipman, and he thought it a sign of his terrible fatigue.

“We shall have our pistols ready,” he called back, largely for the sake of the French aboard Ransome’s boat, some of whom likely had a little English.

“Godspeed, Mr Wickham.”

“And you, sir.”

The wreck lay much as they had left it, the masts perhaps a little nearer the water. The seas continued to break over it, and Wickham thought it unlikely that she would ever swim again.

“Mr Gould, do you have a pistol?”

“I do, sir.”

“Do we have any other firearms?”

A musket and another pistol were reported; all the guns had wet powder and would not fire. Wickham ordered these distributed to the steady men.

“Blackwood,” he said to their remaining marine, “you will take station in the bow, and Rusten, you will stand by him. When we approach the wreck, stand and make your weapons seen. Gould and I shall do the same. Let them see that we are vigilant and that we are prepared to defend our lives and our vessel with blood, if it is required.”

The others took their stations, and an air of seriousness settled over the little vessel. None had thought of fighting the men they attempted to rescue, let alone killing any, but it was clear now that they must be prepared to do so. After all, their captain had done almost that exact thing, taking the schooner of the privateers who hunted them.

As they neared the wreck, Wickham could make out the last of the men gathered at the stern, more grim now than frightened.

Wickham had Childers keep clear, and he gave this group the same warning before he would lay his vessel alongside. It was the same exercise again, holding off the boat and loading the men one at a time. As the men came aboard, Wickham ordered them to sit down in the bottom and crowded them all in the middle, so that they would have to overcome the oarsmen before they could reach the men bearing arms.

That being done, he set out for Dominica for what he hoped would be the last time this night. Landing on the beach was managed as before, and they were soon wading ashore as men dashed out from the beach to pull the boat up out of reach of the breakers. Both the French and the British collapsed on the sand, but noting Ransome and several others standing with guns in hand, Wickham touched Gould on the arm and then did the same. The French, it must be made clear, had only very briefly been castaways—they now were prisoners.

“Where have the French boats landed?” Wickham asked, looking around and seeing only their own two boats.

“They did not come ashore, Mr Wickham,” Ransome replied. “I should think they have sailed for Guadeloupe.”

“Well, they shall have a wet passage. It was difficult enough with a fair wind. I should not like to make it in an open boat hard on the wind. I wish them luck.”

“They have not had much luck this night,” Gould observed softly. “They would have been wise to come ashore. Better to be a live prisoner . . .” He did not finish his thought, nor did he need to.

At that moment, guns fired aboard the ship that yet lay off the shore.

“The private signal,” Gould declared. “That is our captain.”

“We will send a boat out to him at first light,” Ransome announced quietly. “And Mr Wickham? Inform the French sailors that a British ship lies offshore. Let them not have any ideas of escape.”

Wickham relayed the message to the prisoners, who outnumbered the British sailors. They appeared to accept their lot, glad, no doubt, to be alive.

Wickham could have lain down on the sand and slept for a day, he was certain, but as an officer, he was required to stay on his feet and be an example for the hands. He almost trembled with exhaustion.

“What will tomorrow bring?” Gould asked him.

“We will all be taken aboard the prize and the prisoners likely deposited in Portsmouth. After that . . . Barbados, I will wager, and perhaps a few days of shore leave and respite.”

“A little holiday from making war will not go amiss,” Gould replied.

“No, it will not,” Wickham said with feeling. “I could sleep for a sennight and not be recovered.”