Every man who heard retreated from Serrano and his small entourage. The word passed along the deck like a hissing little breeze. Fever! They have the fever!
Hayden fought an impulse to retreat over the rail back onto the frigate.
“How many?” he asked quietly, displaying composure he did not feel.
“I did not count,” Serrano replied. “The sick-berth is overflowing.”
“Has it spread among the Spanish prisoners?”
“I—I do not know.”
“Send a man below to find out. I shall not release them if there is fever among them.”
“But I have released them already.”
“They might have to go into quarantine. Have a lieutenant find out if they have the Yellow Jack.”
Serrano nodded. He spoke a moment to one of his officers and then retreated to the rail. Certainly, he would have gone back to the frigate but could not while Hayden and his officers remained aboard the infected ship. His pride was not yet overruled by his terror of the fever, though this was clearly substantial.
Hayden felt for a moment that the decisions he had to make were too complicated for his brain to encompass. He had a Spanish frigate bearing too many French prisoners. A privateer’s ship with likely one hundred and fifty more. He had fever among the French on this ship, and perhaps among their Spanish prisoners as well. He had hoped to use this ship in his pursuit of the privateers and his bride, but now he had other difficulties.
Serrano’s lieutenant emerged from below, found his captain by the rail, and shook his head. Hayden almost sighed aloud.
He went to the Spanish captain at the rail and waved the others away.
“I shall put you in command of this ship and send you into Havana with all of our French prisoners. You will have to go into quarantine there, but you might send us aid. There must be Spanish Navy ships there.”
Serrano was clearly taken aback by this and did not offer an answer.
“Shall I put one of your lieutenants in command and send him to Havana?” Hayden whispered.
Serrano looked around, as though searching for something that might save him from this command. “No,” he said quietly. “I shall take her in. But we might have trouble with the prisoners if they know they are going into a ship with the fever.”
“It is likely known among all their ships, but we will quarantine the sick and keep them separate. I will speak with the French master.” This brought another matter to hand. “Where is the master of this ship? What has become of him?”
Enquiries were quickly made, and it was revealed that the French master—the formidable captain who had fought his ship so cunningly—had been killed in the hand-to-hand fighting. Hayden was sorry to hear it, for certainly the man had been a brilliant officer . . . even if a privateer.
Hayden put Serrano and Hawthorne in charge of transferring prisoners, and sent Ransome and Wickham aloft with a Spanish bosun and his crew to begin putting the frigate’s rig to rights. Serrano mastered himself and began to effect repairs on the privateer.
Hayden went about his ship, seeing to everything being done. As he did so, he encountered an acrid smoke hanging over the ship and on her lower decks. Finding Ransome, he enquired of it.
“Some leaves and twigs, sir,” the lieutenant informed him. “The Spanish surgeon has ordered it burned to keep back the Yellow Jack from the other ship.”
“I should think it would hold any contagion at bay,” Hayden said. “It is the most wretched odour!”
Ransome smiled. “I agree, sir. It seems to keep the insects away, so it is not altogether useless.”
Light found all the ships, becalmed only a few miles from the Cuban coast, men clambering among the rigging, swaying up topmasts, crossing yards, and renewing shrouds and stays.
Almost forgotten in the fighting was the schooner. Hayden asked Serrano to make up a small crew of experienced men and sent it off for Nassau to carry word of what had occurred, hoping to find Navy ships there that might be sent to his aid. Commonly, he would have put a lieutenant or midshipman in command, but he was so short of officers he could not spare them. Using a Spanish crew was less than ideal, but he could see no way around it, and watched the vessel set sail with some misgivings.
It was noon before the ships were ready for sea, and still the wind did not blow over that part of the ocean. Hayden and all his men were exhausted beyond measure, for none had slept that night and they had fought a hard battle and refitted their ship—much of it by darkness.
Hayden had kept one of Serrano’s lieutenants aboard the frigate to translate his orders and station the Spanish crew as necessary. Watches were arranged, messes organised, and the ship put into order.
The lieutenant, whose Spanish rank Hayden believed was teniente de navío, was named Reverte, and he seemed rather pleased to find himself in the chase—despite the odds—and not returning to Havana to seek help. The fact that the ship Serrano commanded had the Yellow Jack aboard was likely something of a relief as well.
While the watch below slept, the deck watch were kept busy about the ship, despite their exhaustion. With the enemy so near, Hayden did not feel he could allow these men to rest but kept them constantly employed so that they might be ready to defend the ship of an instant should the privateers again launch boats.
He questioned Reverte closely about the other frigate—the one he believed carried Angelita. She was a sister ship to the frigate he had taken, with identical guns arrayed in the same manner. Reverte did not believe either ship to be swifter or more weatherly, and both, according to him, were fresh from refit and in near-perfect condition. It was obvious he believed them to be superior to both French and British frigates of similar rate.
“The privateers would never have taken either ship, but they employed a ruse no one had before seen,” he explained to Hayden. “We first saw smoke on the horizon and, upon approaching, the Spanish flagged ships taking off the crew of a transport that appeared to be afire. Boats were plying back and forth with all haste, and some men on the burning ship plunged into the sea and swam. Immediately, we went to their aid, but all the boats in the water bore armed men and suddenly we were beset by overwhelming numbers, and our ships, which were utterly unprepared, overrun.”
“I have never seen such a ruse before,” Hayden admitted, “and almost certainly would have fallen victim to it myself.”
“You are being very gracious, Captain. We abandoned all common caution. I believe it was the men leaping into the sea—to avoid burning, it seemed—that convinced us what we saw was real.”
“And you did not note that these ships carried more guns than any transport would?”
Reverte held up a finger. “Ahh, but here they were clever as well. We could see canvas strips painted with gunports, which transports sometimes wear to appear to be what they are not. But these canvas strips concealed real gunports! As though one wore an obviously false beard to hide one’s real beard.”
“Do you recall seeing, among the privateers, a young woman?”
“This is Mrs Hayden, Captain?”
It was uncanny, Hayden thought, how easily rumours could penetrate the language barrier. He nodded.
“Yes, there was such a woman. Not the sort one would expect to see aboard a French privateer. She was with a young man I assumed must be her husband. I should have realised they were Spanish by his dress, but my mind . . . We had just lost our ship to a ruse and my career was finished.”
“Perhaps we can resurrect your career, Lieutenant.”
“Perhaps . . .” The young man, who appeared to be about Hayden’s age, glanced over at the prize so recently taken and now under command of Captain Serrano. “My captain will never revive his career. It is a tragedy, for he is an admirable man and an exceptional officer.”
Hayden thought the captain something of a fool for approaching strange ships without first beating to quarters, or at least being utterly certain of their nationality and intentions before drawing near. Panicked men leaping off the burning ship, though . . . Hayden suppressed a smile of admiration—it was a brilliant bit of theatre.
“On deck?” the lookout cried. “The privateers appear to have wind, sir.”
Hayden and Reverte hurried forward, where they found Ransome gazing through a glass. A glass, however, was not necessary: Hayden could see sails being loosed.
“They will sail their anchors out on that wind,” Ransome declared.
Hayden glanced up at the masthead. There was hardly a breath stirring. The crew was already at quarters, in the event that they must repel boarders.
“Prepare to heave our anchor, Mr Ransome. We shall keep the crews at their guns but have them ready to loose sail at a moment’s notice. These privateers might let the wind carry them down to us, and could reach us even as the wind does.”
“Will we cut our anchor cable, then, sir?” Ransome asked.
“If we are forced to. I am loath to give up another anchor.”
“I believe they will run,” Reverte declared.
“But they are four ships and we are but two . . .” Ransome handed the Spaniard his glass.
Reverte raised it to his eye. “That is true, but Captain Hayden has already taken two of their ships. They will not want to risk losing the prize they have taken. I believe they will run . . . but perhaps I will be proven wrong.”
An anxious half of the hour followed, and just as wind began to stir about the ship, it became clear that Reverte would not be proven wrong. The privateers gathered way and shaped their course to follow the coast away from Hayden and Serrano’s vessels. For a frustrating hour Hayden and his crew watched their quarry fly, gathering speed, it appeared, by the minute.
But finally the wind reached them, almost on the beam. Setting just enough sail to give them way against the current, they retrieved their anchor, the men at the capstan almost trotting in a circle to keep up.
Perhaps two hours after noon, they were under sail and in pursuit of their enemy, the lookouts calling out when reefs or coral heads could be seen, and the officer of the watch giving orders to the helmsman and sail handlers to shape their course to avoid these obstacles. While they had been refitting, Hayden had ordered the mizzen topmast and yards swayed up so that his ship could carry all possible sail.
Ransome and Wickham had gone over the ship’s stores and reported that, as expected, they were victualled and watered for an ocean crossing and had enough powder and shot to take on a good-size fleet.
The four ships of the privateers sailed in a line, the distance between them short and the frigate second in line. Two of the converted transports, with their twenty twelve-pounders, lay between Hayden and Mrs Hayden—and the same two ships lay between the British members of the crew and a cargo of Spanish silver. Avarice, Hayden thought, could be seen shining in their eyes and upon their very faces. Although they did not know the value of this cargo, everyone imagined it large enough to make them wealthy for life. Hayden did not tell them that they were treading into a legal quagmire. The Spanish remained their allies (or so Hayden assumed); they were aboard a liberated Spanish ship that the Spanish captain had claimed to be property of the Spanish Crown. Hayden contended the frigate was a British prize until superior officers deemed it otherwise, and if they were to take the frigate bearing bullion, it would be the same. However, it was possible, given the delicacy of Britain’s alliance with Spain, that the Admiralty or the British government might choose to return the ships—and their cargo—to Spain. In which case the Admiralty might compensate Hayden and his crew for this loss, or they might not. More litigation, Hayden felt, with a distinct lowering of his spirits, might lie in his future.
The weather remained unsettled. Great continents of cloud passed over, the flattened, dense landscapes oppressively grey and unvarying. The wind, though constant in its direction, would take off, then make, then fall almost calm, so Hayden ordered the anchor cable faked down upon the gun-deck so that they might let go the anchor should the ship lose way altogether. The current, though small, could easily sweep a ship up onto a reef and do her considerable damage.
Hayden was forced to slip down to the captain’s cabin and sleep for a few hours, as he could hardly stand for fatigue and he knew he would need a clear head and excellent judgement over the next few days. He did not want to be making decisions out of exhaustion and desire. His men deserved better than that. He emerged in the late afternoon, feeling somewhat befuddled, hoping the wind would clear his mind.
The brief, tropical day wore swiftly on, and the sun was soon astern where the vast plains of cloud had not yet travelled. A honeyed light illuminated the fleeing ships and their tanned sails against the grey, so that they appeared to be revealed in some holy light. All aboard gazed at this sight in solemn silence, as though they could see the very glitter of papist silver going before them.
Hayden called together his senior officers, and both Scrivener and the Spanish sailing master, and spread a chart upon the table in the captain’s cabin.
“The channel grows broader and again broader as we approach the Windward Channel. Even this night its width is much greater than when we weighed. I do not think we should give the enemy the slightest indication of it, but I propose we man all the guns on the gun-deck, keep our gunports closed, and in all ways prepare for battle except upon the upper deck, where such preparations might be observed. With this dark sky, we will slip up on the aftermost ship and use our eighteen-pounders to our very great advantage. We might knock one ship out of the fight this very night.”
The young officers shifted about in excitement, but Hayden looked to Hawthorne, whom he had charged to be his common sense over the next few days—given that Hayden’s own might be pushed aside by his feelings.
Hawthorne gave an almost imperceptible nod, which, for some reason, forced Hayden to hide a smile. There was something oddly amusing about a marine who was known to become ill in small boats sanctioning his plans.
“Shall we return the anchor cable to the cable tier, sir?” Ransome enquired.
“No, let us wet it down most thoroughly and leave it ready. The wind might die at any moment, as it has several times this day.”
“We will lose the use of two forward guns,” Ransome stated.
“I comprehend that, Mr Ransome, but even so, our broadside will be greater.”
Ransome nodded. Hayden could almost see him ticking off a list of objections, a process of which his captain approved. He wanted his officers to think every action through most thoroughly and consider all eventualities—especially those that might see events turn against them.
“We will slip up on her larboard side,” Wickham asked, “and have the weather gage?”
“For whatever small advantage it might provide us in these circumstances—yes.”
“Will they attempt to come alongside and board us, Captain?” Gould wondered.
“They might, especially so if we do not have much room to larboard, given the restrictions of the channel. Yet I think we can keep distance between us for long enough that we can pour in sufficient broadsides either to disable their ship or force them to sheer off. We shall put them in a difficult position, for if they wear we will rake them.”
“Will no other ships come to their aid?” Reverte asked, contemplating the chart with a rather distant look, as though he could see the battle taking place upon it.
“We will find that out. I do not think they will risk bringing the frigate bearing the silver into the action, but certainly, the privateer next in line might come to her comrade’s aid. We have men enough to fight both batteries and handle sail as well. It will be very dark, and that will hide most evolutions until they are well underway.”
The idea of fighting two ships sobered the gathered officers somewhat. Broadside to broadside, the privateers were no match for the Spanish frigate, but if one ship could get astern of them and direct a raking fire onto their decks . . . well, even twelve-pounders could cause a great deal of damage, not to mention many casualties, in such a situation.
Questions were asked, answers provided, and when everyone was certain of their plan and the sailing masters had agreed upon their exact location, the officers hastened out to ready the ship.
Hawthorne lingered behind, and Hayden fixed his friend with a questioning look.
“You approve this course of action, Mr Hawthorne?”
“I should approve it more had we our own ship and British crew, but otherwise it seems a typically audacious Charles Hayden–like action.”
“You make me sound like Sir William, whose Jones-like endeavours are notorious.”
“There is a world of difference between you and Captain Jones. He is brave—almost absurdly so—as are you, Captain, but you are inside the mind of the enemy, or so it always appears to me. You have somehow penetrated their thoughts, or perhaps their way of thinking, and are able to predict what they are most likely to do.”
Hayden tried not to laugh. “Mr Hawthorne, the truth is I have no more knowledge of the enemy than you—or anyone else aboard, for that matter. I simply put myself in his place and ask what I would do in any given situation. I then weigh what I believe to be their own motivations in that same situation and then make my best guess as to what they are most likely to do. Not magic.”
“And what would you do in their situation, given you were being chased by a Spanish frigate under the command of a British captain desperate to regain his bride?”
“I would lure that captain into a trap.”
“And will they not do the same?”
“Perhaps, but their common sense is overridden by greed. I do not think they will risk the frigate unless she is brought to and they have no choice. The privateers wish to preserve their prize at all costs.”
“But the other three ships—though I do understand they boast only twelve-pounders—could they not overpower us should all three of them attack us at once?”
“If they are properly managed, yes.”
“And why will they not do that?”
“I think it is possible that they will.” Hayden looked back at the chart laid upon the table. The Old Channel of Bahama would grow substantially wider over the next few days. “They will not attempt to attack us where we might simply avoid battle—our frigate is faster than the converted transports.” He ran his finger along the north shore of Cuba until he came to its very end. “If I were a privateer desiring to preserve my treasure at all costs, I should find the narrowest point and use my other three ships to set up a blockade, forcing us to battle.” Hayden tapped the chart. “Here. The Windward Channel is only twelve leagues in breadth at its narrowest. If the two frigates are more or less equal in speed, the other ships would need to hinder us for only half a day and we would likely never catch the other frigate.” The one that bears my bride, Hayden thought.
“Can three ships blockade a pass so wide?”
Hayden considered a moment. “Three frigates could manage it under most circumstances. They could not resist a strong squadron, perhaps, but they could space themselves so that no ship would pass through by day. These three privateers, nine miles distant one from the other . . . We might pass through under cover of darkness.”
“That sounds like a great risk, then,” Hawthorne said.
Hayden almost smiled, partly for being so obtuse. Hawthorne had inveigled him into reconsidering all his thoughts on this matter—aloud—so that the marine lieutenant and he might examine them together.
“Do you know, I believe the safest course for the privateers is to remain as they are in tight squadron where they might all support one another. We are only one ship, after all. The frigate and her three escorts are far more powerful than we. As long as they have shot and powder they can hold us at bay.”
“What will they do, Captain, if we attack the aft-most ship this night?” It was almost a prompt.
“The other ships will come immediately to her aid.”
“I wonder if there is profit in that.” Hawthorne rubbed his chin as he gazed at the chart.
“Only to put them on their guard.” Hayden paced to the transom windows and stood a moment looking out. A glorious sunset spread across the western sky.
“If they keep to their formation, then, Captain, and do not allow us to pick off any stragglers, is there any way at all that we might hope to take this frigate bearing both the Spanish treasure and your own?”
“Short of terrible misfortune or divine intervention? None.”
“I do not much like that answer,” Hawthorne informed him.
“I like it a good deal less than you, Mr Hawthorne. When I served as Captain Bourne’s first lieutenant, he often said, ‘Always assume your enemy is as intelligent as you.’ We cannot assume they will do anything foolish.”
“Then what is the point of attacking the trailing ship?”
“To see how they will respond—though I am not much in doubt of what the other ships will do. But we will see. Let us discover how great their understanding might be.”
Hawthorne nodded. “It seems like a very long shot, Captain.”
“Indeed. But I can think of no other course at this time.”
Hawthorne nodded. “I will muster my marines and musket men.”
Left alone in the captain’s cabin, Hayden stood at the open window and watched the sunset as it progressed through all its glorious stages until there was but small gilding upon a few low, distant clouds. Hayden was standing there yet when the tropical night slipped silently in from the east. Stars began to appear, and then there was darkness, the heavens lit by the uncounted stars.
Hayden turned away to return to the deck, and even as he did so, there was a change in the motion of the ship. Mounting the ladder, he emerged onto deck to find the ship rolling in the low swell, her sails and gear slatting about.
Wickham was the officer of the watch, and he approached his captain the moment he appeared.
“We have lost our wind, sir,” he offered, rather unnecessarily.
“For how long, I wonder?” Hayden looked up at the pennants and around at the horizon. “Can you make out our chases, Mr Wickham? Do they have wind?”
Hayden’s night glass was retrieved and carried to the deck. Wickham and Hayden both went forward, where the midshipman focused the long glass on the privateers’ ships.
“I believe they are becalmed as well, Captain,” he declared after a moment, and handed the glass to Hayden.
It took a moment for Hayden’s eye to adjust, but he thought he could make out the sails slatting back and forth as the ships rolled.
“Twelve fathoms on sand, Captain,” Wickham answered promptly, impressing Hayden again with his efficiency. “We appear to be over a shoaling bank.”
Hayden glanced up at the sky. “If we do not have wind within the quarter-hour we will have the sails off her and anchor, Mr Wickham.” It was almost a law of the sea that once the sails were properly furled and the hands down from the yards, the wind would fill in again. He had seen it a thousand times, he was certain.
The quarter of the hour passed swiftly and the hands were called to anchor, then sent aloft to take in sail. The ship lay rolling in the swell, uncomfortable but not terribly so. Hayden paced the deck. His plan to attack the aft-most ship was now impossible. They would be very much on the watch for boarding parties and would no doubt have rigged boarding nets. It was even possible that the privateers would attack him, by drifting down the current as they had before. His men were on the lookout for it.
As matters stood, the privateers were too distant to be fired upon. Hayden found his mind drifting back to the conversation with Hawthorne. If the four remaining privateer ships could not in some way be separated, they were, cumulatively, too great a force for his single frigate. For the life of him, however, Hayden could think of no way to separate them. The privateers were sensible of their situation; they would stay together at all costs.
These were the kind of circumstances that army officers did not comprehend—that one could be so near to the enemy and unable to mount an attack. One could not simply march forward. Batteries could not be established anywhere to attack these fortresses. Sappers could not dig their tunnels and undermine the enemy’s walls. No, all that could be accomplished was to watch and wait. Even a seasoned sailor like Hayden found it frustrating.
“I wonder . . .” Hayden whispered, a thought so absurd coming into his mind that immediately he rejected it. But then it returned in a slightly altered form. Objections rose up, and were, by more alteration, dealt with. It was risky to the point of foolishness—the kind of thing of which Sir William Jones would heartily approve. But, even so, the idea would not go away.
Hayden sent for Hawthorne, who arrived at the stern of the ship a moment later.
“An idea so appallingly dangerous and improbable has taken hold of my mind, Mr Hawthorne, that I am in need of your aid to banish it.”
“I am most anxious to hear it.”
“The privateers are, for the time being, beyond the reach of our guns . . .”
“That is true. I can see it myself.”
“Indeed. I do not believe there is any way we can separate these four ships, and together, they are too great a force for our single frigate.”
“I am awaiting the ‘appallingly dangerous’ part.”
“Have you ever been witness to sappers tunnelling under a wall, causing a massive explosion and collapsing a section of a fortress wall?”
“I have had that particular pleasure. Are we going to tunnel under the seabed? Because I would agree that such a plan was somewhat improbable.”
“Very nearly. I propose taking the boats and towing a large explosive charge to the stern of the frigate, where we will set it off and damage her rudder beyond repair—at least beyond repair at sea.”
“Ah, that is the improbable and appallingly dangerous part.”
“I did warn you.”
Hawthorne contemplated this idea a long moment. “How would we lay a charge against the ship? In a boat, I expect?”
“I propose lashing barrels together.”
“And have you ever seen, or even heard of, this being done before?”
“Never.”
“Well, for that reason alone I am predisposed to approve it. You would carry these barrels in a boat, lash them to the rudder in some way, light a long match, and row like the devil pursued you to get clear?”
“I should think we shall have to tow our barrels, but otherwise, that is very nearly what I am thinking.”
“If they see or hear us—and they will certainly be on the lookout—they will kill every man in the boat—”
“Did I mention that it might be appallingly dangerous?”
“It slipped my mind for a moment.” Hawthorne made an odd face and tilted his head slowly side to side, as though physically weighing the arguments for and against. “We have slipped up on ships on many occasions to cut them out. In some ways, this is no different. It must be said, however, that in many of those cases the enemy did not expect us—as they will now. I suppose it is no more dangerous than a cutting-out expedition into a crowded French port to take a little brig of little value. It is a war, and risking lives cannot be avoided . . . but I wonder if there is any reasonable chance of success. That, for me, is the question that must be answered, even though I am well aware that fortune ever plays too large a part in such endeavours.”
“It will be dependent upon our ability to get our charge near without being seen. Shall we propose this to Ransome and Wickham and have their opinions?”
“You are being rather parliamentary,” Hawthorne observed.
“It is such an unusual idea that I am in need of others to knock it down.”
“I am sorry to have failed you in that office. By all means, let us ask Ransome and Wickham . . . and Reverte as well. I am gaining a hearty respect for the man.”
The named officers were summoned and Hayden’s proposal was put to them.
“If the charge is strong enough to damage the rudder beyond repair,” Reverte asked after but a moment’s thought, “might it not sink the ship? The stern is ever a vessel’s most vulnerable part.”
Ransome and Wickham both nodded.
“It is a point well made,” Hayden said. “And I am not certain I have an answer for it. Sinking the frigate would be no bad thing if it were not for the bullion aboard, which I have been charged to preserve by my admiral.” He did not add that his own bride was on that ship.
“It is dangerous because we have already used boats to take this frigate, so they will have watchmen in place and be highly alert.” He looked about. “It is not such a dark night that we cannot be seen, even after the moon has set.”
“We must have them looking somewhere else,” Wickham pronounced.
“We could feign an attack on another ship,” Ransome suggested, “though I am not certain how we might manage that without men being wounded or killed.”
No one could think of a way to feign an attack that would be believed by the enemy without actually attacking or at least getting within pistol range.”
“Fire ships!” Wickham blurted out.
“I do not believe we have ships we can put to such purpose, Mr Wickham,” Hawthorne observed, “unless we have escorts of which the rest of us are unaware.”
“No, but we have boats—our own from the Themis and the frigate’s boats. I suggest we find some way to put fire aboard them—perhaps in barrels we could line with copper. Take them up-current from the privateers, set them alight, and position them to drift down on the enemy ships. They might not cause any real difficulties or even come terribly near the ships, but they will certainly have every eye upon them.”
This idea received much approval. Discussion then began as to which ship to attack and how the barrels might be lashed together in such a way as to keep the powder dry.
It was soon clear that the ship to be attacked would be the aft-most privateer, as any ship farther up the line would have men upon the bow staring forward at the fire boats, so any British boats would likely be descried as they came to the stern of the ship ahead.
The French ships had not anchored in a perfect line, bow to stern, but were spread over a small area, the frigate perhaps fifty yards to starboard of the ship ahead, and the next two ships staggered yet again. It might be possible to send the boats drifting in among them, therefore, which would cause great panic, or so it was hoped. Fire was one of the seaman’s greatest fears.
Small water barrels were commandeered to contain the fire, as the staves were thoroughly soaked through. Wickham took charge of this, having them lined with thin copper plates used upon the bottom of ships.
The others put their minds to making the craft that would bear their explosion. Four small barrels were weighted with shot until they floated half out of the water with their round ends up. A fifth barrel was set in the centre of these, so that it was above the water for the most part, and then filled with powder. All this was lashed together with a small frame of wood and then lowered into the sea. It floated much as expected but was too large to be carried aboard a boat and then got over the side. A towing bridle was arranged.
Night wore on, so the work was done as quickly as possible. Not long after midnight, the two fire boats rowed off with a third to take off the crews. They were to skirt the enemy ships beyond their sight and row up-current of them before setting alight the old rope and tar in the barrels and releasing them to drift down on the privateers. Hayden took command of the boat that would lay the explosive charge against the rudder, as he would not send anyone else on such a mad endeavour. It had been, after all, his idea to begin with, and he was not about to ask another to perform it.
It was the task of Hayden’s boat to hold position just beyond sight of the aft-most privateer and wait until the fire boats had been released and caused what Hayden hoped would be considerable confusion.
The “mine,” as Hawthorne had named it, for so the sappers called their tunnels, was not easily towed, even against so weak a current, but it showed no signs of going over, so at least there was a chance they would get it to the ship with the powder still dry.
Childers steered them faithfully out onto the dark sea, and when it was believed they were just beyond the distance where their darkly painted boats might be seen, the rowers slacked their pace to hold position; and glad they were of it, for towing the mine was difficult work.
They waited for the sight of fire drifting down on the French ships.
From where they lay in the dark, Hayden could easily make out the lanterns on the nearest ship’s stern, and through that light marched a sentry every few moments. One of these made a brief stop and a second figure appeared. It took a moment for Hayden to realise that the first man was the stern sentry and he had likely been wakened. Unfortunate timing, he thought. If the man were asleep when they arrived, it would make their task much simpler.
A light appeared within the master’s cabin, illuminating the transom gallery windows, which would certainly be open on such a close night. He thought he could see someone moving about in the light, and prayed this man would make his nightly toilet and fall asleep easily. Hayden reminded himself that this hardly mattered—once the fire boats were discovered, everyone should soon be awake . . . with their attention fixed forward.
The rowers worked their sweeps in utter silence, and the depth of that silence told him how frightened they really were.
“Where are Mr Wickham’s boats?” Childers muttered, perhaps unable to remain silent a moment longer.
“Be patient,” Hayden whispered. “If they had been discovered, there would be firing and noise, so they are not yet to their places.”
Hayden glanced back to be certain their strange tow had not turned over and drowned the powder barrel or broken loose to bear down upon their own ship. Hayden himself had coiled down a short length of match cord into the powder hole on top and then pressed in a bung to keep all dry.
There had been a lively debate about how much powder would be required to damage a rudder beyond repair, and the side that argued they would only get one chance at this, better make it count, won, so there was powder enough to do the job, Hayden was quite certain.
Childers touched his arm and pointed. Far off, before the anchored ships, a flicker, which then disappeared. But then it appeared again and began to swell. Somehow it then split in two and began to burn in earnest. Hayden was just wondering how long it would take the privateers to discover fire bearing down on them when a cry went up, carried over the open water.
Hayden held his men in check for a moment longer—until he hoped all eyes aboard the ships were focused on the burning boats—and then he sent them away, as stealthily as they could row.
It would be a matter of timing, he thought. The attention of the privateers would be drawn forward to begin with, but at some point, he was certain, some man who had his wits about him would think to look around to see if their enemy could be found on any other quarter. The English sailors needed to have their mine in place before this occurred.
Fixing his eyes on the transom of their intended target, Hayden tried to gauge the reaction aboard this particular ship. There was both consternation and confusion, of that he was certain. Men were rushing onto the deck and all seemed to hurry forward. There were calls for poles to fend off the fire boats, though he suspected they did not yet quite know the nature of the threat drifting down on them. In the darkness and at distance, they might be actual ships.
Orders were called out aboard the privateer. Men were sent to stand by the anchor cable lest it need be cut or let run. Others were sent out to the tip of the jib-boom with poles to prepare to protect that delicate spar from collision or fire. Others soaked down the deck forward and even the topsides. All the while, Hayden’s black boat crept nearer, as though he and his men were crawling through the undergrowth to surprise their prey. He even felt at that moment like a heartless predator.
The stern of the ship took on height and then loomed over them. Aft, Hayden could see no sign of sentries and hoped they had been sent off to soak down decks, or to some other task to protect the ships from fire.
Childers could not bring the boat neatly alongside—the tow being dragged back by the current would not allow it—so he nudged the bow up to the ship’s transom so that the men there could grasp hold of the rudder. Hayden scrambled forward through the rowers, a rope from the tow in his hand. There was very little purchase on the rudder, and the men attempting to hold on had it slip free of their grip. Without a thought, Hayden shrugged off his coat, pulled free his boots, and went over the side as silently as he was able.
In two strokes he had his hands on the rudder. Feeding the rope in around it took a moment, as it was not a small timber, but he managed, and then, bracing his feet against the hull, he pushed with all his might, hauling in a length of rope and then another. It was almost more than he could do, the current’s drag on the tow was that great. Four times he did this, and then had to pause a moment to recover. The boat was unmanaged now, the men pulling the mine along its starboard side, but with no oars in the water, it was quickly being swept aft.
Again Hayden braced his feet and pushed. And again. The mine was not two yards off now. Another heave and it was all but home. A final push, and it brought up short. Quickly, he made it fast and then clung to a barrel a moment, gasping and shaking from the effort. Childers got the boat under control and brought the bow up to Hayden.
The lamp, closed to let no light out, passed from hand to hand forward, and the man in the bow held it, waiting for Hayden to regain his strength. He forced himself to put a foot on one of the narrow boards that made up the frame, and very, very tentatively put his weight upon it, hoping all the while the mine would not turn over. It heeled to his weight, but all the ballast in the barrels resisted him and it stayed more or less upright.
He was dripping wet and dared not open the bung or handle the match cord for fear of getting it wet. As he perched there, trying to think how he would dry at least one hand, a cry came from directly above his head.
“Les Anglais! Les Anglais!”
Immediately, a musket fired and the man in the boat’s bow fell back, his lamp falling into the sea with a splash and disappearing. Fire was returned from the boat, which began to drift aft on the current. More men came running to the transom rail and began firing, and Hayden crouched low and pressed himself up against the transom planks, the overhanging stern hiding him from the men above.
Childers ordered the rowers to take up oars, and the desperate men sent the boat off to larboard, seeking the protection of darkness. Hayden did not know how many had been hurt—and they were being fired on yet.
Footsteps came thumping across planks almost overhead, and a man leaned out the transom gallery window a few feet above Hayden’s head and fired. With all haste, he set to reloading, and when his gun emerged again, Hayden stepped up on one of the barrels, grabbed the startled man’s arm, hauled him half out of the window, and clubbed him several times over the head with his drowned pistol. When he was utterly still, Hayden reached the sill and pulled himself up and then swiftly in. There was no one else in the cabin, and Hayden dried his hands on the abandoned bedclothes in a swinging cot and snatched down the lantern.
For a second, he hovered at the window, listening. Childers had steered the boat to larboard, and most of the men on the deck above had moved to that quarter, where they were still shouting and firing muskets. Even so, Hayden hesitated. He was about to go out of the window, bearing a lantern, which would almost certainly reveal him to the enemy. He would have to carry the lantern in one hand and climb with the other, which he realised would be all but impossible.
Hayden looked around the cabin in desperation, and his eye lit upon a pistol lying on the floor near the man he’d clubbed to death. It must have fallen from his belt. He seized it, checked that it was loaded, made certain the flint was both new and firmly in place, and went to the cot. He tore a piece of sheet free and wrapped the pistol in it before shoving it into his belt, then went again to the window.
He glanced up to see if anyone looked his way, but could not be certain. No one had spotted the English mine, it seemed, and with a deep breath he lowered himself out of the window. It was far enough down that he was forced to drop the last foot onto the centre barrel, which held the powder. Half falling from that, he landed on one of the lower barrels and managed not to go into the water altogether. He paused there a moment, still, but when no cry went up he went to pull the bung from the powder barrel, when he realised he had left too much water there.
Carefully, he unwrapped his pistol and used the cloth to dry the barrel head, then pulled the bung. He fished out the match cord, positioned the bung so that it covered most of the hole, and then added the damp cloth to this, covering the hole completely but for the tiniest hole where the match emerged. Balancing himself, he held the cord in one hand and the cocked pistol in the other. For the briefest second he hesitated, took a long deep breath, then aimed the pistol at the cord, which dangled a few inches from his hand, and pulled the trigger.
He turned away from the smoke for an instant and then opened his eyes, which were swimming from the flash. The match burned! Gingerly, he pulled the cloth away, expecting all the while that the powder would light and blow him to his final glory, but it did not.
He slipped into the water, took a few deep breaths, and then submerged, swimming as far as he could dead down-current and then surfacing as silently as he was able. He floated on his back, breathing and not letting his feet break the surface as he kicked. He went under again and swam until the need for air drove him up. He then began to swim quietly, desperate to get away. He glanced back once, and though there were men on the quarterdeck firing into the dark, it did not seem to be at him, nor was there any sign that the mine had been discovered.
Hayden had not swum very far when there was a flash and then an unholy explosion. He was propelled forward briefly and felt as though a massive fist of water had landed a blow to his entire body. He spun around in the water, holding up an arm to protect himself, and saw what appeared to be the entire transom of the ship explode in a monstrous moment of fire.
Hayden could not tear his eyes away and hovered there, treading water, watching the stern of the ship heave up and then settle and immediately start to go down.
“My God!” he muttered. “We have done for her.”
Fire consumed the transom and burned in the rigging and furled mizzen sails. Hayden could see men on the deck picking themselves up.
“You must launch boats,” he heard himself say.
But the French did not yet seem to comprehend their situation. And then there was a mad rush to the boats. The ship, however, was going rapidly down by the stern, sinking ever lower as water rushed in. Hayden was certain they would not have a single boat over the side before the ship slipped beneath the surface.
He watched in fascinated horror as a gun, broken loose by the explosion, rolled and then tumbled down the slanting deck, taking with it men who could not get clear in the press. The ship began to roll onto her starboard side, a great wounded animal going to ground, but this one would never rise again.
Men began to slip into the water as half the deck went under. One of the boats was manhandled upright and floated off from the sinking vessel, with men leaping aboard and others clinging to the gunwales. The mizzen rigging burned yet, the flame casting a stained hellish light over the scene.
“I never meant to do this,” Hayden whispered to no one. It was, he realised then, the truth of war—men endeavoured to bring destruction to the enemy, but, once achieved, they then looked in horror upon their own accomplishments. One looked in horror upon one’s self.
He treaded water, floating high above the earth, watching as a hundred men or more began the slow fall towards the earth’s surface. What kind of man could murder a hundred of his own kind?
Only the forecastle of the sinking ship remained, and there was enacted a scene of such chaos as he had never witnessed, men climbing over their fellows to keep from the sea. Others were shoved over the bulwarks, and then those were pushed over behind.
A burning ship’s boat came drifting by the stricken ship and he realised it was one of their fire boats, still afloat, carried by the sea. It was a macabre sight, sliding by the sinking ship, as though it had come to cast light on Hayden’s own handiwork, like a rebuke from some higher power.
Aboard the ill-fated ship there was such keening and howling, as though these were not men at all but some wild beasts trapped and about to give up their lives. And then Hayden saw two small boys, holding hands, leap down into the sea, where they disappeared beneath the surface. For a long moment he watched, but they never surfaced again. Hayden realised that he wept silently.
“Captain Hayden!” came a cry out of the darkness. “Captain Hayden . . .”
“Here!” he called back. “I am here.”
“Where away, sir?”
“South! Row south!”
A moment later, a boat came gliding out of the dark and he was being helped over the side by many hands.
“It worked, Captain,” Childers pronounced, as Hayden tumbled down onto a thwart.
For some few seconds Hayden could not reply. “I never meant to sink her with so many souls aboard.”
“They are privateers, sir,” Childers replied. “They have been raiding our commerce and causing all manner of mischief.”
“For which we might send them into our prisons and later exchange them for our own people, but we would not execute them.”
Childers was struck dumb by this. Clearly, he had been elated by their success—which had been far greater than they expected.
“It is a war, sir,” Childers said, almost under his breath, glancing at the men who lay upon their oars.
“Perhaps mankind’s most wicked contrivance. Row me back to our ship,” Hayden demanded, and then, more softly: “How did our crew fare?”
“Four lost, sir. Three wounded.”
“I am mortally sorry to hear it.”
“Look!” One of the rowers pointed towards the stricken ship.
A boat appeared then, and a second. The boats from the other privateers had come. Hayden did not want to see what happened next and turned his head away. The oarsmen set to their sweeps, and Childers put his helm over to take them back to their Spanish prize.
It seemed to Hayden then that, if he managed in the end to have Angelita back, all the joy and goodness of their marriage would be fouled by this one act—to have murdered so many to have her returned. It was unspeakable.
They were soon alongside the ship, and passed up the wounded first, before Hayden climbed over the side, a puddle forming about him where he stood, watching the hands come up onto the deck.
Gould came hurrying up. “We have done for that privateer! Congratulations, Captain!”
Hayden gave the smallest nod in reply. As he turned to make his way down to his commandeered cabin, he found Hawthorne before him.
“An accident of war,” the marine said, as though he knew Hayden’s thoughts. “Nothing more. Never was it intended. Just misfortune—almost freakishly so.”
“I do not think the French will believe it so innocent. Our names will be black among those people—my mother’s people. Even my own family will turn away from me. It was a monstrous act, Mr Hawthorne, a monstrous act, and it will haunt us until the day death knocks at our doors.”
Sleep did not come to Hayden that night. He wanted nothing more than to remain in his cabin, alone, and speak to no one, but he was afraid the French would desire revenge upon them for this terrible act, and he returned to the deck and paced his private section.
So distraught did he find himself that he was left muttering to no one.
“Never was it my intention to sink them,” he whispered. “To disable them, yes, but never to murder so many.”
This thought seemed to possess him, and he repeated it over and over as it echoed in his mind. “An accident of war,” Hawthorne had called it, but Hayden wondered now how he could not have realised what would occur. Had not Reverte even suggested as much? To ignite so much powder so near to the ship’s weakest point . . . What other result could it have had? Why did he not comprehend that? Was his mind so clouded by emotion that he had not been able to perceive that obvious truth?
Ransome and Reverte prepared the ship for an attack by boats, but the stars blew into the west and no attack came. It left Hayden and perhaps others to a long night of self-recrimination.
Wind and a thin, grey light reached them at the same instant, as though the morning were pressed on by the breeze. Pennants began to stir, flutter, and then stream. Hands were called to make sail and to break out the anchor.
A short distance off, the privateers did the same. Hayden more than half expected the three remaining ships to turn and come after him, for the odds were very much in their favour, but they did not. Instead, they returned to their previous course, along the Old Channel, as though they had not noticed what had occurred the night before. Indeed, Hayden half wondered if it had not been a nightmare.
The wind, almost from the north, remained, throughout the day, froward and moody. For a time it would blow and hurry the ships on, but then it would die away so that they all but lost steerageway; then, for a few hours, it would be but a breeze, falling away and coming back like a soft breath. And then it would make with a vengeance, howling among the rigging so that the ships heeled and were in danger of carrying away spars. Sails were set and handed, and then set again, until the men were exhausted from the work.
The three enemy ships were kept always within sight, but Hayden could not now imagine how he would take one of them, let alone overcome three to find Angelita. He wondered if she knew what he had done. What would she think of a man who murdered a hundred to have her back? Would she have even the slightest desire to call such a man her husband again?
The Windward Channel was reached at dawn, and though Hayden expected the ships to continue on, passing through the Mona Channel as they had come, they instead turned down the channel.
Ransome and Reverte were standing on the forecastle when Hayden arrived, having been alerted to the privateers shaping their course to the south.
“They will draw nearer your port of Kingston,” Reverte said.
“Yes, but I doubt this channel is being watched as it was when we were enemies of your nation. It is unlikely we will meet English cruisers here now.” Ransome caught sight of Hayden and he touched his hat. “Captain. There goes our quarry, slipping off down the Windward Channel, though I cannot think why.”
“They never want to be becalmed again where the ships can anchor,” Reverte said with certainty. “They have had too many bad experiences with that. Perhaps they also think they will find fairer winds in the Caribbean Sea. Who can say?”
Employing Reverte’s glass, Hayden quizzed the ships retreating down the wide channel. It was just over a hundred miles through to the other side, past the long peninsula that grew out of the southwest corner of Hispaniola. If the winds held—and the channel did not have its name for no reason—they would be through in a day.
“We will shape our course to follow their own, Mr Ransome,” Hayden ordered, lowering the glass but gazing yet at the distant ships.
Over the course of the last day, he had felt Angelita slipping away from him, as though she were beyond his grasp now, though, maddingly, he could see the ship that bore her off as it made its way towards the horizon, where it would disappear and she would be lost to him, utterly and irrevocably.
During the afternoon a high, gauzy cloud formed, dulling the day and drawing the colour from the sea so that it appeared a drab blue and, in the distance, grey. By sunset, the cloud had become denser and drowned the stars. A black squall swept down upon them out of the dark, pressing the ship over and throwing the sails about so that they luffed and shook. The helmsman put the ship before the wind and she went racing off towards the south-west, where, fortunately, they had sea room.
Hayden went to his berth sometime after the darkness had settled in, exhausted from his lack of sleep the previous night. Even so, sleep eluded him for some time and then it was fraught with nightmares and he woke often.
As was his usual habit, he rose before dawn, broke his fast, and was on the deck before the first signs of light. All the planking was wet from rain, and the sails and rigging dripped.
Hayden stood with a hand on the binnacle, staring off into the south. Gould was officer of the watch, and he appeared at that instant.
“Where are our chases, Mr Gould? I cannot make them out.”
“Nor can we, sir,” the midshipman admitted.
“And how long have they been out of sight?”
“Two hours, sir.”
Hayden could hardly believe what he had heard. “And why did no one wake me?”
Gould stood, embarrassed and hesitant. “I—I do not know, sir. We expected them to reappear and then we would have woken you for naught, Captain.”
“And what is our position?”
“Perhaps five miles north-north-west of Cape Tiburon.”
“Have they disappeared around the cape?”
“We did not think them so distant from us, sir, but it is possible.”
Hayden considered a moment. “Have my night glass carried up, Mr Gould. I shall be on the forecastle.”
Hayden paced the length of the gangway to the forecastle, where he gazed a moment into the dark night. A spattering of rain was heard on the planks around, and on his coat and hat, as the wind drove it down at an angle. Hayden moved to leeward to gain some protection from the sails.
A moment later, his night glass arrived and he began a careful search of the sea at all quarters. On such a dark night the long peninsula that made up the south-western corner of Hispaniola could not be descried, which Hayden did not like overly. Currents were often unpredictable, and his ship might have been set more to the east than either of his sailing masters realised.
Ransome hurried along the gangway, pulling on a coat. “We have lost our ships, I am informed, sir.”
“Indeed, Mr Ransome. But you are not officer of the watch and had no part in it.”
“I did leave orders to wake me for any reason at all, Captain.”
“I have no doubt of it.” Hayden passed Ransome his night glass. “I cannot find even Hispaniola, let alone a ship on this dark night.”
Ransome began to quiz the sea in the same manner his captain had but a moment before.
Hayden turned to one of the forecastle hands. “Enquire of Mr Gould who the lookout aloft was when the ships disappeared.”
“A Spaniard, sir. He’s only just climbed down.”
“Find him for me, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.” The man ran off.
“What see you, Mr Ransome?” asked Hayden.
“A bloody, dark night, sir, but neither ship nor land.”
“Mmm. My eyes have not failed me yet, then.”
The hand returned with the lookout a moment later.
“This is him, sir, though I don’t know his name. We call him Georgie, sir, because he looks somewhat like the Prince of Wales.”
Hayden had not realised previously that one could hear a smirk, but he certainly did in this statement—though its intent did not seem malicious.
“You were aloft when the privateers disappeared?” Hayden asked the man in Spanish.
“I was, Captain. We had lost sight of one ship or another throughout the night.” He waved a hand at the sea. “Squalls and mounting seas, sir. When we lost all three I thought nothing of it, but we have not caught sight of them since.”
“And when did you lose sight of them for the last time?”
“About four bells, Captain.”
“About or exactly four bells?”
The man shifted from one foot to the other. “I heard the ship’s bell, sir, and within a few minutes we lost sight of all the ships’ lamps.”
“And how distant were they when you lost sight of them?”
“More than a league, sir, but not two.”
Wickham had arrived on the forecastle as the man spoke, and hovered on the edge of the conversation.
“You may go,” Hayden told the Spaniard. He turned to the lieutenant. “We shall beat to quarters, Mr Ransome.”
“Aye, sir.”
Ransome hastened off, calling out orders.
Hayden beckoned the midshipman forward. “Mr Wickham, have a look through my night glass, if you please, and see if you cannot find our privateers.”
Wickham took the glass and went immediately to the barricade. “You think they are lying in wait, sir?” he said, as he peered through the glass.
“Their lamps all disappeared at the same instant—at four bells—as though it had been so arranged. If I were them I should darken my ships so that we would come up to them just before dawn. We would not perceive them lying in wait, but there would be light for the battle.”
“Should we heave-to, Captain?”
“If we have merely lost sight of them in the dark, heaving-to will let them slip farther away, increasing the chance of us losing sight of them altogether.” Hayden found himself looking around as though someone would fall upon him out of the darkness.
“I do not care for either possibility, sir.”
“Nor do I, Mr Wickham.”
The Spanish crew came up the ladders into the rain and darkness, sullen looks upon their faces as though to say, What does this Englishman want of us now? Can he not see it is a dark night and we have need of sleep?
Reverte hastened onto the forecastle and Hayden informed him of their situation. The Spaniard looked positively alarmed, and he went about the ship exhorting the men to take their stations and stand ready.
After interrogating the darkness for some minutes, Wickham handed the glass back to his captain. “I can make out nothing, sir. Though perhaps there is an area of more concentrated darkness off our larboard bow, some miles distant. Hispaniola, I should think.”
“I shall feel better once we have weathered the cape,” Hayden growled. He looked around again. “Damn this black night.”
The men stooped by their guns, backs to the wind, which was surprisingly cool for the latitude.
“I shall keep you on the deck for your sharp eyes, Mr Wickham. Send Gould down with Reverte to command the gun-deck.”
Wickham went off, calling the midshipman’s name.
Hayden took one last look into the darkness with his glass and then made his way along the gangway, which was both slanted and heaving in the quartering seas.
As he came onto the quarterdeck, he met Hawthorne, who was bearing a musket.
“You have heard our small news?” Hayden asked, as the marine fell into step beside him.
“I have. And where have these ships gone?” he asked.
As they reached the binnacle there came a flash of light aft and then the report reverberated over the water. Hayden did not know where the shot went, but he stood all but transfixed a moment.
“Should I thank them for answering that most pressing question?” Hawthorne wondered in the silence.
And then came another shot, from their larboard quarter, which struck the back of a wave not two dozen feet aft of their transom.
And then the night was illuminated for an instant as a broadside was fired to starboard, though too distant to do damage.
Hayden took one look around, comprehension coming over him like cold rain. “They intend to trap us against the lee shore of the peninsula.”
A moment of silence, and then the gun aft fired again. Then the gun to larboard.
Hayden turned his head, listening carefully.
Guns fired again from somewhere out to the west.
Hayden pointed to this last. “That is the frigate,” he announced, “so the others are the privateers. Mr Hawthorne, would you be so good as to find Lieutenant Reverte on the gun-deck and send him to me?”
Hawthorne made a quick salute and went for the companionway ladder at a trot. As his head disappeared below, Ransome shot out of the companionway.
“They have come after us, sir!” he blurted.
“Mmm. But their timing is imperfect. We still have a little darkness left to us, and we had best exploit it to our greatest advantage. Ah, here is Reverte.”
The Spaniard remained significantly calmer than Ransome, who was clearly in a lather.
“Will our ship tack in this wind?” Hayden asked of the Spaniard.
Reverte looked about, assessing the wind a moment, and then nodded. “I believe she will, Captain.”
“I would like to turn to larboard, rake the privateer on our larboard quarter if we can, carry on until we are well clear, and then come through the wind onto the starboard tack. The seas are not so great as to prevent us opening gunports.”
Ransome and Reverte acknowledged the orders and hurried off to prepare the men for these evolutions. Hayden sent men to the ship’s lamps with orders to snuff them just before the helm was put over.
He then called for Wickham and stationed the young reefer on the larboard side of the quarterdeck, clear of the gunners, and had him fix his glass upon the enemy lurking there in the dark.
“I have her, sir,” Wickham announced.
“Do not take your eyes off her, Mr Wickham. I shall need you to tell me when she is directly abeam.”
The privateer was almost invisible in the darkness, and Hayden was counting on her continuing to fire the chase piece to give his gunners a target. Like all such manoeuvres, this one relied for its success upon timing. The privateer would have a chance to rake Hayden’s frigate as it passed by, but Hayden hoped to turn through the wind at that instant and prevent this. Whether the ship would prove as handy as the Themis, he could not say. There was also a question as to how distant the privateer was . . . If she were nearer than Hayden believed, then he would not have time to turn into the wind, and he might well get raked—and at close range, too. If she were farther away, then Hayden’s broadside would likely do little damage.
To the east lay a deep, open bay—over a hundred miles to its head—encompassing one large island and several smaller ones. Its southern shore was made up of the long peninsula that grew out of Hispaniola’s south-western corner. Its eastern shore curved up somewhat towards the west and terminated at the point that made up the northern entrance to the Windward Channel. Despite the great size of the bay, Hayden believed that, had he a squadron of three ships under his command, he could trap a ship in it by daylight. This was why he felt he must get onto the starboard tack before dawn. He could not let the enemy ships herd him into a corner.
It occurred to him, at that moment, that he might be better not to fire his broadside, which would alert the other ships that he had changed course, although they would not know if it was to the east or to the west. He weighed this option for only a few seconds before deciding that opportunity to do damage to one of the three ships—especially at close range—could not be passed up. Who knew what the result might be? The privateer might lose a mast and be out of any subsequent action. It was not particularly likely, but the outcome of a broadside at such range could not be predicted.
When all was in readiness, Hayden gave the order, lamps were doused, and the ship began her turn, yards being shifted and sails sheeted in. He went and stood by Wickham, who braced himself in the aft corner where transom met bulwark, Hayden’s night glass fixed upon the enemy ship.
“Will she pass astern of us?” Hayden asked, still unable to make her out.
“I do not believe so, Captain, but it will be very near. We might traverse guns aft . . . ?”
The order was given, and the sound of carriage wheels being forced across the planking ground around the ship. The chase gun fired on the privateer, but she had clearly lost sight of them, for the ball went well aft.
“We have a shot, sir,” the nearest gun captain announced quietly, sighting along his gun to the place where the flash had been seen.
“Mr Wickham . . . ?” Hayden prompted.
“I agree, sir.”
The order was given, and the larboard battery fired, shaking the deck beneath Hayden’s feet. All listened for the sound, and a terrible rending and crash of iron on wood came to them over the water, though the extent of the damage could not even be guessed.
Immediately, yards were braced and the helm put over. The frigate forced her way up into the wind. Before she had come into irons, the privateer fired her own broadside, and much of it struck home, some passing through the sails and rigging, and other balls striking the hull. Nothing carried away, and the ship, after hovering a moment in indecision, came through the wind and in a moment settled onto the starboard tack.
Gunports were closed, though guns had been reloaded and were in all ways ready to fire. Every eye was now fixed to the west, trying to find the other ships to see what they did. None bore lamps, for they had come upon the frigate by stealth, and now that they realised Hayden had changed his course, they left off firing, rendering them near to invisible on such a dark night.
“There away!” one of the hands called out. “A light, sir.”
Hayden stared into the dark and, after a moment, found it, wafting slowly up and down.
“Why would they light a lamp?” Wickham wondered.
“They have lost sight of one another and cannot risk collision—a great boon for us, for we may remain dark for the little night that remains.”
“What shall we do now, sir?” Wickham asked.
“Remain on this course until we see what they intend. Will they chase us yet, or will they continue on for whatever island is their destination?”
“I would certainly choose to go on, sir. We cannot challenge three ships alone, and they would be foolish to let us lure them back up the channel. British ships do come here, even if not often.”
“I agree, Wickham. Let us see if they are coolheaded or still desire revenge for our murdering so many of their fellows.”
Wickham continued to search the darkness with Hayden’s glass.
“Have they worn, Wickham?” Ransome asked as he came aft. “Can you not see?”
“I believe they might have, Mr Ransome, but cannot yet be certain.”
The frigate stood on for a short time, when signal guns were fired on one of the enemy ships and then answered by the others, extinguishing any doubts as to their positions.
“They are wearing now,” Wickham told the others. “Even the ship we raked seems to be able to wear, so we did not damage her as we had hoped, I should guess.”
“Will they come after us again or will they bear off and pass south of the cape?” Ransome asked.
It was the question in everyone’s mind, Hayden was certain, but it would not be answered until daylight found them. Dawn, however, lay concealed behind a thick layer of woolly grey that had overspread the Caribbean sky that night. When it did finally come, slowly revealing the heaving sea and the great islands to both east and west, it cast only a dim light over the silvery-grey waters. There was no doubt, however, that the privateers had chosen to stand on and were nearing Cape Tiburon.
Hayden felt a strange hollowness inside at this sight. A heavy lassitude and something like melancholy came to fill the void. The ships bearing his wife were slipping off.
“On deck!” came the cry from aloft. “Sail! Sail, just rounding the cape!”