Take, Burn or Destroy, page 23
The British sailors all collapsed upon the deck. Hayden was grateful no others had been forced into the sea by the press and that only one had been lost. Surely a hundred French sailors had died—probably more.
For a long while no one spoke, and then Smosh offered to lead them in prayer, which he did, speaking so plainly about Mr Franks and in a manner so heartfelt that all were affected. Hayden felt that if the quality of prayer spoken upon a man’s passing was heaven’s measure, then certainly Franks would walk among the angels. He had been a less-than-accomplished bosun, but he had been a good and loyal crewman and had made every effort to learn the trade in which he knew full well he was deficient. Poor Franks had no family, for his wife had borne him no children and she had grown sickly and finally passed on, leaving Franks a near pauper to the debts owed the many physicians and surgeons who had ministered to his unlucky spouse. Hayden did not know how to take the measure of a man’s life, but Franks’ existence had been hard, that was certain, though many could say the same. But, even so, Franks’ life had no leisure, little comfort, no recognition, and more heartache than deserved. In the great sea of British life, Franks’ passing had made barely a ripple. That was the truth, hard and cruel as it was to say. And it was the fate of most, Hayden knew, and there was no reason to believe that he would be an exception. The anonymity of death was complete. Once the few souls acquainted with a man had passed, he was a name on a stone—and a very great many could not even hope for that.
With these melancholy thoughts bringing him very low, Hayden looked out at the distant beach where so many had gathered to watch what transpired. He doubled over a moment in pain from hunger and thirst, as everyone did at intervals. And when this spasm passed he felt the loss of Franks and the absence of Mr Barthe. There was, among his remaining crew, no one with more experience than himself. All decisions must be made without any hope of drawing upon the experience of another. And the decision that must be made was when to launch the rafts.
The wind had not abated since sunset the previous day and the sea remained high, breaking in many places from the wreck almost into the shore. Hayden did not believe a raft would go far without overturning. Watching the progress of the capsized boat, he could see that it was borne more south than shoreward and would in all likelihood take hours to drift ashore . . . if it did not find an undertow that carried it back out to sea. How long would a man last clinging to a raft that might be thrown over by every breaking sea? Not long enough to reach shore was the conclusion that Hayden came to. Again he wondered if these might be his last few hours.
Lacrosse sought him out then. The Frenchman looked done for, haggard and pale, as though he had been hungry for a year, not a few days.
“I have come to beg your forgiveness, Capitaine Hayden,” Lacrosse began. “I requested your officer take charge . . .” He tried to swallow. “The unforgivable actions of my own crew caused his death . . . and the deaths of many others. I am sorrowful and I am ashamed.”
Hayden did not quite know what to say. “Your situation—your command—is all but impossible, Capitaine Lacrosse. To govern men who will not consent to be governed without the common means of discipline . . .” Hayden shrugged. “It cannot be done. The failing is not yours.”
“Vous êtes très gentil, Capitaine Hayden.” Lacrosse tried to work some moisture into his mouth. “Some of my crew have petitioned me to allow them to launch a raft. I have given my consent, though I spoke against this, as I believe it is very unlikely they will succeed. They are determined to make the attempt, even so. What is your opinion, Capitaine? Will you launch the rafts you have built?”
Hayden shook his head. “I am of the opinion that we must wait until the very last instant, for, like you, I do not think a raft can pass through the seas without being capsized.” Hayden pointed. “I watched the boat drift south. I believe it will take some hours to go ashore. Men upon a raft will be thrown into the sea, and I do not believe they can cling to the raft long enough to make it ashore. It is beyond human endurance. I would choose to stay with the ship until it begins to break up. We can only hope it will hold together until the gale moderates.”
Lacrosse nodded, his look pained and grim. “I fear you are right, but these men are determined and I have chosen to allow it. If they reach shore . . . we will know that it can be managed. If they do not . . . may God preserve all of our souls.”
“Yes,” Hayden said softly. “Amen.”
Lacrosse gathered together the men who wished to launch the raft—seven men—and, exhorting the others to keep their distance, found a few more men to help with the launch. It was not easily managed nor efficiently done, but the raft finally half slid and half tumbled into the sea. The seven crew, holding barrel staves as paddles, clambered aboard the swaying platform. The sea took them as they settled to their knees, throwing them at the side of the heeling ship with a crash that nearly tumbled them all into the water, and then swept them away. Although they paddled madly, their efforts appeared to be wholly ignored by the high-running sea. It tossed them up, then sent them spinning down the wave face, catching them up and passing beneath. The men gave up paddling and instead clung to the raft, lying facedown, instinctively keeping their weight low. Hayden could see the fear on their faces.
Like the capsized boat, the raft was carried more south than east. Every man aboard clung to that raft with their gaze, all of their hopes riding with the terrified occupants. Not a dozen waves had passed beneath the clumsy vessel before one broke upon it, and Hayden watched as the men were hurled into the sea and the raft capsized. Perhaps three managed to scramble back aboard the overturned raft. They could be seen looking about for their companions, but they were already lost.
The raft was barely three hundred yards away when it was thrown over again, and this time only a single man could be seen, clinging to the wreckage, as it crested the next sea. The others were gone. That man remained aboard as the raft drifted slowly south, and was soon too distant for anyone aboard the wrecked ship to distinguish the slight form of a man. Whether he remained aboard or not, no one could say.
Archer looked over at Hayden. “Well, sir, I doubt British seamanship can make a raft seaworthy or that our own crew would fare better.”
“I am afraid I agree, Mr Archer.”
“Then we are to risk our luck on the wreck and hope this gale takes off enough for us to launch rafts and bring them safely to shore.”
“Yes,” Hayden admitted. “It is the only course of action open to us, though I have tortured my mind in an attempt to discover anything else we might do.”
“As have we all, Captain.”
A desperate silence descended upon the shipwrecked men, all of whom were racked with spasms of pain from hunger and thirst and most of whom shivered with cold and controlled their limbs but poorly. Although knots of men sat, backs to the wind, heads bowed, most lay upon the deck, curled up against the wind, trying to preserve the smallest spark of warmth. Many were now insensible, or nearly so, and unable to perform the smallest act that might preserve their lives. When the ship broke up, Hayden knew most of these men would be washed into the sea.
The screech of working timbers as the ship was prised apart by each passing sea had grown dreadfully loud. Some men covered their ears against it. The deck worked as the seas passed into the hull and then out again. Hayden could see it almost ripple from stern to stem with each sea. He found this more fascinating than frightening, which said much for his state of both mind and body. Like most, he was exhausted to the point of collapse and comprehended that his judgement was much reduced.
Sometime in the early afternoon, a series of massive seas broke upon Les Droits de l’Homme and the upper deck began to tear free. A violent wrenching and rending was heard, and the timbers began to snap like kindling. In less than five minutes a section of the bow broke away and was driven over the reef and broken into two pieces. Upon these, swept by the seas, Hayden could see men clinging one to another, and scrambling as the section rolled to its natural trim.
“Stay together!” Hayden ordered his men. “Where is the doctor?”
“He’s assisting the French surgeon,” Archer informed. “They were aft, sir.”
Hayden forced himself up to his feet. “Dr Griffiths!” he called over the sounds of the gale, the rending of timbers.
He spotted Griffiths, hurrying aft as best he could among all the men and over a sloping, slick deck.
“Shall we launch the rafts, sir?” Ransome asked.
“No, Mr Ransome. The rafts will take us to our deaths without question. We must cling to a section of the wreck. It is a slim hope, but the only one we have. Link arms. Let no man be torn away. Take hold of that French boy, Mr Hawthorne. He is the lad who helped me free all of you.”
Hawthorne found Pierre and bodily moved the boy into the centre of the British sailors, where the midshipmen had been sent as well.
“Well, young Pierre,” Hawthorne declared above the noise, “as a reward for saving us from drowning we are going to allow you to drown among Englishmen—a singular honour for a Frenchman. We do hope you are properly grateful.”
Despite the desperateness of the situation the British sailors laughed, earning them the oddest looks from the French sailors.
There was a rush to the rafts by the French sailors, and near battle broke out to launch these ungainly craft and clamber aboard. Men were struck down by their mates and shoved into the sea. Several rafts were overset by men leaping aboard them without thought to the crafts’ stability. A large section of the stern broke away then—perhaps half the quarterdeck. Some men aft elected to stay with the larger centre of the wreck and leapt over the growing gap. Half of an hour was needed to rip the stern section loose, all the while the men aboard crying out and calling for God to preserve them. Finally, it tore away entire and immediately commenced breaking into smaller sections. Hayden could see Lacrosse and his officers upon one of these, lying upon their bellies and clinging to whatever purchase could be found.
All about the ship flotsam floated up, some of it sections of the deck below. A large section of lower deck appeared aft and was pushed into the lee of the wreck. With only an instant to decide, Hayden leapt to his feet. “Onto that section of deck!” he called to his men, and pointed. “All at once, now.”
He began dragging up the nearest man to him, and then another, pushing them towards the submerged rail. In a moment, Hawthorne had taken ahold of this raft—perhaps twenty feet by a dozen. He could not hold it, though, and for a moment Hayden thought it would be swept away, but instead it washed back towards the wreck and in that instant the British sailors all tumbled aboard, as did a few Frenchmen, as well as their mascot, Pierre.
“On your bellies!” Hayden ordered. “Link arms and take hold of the edge.” The men did as he said and linked legs wherever they could as well.
In a moment they were fifty feet from the wreck, which was breaking apart rapidly, the men aboard being cast into the sea or leaping for anything that might float and grasping hold with cramping hands.
Smosh lay near to Hayden and he was praying calmly, asking God to deliver them though they were unworthy sinners. For some reason this reference to their sins made Hayden want to laugh. “Grasp on, Mr Smosh!” Hayden implored the priest. “Let no man slip away!” A sea broke over them, almost tearing Hayden free. His hands were weak from cold and seemed like claws, stiff and unwieldy. The raft was awash half the time, the men’s faces in the water as often as not.
Hayden could hear the men’s breath coming in short, terrified gasps. Looking up, he could see the last section of the ship collapsing down into the water and then surging up in pieces, men being spilled into the frigid sea. Even over the howling gale he could hear their cries. This piece of deck might not make it ashore, but he was certain that it afforded them a better chance than staying with the wreck. He had ordered everyone to jump aboard because it was larger and heavier than any of the rafts that had been built. There was a slim possibility that it was too heavy to be thrown over in the breaking seas. That would be seen soon enough.
Seas began to mount up as soon as they reached soundings, but here along the relatively shallow coast they quickly became very steep, piled upon each other, and broke violently and often. Each sea lifted the heavy section of deck and drove it both south and east towards shore. From Hayden’s vantage, staring out to sea, he had time to contemplate the long, irregular rows of waves rolling towards them. Some of these were low swells that merely lifted their raft and set it down into the trough, but successions of high seas would come—four or five at a time—that would angle the raft up so that it was all the men could do to stay aboard. Too often a sea would mount up too steeply and the top would topple off, breaking heavily upon the raft and its occupants, pressing them down so that they must hold their breath and cling to the edge of their vessel with all the strength that remained to them. When it seemed to Hayden that he could hold his breath no longer, the raft would stagger up so that it was only half in flood, and a chorus of coughing and gasping would be heard all around.
“Hold fast!” someone would shout then, and another sea would throw itself upon them.
Sailors were strong men who did hard labour every day, Hayden well knew. Their hands were especially strong from regularly hauling ropes, and this was the only reason they had lasted even this long. To Hayden’s right lay Dr Griffiths, and to his left the French aspirant, Pierre. The boy looked frightened and was shivering uncontrollably.
“Link your arm with mine,” he instructed the boy in French, and this was awkwardly done, as the boy’s limbs would hardly obey. “Dr Griffiths, do the same.”
The surgeon linked elbows with Hayden. His face was blue-white and his lips bloodless. In their year of sailing together Hayden had never seen him look so frightened.
“Another few waves like that last,” the doctor said, “and I shall be gone.”
“We will not let you go, Doctor.” And then, to the man upon Griffiths’ right, “Mr Hawthorne, hold fast to the doctor.”
“I shall not release my hold upon you, Doctor, until we are standing upon the shore.”
Griffiths nodded his thanks.
“Hold fast!” came the call.
The raft began its vertiginous climb over a steep wall of grey-green water. It seemed to Hayden that it rose to a point of being almost vertical, though surely this was imagined. Even so, he was certain this time it would be thrown over—gravity would not be denied. The crest broke upon them, but it was largely foam and comparatively harmless. The wave passed beneath then, and he tilted now the other way, though not so steeply—a wave’s back was never so steep as its face.
Two seas passed then, neither steep enough to cause alarm. Hayden could hear the men muttering “Thank God” and gathering their reserves to face the next onslaught. It came soon enough in a sea so steep that Hayden was certain it would throw them all into the ocean, but somehow their platform remained upright, though it had turned about so that Hayden now looked towards the shore, which was closer than he had dared hope.
He hadn’t realised how much more difficult it was to be on the downhill side of the raft as it lifted to the seas, looking down into the trough. If he hadn’t been able to link legs with the man behind him Hayden was certain he would never have kept his hold of the raft.
Another sea threw itself upon them, slanting the raft impossibly up, then casting a deluge upon them. Up the raft went until it was nearly vertical, Hayden holding on with every bit of reserve he could manage, feeling his numb fingers beginning to slip—and then the raft dug its edge in so that Hayden was submerged to his waist, and then went over, so that he was entirely under green water.
The raft was torn from his hand, and Hayden was plunged into the cold Atlantic. His hold on the raft had been lost, but he had grabbed the man to either side and now he kicked and struggled to find the surface. In a moment he pushed his face above the heaving surface, pulling Griffiths up as he did so. The young aspirant could swim, and he surfaced as Hayden did, looked about wildly, and then struck out for the raft, which floated not a dozen feet away.
“Do not struggle, Doctor,” Hayden called, turning the surgeon on his back. “Kick your feet, but stay upon your back.”
A wave fell upon them, its massive weight driving them under. It took a moment for Hayden to get them to the surface again, but he could feel Griffiths kicking and waving his arms rather ineffectually. The raft, by some act of providence, was nearer and in three strokes Hayden had hold of it. Pierre was already aboard, looking like a drowned pup, but he grabbed the doctor by the shoulders of his coat and pulled him awkwardly aboard and then gave Hayden a hand.
Around the raft, men were struggling to get back aboard; some appeared to be flailing about merely trying to stay afloat, and Hayden, realizing that Ransome could not make it on his own, rolled back into the water and went clumsily after the lieutenant. It took longer than he thought and exhausted all his reserves to accomplish, but Hayden brought Ransome alongside the overturned raft, though he had no energy left to drag himself aboard and would not have made it had not hands reached out and pulled him up onto the planks.
Too exhausted to take hold, Hayden waited for the next wave to wash him back into the sea. “Sir!” It was Gould, shouting almost in his ear. “You must turn about and grasp on, sir, or you will be lost.”
With the help of Gould and Archer, Hayden managed to get himself around and tried to grip the planks with hands that more closely worked like claws and felt much the same.
“How many did we lose?” Hayden asked.
“We are all here, sir, but for a Frenchman or two. I don’t know how, Captain, but we all got back aboard.” He paused a moment, a look like pain crossing his face. “But we will not manage it again, God preserve us.”
