Read Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars Online
Authors: Jay Worrall
Tags: #Action & Adventure, #Historical, #Naval - 18th century - Fiction, #onlib, #Sea Stories, #War & Military, #_NB_fixed, #_rt_yes, #Fiction
The overcast precluded any noon sighting to determine their position. The ship’s bell rang for the afternoon watch to mark the official beginning of a new day, and the hands were fed another cold meal of beef, cheese, biscuit, and blackstrap. Talmage replaced Winchester as deck officer. Charles went below to his cabin to eat most of the indifferent food his steward put before him and drained his porter. Afterward he returned wearily to his accustomed place on the weather railing of the quarterdeck.
The long afternoon passed slowly. Conditions were too difficult to attempt replacing the mizzen topmast, too constant to call for a change in sail. At the approach of the first dog watch, he sent Midshipman Sykes to tell Attwater to deliver the claret to the mainmast topmen’s mess in hopes of avoiding discussing the matter with his steward directly. Attwater appeared on the quarterdeck ten minutes later, grim-faced and clutching the three bottles tightly to his breast.
“But, sir,” he pleaded loudly, “there ain’t no more than half a case left in the larder. We’ll ’ave to drink the port.”
“ ‘We’?” Charles said, raising his eyebrows. He had long known that the steward helped himself freely to his wine supply, but had left the matter unremarked on.
“Didn’t I mean ‘you,’ sir, I did,” Attwater replied without a trace of hesitation. “I only sample to ensure that it ain’t gone sour.”
“Then I can do with the port,” Charles answered happily. “See to it, if you please. And be pleasant about it.”
Attwater twisted his face as if to complain further, apparently thought better of it, and turned reluctantly away, muttering under his breath.
The watch changed, Eliot assuming the responsibilities of deck officer. Toward dusk a narrow streak of clear blue appeared on the horizon to the northeast. Charles pushed himself off the quarterdeck railing, spoke briefly with the sailing master, and went below to his cabin to eat, drink as much of the claret as Attwater would allow, and find his bed. He lay for a time, too tired for sleep, thinking of Penny and her influence, even here in the middle of the sea, through her words to his crew, and how taken they were with her. His last thoughts as he drifted toward oblivion were remembrances of the warmth of her breath on his neck as they lay together, the softness of her breast …
He awoke slowly the next morning, stupefied with sleep, to the sound of many feet on the deck above, the rasp of a saw, and the pounding of hammers. The movements of the ship had eased greatly, he noted, and he guessed that someone had taken the opportunity to jury-rig the mizzenmast topgallant section. There being no pressing reason why he should be on deck, he lay beneath his covers and dozed fitfully for a time until he heard his steward padding about in the outer cabin.
“Attwater,” he yelled.
The gray-haired head showed itself through the curtained doorway. “Yes, sir?”
“What o’clock is it?”
“Nigh on the forenoon watch,” Attwater answered. “Which you don’t need not to stay abed a bit longer.”
It took Charles a moment to dissect the meaning of this last sentence, then he said, “Run along and see if the galley fire is lit. I would be pleased for a mug of coffee.”
He appeared on deck a half hour later, feeling rested and refreshed, to a bright blue sky with much diminished seas, and a moderate gusting breeze that had shifted during the night from north-by-west to mostly westerly. Winchester was supervising the carpenter, boatswain, and their mates in hoisting a suitably modified spare mainmast yard onto the mizzen top to replace the lost mast section.
At noon all of the ship’s officers and midshipmen clustered on the quarterdeck with their quadrants and sextants to take the noon sighting, from which they could readily calculate their latitude, which would tell at least how far south the storm had blown them. After sightings and scribbled calculations on their chalkboards, all agreed that they were more or less at thirty-eight degrees and twenty minutes north, except for Sykes, who found them magically in the Baltic, off Sweden.
“Does that make any sense to you, Mr. Sykes?” Charles said, taking the boy’s slate and inspecting it.
“No, sir,” Sykes answered agreeably.
“Look, you’ve added these numbers here when you should have divided.”
“Ah, I see,” Sykes intoned, clearly not seeing at all.
Charles sighed. “You will please call on Mr. Eliot when he is free and have him explain the calculations to you again.”
“Yes, sir,” Sykes answered. As soon as he thought his captain had focused his attention elsewhere, he grimaced.
Charles let it pass and turned his mind to fixing their location. Exactly where along the 38th Parallel they were was a matter of conjecture, but by dead reckoning, he thought probably about seventy-five miles southwest of Cape Sperone on the tip of Sardinia. The storm had driven them fully three hundred miles south-by-southeast from their starting point.
“We will increase sail directly the yard is crossed on the mizzen,” Charles said to Eliot. “Set a course for ten leagues due south of Cape L’Aigle, if you please.”
“That’s our rendezvous?” Eliot asked.
“In the event the squadron has been dispersed, yes,” Charles answered.
AFTER SEVEN DAYS, Louisa approached the appointed spot on the sea off the coast of France, midway between Marseille and Toulon, as specified in his orders. A brilliant midmorning sky shimmered over sparkling blue waters.
“Deck there,” a call came down from the lookout in the foremast crosstrees. “Sail dead ahead.”
“How many do you see?” Charles yelled back up.
“Just the one, sir. She’s a brig. I think she’s
Pylades,
sir.”
TWO
“AND A GOOD DAY TO YOU, CAPTAIN BEVAN,” CHARLES SAID as he climbed through the entryway onto
Pylades’s deck
. “Anything interesting while I was away?”
“Ah, the esteemed Captain Edgemont,” Daniel Bevan answered. A large smile showed on his face as he extended his hand. “We worried about you in the blow. Didn’t think you were used to seas much rougher than what you generally get in a bathtub. Not that you’ve ever found much use for a bathtub.”
“Nonsense,” Charles said as he shook the offered hand. “It was like a walk in the garden.”
“Come below, Charlie, and we’ll discuss it,” Bevan said with a gesture toward the hatchway that led below to his cabin. “Mind, we’re not as well supplied as the palatial
Louisa
.” He made a pointed show of studying the relation of the sun to the nearest yardarm and added, “Would you prefer port or sherry?”
Charles took a moment to look around him. From his gig, he’d noted a freshly replaced foretopmast section and a hastily jury-rigged fore-bowsprit. From his vantage on deck, he saw that
Pylades
’s longboat was missing from its normal stowage place between the masts and that there was a splint scabbed onto the spanker’s sprung lower yard. The gig was in its place, though. There were hands in the foremast crosstrees and on the bowsprit, apparently preparing for more permanent repairs. “How did you fare?” he asked seriously as they walked toward the ladderway.
“Touch and go,” Bevan answered. “I saw you start to strike your topgallant masts and couldn’t think what you were up to with Pigott’s flurry of signals and cannon fire to the contrary. When I finally did catch on, it was all we could do to turn and put her into the wind. We lost the upper part of the foremast almost immediately. Took part of the bowsprit with it.”
Bending under the deck beams—even lower than those on
Louisa
— they made their way through the aft bulkhead into the cramped space that served as Bevan’s cabin. Charles promptly dropped himself into the nearest chair so he could straighten his neck. “Must have been interesting with no headsails,” he continued.
“There were moments, Charlie, that I feared it was all going to carry away,” Bevan said earnestly. He crossed the cabin and opened a cupboard, removing a wine bottle and two glasses. Returning, he sat down across the table from Charles and pushed a glass across. “We set a drogue anchor to keep her bow to the wind and prayed like the damned until the storm blew itself out.” Bevan uncorked the bottle and poured out two glasses. “And how’s life aboard
Louisa,
” he asked, “now that the best first lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy has moved on?”
Charles answered evasively, “About as good as could be expected, I suppose.”
Bevan eyed him. “Not all sweetness and harmony?”
“It’s not that. It’s just … Well, things aren’t running as smoothly as I would have hoped.”
“Talmage?” Bevan guessed.
As Bevan knew, Charles had not requested Jacob Talmage as his first lieutenant. St. Vincent had named him. He was from a well-connected family with a long and distinguished military history, at the time serving as flag lieutenant on
Victory.
Charles wondered why he hadn’t been promoted long before. Presumably, the admiral felt his protégé needed a little seasoning and a chance to distinguish himself before being advanced.
“Yes, well,” he began, reluctant to speak ill of another officer but glad of the opportunity to share his doubts. “He tries hard enough. It must be awkward taking orders from a considerably younger captain. No matter how I look at it, though, he’s no seaman. Just before the storm struck, there was some problem with the mizzen topgallant mast, and he didn’t know what to do about it. That ended with the topmast eventually carrying away. On the second day, he had an argument with Eliot about reducing sail. An argument in which he was entirely in the wrong.” He sighed. “I expect it will improve in due course.” To change the subject, he said, “How do you find life among the high and mighty as commander of
Pylades
?”
Bevan made a sour face. “My God, it’s all paperwork. From your example, I thought all I had to do was sit on my duff, ask my lieutenant what to do, and take all the credit. But no, there are reports to write and accounts to keep and people asking things like how much cheese there is in the larder. An uncountable number of things. Then the odd storm comes and scares the hell out of you.”
Charles laughed.
“It’s enough to drive a parson to drink,” Bevan retorted, refilling his glass and reaching for Charles’s.
“Or a priest, as Penny would say,” Charles offered.
“Ah, the much admired Mrs. Edgemont,” Bevan said, raising his glass for a toast. “Got a bun in her bakery yet?”
“If you mean with child, I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything in her letters.”
The conversation continued. When Charles had finished his drink, he pushed away his glass and stood. “I should return. God knows what they’ll get up to if I’m too long away.”
The two men made their way up to the brig’s deck, where the boat crew waited, the gig tethered alongside. “You’re the senior officer,” Bevan said while the crew descended into the boat. “What are our orders?”
“We wait for Nelson and the rest of the squadron,” Charles answered. “I’d expected them to be here ahead of us. It shouldn’t be much longer.”
CHARLES CAME ON deck the next morning to be greeted by clear skies under bright sunshine, and a breeze that made fine ripples on the deep blue water that sparkled like thousands of diamonds to the horizon. He opted to use
Louisa
’s second day at the rendezvous to exercise the men at the guns. It would be good for them to go through some honest physical effort after the days of cramped idleness below during the storm. Practice with the cannon normally emphasized one or more of the elements of accuracy, speed, or safety. On this day he was interested in how quickly the brutes could be fired from one shot to the next. He could not actually fire the guns while at the rendezvous for fear of the noise giving away their presence to a passing enemy, but he could have the men run them in and out, simulating firing, cleaning, and reloading.
Louisa
carried twenty-four freshly painted black twelve-pounder cannon on her gundeck, twelve to a side, and four long nines on the quarterdeck, which accounted for her rating of twenty-eight guns. She also had eight brutally powerful short-range thirty-two-pound carronades divided between the quarterdeck and forecastle, which were considered supplementary. It was the main armament of twelve-pounders that Charles selected for a competition. Each gun was nominally manned by a crew of five, with specific roles as gun captain, loader, and sponger, all but the gun captain heaving on the relieving tackle to haul the two-ton cannon out against the side for firing. In actual practice, only one side of the ship was usually engaged at a time, and two crews would combine to serve a single gun.
“These are the rules for the first contest,” Charles said loudly from his place near the mainmast to the men grouped around their cannon on the starboard side of the deck. Almost all of the warrants and standing officers stood on the quarterdeck, where they had a good view. Many of the seamen and marines crowded along the port side to witness the event. “You will run the guns in and out five times, quick as you can. We’re not going to fire off any powder, but each action that you would normally take—worming, sponging, loading with powder, shot, and wad, priming, and sparking—must be clearly performed. Lieutenant Talmage, Lieutenant Winchester, and Sergeant Cooley of the marines will be watching to see that every step is executed properly.” He paused to look at the assembled men watching him expectantly. They had all practiced at the guns many times before and knew how it went.
“We will begin with three guns competing against each other,” he explained, glancing at some notes he had written. “First will be guns two, ten, and eighteen—I’m sorry.” Charles remembered that he had allowed the crews to paint names for their weapons in discreet lettering on the sides of the carriages. He’d had to countermand only one of the names chosen:
Bend Over, Frenchie,
which he thought inappropriate. He smiled. “The crews for
Smasher, Instant Death,
and
Hellfire
will compete first. The gun that goes fastest through the motions five times will advance to the second round. Is everyone ready?” He saw the men assigned to the selected guns poised expectantly at their stations. The three gun captains raised their hands.
“All right, open your gunports, out tompkins. When the boatswain blows his whistle, you may begin.” Charles checked his watch, then nodded to Keswick, the boatswain, who raised his call and puffed his cheeks:
Tweeeeet!
Instantly, the men on the receiving tackles heaved, and the three guns, squealing on their trucks, rolled forward until they bumped against the bulwark almost as one. Two of the three gun captains made a show of sighting along the barrels before stepping back and jerking the lanyards, which would have caused the flintlocks to spark the priming powder, had there been any.
Smasher
’s captain merely yanked his firing mechanism the second his gun was run out and thus was fractionally ahead of the others. Since there was no recoil, the men leaped to the ropes to drag the guns inboard.
Charles watched closely as the cannon were run in and out, in and out, their crews heaving and grunting while those not engaged yelled out encouragement for their particular favorites.
Smasher
had taken an early lead, but slowly, turn by turn,
Instant Death
closed the gap. In the end it was
Instant Death
that bumped against the ship’s side for the fifth time, half a gun barrel ahead of the others. The delighted crew thrust their fists into the air and jumped up and down in victory. Charles looked at his watch and noted the time: five minutes and fifteen seconds, near enough. That would be one minute three seconds per firing, he calculated. Of course, there had been no recoil, and the guns had to be withdrawn manually, which added some time. But then there had been no actual cartridge, shot, or wad, and only the slightest nod at aiming. The net might be just over a minute per evolution under normal conditions. That was good, for some good enough, but not spectacular.
Charles stepped forward and held up his hand for silence. “
Instant
Death
will move on to the second round,” he announced loudly. “Now, the crews of
Black Bess, Dorothy,
and
Rose Marie
—ah, the three sisters— will please man their guns.” There was laughter among the onlookers and much excited chatter. “Be ready! Steady!” he shouted out, glanced again at his watch, and signaled to Keswick.
In and out the guns ran, the trucks screeching in protest. The gun crews, mostly barefoot on the dampened and sanded deck, and many stripped to the waist, heaved with purpose. Not even a gesture was made to aim or transit the weapons this time, only a grim determination to pull them out, pull them in, simulate cleaning and loading, and pull them outboard again. “Heave, you buggers, heave,” one captain kept shouting. “Home, heave, clear!”
Dorothy,
with the most loquacious captain, won by a clear margin, five minutes and five seconds, by Charles’s watch. Better.
As the morning warmed, all of the gun crews competed shirtless, some tying their kerchiefs around their heads to keep the sweat out of their eyes. The third set of guns competed, then the fourth. The fastest times were within seconds of five and a quarter minutes for each group.
Thunderbolt
and
Naughty Nancy
were added to the list of winners.
“Each of the crewmen who have made it this far,” Charles said, “will receive an extra half-ration of spirits with this evening’s supper. The victors in the next round will receive an extra half-ration both tonight and the night after. The crew of the champion gun will get a golden guinea from my own pocket. That’s two shillings a man.” He held the coin up above his head. There were good-natured cheers and a generally enthusiastic atmosphere, while the four remaining gun crews huddled around their captains to plot strategy with grim seriousness.
Instant Death
surprisingly defeated
Dorothy,
with a time of five minutes flat, while
Thunderbolt
lost by a hairsbreadth to
Naughty Nancy
in five minutes and two seconds, members of both crews gasping for breath after they finished. Charles gave the winning crews a few moments to drink some water and collect themselves before the final. When he thought they were sufficiently recovered, he had the marine drummer tap out a long roll.
“Are you ready?” he called out. The men nodded, and the captains responded, “Yes, sir,” and “Aye, we are, sur.”
“Remember, a guinea to the winner.” Two of the men on the receiving tackles spit on their hands and rubbed them together; others shuffled their bare feet on the deck for better traction. “Steady.” He signaled to the boatswain.
Tw-e-e-e-e-e-t!
The men fell furiously on the relieving tackle of both guns, yanking them back where the wormers, spongers, loaders, and rammers worked as fast as they could at the muzzles. Back and forth, in and out ran the guns. The noise from the onlookers increased, cheering and clapping, urging the men on. The two guns moved in perfect unison as if they were somehow connected.
Instant Death
and
Naughty Nancy
lunged into the open gunports up to their carriages and withdrew two times, three times.
On the fourth repetition, Charles thought
Instant Death
had gained an infinitesimal advantage. The guns were jerked backward, the wormers, spongers, and all did their work, and all twenty men fell on the tackles as one, even the gun captains grabbing at the lines and lending their weight.
Thunk-k.
Naughty Nancy
and
Instant Death
slammed hard against the bulkhead. “Clear,” both captains shouted in unison. The lanyards jerked and the flintlocks sparked.
A silence filled the gundeck, broken only by the ragged gasping of the exhausted men lying or sitting on the deck by their guns. The cannon themselves rested hard against the side of the ship, quiet and unmoving. Charles looked at it a second time to be sure: four minutes and forty-five seconds. That would be—what?—fifty-seven seconds per firing. That was more than satisfactory.