Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (2 page)

And now he would. He wondered how he would react. Some men, he had heard, rose in stature and determination as the world exploded around them in the din of battle. Others became paralyzed, unable to function, their only thought to protect themselves. The former were heroes, the latter cowards. It was as simple as that; everyone said so. He remembered—it had been hammered into him repeatedly at every level of his naval career—that, as an officer and a gentleman, it was his responsibility to set an example of coolness and courage before the men he commanded. He forced himself to stop rapping his fingers against his leg, deliberately rested one hand on his sword hilt, placed the other behind his back, and stood as apparently relaxed and indifferent to the approaching battle as he was able to manage.

“Silence, there,” he snapped at a gun crew, some of whose members were clustered around a port, staring at the Spanish fleet and talking excitedly among themselves. “All of you, stand by your guns.” Charles didn’t really see anything wrong with the men looking through the gunports and discussing the oncoming battle, but Captain Wood would reprimand him sharply if he noticed any lack of discipline among the men under his charge. Charles had been reprimanded for apparent lack of smartness among his men before.

The devil of it was that he couldn’t see what was happening. He caught occasional glimpses of Spanish warships through the forward gunports, including what he thought was the gigantic flagship,
Santissima Trinidad,
with
130
guns on four decks, the largest ship in the world. The now almost incessant cannon fire had grown decidedly louder, more immediately threatening, and a hint of spent gunpowder tainted the air. It was maddening not to be able to see anything of the progress of the battle, the positions of the fleets, or what damage had been done. He didn’t want to climb the ladder to the upper deck; that would invite a rebuke from the captain for displaying undue curiosity and leaving his post. He also didn’t want to gawk through a porthole like a common landsman.

“Mr. Bowles,” he shouted.

“A-aye aye, sir,” came a voice from close behind him.

“Mr. Bowles, get back up the forward ladderway and tell me what you see.”

“Aye aye,” the boy answered and cheerfully scurried away. After a moment he called down, “The
Culloden
’s almost through their line, sir. The
Victory
and the
Egmont
are just coming into range. There’s still a ways afore us.”

“Do you see any damage?”

Bowles paused before answering. “Hard to say, sir. There’s s-so much s-s-smoke. Seems most everybody’s masts are still standing, though.”

“What are the Spaniards doing?”

“The bigger group, the one to windward, is sort of sliding to the north like. If they can, I think they’ll run with the wind back to Spain. Can’t tell what t’other bunch are doing. Kind of circling about, tacking like.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowles. Let me know if anything important happens.” Of their own accord, Charles’s fingers resumed their nervous tamping against his thigh.

A cheer broke out on the upper deck and was quickly shouted down by cries of “Silence, there,” from one officer or another.

“A dago’s lost a mast, I think,” came Bowles’s voice. “
Culloden
has hoisted a signal…‘Acknowledge,’ I think.”

“Acknowledge what?” Charles asked.

“Oh, I see,” Bowles said after a pause. “The admiral telegraphed for
Culloden
to tack and come back at the Spanish. Only
Culloden
acknowledged and came about afore the flagship signaled. We’re all supposed to tack in s-s-succession when we get through the Spanish line, it says.”

Charles longed to climb the ladder and see with his own eyes, but he contented himself with asking, “How long till we’re in range?”

“
Culloden
’s around, and
Blenheim
and
Prince George.
There goes
Orion.
About two more ships and we’ll be up to the first. Right after
Captain
and
Excellent.
Wait!” Bowles squealed with excitement. “The Spaniards, the smaller group what was milling about, they’ve all come up to where our boys were turning. They’ve shot some yards off
Colossus
’s foremast! Her head won’t swing.
Orion
’s backed and covering her. Oh, my God! Here comes
Victory.
Oh, such a broadside she just gave….”

“Lieutenant Edgemont!” the first lieutenant’s voice boomed down from the quarterdeck. “A Spanish warship’s approaching to starboard. You may fire as your guns bear.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Charles called back. At last he would be tried in battle. “Starboard guns, aim true for the waterline,” he yelled to the captains of his gun crews. “Prepare to fire on my command.” His spine tingled with anticipation and he felt sweat on his palms. He was about to be in battle, a real battle. At the forewardmost cannon he knelt down and peered along the thick black barrel out the gunport. Almost immediately the Spanish seventy-four, with all sails set and gloriously ornamented with red-and-gold paint, sailed into view on the opposite tack. She had already been considerably knocked about; she had several parted stays, holes in her courses, and her hull was scarred. As soon as he was satisfied that the gun would hit her he jumped back and shouted, “Fire!” a little louder than strictly necessary. The gun captain yanked on his lanyard. Instantly the cannon erupted with a thunderous bang and leapt backward against its restraining tackle. Since they were firing to windward, the smoke billowed back into the gunport, momentarily obscuring any view. Charles knelt by the second gun, stepped back, and again barked, “Fire!” At the same time he heard and felt the larger twenty-four-pounder cannon on the lower gundeck explode in a single broadside, heeling the ship with their recoil. The two ships were passing a good deal faster than he had anticipated, so he yelled, “Fire as you bear!” The remainder of his starboard cannon crashed inward as one, the wind filling the gundeck with the acrid smoke of burnt gunpowder, shrouding everything. As the air cleared, Charles saw that the Spaniard was now well astern and beyond the traverse of his guns. She had suffered little if any additional damage that he could detect. He let out a deep breath and was about to congratulate himself on his coolness under fire when he realized that his target had not discharged a gun in her haste to escape.

“Worm and sponge out,” he ordered in an almost disappointed tone. “Load with cartridge. Load with shot and wad your shot.” He continued the sequence of cleaning and charging the cannon, mechanically ending with, “Put in tompkins. House your guns. Secure your guns.”

Where was the rest of the Spanish fleet?
Despite the risk to his dignity, Charles knelt by a starboard gunport and peered out. The larger body to windward sailed briskly northward out of cannon range. A glance to larboard told a similar story. The smaller squadron—he counted eight ships of the line—was tacking across the rear of the British line, where they could rejoin their sister ships. Charles searched in vain to starboard and port for the other British warships. They had to be more or less dead ahead or still in the process of turning. He tried to figure how the fleet, still tacking into the wind in succession, well beyond the rapidly departing Spanish, would be able to reform and engage before the enemy could unite to form a unified line of battle or, more probably, flee safely back to Cádiz.

He had almost decided that the enemy was bound to escape, that Jervis’s fleet could not possibly come about in time, when he heard the shouted order “All hands to wear ship” from the quarterdeck and the sounds of pounding feet as sailors rushed to the shrouds and braces. He looked at the young midshipman still standing near the top of the ladderway. “What the hell’s going on, Bowles?”

“We’ve gotten a s-s-s-signal from the flagship,” the boy answered shakily, his complexion a deathly white. “Our number. J-just our number. We’re to wear and engage the enemy more c-c-closely.”

Charles’s mouth worked for a moment but no sound came out, certainly not a coherent question he could ask Bowles that would explain what he wanted to know. He bounded for the ladderway to see for himself. It immediately became clear. The main body of the Spanish fleet was already well to the north and clear of the British line. Very soon they would turn to the east, and, with the wind behind them, collect the smaller squadron to make all haste for Spain, escaping virtually intact. The
Argonaut
had already turned and he saw that she was now on a course to cross just in front of the main body. He looked desperately around for the rest of the British warships. The
Culloden, Blenheim, Prince George,
and the rest of the British van that had already tacked were adding sail after sail in pursuit of the Spanish rear. Others, which had been toward the rear of the British line,
Excellent
and
Captain
among them, had worn after
Argonaut
in response to a second, general signal from
Victory
to “Engage the enemy more closely,” which still flew. None of them would reach the
Argonaut
anywhere near in time to support her in what she alone was in position to do: Stop or at least delay a Spanish squadron of perhaps a dozen and a half heavy men of war.

“We’re the only ones who can reach ’em, you see, sir,” said Bowles’s small voice beside him.

“Yes.” Charles almost swallowed the word. His eyes grew wide as he studied the onrushing mass of two- and three-decked warships, with the immense
Santissima Trinidad
somewhere near the center. All of them were larger and more heavily armed than the
Argonaut
—many were much larger and much more heavily armed. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and felt him shaking. “It will be all right if we just do our jobs,” he said gently, well aware that there was no truth in it.

Billy Bowles nodded slowly, never taking his eyes off the Spanish fleet.

“Get back to your station. There’s no more time for gawking,” Charles said, leading the boy back down to the gundeck.

“Are the portside guns loaded and primed?” he yelled out to the captains of the gun crews. “Report by number. Two?”

“Ready, sir,” was the immediate reply.

“Four?”

“Loaded and primed, sir.”

“Six?” And so it went to number twenty-eight, odd-numbered guns to starboard, even to port.

“Port side, loose your guns.” The hands at each gun slipped the knots that bound the guns to ringbolts on the bulwark and deck.

“Out tompkins.” The wooden plugs that kept sea spray out of the muzzles were removed.

“Run out your guns.” The crews heaved on the side tackles, dragging the heavy beasts, trucks rumbling and squealing in protest, up snug against the ship’s outer planking. The Spanish fleet, bows on and clouds of sail at their masts, could clearly be seen through the weather gunports. Charles counted four large ships of the line nearly abreast at the front of the mass.

“How d’we know which to aim for?” the captain of a nearby gun crew asked.

“Any one you like,” Charles answered tersely. He felt a lump rise in his throat and jammed his hands in his pockets to keep them from fidgeting. He needed to do something to show his men that he was unconcerned.

“Mr. Bowles,” he yelled.

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Get below to the magazine and tell the gunner that we shall probably need more powder cartridges. All he can make.”

“A-aye aye, sir.”

“And, Mr. Bowles, on your way down please convey my respects to Lieutenant Bevan and say that I expect him to do better than last time, during practice, when he very nearly sank the ship’s jolly boat.”

Bowles looked at him and grinned. “He won’t like that, sir.”

“Sod him,” Charles said cheerfully. “You can tell him that I said that, too.” Daniel Bevan, a Welshman, the third lieutenant and Charles’s closest friend on the
Argonaut,
commanded the lower gundeck. The two men were much the same age and Charles Edgemont was the senior officer by a matter of only one and a half weeks.

As soon as Bowles had gone, he bent and looked through a gunport. The Spaniards were nearly in range, head-on, their bow waves bright curls of white against dark bows. Two of the leading ships were three-deckers, one of over a hundred guns. The others were seventy-fours at least, and all of them had their guns run out on both sides. Typical of the Spanish, he thought. They could only use one broadside. Didn’t they know which one?

At that moment another midshipman, with fine, almost delicate features and attired in a perfectly tailored uniform, appeared at Charles’s elbow. Charles knew him but not well and had taken something of a dislike to him from the day they were introduced. His name was Winchester something. He was eighteen or nineteen and, it was said, soon to stand for lieutenant. He was also said to be the son of a well-connected and wealthy barrister from York. Charles thought him excessively and unjustifiably confident, lacking in discipline and the rudiments of politeness to his betters, or at least those who outranked him. Winchester something was assigned to the quarterdeck, he knew, and acted as the captain’s messenger. Well, Charles thought with some satisfaction, he was going to get more than he bargained for today.

“Captain’s compliments, Lieutenant Edgemont,” the midshipman announced coolly. “Hold your fire until captain’s orders. He wants the first broadside to make a statement.”

“Thank you,” Charles answered. After touching his hat the young man left to carry his message to the lower gundeck.

A series of bangs broke the silence. Several of the Spanish warships had opened with their bow chasers as they rushed onward. He watched a ball skip across the waves in a series of diminishing splashes until, its energy nearly spent, it hit with a dull thunk against the
Argonaut
’s side and sank to the bottom of the sea.

“Beg pardon, sir,” Bowles’s voice said breathlessly beside him, “but Lieutenant Bevan sends his compliments and says you can shove…”