Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (31 page)

The fort looked closer to him than it had when
Louisa
first hove to. “Mr. Eliot, take a bearing on those two forts. I want to be notified directly when we are about to come within range.”

“Yes, sir,” the master replied. He passed the wheel to two of the mates and went to collect his transit.

Charles watched tensely as the frigate wore around Ferrol point and her masts slowly came into line, pendants standing out sideways at every masthead. She looked powerful and menacing, her black hull cutting meaningfully through the water. Doubts began to creep in that would not go away. What if he had miscalculated the wind or the tide or the Spaniard’s speed, or made some other mistake in his planning, or overlooked some vital fact? What if
Louisa
lost the encounter and he was killed or captured? He would be written off as a failed commander, incompetent and stupid. They’d say he was promoted too young; that he was inept. What would Penny think? He might never see her again. Would she remember him? And his friends Bevan and Winchester, the entire crew, they all relied on his judgment. The image of young Billy Bowles being smashed to pulp by a cannonball on
Argonaut
flashed before his eyes. The same thing could happen to him, to any of them. And he was responsible. He remembered Jervis’s words to him: “…be careful…use discretion…don’t do anything unusually foolish.” What could be more foolish than a twenty-eight-gun frigate with an inexperienced crew and captain challenging a veteran forty-gun ship of war? What if he had no idea what he was doing and no business doing it?

On the other hand, he considered as he tried to force some order on his thoughts, he had the weather gauge, and he would get his broadsides before the
Santa Brigida
could respond with anything but her bowchasers. That was advantage enough. Charles felt his fingers tapping against his thigh. He clasped his hands firmly behind his back and began pacing deliberately up and down the quarterdeck, only occasionally glancing over the railing at his opponent. In this way he hoped the crew might see how confident and unconcerned he was.

The
Santa Brigida
emerged from the mouth of the bay with all her sails set, from topgallants to courses. She was close-hauled, her canvas stretched drum tight, and heeled well over, running as close to the wind as she could lie. She seemed to inch toward them, and Charles supposed that
Louisa
’s leeway was inching her toward the enemy frigate as well. Both ships would be uncomfortably close to the reef when it began. The
Santa Brigida
looked to be about a mile away.

“What do you think?” Charles said to Bevan.

“A few minutes,” Bevan said, intently studying the slowly approaching opponent. “Then it might be worth a try.”

“Try a shot anyway,” Charles said.

Bevan crossed to one of the nine-pounder gun crews on the quarterdeck and talked for a minute with the gun captain. Together they removed the quoins for maximum elevation and spent a little time making sure the cannon was laid directly at its target. Both men stepped to the side. Charles heard Bevan say, “On the up roll,” and then, as
Louisa
’s side slowly rose on the swell, “Fire.”

The gun barked and leapt backward in a cloud of smoke. Every eye looked for the fall of the shot. The telltale splash came on line and fifty yards short. That was close enough. Bevan looked at Charles, who nodded wordlessly in return. The lieutenant then walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and called down to Winchester commanding the twelve-pounders on the maindeck. “Fire on my command.”

Charles heard Winchester’s “Aye aye, sir” come from the waist. A shrieking noise passed through
Louisa
’s rigging, and a hole appeared in the mainsail. He saw the smoke billowing across the
Santa Brigida
’s bow before he heard the sound of the report.

“You may fire when ready, Daniel,” Charles said.

Bevan balanced on the balls of his feet, measuring
Louisa
’s roll. The deck slowly canted back. “Fire!” he yelled, and immediately the ship’s side erupted in flame and smoke in a thunderous roar.

“Sponge out,” Charles heard the midshipman in charge of the quarterdeck guns order. He strained through the smoke to mark the fall of the shot and saw that many fell short, but at least some were alongside. He saw no signs of damage.

“Load with cartridge,” the midshipman yelled.

“Load with shot. Wad your shot.”

The
Santa Brigida
gave off another puff of smoke and a ball tore through
Louisa’s
rigging, severing a topmast shroud. “Splice that,” Bevan shouted at someone.

“Ram home,” the midshipman ordered.

Bevan stood, measuring the roll. “On my command. Fire!”

The
Louisa
bellowed out another cloud of gray acrid smoke and Charles felt the recoil of the guns through the deck. He saw splashes all around the Spaniard. There must have been some hits. The frigate was less than a thousand yards distant and still advancing.

“Fire at will,” Charles ordered. The next broadside was a rolling thunder as the quicker gun crews fired before the more deliberate. A hole appeared in the
Santa Brigida
’s foretopsail in line with her mast, but he saw no serious damage. Some of the other shots were long, others short, and most were wide, a few well wide.

“Cease fire!” Charles shouted angrily. The ship fell silent except for the scream of a passing Spanish ball. He stepped to the forward rail and yelled, “
Aim
your guns for Christ’s sake,” at the top of his voice. “You’re shooting all over the goddamned place. Resume firing.”

The next salvo rained shot all around the Spaniard in a relatively tight pattern, and in the closing distance between the two ships he clearly saw several stays part and her foretopmast crack and sway. Still she came on—six hundred yards, five-fifty. The Spanish captain had courage to endure this. The frigate fired its bowchasers again, and Charles heard a crash forward and an unearthly scream as a ball struck someone. He looked quickly over the stem to check on the reef and saw that it was much closer; not close enough to cause immediate concern, but he wouldn’t have much more time.

“Beg yer pardon, sir,” a voice said at his shoulder. Charles turned and saw it was Eliot. “You told me to say when we was nearly in range of the fort.”

“Yes?”

“We’re nearly in range of the fort, sir.”

“Thank you,” Charles responded, his words drowned out by the explosion of
Louisa
’s guns. This time he saw several hits and the jibboom split, throwing the frigate’s jib and foretopmast staysail into confusion. The
Santa Brigida
immediately lost way, turned into the wind and, at four hundred yards, presented her broadside.

“Set all plain sail, Daniel,” Charles said quickly. “Pile on sails, it’s time to leave.” As Bevan raised his hand to his mouth to shout out orders, the Spaniard fired. Round shot shrieked and howled across
Louisa
’s decks, thudding into her hull and sending up geysers in the water all around. A gun in the waist overturned, a yard overhead cracked with a splintering crash, and several gaps appeared in the railing. The hands rushed aloft to loose the tethered canvas. The
Louisa
slowly gathered way as her head fell off with the wind. Charles’s eyes riveted on the reef, now very close on the starboard bow. He clearly saw the jagged rocks, which did indeed look like the Devil’s own teeth when one saw them close up. He heard the
Santa Brigida
fire again, but didn’t turn to look.

“Helm hard over!” he yelled at Eliot.

“It is hard over, sir,” Eliot responded, anxiety in his voice.

The black stones seemed to race toward them, white surf boiling at their base. They looked like some unholy monster from the deep, baring its fangs and rising to swallow its prey. It would be close, too close.

The whole ship heard and felt the grinding scrape of her hull against granite. And then they were past. Charles saw several shiny sheets of copper flashing in the tossing surf as they sailed on and felt his heart pounding in his breast. He looked to see what had become of the Spanish warship. With relief he noted that she had gone about and was limping back toward Ferrol.

Bevan had
Louisa
’s guns housed and secured, her bulwarks and other furnishings replaced. The ship’s bell struck seven times; it was just
11
:
30
in the morning. Once again the sky was a perfect blue and the seas running a gentle swell. The winds became variable and intermittent, soon to die away altogether. It was a stunningly beautiful day.

“How badly are we damaged?” Charles asked as Bevan emerged from belowdecks, where he had been conferring with the carpenter.

“All in all, not badly,” Bevan answered. “There’s some small damage above the waterline. The only real problems are the snapped main topsail yard and a few strakes stove in under the hold midships. It’s nothing that the pumps can’t handle, but it would be best to be taken care of in a yard.”

“Dead and injured?” Charles asked.

“Four injured, one serious,” Bevan said. “A landsman named Gates lost a leg. We got off a lot better than we…than you had any right to expect.”

“Nonsense,” Charles said with a straight face, “it was perfect planning.”

“Sure it was,” said Bevan grinned dubiously. “The best that can be said is that we haven’t sunk.”

“We hurt her, Daniel,” Charles said seriously. “For now, that’s enough.” To change the subject, he said, “You may pipe the hands to dinner, and as soon as there’s any wind we’ll make for Portsmouth for supplies and to have her bottom fixed.”

“Why Portsmouth, Charlie?” Bevan asked. “Why not Gibraltar?”

Charles cleared his throat. “Portsmouth is a little closer, and the wind favors it,” he said finally. “That’s in case anybody asks. Just between you and me,” he met Bevan’s eyes, “Admiral Jervis is likely to want to talk to me if we go to Gibraltar. He may not like what we’ve just done with the Spanish frigate, and he’s apt to change my orders. If we go to Portsmouth he won’t find out for a while. We have further business with the
Santa Brigida.
”

ST. CATHERINE’S POINT
on the southern tip of the Isle of Wight showed first, a tiny speck off the port bow. Soon the
Louisa
was sailing large past the Foreland and into Spithead, where she dropped her best bower as near to the entrance to Portsmouth Harbor as the pilot would let her.

Charles was preparing to climb down into his gig to call on the Portsmouth dockyard admiral’s office when Winchester approached diffidently and touched his hat. “How long do you think we’ll be in harbor, sir?” he asked.

“I won’t know until after I talk to the admiral,” Charles answered. “As short a time as possible. A few weeks, I should think. Why?”

“May I have leave to go home, sir? I’d like to visit Ellie. I could be back in plenty of time.”

Charles had to think for a moment. He was sure that Winchester wanted very badly to see Ellie, but it just couldn’t be done. He only had two lieutenants, and he needed both to oversee the repairs and manage the men and the resupplying of the ship. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Winchester’s face fell.

“But, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You send for her and put her up in a good inn. I’ll give you permission to sleep on shore.” While the young lieutenant considered this, he added, “I’d like to see her, too. And, you can show her the ship. Ellie’s never been on a ship—she’d love it.”

“Do you think that would be all right?” Winchester said doubtfully. “I mean, she’d have to travel a long way and all.”

“I think it would be fine,” Charles said. “We can send Attwater along to accompany her if you like.”

“I think it would be better if she brought a maid,” Winchester said soberly.

“Good, then it’s settled.” Charles promptly climbed over the side into the waiting gig.

Charles called on the port admiral’s office and was directed to the captain superintendent of the dockyard. The man, one Thomas Bradley, was a kindly, slow-thinking gentleman with an open and friendly face who was more than happy to help but would not be hurried. He greeted Charles at nine-thirty in the morning with, “Madeira or sherry, sir?” His answer to every question seemed to be a sympathetic nod and “We’ll get to it just as soon as we can.”

Returning to the
Louisa
in a frustrated and slightly tipsy state, Charles found Bevan waiting for him as he climbed on board. “The men are requesting permission for wives and sweethearts, Charlie,” he said with a sour face. Since naval crews were almost never allowed shore leave while in an English port (for fear of desertion), it was a long-established custom to allow “wives and sweethearts” on board. Which were wives, which were sweethearts, and which were professional sweethearts of the moment one never knew—and, if a captain were wise, never asked. Charles shrugged his assent and went to his cabin. When he emerged a few hours later, the maindeck was crawling with drunken whores and sailors (the liquor having been smuggled on board by the women), many of whom were doing their business between the guns.

Charles retreated forthwith to the quarterdeck, followed closely by a pleasantly plump young woman with curly brown hair, a cheerful freckled face, and a turned-up nose. She was apparently ambitious, with higher aspirations than common sailors. When he stopped at his usual place by the starboard rail, she stepped in front of him, lifted her blouse to show her breasts, and said, “Fancy a fuck, Admiral?”

“Thank you, no,” Charles replied. He yelled, “Sergeant at arms! Show this young woman back to the maindeck and post guards on both ladderways. I want no unauthorized visitors on my quarterdeck.”

“My name’s Molly, Admiral,” the girl called as she was being led away. “You just ask for me.” Then, to the two marines pushing her along, she shouted, “Hey! Watch your hands, you short-peckered, ball-less faggots.” The last thing Charles heard was her asking her escorts, “Do either of you want a knob job? Five shillings. All right, three.” The only bearable thing about this, Charles thought, was that sooner or later the men would run out of money and the women would go away.