Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (9 page)

“Well, this is as far as I can take you, Commander Edgemont,” Turnbull said, extending his hand. “I’ve taken pleasure in your company and I wish you well.”

“I thank you for both a pleasant and a speedy voyage,” Charles answered, shaking it. “I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed myself more.”

“You have everything you need? Admiral Jervis’s reports?” Turnbull asked. Before he could respond, Turnbull continued, “Ah, here comes your escort.” He nodded toward a detachment of approaching marines.

“Yes, everything,” Charles answered, patting the thick dispatch case under his cloak. “Wish me luck.”

“Which of you is Lieutenant Edgemont?” the marine sergeant inquired while his men drew up in rigid attention. At the response, “I’m Edgemont,” Charles was unceremoniously marched directly across to the Admiralty courtyard and through the large double doors. He had never been inside the ornate, high-ceilinged building before and stood somewhat in awe to find himself at the very seat of British naval power. Clerks and messengers hurried around him, while senior captains and admirals standing in small clusters in the hallways paused in their conversations to look curiously at the young lieutenant with his bandaged head, weathered uniform, marine escort, and dispatch case.

“St. Vincent?” one of the admirals, a short, pugnacious-looking man with the red sash of the Order of the Bath across his chest, spoke out, guessing at the subject of Charles’s dispatches.

“Yes, sir,” Charles answered, touching his forehead as he was hurried past.

“Damn good show, young man. Capital victory. That’ll teach those papish heathens who rules the seas,” the admiral called. There were echoed shouts of “Hear, hear” and “Well done, Lieutenant” and “A noble thrashing” from around the room. The marines halted with a loud stamp and handed him to a rather dowdy clerk, who walked him down a corridor and without knocking entered what must be the First Lord’s office. The First Lord of the Admiralty, George Spencer, the second earl of Spencer, rose from behind the largest desk Charles had ever seen to personally greet him and receive the reports he carried. Charles felt as though he were shaking hands with God.

“Lieutenant Edgemont of the
Argonaut,
is that right?” Spencer asked.

“Yes, your Lordship,” Charles answered.

“Admiral Jervis indicated in his preliminary correspondence, directly after the victory, that he would be sending you along. Please sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a chair. “The sun is well over the yardarm; would you prefer port or sherry? And tell us of your experiences in the battle.”

___

IN ALL, CHARLES
spent a busy week in London, sharing a pair of rooms with Attwater in a boardinghouse in Haymarket. He visited an infinitely more competent physician than the
Argonaut
’s to have his sutures removed and to have a smaller, less cumbersome dressing applied to replace the turbanlike winding employed by
Argonaut
’s surgeon. A tailor who catered to naval officers measured him for two uniforms suitable for a newly made ship’s commander in His Majesty’s Navy, with a single gold-fringed epaulette proudly perched atop the left shoulder. During the evenings he was invited to so many dinners and gatherings to celebrate the victory that he had to refuse most of them. All the attention left him a little bewildered, and the repeated references to him as “the hero of St. Vincent” made him uncomfortable. On the other hand, he told himself, a free meal was a free meal, the food and drink were good, and he vastly enjoyed the attentions of young women in their fashionable gowns who hung on his every word as he described how the
Argonaut
had single-handedly forced three Spanish ships of the line to strike.

Charles’s exposure to these women, though delightful, was also awkward. He had spent almost all his adolescent and adult years at sea. His principal interactions with women, and these were rare, were confined to ladies he encountered at various ports of call: ladies of a singularly basic and commercial inclination. He became acutely conscious that he had none of the easy talk or social graces with which to steer a conversation from a naval battle to a more personal discussion of other shared interests. In fact, he thought, he had very little idea what respectable women expected from him or how he might relate to them.

It was also during this time that his nightmares returned. The deafening roar of the cannon, the cloying smoke, the deaths, and a paralyzing, terrifying helplessness replayed itself most nights. The dreams were more than unsettling. He did not know what to make of them except that they must be the result of his own moral weakness and lack of courage. He spoke to no one about them.

After several days in the city he called on Mr. Edwards of Threadneedle Street, which he learned was practically adjacent to the Bank of England and just up from the Stock Exchange. “T. Edwards, Agent and Counselor,” read a small, brightly polished brass plaque beside the doorway. An elegantly liveried servant responded to his bell. Charles stated his name and presented the card Jervis had given him. The servant ushered him into a foyer lit by an impressive candelabra and disappeared into the depths of the house. A moment later, a short and somewhat plump man in his late thirties or early forties appeared.

“Commander Edgemont, this is indeed a pleasure. I have heard something of your successes off St. Vincent. I am Thaddeus Edwards,” he said, extending one hand and gesturing toward an inner parlor with the other. “Tea, or something stronger?”

“Tea would be fine,” Charles answered a little nervously, glancing at the exquisite furnishings and hangings in the room. The two men talked about inconsequential things until the tea had been poured and the maid departed.

“Now, how may I help you?” Mr. Edwards asked. “I assume that it was Sir John who gave you my card.”

“Admiral Jervis, yes. He suggested that you might represent me in the matter of prizes taken at Cape St. Vincent that will presently be up for condemnation before the Admiralty Court.”

“I see,” Mr. Edwards said, removing a small notebook and pencil from his jacket pocket. “And which prize do you speak of?”

Charles hesitated, then said, “The Spanish warships
San Ysidro, San Antonio,
and
San Nicolás.
”

Mr. Edwards’s eyebrows shot up. “Two seventy-fours and an eighty-four? Are any of these prizes in dispute?”

“No, sir. I don’t believe so,” Charles answered.

“And you were the officer commanding when they were taken?”

“I think so, I’m not sure,” Charles said. He explained how he came to be in command of the
Argonaut,
how the three Spanish warships were actually boarded, and his conversations with Collingwood, Nelson, and Jervis. “Perhaps the captain’s share would go to Captain Wood’s estate,” he concluded.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mr. Edwards said, scribbling some figures in his notebook. “The Admiralty won’t want to do that. They’ll want a living hero, not a dead one. In any case, Wood had a reputation as something of a reluctant warrior.” Charles suddenly understood why Jervis’s first signal to engage the enemy had specified the
Argonaut
and only the
Argonaut.
Wood couldn’t possibly evade such a direct order, and Jervis would know that the other captains needed no such encouragement.

Mr. Edwards wrote a number on a fresh page, tore it off, and handed it to Charles. “If everything you have told me is true, and if there are no complications at court, this is the minimum amount I think you may expect to receive.”

Charles looked at the number and his eyes widened. He knew about prize money of course, but had little experience with it. During his time on her,
Argonaut
had not been involved in any naval battles or even the capture of commercial shipping. He tried to calculate the one-quarter share that was the ship’s captain’s due in his head, couldn’t get it exactly, but knew that it was a very large sum.

“No, no,” Mr. Edwards spoke, reading his thoughts. “I’ve already done the division. That is the amount that would go to you personally.”

“Oh,” Charles answered, unable to pull his eyes off the string of digits. “It’s a great deal of money.”

“The fortunes of war,” Mr. Edwards responded affably, then spent some time explaining how the Admiralty court functioned, what his role as an agent was, his fees, the bewildering array of banking and investment options that Charles had before him, and the services Mr. Edwards’s firm could offer in those areas. In the end Charles signed a contract naming Thaddeus Edwards as his sole agent and received in turn a check for two thousand pounds—roughly ten years’ salary for a junior naval commander—as an advance on the sums he would receive from the court. Charles left the Threadneedle Street house with manufacturing companies, toll-road and canal-building projects, land acquisition, insurance, shipping and trade, and an assortment of other opportunities tumbling between his ears.

A final visit to the Admiralty confirmed his promotion to commander and that he would be given the
Louisa.
She would be ready for sea at the Plymouth Naval Yards around the end of April or early May. His orders would be delivered when appropriate. The next day, Attwater in tow, he boarded the post coach for Chester and home.

THE LARGE COACH
bounced and swayed unmercifully as its six horses pounded along the ancient Roman road that was now the King’s Highway between Birmingham and Chester. Charles sat facing forward next to the starboard window, opposite the fitfully snoring form of his steward. They had changed horses in Whitechurch and soon crossed from Shropshire into his native Cheshire at the village of Grindley Brook. The passing scene of small hamlets, patchwork fields surrounded by ancient hedgerows, extensive woods, and pasture for dairy cattle grew increasingly familiar as the coach rattled onward. When the heights of Brown Knowl came into view, and Bolesworth Castle beyond, his sense of anticipation grew with every turn in the road. He was almost home. It had been six years since he had last seen his father (Charles’s mother had died when he was eleven, which was one of the reasons he had been sent to sea at the age of twelve), or his brothers or sisters, or slept in his own bed. He wondered if anything had changed in his absence, if his father had made any improvements to the property, or if there might be any other significant transformations in the community. He especially looked forward to seeing his father again and seeing the pride in his face when he told him he had been made commander and would have his own ship.

Late in the afternoon the coach changed horses at the crossroads at Bruxton, the last change before the final run into Chester. Two miles beyond Bruxton, Charles called for the coachman to halt at the hamlet of Handly, where he and Attwater descended and had their luggage passed down.

Charles looked up and down the high road, acutely disappointed as the coach clattered away. His first day in London he had written of his arrival in England and plans to come home, and he’d expected his father, or someone from home, to meet the coach. He searched the nearly empty street and the few half-timbered, thatch-roofed cottages crowded close on either side, but saw no one he recognized. There was a small horse-drawn farm cart plodding along in his direction, with a well-dressed if unfamiliar young woman on its front bench. That was all. Charles briefly wondered what such a woman was doing in such a shabby cart, then dismissed the thought and searched up and down the roadway again.

As the cart drew near, the young woman suddenly gave a loud shriek and leapt to the ground, her petticoats flying. “Charlie! It’s you,” she squealed in delight as she ran. Charles stood dumbfounded at the onrushing apparition and braced himself for the unavoidable collision as she flung herself on him, kissing his face and cheeks. “Charlie, you don’t recognize me, do you?” she said with shining eyes after disengaging herself to the extent of grasping one of his arms in both hers and hugging it against her rather ample bosom.

“Ellie?” he said tentatively; then, “Hi, sis,” and grinned. She’d been ten when he saw her last: skinny, flat-chested, and unremarkable. It hadn’t really occurred to him that she would have aged at all, much less into the animated, auburn-haired beauty before him. To reinforce his assertion that he had recognized her, he added, “You’ve grown.”

“So have you,” she answered, looking up at him; then, seeing his bandage, “Oh, you’re hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” Charles said, touching the side of his head. “It’s nearly healed.” They stood together for a moment, neither knowing what to say first, until Attwater discreetly cleared his throat.

“Come,” Charles said, “I’ll introduce you to my steward and we can go home.” Attwater was already loading their sea chests into the wagon. Introductions were made, and the older man gave the young woman his best imitation of a courtly bow. In the fading daylight the rickety wagon set off behind an aged, sway-backed mare for the two-mile ride to Tattenall. Charles took the reins and sat on the bench in front with his sister, Attwater and their luggage in the bed behind.

“How is everyone at home? Where’s Father?” Charles asked as he fruitlessly encouraged the mare into a little more motion.

“Oh, you don’t know,” Ellie answered, putting her hand on his arm. “We wrote to you. Father died months ago.”

Charles’s heart seemed to stop. “Died?” he repeated as if he didn’t understand. “Father?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Ellie answered. “He’d been ill for some time, but didn’t want anyone to worry you about it. We wrote to you immediately after.”

A great emptiness enveloped him. He’d always seen his father as an anchor, a figure larger than life, strict, reliable, constant, but with a twinkle in his eye and a ready laugh. Someone who would always be there if Charles needed him. He couldn’t imagine him being gone. “Oh, God,” he said. “No, I didn’t know.” His father would have been pleased that Charles had participated in a major sea battle and been raised in rank because of it. He’d looked forward to telling him about his adventures and luck. He had wanted his father to see him as a success, and now he couldn’t.