Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (35 page)

He decided he had seen enough. With high seas and nightfall coming on, his next priority was plenty of distance between the
Louisa
and the lee shore, especially the reef. “Wear ship and get us some sea room,” he said to Bevan, “ample sea room.”

For the next several weeks, the
Louisa
sailed a regular pattern from Ferrol to Cape Finisterre, northward to a point about thirty miles northwest of the mouth of the bay, then to Cape Ortegal and back to her starting point off Ferrol. In this way Charles could note any progress on repairs to the
Santa Brigida
every four or five days and was in a good position to intercept whatever enemy shipping rounded the northwest Spanish coast or attempted to enter Ferrol.

The routine of sailing in a large triangle soon became tedious. Almost all the merchantmen they ran down on were British or Portuguese. The rest proved to be from some neutral country: two from Sweden, three from the United States, and one from Russia. The Americans were, to a man, Charles thought, unreasonably indignant about being stopped on the high seas by a British warship and having their papers examined. Nor was there any change in the
Santa Brigida.
She remained tied alongside a wharf in Ferrol, absent her foremast. The weather varied between heavily overcast with periodic squalls and beautiful, fresh fall days when it was a pleasure to be on deck. The wooded mountainsides of Spain slowly turned brown, forecasting the coming winter. To relieve the monotony, Charles exercised the hands at the guns regularly, especially the new carronades.

Toward the end of October, as the
Louisa
was nearing its turning point well out to sea from the entrance to Coruna Bay, the lookout called out, “Sail fine on the port bow.”

“How far?” Charles yelled.

“Mebbe fifteen miles,” the lookout shouted back.

“What do you make of her?”

“I think she’s a polacre, sir. I can only see her from the topsails upward.”

“What’s her course?”

“South by east, sir. Straight for Ferrol.”

“Show the colors and run up to her, Daniel,” Charles said.

The polacre hauled her wind almost as soon as the
Louisa
turned in her direction. She was cut off from running before the wind or toward land and had no other point of sailing in which she had any hope of outrunning the British frigate. She turned south, but in a half-hearted way, and as soon as she was in range of
Louisa
’s guns she ran up the Spanish flag and promptly hauled it down again.

The transport’s captain abjectly bemoaned his ill luck at being captured by tilting back a bottle of Madeira. As its contents were already mostly drained, Charles thought it was a project he must have begun soon after he’d seen
Louisa
’s sails. Her cargo, interestingly, consisted mostly of powder and shot—eighteen-pound shot—as well as turpentine, pitch, and other naval supplies, but no spars. After removing some of the powder to use in practicing his own guns, Charles detached the senior master’s mate and six seamen to take her to Gibraltar along with
Louisa
’s mail (including his own letter to Penny) and a report to Admiral Jervis on the
Santa Brigida
’s situation and his activities.

Four days later, the
Louisa
reached Cape Finisterre and came into the wind to start the northward leg of her triangular patrol. The blocks squealed loudly as the yards braced around, and the sails snapped with sounds like musket shots as the canvas slatted, then filled.

“Sail ho!” yelled the lookout. “No, two sails, three!”

“Where away?” Charles called.

“Due north, sir,” the lookout shouted. “I see five sail, six. They’re ours, sir. One of them is the
Royal Sovereign.
”

“Make the recognition signal and our number,” Charles said to Bevan. It had to be a squadron from Portsmouth sailing south to join the Mediterranean fleet. He remembered pointing out the hundred-gun
Royal Sovereign
to Penny from under the walls of the Southsea Castle. What was that: a month, two months ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

There were nine men of war, their sails easily visible from the
Louisa
’s quarterdeck now. Charles made out four ships of the line, all seventy-fours, in addition to the towering three-decker, as well as three frigates on the wings and a small sloop of war. “
Sovereign
’s signaling, sir,” reported the signal’s midshipman. “‘Send boat, mail on board,’ it says.”

“Acknowledge, Mr. Beechum,” Charles said to the midshipman. To Winchester standing nearby he said, “Hoist out the launch and collect our mail from the flagship. Look lively—I doubt they’ll even slow down.”

Winchester returned a half-hour later and carried the mail satchel up to the quarterdeck while the launch was being hoisted inboard. “There’s good news,” he said, handing over the bag. “Admiral Duncan met the Dutch at Camperdown in the first part of October. Captured eight ships of the line and two frigates.”

“How about that,” Charles said absently, opening the satchel. He rifled around amongst the two dozen or so letters until he found what he was looking for, an envelope addressed to him in a neat schoolgirlish hand from “Penelope Brown, Gatesheath, Cheshire.” There was also a larger Admiralty envelope for him from Jervis. He handed the satchel to Winchester with the words, “Here, most of that’s for you. See that the rest is delivered.” Then he turned the quarterdeck over to Bevan and went below to his cabin. He opened Penny’s letter first.

Ninth Month 30, 1797

My Dearest,

I have only just returned home from Portsmouth and already I miss thee terribly. Our return journey was a sad one both for thy sister and me (she sorrows at being apart from her love, as do I). During our travels home she told me about thy experience at St. Vincent, which thou hast never fully told me. I worry constantly about the danger thou art in.

Molly Bridges is settled with the Attwaters in thy grand house in Tattenall. I think she is happy there. She speaks often of Daniel Bevan and I think she admires him. Molly dotes on thy horse, Pendle, and spoils him unmercifully.

I have told my parents of our engagement. My father is pleased; I think he likes thee as a man. My mother is concerned about thy profession and my being disowned. I have not spoken to my meeting as yet but will this First Day.

I have nothing more to say than my love, so I will say it. I am exceedingly tender toward thee, Charles Edgemont. I am thy,

Penny

Charles read the letter though several times, then folded it carefully and placed it in his shirt pocket next to his heart. The second envelope he opened more warily. It was written after
Louisa
’s encounter with the
Santa Brigida
but before Jervis would have heard about it.

1
September,
1797

HMS
Victory

Commander Edgemont,

I have been informed of your observations concerning the Spanish Frigate
Santa Brigida
and of Captain Ecclesby’s return to England. I have also been informed that Captain Ecclesby has become temporarily indisposed due to ill health. I am most sorry that I am unable at this time to find a replacement to assist you.

You are hereby directed and required to do your utmost to protect British and allied shipping from the depredations of said frigate. As to how you accomplish this I can only rely on your judgment. I strongly advise that you avoid direct confrontation if possible, but as the commander on the scene you must make that decision and be responsible for its outcome.

Your servant, &c.,
Sir John Jervis,
Earl St. Vincent,
Admiral Commanding, Mediterranean Fleet

Well, that wasn’t so bad, Charles thought. It was what he was already doing, sort of.

DECEMBER BEGAN AS
a month of squalls and gales and unrelenting rain. On the third of December the
Louisa
lay hove to under storm sails well off the mouth of Coruna Bay. The wind screamed across the Atlantic from the southwest, driving the rain in sheets and whipping the sea into heaving white-capped mountains, the scud blowing horizontally from crest to crest. It was not a day Charles would have expected any shipping to attempt Ferrol.

“Beggin yer pardon, sur,” a topman named Jones shouted in Charles’s ear. Jones had been posted as lookout in the maintop.

“What is it?” Charles shouted back, raising his voice to be heard in the roaring wind.

“I seen a sail alee’ard, sur. Making for Coruna, like.”

“Are you sure?” Charles asked.

“Yus, sur. I seen him plain as day. Ship-rigged, under triple-reefed topgallants, he wus.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. “Get back to your station. I’ll send someone up to relay messages.”

“Daniel, put on what sail she’ll carry,” he yelled through cupped hands. “Steer for Ferrol. Some fool’s trying to make the bay.”

Bevan nodded and yelled orders through his speaking trumpet. Seamen made for the shrouds as the
Louisa
’s bow swung with the wind. High above on the wildly undulating yards, the topmen struggled to shake out a reef in the topgallants and set close-reefed topsails. Soon the ship was plunging pell-mell across the rollers, her bow disappearing in a cascade of spray as she nosed into each new wave.

As the
Louisa
crested a mountainous swell, Charles saw a tiny oblong of canvas off the larboard bow. At the second and third crests it grew progressively larger, and soon the vessel’s hull was regularly visible, the mountains of Spain looming indistinctly in the distance.

“Christ, she’s making a lot of sail,” Bevan observed.

He gauged the distances. The Coruna lighthouse was just visible five or six miles away, and soon so would be the forts on either side of the entrance to the bay.
Louisa
stood a little more than a half-mile behind the ship and was closing. It would be a near thing, Charles decided, as to whether they could overhaul her before she reached the protection of the forts.

“She’s shaken out a reef in her maintopsail,” Bevan said in amazement. “The captain’s crazy. It’ll carry away.”

Charles watched the transport plunge madly over the heaving gray sea. The
Louisa
had closed: a quarter-mile, maybe less. He could see the flags standing straight out on both forts and to port he watched the rollers dissolving into towering explosions as they crashed down onto the unmovable black fangs of the reef.

“I think the bloody fool is going to make it,” Bevan said. Every eye watched as the Spaniard raced at perilous speed, burying her bow in green water at every crest, now almost level with the Coruna headland.

Charles was about to order the
Louisa
to reduce sail and give up the chase when some fluke in the wind off the headland caught the transport aback. She faltered, leaning almost to her port rail. He clearly saw a vertical split appear on her overtaut main topsail. The canvas immediately vanished, the wind shredding it to rags. Increased pressure on the Spaniard’s foresail threw her head before the wind like a vane and in an instant she had lost any chance of weathering the headland.

Everyone on
Louisa
’s deck watched in fascination and despair as the vessel made a desperate attempt for the narrow inlet to the Ferrol yards. A second wind eddy tossed her bow to port. Unbalanced without her mainsail, her rudder was slow, too slow. For a moment it looked as though she would run straight onto the rocks under the fort. The Spaniard fought for her life now, trying to claw clear of the Ferrol promontory and scratch her way back out to sea. She just cleared the headland under the Ferrol fortress, racing before the wind, and plunged helplessly for the waiting reef. Charles watched, horrified, as a white-capped wave picked the transport up and up, and heaved her bodily onto the rocks. The ship vanished in an enormous eruption of foam. As the water ebbed off the rocks, the vessel reappeared amid the stones, mastless and broken. He saw a few men clinging to the mast stumps or pieces of railing, but it was hopeless for their ship and hopeless for them. The next roller crashed with a roar, thankfully hiding the scene. As the froth receded there were fewer men to be seen, and the ship’s bowsprit and part of her bow had been carried away. The rest, Charles was sure, would follow within the hour, a few of her crew clinging miserably to the wreckage to the bitter end.

“Reduce sail,” Charles said in a shaken voice. “Take in the mainsails and reef the topgallants. Take her back out.” It would be lunacy to attempt a rescue from the windward in these seas and under the guns of the fort.

THE
LOUISA
SPENT
the night hove to five miles off Cape Prior and let the storm blow itself out. In the chill gray dawn of the next morning Charles was called from his breakfast by a messenger requesting his presence on the quarterdeck.

“What is it, Daniel?” he said, buttoning his jacket as he arrived.

Bevan pointed over the starboard rail and there, bobbing in the swells, was an open boat not much larger than a ship’s gig. It had an oar lashed upright midships with what looked like a white shirt blowing from it.

“Close on her and let’s see what we have.” Charles thought it might be a few crewmen from yesterday’s transport, but for the life of him he couldn’t think how anyone might have survived. As the
Louisa
glided alongside, he saw the figures of eight men huddled in the bottom of the craft. One, the one who had evidently taken off his shirt to tie to the oar, was wearing a ragged blue jacket over his bare chest. He was a young man, Charles saw, no more than nineteen or twenty, with stubble on his face and disheveled hair. Charles was surprised to hear him announce in plain English, “I am a king’s officer. Where’s the officer of the watch?”