Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (6 page)

“Lieutenant, Lieutenant,” a weak voice implored as Charles passed. He stopped and looked at the faces to see who might be calling him.

“Here, sir, it’s me, Johnson.” Charles recognized the pale figure lying under a bloody cover on the deck as the captain of a gun crew under his command during the battle. He knelt by the man, noticing from the shape of the blanket that Johnson had had a leg removed just above the knee.

“How are you, Johnson?” Charles said as cheerfully as he could manage.

“Oh, I’ll be fine, sir,” Johnson answered a little uncertainly, as if it were something he wanted to believe. “I wanted to ask ye about the fight; how we did.”

Charles raised his voice so others around them might overhear. “We did ourselves proud. The Spaniards have run for home with their tails between their legs.
Argonaut
herself got three prizes: two seventy-fours and the
San Nicolás,
a three-decker. There’ll be plenty of prize money to go around.” He heard pitiful murmurs as the wounded closest by passed his words on.

“That’s truly wonderful, sir,” Johnson said. “We really gave it to them.”

“Yes,” Charles said, starting to rise, “we really did.”

Johnson’s hand grabbed Charles’s sleeve. “Ye’re hurt, sir. Are ye all right?”

Charles touched the bandage over his injury. “Just a knock on the head,” he said grinning. “It’s nothing. You and the others down here are the ones who did the hard part. You’re all heroes in my book.”

“Thank ye, sir,” Johnson said, letting go of his arm. “Thank ye kindly.”

The ship’s surgeon was in the midshipmen’s wardroom, which had been taken over for use as a surgery. The long dining table had become an operating platform for two patients at a time, head to foot. The surgeon and his well-remembered mate were working with a third man, noticeably less disreputable in appearance, who was introduced as
Excellent
’s surgeon. There was a name attached, but Charles didn’t catch it. He told his own surgeon that he wanted a full report on the dead and wounded first thing in the morning. The man nodded and said, “O’ course, sir,” picked up a bloodied bone saw, and turned toward a seaman with a shattered arm on the table. Charles fled.

He finally found the master carpenter, several of his mates, and a number of other seamen on the orlop deck just forward of the mainmast. Here there was ample evidence of damage from the Spanish guns. Most of it had been crudely patched with hammocks or partly unraveled pieces of sailcloth saturated in tar, wadded up, and jammed into the shot holes with scraps of wood nailed over them. Larger repairs were reinforced with shoring, wedged and nailed against the deck or ceiling beams or any other convenient anchor. Water ran in small rivers down the inner planking below the patches, but in far less quantity than had gushed in through the open holes.

The carpenter, a stout, ruddy man who spoke in a broad Irish brogue, reported that all the more serious damage to the hull had received attention, but some of the patches would have to be reinforced or redone before the ship could get under way. The worst of the damage, he went on, was forward, where several ribs had been stove in. “They’ve been braced every which way,” he said, “but they won’t hold in heavy weather.”

“Enough to get us towed to Lisbon?” Charles asked. “If the wind holds, it should only be two days or so.”

“Aye, if the sea don’t get up too much.” The carpenter scratched his chin thoughtfully with the claw of his hammer before continuing. “I don’t know if she’s worth fixing proper, to go to sea again, like. I never seen her this bad, and I been on the ol’ girl near on thirty years as mate and carpenter. She’s too old and slow, like me. For sure they’ll send her to the breaker’s yard.”

“But she won’t sink between here and Lisbon?” Charles wanted to be certain. He didn’t care much about what happened to her afterward.

“Probably not,” the carpenter said thoughtfully. “Now, when Captain Wood—ain’t it a shame he copped it?—were in command, he took real good care to see that nothing happened to her. Hardly had a scratch in all his years. Now he dies and see what happens.”

“Thank you,” Charles said, the irony not lost on him, and started to leave.

“It’s a crying shame, I say. I remember—”

“Thank you,” Charles said again and disengaged himself from the man and his crew. He made for the forward ladderway when he heard word being passed that dinner was available on the upper gundeck for the starboard watch. His stomach growled. He made his way to the galley, two decks above, sat himself at the cook’s table, and gobbled down a large helping of the biscuits, peas, and salt pork prepared for the crew. The cook protested repeatedly that such food wasn’t fit for the
Argonaut
’s commander and that he would prepare a proper meal from the captain’s stores and have it served to him in the captain’s dining room along with after-dinner coffee.

“Coffee,” Charles finally said between mouthfuls. “I’m going topside. You may send up a large mug of coffee as soon as it’s ready.”

Charles wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his uniform jacket, noticing anew that it was still discolored by blood and filth, pushed himself away from the table, and went to see about the rigging of the foremast. On reaching the forecastle, he saw that it had grown quite dark under a moonless and starless sky. By the light of several lanterns, he noticed that a tall, foot-thick spar had been raised and securely scabbed to the stump of the old foremast. Two bosun’s mates were busy securing stays and shrouds in the dimness above and preparing to hoist a yard so that at least the forecourse and the forestaysail could be set. Charles noticed Midshipman Winchester standing near the port rail, organizing the lowering of the shearlegs upon which the jury-rigged foremast had been lifted. A boy arrived from the galley, gingerly holding a tin mug of steaming-hot coffee.

“Thank you kindly,” Charles said, taking the mug and savoring the strong bitter-smooth liquid. “Now hurry back and bring me a second cup.”

The boy looked at him questioningly, but when Charles repeated, “A second cup. Now. Hop,” the child turned and departed at a run.

“Mr. Winchester,” Charles called, taking a careful sip, “a word with you, please.” Stephen Winchester turned, said something to a man beside him, and approached.

“May I say I’m sorry about your injury, sir,” Winchester said touching his hat.

“It’s a little tender,” Charles answered. “Probably hurt like hell in the morning.”

“Probably, sir,” Winchester replied and fell silent.

Charles found the curt reply irritating. He had expected something warmer in response to his opening. The one he got seemed smug bordering on overconfident. Perhaps he had been mistaken about Winchester’s readiness to assume greater responsibilities. Still, he had come this far, so he pressed on. “I wanted to tell you that I appreciated your handling of the cannon earlier this afternoon. I didn’t know you’d had experience in guns.”

“Thank you, sir. To tell the truth, I hadn’t much. I asked one of the gun captains, the oldest one I could find, what to do. He, Higgins, I think, told me.”

Charles thought that showed uncommon presence of mind in such a chaotic situation. He could think of few other midshipmen who would have done anything other than blunder ahead to cover their ignorance. “You’ve done a tolerable job with this foremast as well,” he said, nodding at the spar.

Winchester’s face broke into an unexpected smile. “This is the first time I’ve been able to set up a mast and rig it on my own, as it were.” Then he quickly added, “Sir.”

The second cup of coffee arrived from the galley. Charles offered it to Winchester, who blew on it and then drank a little too much so that it burnt his mouth. In that moment Charles sensed that what he had taken for excessive confidence, even arrogance, in the younger man came from an effort to mask his nervousness or sense of inadequacy in the presence of his superiors. Charles could remember feeling similar emotions during his own years as a junior officer. He came to a decision. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Eighteen,” Winchester answered, competing flickers of curiosity at Charles’s question and pain from his burnt tongue crossing his face. “I’ll be nineteen in April.”

“How long have you been rated midshipman?”

“Since I first came into the navy, just before I turned thirteen, sir.”

“You’ve been at sea all that time?” It was not uncommon for children of twelve, or even considerably younger, especially from well-connected families, to be entered onto a ship’s books but not actually serve until they were much older. It helped them get promotions requiring seniority without their having to do anything inconvenient or dangerous, like actually going to sea.

“Yes, sir, my father thought I needed to see the world—and discipline.”

Charles sensed a note of resentment in the young man at the mention of his father. “You know we’re short of officers,” he said. “There’s only Lieutenant Bevan and myself.” Winchester nodded his comprehension without speaking.

“In my capacity as acting commander, I would like to raise you up to acting lieutenant. It will mean more work and more responsibility.”

Winchester blinked, then quickly nodded his head. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best,” he said, a small show of emotion crossing his face.

“I’ll put it in my report to the admiral and recommend that it be fixed permanent if you do well. But I don’t really know if I have the authority to promote you, even to acting status. And, of course, I don’t know whether the admiral will confirm it.”

“It’s all right, sir,” Winchester responded with feeling. “I just appreciate your confidence.”

“Well, that’s settled,” Charles said. “When you’re finished with the foremast here, you might try the same job with the mizzen. There’s not enough standing to lash it to, so you’re going to have to pull the stump and reset the new spar on the keel.”

“Yes, sir,” Winchester said. “I’ve already sent a party to knock the wedges loose. We’re moving the shears aft now.”

“Good,” Charles said, and, because he could think of nothing else, he turned and walked a little way off to an unlit part of the deck, then stopped and watched thoughtfully for a few moments as Winchester resumed his work with the rigging.

“Pass the word for Lieutenant Bevan,” he said to a passing seaman. “Tell him I’ll be on the quarterdeck.”

“Aye aye, sir.” The man knuckled his forehead and departed. Charles could hear the call—“Lieutenant Bevan to the quarterdeck, pass the word”—echo the length and breadth of the ship.

As he made his way aft, Charles observed that much of the clutter and wreckage that had littered the ship had been cleared away. The salvaged ropes and cables from the fallen rigging were neatly coiled and stacked along the center of the deck, and the ship’s wheel had been restored, with two seamen standing ready beside it.

“You sent for me, sir?” Bevan said as he entered the circle of light from a lantern hanging from the poopdeck railing above the quarterdeck. Charles immediately noticed the term “sir” instead of “Charlie,” which had been more normal between them. He thought Bevan looked tired and strained.

“Yes,” Charles said. “How goes it?”

“Oh, we’re making progress,” Bevan said, relaxing marginally. “There’s still a thousand things to see to.”

“The frigate
Niger
will be alongside soon,” Charles said. “She’s to take us in tow to Lisbon in the morning. Her captain is”—he had to fish in his pocket for the Admiral’s letter—“Edward Foote. I want whichever officer is on duty when he comes to say that we’ll be ready to ship the cable at dawn.”

Bevan frowned and his natural good humor began to wear thin. “Whichever officer, sir? I’m the only other naval officer on this barely floating mound of kindling.”

“I’ve promoted Winchester to acting lieutenant,” Charles said quickly. “He can take the middle or the morning watch, whichever you want, and we’ll work out a regular rotation after that. I don’t want you staying up all night just to look over his shoulder. We talked about that.”

“Oh, yes, it slipped my mind,” Bevan said, wiping a hand across the stubble on his cheeks. “That’ll help.”

“Daniel,” Charles asked in a softer tone, “have you eaten since breakfast?”

“No, not yet. Haven’t had time.”

“Well, I want you to get something in you. And I want you to talk with Winchester and arrange about sharing the work with him. And I want you to get some sleep tonight. Lord knows it will be little enough.”

“All right, Charlie, you’re the captain,” Bevan said, his humor returning. “But have you ever thought how it would be if I was a week senior to you on the lieutenants’ list instead of the other way around?”

“The mind shudders,” Charles answered with a smile. “Now, off with you, beginning with a good meal. I have to go and write a report to Sir John Jervis; he made a point of it.”

“Good luck, Charlie, sir,” Bevan said over his shoulder as he started forward. “Mind that you spell my name correctly.”

With Bevan gone, Charles made his way down to his cabin—scarcely more than a closet with a cot in it and a little room to hang his uniforms in—to find pen, ink, and paper and to begin organizing what he would put into his report to the admiral. It soon became clear that the cabin would not do. There was nowhere for him to sit except on the cot, and nothing for him to write on. Too many people were passing back and forth through the shattered remains of the officers’ wardroom for any privacy, so he decided to go to the captain’s day cabin, where there was a desk and chair and all the room he could want. And the captain certainly didn’t need it anymore.

The marine private guarding the door snapped to attention as Charles approached, then stepped aside and opened the door for him. An overhead lamp lit the room, and the first thing he saw was Captain Wood’s hastily made coffin on the floor near the smashed stern galley windows. He pushed away any qualms about working in a room with a dead man in it, crossed to the desk, and sat down. After unstopping his ink bottle, laying out his paper, and nibbling on the end of his goose quill, he began to write: