Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (36 page)

“Sweet Jesus,” Bevan muttered from beside him.

Charles stared in silent awe. The flames had reached the waist. The mizzenmast became a tall fiery spire. There would be no diverting men to extinguish the blaze. It was beyond that now. He could feel the heat against his skin. The figures of men, hundreds of men, began pouring over the doomed flagship’s side into the water. The other warships closest to L’Orient, English and French together, began to cut their anchor cables to gain some distance.

“She’s going to blow up,” Bevan said. “It’ll reach the magazine soon.”

“Yes,” Charles said.

A blinding flash lit the sky and everything under it. A huge orange-yellow ball of flame rose up out of L’Orient’s bowels into the heavens, followed immediately by a thunderous explosion that pushed the air against him with physical force. The noise echoed into infinity, then ceased. Near-total silence followed. There was no cannon fire, no shouts or screams, no sound of any kind. After a moment, a rain of burning wood, fittings, canvas, and flesh began to descend, hitting the water with a splash or a hiss. Some fell on
Louisa
’s scarred deck. As his eyes readjusted to the darkness, Charles saw that the three-decked French flagship, with her crew of one thousand, had vanished as if she had never been.
My
God, what have I done?
he thought.

“Get fresh boat crews for the cutter and gig, Daniel,” he said. “We must save as many of her men as we can.”

As Bevan moved away, Charles stood staring mutely at where L’Orient had been. What did it mean? Not the battle, the contest between nations and their fleets and armies, he thought. What did
it
mean: the deaths, the spilled blood, the loss of human futures? Penny had said they were all somebody’s brother, husband, son, father. How do you balance those lives against victory? Penny knew. It was an easy equation for her. But what was the calculus? How did you decide that this many was enough, that many too much? Charles was sure that he didn’t know. He looked up and saw a blood-red moon rising over the sand dunes to the east.

IN THE FIRST rays of the morning sun, Charles sat alone in a chair brought up for him from the wardroom and placed on
Louisa
’s unmoving deck. He had spent the long night watching the progress of the battle, or at least the changing patterns of the sparkling cannon flashes. After L’Orient had exploded, there was a lull of ten or fifteen minutes before the gunfire resumed. Slowly, methodically, the British had worked their way up the line, he knew; but exactly how far, at what cost, and with what results he could not tell in the smoke-filled darkness.

Beechum had the morning watch. There was little for him to do besides greeting the two ship’s boats as they returned with sailors pulled from the sea, providing an escort to take them below, and arranging for fresh crews. From what Beechum reported after each new batch, Charles surmised that there had been few survivors from the French flagship.

As the light strengthened, he saw a thick haze of cannon smoke clinging to the sea surface. Battered, mastless ships lay still in the water from one side of the bay almost to the other. Two French warships were hard aground well to the south of him. One or two toward the rear of the once powerful line still held out, firing their cannon in a desultory way against an ever increasing number of British. In the far distance, toward the southern limit of the bay, he thought he could see three warships yet to be engaged. But the battle had been concluded in an overwhelming victory for Admiral Nelson, with his squadron of undersized seventy-fours against a superior enemy force with every defensive advantage. Charles could not think of any naval battle in the last century in which one side had so completely vanquished the other.

“Sir,” Beechum said from close behind him.

“Yes?” Charles said. “Good morning, Mr. Beechum.”

“Good morning, sir. The cutter’s just returned. They’ve got two this time. The gig’s still searching.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. The cutter and gig had been out for over an hour on this last search, and two souls were all they’d found.

“Sir,” Beechum continued, “Williams, he says he doesn’t think there are any more—living, that is. He says there are sharks everywhere, thousands of them. Anyone still in the water is—”

“Thank you,” Charles interrupted. He didn’t want the young man to have to complete the sentence. “You may recall the boats and stand their crews down for now. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

“Yes, sir.” Beechum wearily touched his hat and went forward. Within two minutes, he was back. “Sir, there’s a boat approaching to larboard. She’s from
Orion,
I think.”

Charles looked out and saw a ship’s launch coming toward them. He pushed himself to his feet, which transformed the dull ache in his side to a sharp stab of pain. “We shall go to the side and greet them.”

A young lieutenant in his mid-twenties climbed smartly up
Louisa
’s broken side. “Captain Saumarez’s warmest respects, sir,” he said, coming to a halt and saluting smartly. “I am to inquire as to the status of your frigate and whether you require any immediate assistance.”

“Your name, lieutenant?” Charles said.

“John Chatterton, sir.”

“Mr. Chatterton, His Majesty’s frigate
Louisa
has sunk to what passes for the bottom of the sea in these parts. I am informed by my carpenter that she is irreparable. If you would be so kind as to return Captain Saumarez’s respects, you may inform him that we are in no immediate peril. We will, however, require to be taken off to another vessel at some point.”

The lieutenant smiled. “My captain guessed as much,” he said. “He has authorized me to inform you that
Orion
will be free before noon. Our ship’s boats will be available to transfer you and your crew at that time.”

“Please convey my sincerest thanks,” Charles said. “That will be more than satisfactory.”

As soon as Chatterton had descended over the side, Charles turned to Beechum. “You had better send someone to see that Mr. Bevan is awakened. Tell the cook that I want an especially good breakfast prepared for the crew. There’s no need for him to worry about rations. Afterward, everyone will need to collect their belongings. The injured will require assistance. The whole lot—baggage, crew, prisoners, and wounded— need to be sent up on deck as the time nears.”

“I got it, sir,” Beechum said.

“Oh, yes, one more thing, Isaac,” Charles said. “Find Seaman Dickie Johnson. I would like a word with him.”

At seven bells (had
Louisa
still had a bell) in the forenoon watch, Charles saw two cutters and a launch cast off from
Orion
and start across.
Louisa
had been emptied of everything useful and easily portable. There was surprisingly little of it, and most had already been stowed in their own cutter tethered alongside. Soon the wounded were lowered carefully into
Orion
’s boats. Then the French mixed in with a number of the crew. When all four craft were full, they pushed off for Saumarez’s seventy-four, then to return for the remainder.

Charles saw Daniel Bevan and asked his friend to accompany him below. The two men went to the main hatchway and started down, Bevan leaning on his crutch and favoring his injured leg, Charles carefully protecting his aching side. The lower deck stood empty and forlorn, the mess tables with their benches bare and unused.
This is her heart,
Charles thought,
the center of my precious, once-lovely ship.
Now the space was deathly silent, except for the foot traffic above. There was no wash along her side; not a timber creaked in the gentle sea.

“We’ll go forward,” Charles said.

“Where?” Bevan asked.

“To the galley.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask. It breaks my heart.”

As they passed through the low doorway into the ship’s galley, Charles saw Dickie Johnson sitting on an overturned keg by the stove. Against the wood box lay a carefully arranged pile of tinder and kindling. Johnson rose and touched his forehead.

“Not long now, Dickie,” Charles said. He found another barrel and sat on it. Bevan remained standing.

“You’re going to burn her?” Bevan said.

Charles breathed out. “I can’t let them plunder her,” he said. “I’ll not allow some French officer to walk through her, deciding what to take away.”

Soon they heard the boats returning, and the shuffle of feet and muffled chatter as most of the rest of the crew went over the side.
She is
officially dead now,
Charles thought. His
Louisa
was empty and lifeless.

“Captain, sir,” Sykes said as he entered the room. “Everyone’s off. There’s only the gig’s crew, and they’re waiting for you alongside.”

“Thank you,” Charles said. He turned to Johnson. “Do your duty.”

AFTERWORD

HISTORY RECORDS THAT ON WEDNESDAY, THE FIRST OF August, 1798, Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson and his thirteen ships of the line discovered a French fleet of similar numbers and superior firepower anchored in a defensive line deep in an obscure bay on a far distant Egyptian coast. Nelson fell upon them immediately in the late afternoon, without waiting for all of his squadron to maneuver into a coordinated formation for attack. The battle that followed, fought throughout the evening and all during the night, in uncharted and shallow waters, resulted in the almost complete annihilation of the French, arguably the most decisive victory ever in the history of war at sea. Eleven of the French warships were sunk, burned, or captured; only two enemy sail of the line and two frigates escaped the bay. Of the flagship L’Orient’s crew of a thousand, sixty survived. Charles Edgemont was never to mention to anyone, or to write in any report, that he had started the fire that resulted in her destruction. Even today, its cause remains a mystery.

News of the triumph at Aboukir Bay, two thousand miles from Gibraltar, did not reach Admiral St. Vincent for almost two months, on the twenty-sixth of September; it did not reach London until early October. In addition to the virtual destruction of the French Mediterranean fleet at the Battle of the Nile (as it came to be known), a veteran army of fifty thousand, commanded by a previously little-remarked-upon General Napoleon Bonaparte, found itself stranded conquerors in a hostile land, presumably with any hopes of threatening English wealth in India diminished. A year later, Bonaparte was to abandon his army and return secretly to France. This expeditionary force, steadily decimated by insurgency and disease, capitulated two years later.

ON FRIDAY, THE third of August, Captain Edgemont was ordered to appear on board the flagship
Vanguard.

“You may not stay long,” Vanguard’s flag lieutenant informed him. “The admiral has sustained an injury and is in dire need of rest.”

“Thank you,” the captain replied. The marine sentry opened the door to Nelson’s cabin and allowed him to pass through. Edgemont was distressed to see Admiral Nelson, always frail, slumped in a chair looking pale and weak, with a dressing on his forehead.

“You do not attend well to orders,” the admiral said immediately.

“I do apologize, sir,” Edgemont said. “I was attempting what I thought you would have desired, had you but known the circumstances.”

Nelson seemed to have difficulty focusing his attention. “I suppose,” he said vaguely. “Well, all’s well that ends well. I’ll not submit charges on it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Your frigate, what was her name?”

“
Louisa,
sir.”

“
Louisa,
yes, that’s right. I regret she was lost. Her crew and warrants will be distributed around the fleet, of course, to make up for our losses. You and your officers are to be returned to England. I will be sending
Orion
and some others with our prizes to Gibraltar as soon as they are fit enough to sail.”

“Yes, sir,” Edgemont said.

Admiral Horatio Nelson seemed to sink into lethargy. “It’s all right,” he said distractedly. “I’ve already sent
Leander
with my dispatches. I met your wife, you know. At Naples, I think.”

Charles Edgemont grew increasingly concerned at his admiral’s mental lapses. Clearly, he had suffered a serious head wound and would require convalescence to repair his constitution. “If you will pardon my saying, sir,” he ventured carefully, “as the French naval forces are no longer a threat, you might consider taking some of the squadron to Naples for repair. Sir William and Lady Hamilton would be delighted to learn of your success. I am sure that your own person would benefit from a period of rest. I know Lady Hamilton in particular speaks highly of you and would cherish your company.”

It was a suggestion that he would long regret. Nelson did take three of his most seriously damaged seventy-fours,
Vanguard, Culloden,
and
Alexander,
to Naples, arriving on September 22, 1798. There, Lady Emma Hamilton proved too willing to succor the admiral, the “Hero of the Nile,” as he was to be known, and he was too willing to be succored in the most intimate and personal of ways. The resulting public scandal did much to injure Nelson’s otherwise soaring reputation.

ON TUESDAY, THE fifth of March, 1799, the Admiralty in London approved the purchase into the service of the thirty-six-gun former French national frigate
Embuscade,
captured off the port of Syracuse the year before. The sums due from the prize court, together with the head-and-gun money for the taking and burning of
Félicité
earlier that same year, were divided among the officers and crew of
Louisa,
one quarter of which went to her captain through his prize agent and ultimately into his account at the Bank of Chester. Coincidentally, the sums deposited almost exactly equaled the amount withdrawn by a surprised and pleased Mrs. Charles Edgemont for the construction of a thoroughly modern water mill in the village of Tattenall, Cheshire.

JAY WORRALL is the author of
Sails on the Horizon.
Born into a military family and raised as a Quaker, Worrall grew up on a number of continents around the world, in Africa and Europe as well as the United States. During the Vietnam War he worked with refugees in the Central Highlands of that country and afterward taught English in Japan. Later, he worked in developing innovative and humane prison programs, policies, and administrations. He has also been a carpenter. Married and the very proud father of five sons, he currently lives and writes in Pennsylvania.