Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (6 page)

“Well,” Charles said, addressing the gun crews, “two winners, I hadn’t counted on this.” He made a small display of patting his pockets and even turned one out as if to show that he hadn’t any more money. This brought some laughter from the crew. “Ah, here it is,” he said, producing a second coin from an inside jacket pocket. He called
Naughty
Nancy
and
Instant Death
’s captains forward and gave them each their coin. It would be up to the purser to change them into coins of smaller denominations.

“There is one more thing before you are dismissed,” Charles said, turning serious and addressing the entire assembled crew. “Gunnery is why we exist. From time to time we may be called upon to engage enemy ships larger than ourselves and with more powerful armaments. To succeed, we must service the guns faster and with more effect than our opponents. This is our business. If you men attend to your instruction and give your full effort in practice,
Louisa
will be the most proficient twenty-eight-gun frigate in His Majesty’s Navy, and a menace to any Frenchman unlucky enough to come within range.” He paused for a long moment to lend weight to his words. Then he smiled and raised his arms. “A cheer for the winning guns!”

When the noise died down, he turned toward the lieutenants. “You may dismiss the hands, Stephen,” he said. “Mr. Talmage, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, I would appreciate a word with you in my cabin.”

“Yes, sir,” Talmage answered, and the two men went below.

“How do we do it better?” Charles asked as he hung his hat and sword on their pegs along the bulkhead. He removed his coat and flung it on the settee under the stern windows. Talmage sat ramrod straight at Charles’s table, his jacket neatly buttoned and his hat placed precisely on the tabletop by his elbow.

“Sir?” Talmage asked. “Do what better?”

Charles dropped heavily into a chair across from his lieutenant and glanced at the clock on the wall above his desk. It was a little after eleven in the morning. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.

“Tea would be fine.”

“Attwater,” Charles called out. “One tea for Lieutenant Talmage and a coffee for myself, please.”

“Aye-aye,” said a voice from his sleeping cabin. Charles guessed that his steward had been taking a nap.

“The gunnery,” Charles said, turning back to Talmage. “You watched today’s exercise. Ten men each on twelve-pounder guns, and most of them took near a minute between firings, and that without the slightest wink at actually aiming them.”

Talmage looked puzzled. “Is that bad? I thought a broadside a minute was acceptable.”

“Acceptable? Well, yes, it’s acceptable, I suppose,” Charles said. “But they won’t be firing their guns once a minute in actual combat, not with any accuracy. We can do better. I’ve heard
Marion Castle
kept up a sustained fire of three broadsides in just over two and a half minutes at the Battle of the Saints. That is the rate of gunwork I’m looking for. If
Marion Castle
could do it, so can we.”

“If I recall, sir,” Talmage said rather primly, “
Marion Castle
carries thirty-two-pounders on her lower deck, and they have larger gun crews.
And,
” he emphasized, “she was an experienced ship and had been at sea for several years with the same crew. Captain Wilkerson was also known to be something of a fanatic about gunnery. It wasn’t like she was a normal ship.”

This was not what Charles had wanted to hear. There was something about Talmage’s manner that pricked at him. He was a good first lieutenant in most respects: an excellent administrator and a gentleman to his toes. He was said to be an exceptional swordsman. But there was a certain distance, an unrelenting formality, an assumption of superiority toward subordinate officers that made Charles uncomfortable. There was the time when an ordinary seaman had tripped and fallen heavily against Talmage’s leg. The lieutenant had demanded the man be flogged. Charles refused and had had to smooth ruffled feathers.

Winchester, he knew from experience, would pick up a line and haul with the rest of the men. He could not imagine Talmage doing any such thing, even if his life depended on it. And there was a certain lack of imagination when it came to things like experimenting with gunnery evolutions. There was all that and also Talmage’s want of seamanship. Charles thought the man would probably become one of those captains who loved a smart and perfectly run ship but would never willingly take her into danger.

Attwater padded back from the galley with a cup of tea and a mug of coffee on a tray. “If there weren’t nothing more, sir?” he offered.

Charles looked at Talmage, who sat motionless, then thanked and dismissed his steward. As he carefully sipped the hot liquid, he thought of Daniel Bevan. Bevan and he thought alike, he decided. They had much the same backgrounds and had worked closely as lieutenants on the old
Argonaut
for a half-dozen years. What they didn’t know, they picked at until they figured it out. But when Talmage was confronted with a problem he hadn’t been prepared for by his tenure as flag lieutenant to Admiral St. Vincent—how to improve the rate of fire for the guns, for example—he was at a loss.

“I do not want
Louisa
to be a ‘normal’ ship, Mr. Talmage,” Charles said. “I want her to be as effective in battle as she can possibly be.”

“Of course, sir,” Talmage said, bending forward and obviously attempting to be accommodating. “We could practice the men at the guns more often. Daily, even.”

Charles knew this was not the answer he was looking for. He had already instituted a regular schedule for gunnery practice, three times a week, and sensed that more frequent repetitions would not help. He wanted a fresh approach. Something like a study of how the guns were worked, what individual tasks were involved, in what order. Was there a better way to do it? He’d had ten men on each gun. Was that better than eight? Or twelve? Or six? With the numbers and the way the tasks were distributed, did some of the men get in one another’s way? Sometimes they did, he knew. Charles thought it worth examining. Clearly, Talmage was not the man to do it.

“That’s not what I’m looking for,” Charles said without thinking. “I’ll have Winchester look into it.”

Talmage’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and his mouth tightened. “Sir,” he began in a tone that signaled a long-pent-up protest, then he fell silent. Charles thought for a moment that he might have too directly called into question the lieutenant’s abilities and would have to make amends. Before he could speak, he heard the lookout in the tops call down to the deck: “Sail ho, south-by-southeast, maybe twelve miles.”

“We will continue this discussion at another time,” Charles said, pushing the issue to the back of his mind. He rose and took up his coat. “We’d better go topside. That may be the rest of the squadron.”

It was
Terpsichore,
recognized almost immediately by the lookout. Within an hour, the tiny white dots of her topgallants were visible from the deck. Slowly, more of the distant masts revealed themselves to include topsails and then courses. Charles scanned the sea with his glass but saw no sign of any other ships. A call to the tops confirmed that it was
Terpsichore
and only
Terpsichore
bearing down on them. As it would be at least an hour before Bedford’s frigate came within hailing range, he called Winchester over to discuss his plan for an examination of the gun work. He noticed Talmage standing alone by the opposite rail, eyeing them sullenly.
It will pass,
he thought.

Terpsichore
glided majestically across the shimmering sea in the late afternoon under a full set of sails, to make the best advantage of the light winds. Before she began to take in her canvas and heave to on
Louisa
’s weather side, the signal
Captains report on board
soared up her halyards. Charles’s gig had already been made ready. “You have the ship, Mr. Talmage,” he said formally to his unsmiling first lieutenant and descended over the side.

Charles’s and Bevan’s boats reached
Terpsichore
almost together. By centuries of naval tradition, Charles was given preference, Bevan doffing his hat and smiling broadly while his boat’s crew backed their oars. Charles grabbed at the ropehold for the side ladder and hurried up over the tumblehome.

Captain Edward Bedford stood by the entryport to greet the two captains as they emerged onto the deck. Charles touched his hat and shook the offered hand. Bedford was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties, with thick black eyebrows and a weather-beaten face. Charles had heard somewhere that Bedford had worked his way up the ladder of naval command after beginning his career before the mast. This was a rare enough accomplishment in George III’s navy and unheard-of in the army. Any man who could do it had Charles’s automatic respect.

“How’d ye fare in the blow?” Bedford asked straightaway. Charles had already noticed while he was being pulled across that
Terpsichore
showed little if any damage from the storm.

“Lost our mizzen topmast,” Charles answered. “Nothing serious. We had our moments, though.”

“Aye, she was a fucking determined little tempest,” Bedford responded, turning toward Bevan as he climbed through the entryport. “Ah, Captain Bevan, welcome aboard. I do love a Welshman. Born to be hanged, I say. And how did tiny
Pylades
survive the gale?”

“We’re still afloat,” Bevan answered. “Although only God knows why.”

“Good seamanship is why,” Bedford said seriously. “There was little enough time to prepare. I watched as that first rush damn near rolled ye over.”

“Thank you, sir,” Bevan answered.

Bedford turned back to Charles and chuckled. “It were a rare treat to see
Emerald
signaling for you to increase sail and firing off her guns while you were doing the opposite.” He laughed heartily. “Pigott probably wet his breeches. And then the fucking wind comes up from behind and lays him right over on his beam ends. What a nasty surprise that must have been!” Bedford laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

“I did attempt to warn him,” Charles said, vainly trying to suppress a chortle.

Bedford wiped at his eyes. “Pigott is nay the kind of man who pays much attention to signals from those under him,” he said happily. “He starts with a lofty notion of his own importance and soars upward from there.” Leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink, he added, “The Right Honorable John Pigott is an old sow’s arse, the spot right between the hams and just south of the tail.”

Charles couldn’t help laughing but was shocked by such blunt speech about a superior officer. As he secretly agreed, he said nothing. Bevan discreetly cleared his throat.

“Ah, ye’re probably wondering why I called ye on board,” Bedford said, turning businesslike. “Two reasons: The first is to ascertain the state of yer ships.” He looked meaningfully at Bevan.

“Our repairs are nearly complete,” Bevan answered. “We’re fit for whatever is required.”

“Captain Edgemont?”

“
Louisa
is ready for duty, sir.”

“Good, good. And the second is to request both of yer presence at dinner,” Bedford said warmly. “I’ve already informed the cook, so ye daren’t refuse, and I have a large quantity of an excellent Madeira which I can’t possibly get through myself.”

“Before we go below,” Charles asked, “have you any orders?”

Bedford rubbed his chin. “We wait for Nelson and the others for a decent time, of course. Assuming he decides to show up at all.”

“How do you mean?”

“Unless I miss my guess, Nelson may have already attended the rendezvous and moved on,” Bedford said carefully. “If I know him, I’d say he may well have gone to Toulon without waiting, to see if the Frogs have used the time to sneak away. Still, we’ve orders to wait here. I’ll give him three days, and if no one appears, we’ll try there.”

THE WEATHER CONTINUED fresh and springlike over the sea, empty but for Bevan’s brig,
Louisa,
and
Terpsichore
rocking easily on the gentle swell. All three ships took noon sightings, and all three discovered to no one’s surprise that they had drifted somewhat south of the specified waiting place. Bedford promptly ordered them all to beat into the breeze and make up the deficit.

The following afternoon Charles and Winchester assembled two gun crews in the waist and walked them repeatedly through their evolutions at the guns. Charles could find no obvious problems. He did discover that eight men were about as effective as ten, twelve was too many, and six resulted in a noticeably slower rate of fire. After a time, he left Winchester to work on the problem while he went to receive the boatswain’s and purser’s daily reports. Eliot, he noted, had the watch. He saw no sign of Talmage, who normally would have been on deck. As soon as he was free, he decided to go below to the officers’ wardroom and speak to Talmage before the situation between the two of them became strained. He found the lieutenant seated alone at the wardroom table with a partly full bottle of wine in front of him.

“May I sit?” Charles asked.

Talmage looked up and then pushed his chair back as if to stand.

“Sit, sit,” Charles said, gesturing with his hands. “This is not an official call.” He pulled out a chair and lowered himself into it.

“Sir,” Talmage began, slurring the word.

Charles lifted his hand. “I must apologize about our conversation yesterday. I’m afraid that I may have left the impression that I do not appreciate your services. I assure you that this is not so.”

“Sir,” Talmage repeated, rubbing a hand across his face. With an effort, he said, “I am only trying to do my tudy.”

“I can well imagine how you feel,” Charles said, after taking a moment to untangle “tudy.” “Coming from
Victory,
with all the bustle and confusion there, you probably find this something of a challenge.
Louisa
is a very small ship in comparison, with different kinds of problems.” Despite a certain blankness in his lieutenant’s expression, Charles felt that he was making progress. He went on, “You know, it’s only a little over a year ago that I was a lieutenant myself. I have a certain way of doing things that may not suit everyone. I’m sure that we will both adjust in time.”