Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (43 page)

“I am aware of that, Commander,” Dorchester said, frowning. “How could they have been? We didn’t know where to send them.” Satisfied that he had driven home his point, he asked, “How many do you need?”

“We are short sixty-five seamen, sir.”

The admiral looked for another paper in the pile on his desk. Finding what he wanted, he studied it and said, “I can provide you with forty.”

“Experienced seamen, sir?”

“Commander Edgemont,” Dorchester said sternly, “you will have to make do with whatever is available. After all, you might get it in your head to take them to see St. Paul’s or to enjoy the waters at Bath next.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Charles said.

THE
LOUISA
SAILED
directly from Portsmouth on the evening tide the next day, sorting out her crew and practicing at her guns as she went. They sighted the familiar outline of Cape Ortegal on the northwest corner of Spain late in the afternoon in the second week in February. A heavy fog along the coast forced them to stand out to sea during the night. They had turned back toward land that morning only after the wind freshened moderately from just west of south and blew the mist away. The
Louisa
made landfall again off Cape Villano, had worn, and now approached Ferrol from the southwest on easy seas with long undulating swells and a light but steady wind on its larboard quarter.

Charles leaned against the lee quarterdeck rail next to Daniel Bevan, listening to the breeze whisper through the rigging and the gentle groan of the timbers as the ship slowly rolled over the easy sea. He stared absently at the distant gray mass of the passing Galician mountains, wondering about the
Santa Brigida,
how far along her repairs really were, and where the timbers and supplies had come from with which to repair her. Perhaps the Spanish authorities had decided to restock the Ferrol yards for use as a fully functioning naval base once again. In any event, he would soon know; the entrance to Coruna Bay should almost be in sight from the masthead.

“Deck!” the lookout in the foremast crosstrees shouted. “There’s a ship in the entrance to the bay.”

“What bearing?” Charles called up.

“Two points to starboard, sir, maybe fifteen miles afar.”

“What heading?”

“She’s tacking to the east, out to sea, like.” There was a pause. “I recognize her t’gallants. She’s the Spanish frigate, sir! The same as we fought before.”

“Do you want to stand out again?” Bevan said, a trace of anxiety in his voice. “We’ll want the searoom.”

Charles thought for a moment. “Crosstrees,” he yelled. “Is she in or out of the bay?”

“Almost out, sir. She’s just under the fort,” came the reply.

He gauged the wind on his cheek and stared hard at the outline of the distant mountains.

“No,” Charles said to Bevan, coming to a tentative decision. “We’ll run straight down large on her and see what we have. We can stand out later if we want to.”

Within two bells the
Santa Brigida
’s topgallants were visible from
Louisa
’s quarterdeck—white specks outlined against the darker bulk of the land. The spots slowly grew and assumed an oblong shape, slivers of her topsails appearing beneath them.

“She’s making slow going,” Bevan observed. The distant sails seemed hardly to be moving.

“Yes,” Charles said, more to himself than his lieutenant. “There’s not much wind, and what there is isn’t in her favor.” His mind raced, trying to calculate the advantages and liabilities of his position. “Clear the ship for action, Daniel.”

Bevan looked at him with alarm. “You’re not going to fight her in the mouth of the bay?”

“I don’t know yet,” Charles said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the Spaniard’s sails. “I need a better picture. In the meantime, clear the ship for action. We’ll beat to quarters in half an hour.”

Bevan muttered something unintelligible under his breath and gave the order.

Charles left the quarterdeck and made his way to the foremast shrouds with his glass. He climbed slowly, finally reaching the high platform at the crosstrees with his ankle aching and short of breath.

“Mornin,’ Cap’n,” the lookout greeted him, sliding over to one side to make room.

“Good morning,” Charles said, and lowered himself gingerly down to a sitting position, his back to the mast. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Connley, sur, topman,” the lookout answered.

From high in the rigging Charles could see the entire land- and seascape spread before him—the entrance to the bay, the forts, the white froth of the reef, and the frigate now about seven miles away. The
Santa
Brigida
was close-hauled, about as near to the wind as she could lie, and had just cleared the promontory that marked the far end of the mouth of the bay. Raising the glass to his eye, he saw her sails ripple, indicating that she was having difficulty with the wind eddies off the headlands. Charles watched his enemy closely for about ten minutes, studying her progress and her relationship to the features of the land and sea.

“Where do you think she’ll be in, say, forty-five minutes, Connley?” Charles asked.

“’Bout two and a half, maybe three miles out from the fort, I’d say, sir. She won’t have cleared the reef,” the lookout replied.

“That’s what I think, too. Thank you for making space for me.”

“Yer welcome, sir. Did you see what you was looking for?”

“I did,” Charles answered.

“Are we goin’ to fight her again, sir?”

“Yes, and we’re going to have her this time,” he said, turning on the narrow perch. “It’s a sure wager.” He felt for a foothold with his shoe and started his laborious descent to the deck.

“Hang out the studding sails, Daniel,” Charles said, returning to the quarterdeck. “I want more speed; every fathom counts.”

Bevan slowly exhaled, expressing a displeasure that he clearly did not want to voice openly. “Aye aye, Captain.”

The
Louisa
bore slowly down on the Spanish frigate in the light air, her bow wave small curls of white and her wake an uneven trail across the swells. At four miles the
Santa Brigida
was fully visible, two and a half miles outside the Ferrol headlands, the black bulk of her hull emphasized by the white surf on the reef another mile or so beyond. As they watched, the Spaniard hove to, took in all but her topgallants, laid one against the mast, and waited broadside-on for the approaching smaller British frigate.

Charles nodded appreciatively. The
Santa Brigida
’s captain had little choice but to back her sails and wait. She couldn’t turn away without sailing onto the reef and couldn’t lie anywhere near close enough to the wind to stand toward him. If the frigate had stayed on her halting course westward, the
Louisa
could have timed her approach, laid off the Spaniard’s bow at the end of the reef, and raked her repeatedly. By heaving to she was demanding a broadside-to-broadside fight. In fact, her only options were to heave to and fight it out or reverse course and return to the bay. Charles didn’t think the Spanish captain had the courage to turn tail and run—it would be his pride as well as the knowledge that he had the larger, better-armed ship that forced him to gamble he could pummel the
Louisa
into submission before drifting down onto the reef. It was a reasonable assumption except for one thing, Charles considered: After the first few broadsides in this wind, the
Santa Brigida
wouldn’t be able to see him.

“This is crazy, Charlie,” Bevan said nervously. “We can’t maneuver here. She’ll batter us.”

Charles pulled his eyes away from the Spanish frigate to look at his lieutenant and friend. “I don’t intend to maneuver, Daniel. Her captain thinks what you think—that he can beat us in a straight gun-to-gun fight. But he can’t, not today. Lay us alongside at fifty yards, just off her bow quarter, and get every stitch of sail off her except for the fore and mizzen topsails. We’ll back and fill, same as the Spaniard.”

“All right, Charlie,” Bevan said, resigned.

Charles glanced at the black-hulled ship, now less than a mile away. There was still a little time before it would begin. He forced himself to relax and stifled his fingers before they could start tapping on the rail. After a moment he started forward, carefully made his way down the ladderway to the gundeck, and limped to a central spot forward of the mainmast. The gun crews fell silent one by one as they noticed his presence.

“You know we’re going to fight the Spanish frigate again,” he said in a loud voice so all around could hear. “I promise you we’ll beat her if we keep our heads. I expect you to run your guns in and out as quick as you can, but
aim
them. Lay every shot true for her gundeck. If you can’t see her hull in the smoke, look for her masts. They’ll tell you where she lies.” He saw heads nod in comprehension.

“Three cheers for the
Louisa
!” Charles shouted, and loud huzzas followed. “Three cheers for her crew!” They were still cheering when he saw the Spaniard’s gunports open and the black muzzles of her cannon run out.

“Pass the word for my steward,” Charles said to Midshipman Beechum after hurrying as best he could back to the quarterdeck. “Tell him I want my best uniform coat and hat.”

At three hundred yards the
Santa Brigida
fired a ragged broadside, gray-black smoke hiding her then drifting lazily with the breeze back over her decks. Balls splashed in the sea all around; one hit the
Louisa
’s bow with a crash, transmitting its impact through the frame of the ship.

“He should have waited until we were closer,” Charles said to no one in particular. He pulled out his watch and noted the time. Turning to Bevan, he said, “Start taking the sails off her and run out the starboard battery.”

Charles moved to the forward rail of the quarterdeck and called down to Winchester on the gundeck, “We’re going to come about. Fire as you bear.”

“Yes, sir,” Winchester shouted back.

Satisfied that he’d done everything that could be done, Charles made his way to the larboard rail, leaned back against it, and looked at his watch again. Attwater arrived and helped him change coats, fussing nervously at invisible dust on the lapel as he did so.

“I hope you know what yer doing, sir,” he said tensely. “She’s got an awful big bite.”

“I hope so, too.”

At seventy-five yards he looked to the quartermaster at the wheel and said, “Port your helm, hard over.” The unneeded sails were already being furled at lightning speed. Bevan yelled, “Back the main topgallant” to the men on the braces.

Louisa
lost way as her head swung to port. Her broadside came a fraction before the
Santa Brigida
’s, the sounds of the combined guns at close range deafening in their thunderous roar. Charles felt the deck cant with the cannons’ recoil and shudder as a number of the heavy Spanish balls pounded the
Louisa
’s hull. A section of the bulwark exploded inward by the number-eight gun in the waist, killing or maiming four of its crew.

“Get those men below and replace them,” Charles ordered.

“Sponge out! Load with cartridge!” a young gunnery midshipman on the quarterdeck was shouting at the top of his lungs, but Charles saw that most of the gun crews were ahead of him.

“Home!” he heard one gun captain call, signaling that a powder cartridge had been pushed fully in. Charles watched as the shot and wad were forced into the muzzle and quickly rammed tight. The gun crew heaved on the rope tackle and the gun, trucks squealing shrilly, came up with a thud against the ship’s side. The sharper bark of the quarterdeck carronades sounded first. They were quicker to reload and run out on their slides than the heavier nine- and twelve-pounders.

“Clear!” the gun captain yelled as he yanked on the lanyard. The black beast exploded its charge, expelling a ball of orange flame, and lurched viciously back against its restraints. A rolling crescendo of explosions followed as the
Louisa
’s second broadside fired.

Charles looked for damage on the Spanish frigate, but the smoke from his guns drifted toward her on the easy wind, obscuring much of his vision. This satisfied him. The
Santa Brigida
spoke a moment later, the flash of her guns just visible here and there through the deepening haze. Shot screamed across the decks, tearing new holes in the lee rail, upsetting a gun, and sending up fountains of water where cannonballs aimed low found the sea. “Detail some men to replace any damaged guns with those from the port-side battery,” he said to Bevan.

Charles stared hard at the fort on the Ferrol promontory, trying to line its flagstaff with some landmark inland that he could remember later so he could judge
Louisa
’s leeway. The carronades fired nearly together, followed after a moment by most of the cannon in a rolling blast, then the last and slowest of the guns manned by newer hands. He saw a yard fall from the
Santa Brigida
’s rigging, the masts from her tops up being the only part of the Spanish ship he could see above the smoke. Both ships were soon firing nearly blind through the almost impenetrable cloud. But it was worse for the Spaniard, Charles knew. She had her own gunsmoke as well as the
Louisa
’s drifting slowly across her decks.

A loud crash forward accompanied by anguished screams told him that another of the twelve-pounders on the gundeck had been hit and dismounted from its carriage. A shot shrieked across the quarterdeck close enough that Charles could feel its passage. The ship’s bell gave a last clank, and when he looked the belfry had disappeared.

“Warm work, Charlie,” Bevan observed.

“Yes.”

Almost immediately the
Louisa
loosed her own increasingly drawn-out cannonade, and, after an eerie quiet punctuated only by the sounds of shouting sailors and the marines firing their small arms from the tops, the carronades and then the long guns fired again before the Spaniard answered. Four rounds to their three, and maybe five for the carronades, Charles thought—only marginally better than before.