“It might be that the government in London will be moved to send emissaries to the Catalans – and it would be embarrassing were they to make promises that contradicted yours, Sir Frederick.”
Frederick could see that could easily be so.
“Might I perhaps offer them powder and ball, sir?”
“Offer them anything, Sir Frederick – other than a promise of support against the government of Spain. Whatever may eventuate will be none of our affair. I have no doubt that the Austrians will have much to say about the desirability of returning the King to his throne and of crushing all revolutionaries wherever they might be found. At the moment, Sir Frederick, we need the support of Austria, of Imperial Russia, of the Kingdom of Prussia, far more than we need the Republic of Catalonia.”
It was rational, and loyalty to Britain must outweigh any other consideration.
Frederick had a suspicion that he would find it necessary to betray the Catalans, to use them to defeat the French and then throw them to the lions.
“Needs must when the Devil drives, Mr Adamson. We must not be defeated in this war.”
That seemed utterly obvious to Adamson, underlying his every action.
“There is nothing more important than to deny Bonaparte his victory, Sir Frederick. That must be achieved at all costs, paying any price. If the whole of the rest of the world must sink in flames to protect Britannia, then so be it, sir. We can do no less than is necessary.”
Adamson bowed himself out on those words, leaving Frederick to ponder upon them, to drink too much of Admiral Ball’s brandy after dinner and to seek his bed feeling rather unwell.
He ordered the squadron to sail in the morning, in thoroughly bad mood.
Book Eleven: The Duty
and Destiny Series
Chapter Three
Two weeks of perverse, cold, wet north-easterlies did not help Frederick’s temper.
Day after day of beating out to sea, short tacks, ‘All Hands’ two and three times a watch, hard-pressed even to keep dinner time unbroken, leaving the men irritable, snapping back-answers to the petty officers and leading to a line at the Captain’s Table and stoppages of rum and pay, an increasing number of six and twelve lash sentences and the certainty of something bigger soon.
“I shall be forced to give fifty to that damned fool of a waister, Higgins, Sir Frederick. Four times in as many days he has spouted off at the mouth when All Hands was called. I cannot allow him to be seen to be getting away with indiscipline, although he is less than wholly clever. Yet, if I see his backbone, I shall be viewed as no more than a bloody-handed tyrant!”
Sir Iain was inclined to be bitter about a navy that was content to press half-wits rather than pay a wage great enough to attract useful men. Frederick was in no mood to sympathise.
“The weather must change soon, Sir Iain – this is a cross-grained, untypical sort of wind for the time of year. It cannot persist. If it does, we shall have hell’s own time of it, trying to work inshore. The men must put up with it!”
The look-out’s cry of Barcelona in sight made a welcome break, something to talk about at least. The wind began to veer almost at the same moment, the skies clearing, rain stopping, temperature rising, all it seemed in minutes. The whole ship heaved a sigh of relief.
“What flags on the forts?”
“French, sir. All over the place, sir. Nothing else to be seen, sir.”
That suggested that Barcelona was now a conquered city rather than an ally.
“That information must go to Admiral Collingwood, Sir Iain. Pipsqueak, do you think?”
Lieutenant Dalby was sent off with orders to discover the Admiral, wherever he might be in the Western Mediterranean, and deliver the despatch to him. There must be blockaders off Toulon, who might well know where the bulk of the Mediterranean Fleet was to be found; he should go there first, but was to waste no time at all if the Admiral was elsewhere.
An hour later gunboats were seen, a mixture of Spanish barca-longas with their two or three lugsails, and small and ancient convict galleys, all sporting the tricolour, all under French command.
“Send the frigates in to beat up the gunboats, sir?”
“No, Sir Iain. I would lay long odds that the crews are still Spanish, forced at gunpoint into French service. Killing them will do our cause few favours. The galleys as well will be Spanish manned – though by convicts for whom I have less concern. No. Better to keep clear. They will not venture out to sea, or not until there is far more of a calm than at present; the wind is down but this sea will continue choppy for another five or six hours. Hold just clear, Sir Iain, and try to inspect the port. If they wish to chase us off, it may be that they have something to conceal. It could simply be boredom or bad temper, of course.”
They saw nothing – no convoy waiting to sail or fleet preparing to challenge for the Mediterranean. Sir Iain sent two midshipmen up with telescopes, and they reported two frigates and three of the line, but all laid up, their yards not crossed, weeks away from possibly sailing.
“Irritability, sir, nothing more. They have a war but are short of an enemy to fight. Just possibly, sir, they are in expectation of a convoy and do not wish us to be present to greet it?”
It was possible. News could be sent on horseback of ships at sea – but it seemed unlikely. The French navy might well be unhappy at having to use the services of the Army to send messages into Spain, and they would be more likely to send single ships along the coast, hoping to slip past unnoticed, than to send a full convoy.
“No, just bad temper, Sir Iain – and I can sympathise with that. Perlen and Iris to cruise the coast for no more than three days, just to see what may be about. Glommen and Nellie and Stour to work the shoreline, taking a look into every fishing harbour and speaking to the boats. We need news, Sir Iain. Particularly, we need to know whether the Catalans are up and, if they are, to speak to them. It is possible that the French want us well offshore so that the people of Barcelona will not see us as reinforcements to their ambitions of rebellion.”
The signals were acknowledged and the small craft diverged from the squadron.
“Might it be a very sly trick, Sir Frederick, to take one or two of those larger gunboats, in order to have vessels that might arouse no suspicions when seen well inshore?”
“Was we to indulge ourselves in a cutting-out, Sir Iain, then a pair of barca-longas would be able to potter their way into a small harbour with not an eyebrow raised. Let us examine the prospects!”
The Second Lieutenant held the watch and was, unfortunately for his comfort, known to be very sharp-eyed.
“Mr Patey, a telescope to an appropriately high point, if you would be so good. A careful look at the gunboats and particularly at the barca-longas - determine which seem boldest and might perhaps be encouraged to venture a little too far into our proximity.”
Mr Patey grabbed the master’s telescope and ran to the mainmast, debating just how high he must climb. The ship was rolling nastily in the short Mediterranean seas and he really did not fancy making his way to the peak of the topmasts – but, for which he was truly grateful, Waldeman had yet to ship her topgallants and he must show enthusiastic with his captain and the commodore both waiting on his words. He sped up the rigging and to the topmast trees where he clasped his legs firmly to the mast itself before leaning out, telescope in both hands.
He began to shout, hoping that speech would prevent his unruly stomach from betraying him.
“Eight of galleys, sir – old, mediaeval vessels, sir. Twenty oars aside, mostly, sir. Barca-longas, sir, thirteen of them – five are larger and three-masted, pole masts with a single lugsail, sir. Each carries a single chase gun, sir, on a slide, and heavy – perhaps as much as a thirty-two pounder. I can see a uniform on one, sir. Officer in command of the whole flotilla, perhaps, and leading them all to the very edge of the sheltered waters of the harbour. The galleys are backing water with one bank of oars, sir, spinning around, heading inshore, si
r. The small barca-longas are lying-to, sir. The five are pushing on, sir, three showing keen, two unenthusiastic in the extreme, sir.”
“Very good, Mr Patey. Stay there for a while.”
Mr Patey acknowledged, with a becoming enthusiasm.
“Glommen, I think, Sir Iain.”
“Exactly as I was thinking too, sir. Glommen in execution of orders to scout along the coast and then to play the lame duck and drift disabled inshore, perhaps a mile or two distant?”
“Iris and Perlen to ready themselves to leap upon the barca-longas if they should take the bait.”
The flags ran up and Glommen altered course inshore, packing on sail incautiously, or so it seemed to the barca-longas; the three glory hunters watched and sailed further from the protection of the harbour and the remainder of the flotilla.
Glommen was taken aback, an evident fluke of the wind, as might not be unexpected close inshore; her fore-topsail dropped, together with the yard itself and she fell into the trough, rolling and out of control. Frederick and Sir Iain watched with outward signs of satisfaction, praying that it was stage-managed and not real.
The three barca-longas seized their opportunity; the frigates were distant and taken by surprise; the ships of the line were well out of range. It seemed possible to make a swift attack and certainly be able to sink the sloop, possibly to take it instead.
“Iris and Perlen to make all sail conformable with the weather.”
The frigates had been awaiting Frederick’s order, knew exactly what canvas they intended to set and responded instantly.
Glommen made a miraculous recovery from her disorder and came back under control, swinging bows-on to the barca-longas so as to reduce the chance of their hitting home with their massive cannon and charging down on the nearest, the flag of the flotilla.
The pair of frigates made to cut off the barca-longas, sailing to come between them and the harbour they had so incautiously ventured from. The two who had never approved of adventure had made all speed to return, were already congratulating themselves on their wisdom, huddled together in safety and making for the cover of the guns of the most forward battery.
Frederick and Sir Iain watched, listening to Patey’s commentary from on high.
“Glommen has been hit, sir. Men down from splinters but the ball high – she will not be making water.”
“Bet old McDonald’s pissin’ ‘imself, though,” came an anonymous voice from the waist. There was a shout of laughter, a relief to hear.
“Glommen is grappling the nearest gunboat, sir.”
Nothing to worry about there. A gunboat carried a crew for its single gun and at absolute most another dozen of seamen.
“Taken her, sir. Perlen has cut off the other two, sir, and Iris is showing them her broadside. Both have come into the wind, sir.”
They would have been fools to do anything other than surrender; they could have caused some slight damage with a round apiece from their heavy guns but would never have floated long enough to reload.
“Signal Glommen, Iris and Perlen to rejoin. ‘Well done’ as well. Midshipman’s command, I think, Sir Iain?”
“Certainly, sir. Very good experience for the boys. Mr Sykes?”
Sykes, senior of the Waldeman’s mids and responsible for signals as a result, had been listening avidly.
“Take the nearest of the barca-longas under your command. Six men, to be chosen by Mr Cheek, as your crew.”
“Perlen and Iris to have the other two, Sir Iain. Glommen is too small to afford a crew.”
“I agree, sir. We could benefit from the presence of Nid Elven, sir. We might look to see her in what, two more weeks, sir?”
“Hopefully, yes.”
The barca-longas took station in the lee of Waldeman, sheltered to an extent from the worst of the wind and seas and hopefully invisible from the shore. The authorities in Barcelona would know they had been taken and would station guard boats every night to prevent them sneaking in on a ship seizing expedition. Both Frederick and Sir Iain thought it was very unlikely that the commander in Barcelona would permit word to be sent to other French-held ports – making the admission that three of his gunboats had been taken almost without a shot fired would be humiliating at minimum; at worst, it would be a sign of incompetence, even disloyalty, either of which conditions could result in a night-time visit from Bonaparte’s secret police and a new holder of the office.
Frederick walked across to the side.
“Mr Sykes! I want a full report at eight bells. Condition of the barca-longa and details of how many men it could conceal, and for how long, bearing in mind the capacity to carry water and rations. You are to be Gunboat Number One; inform Two and Three of my demand and instruct them to join you on Waldeman with their written report.”
They had nearly three hours – more than long enough to perform a simple task, and it must be simple because the boats were no greater than the barge of a seventy-four.
The squadron pottered off to the north, wallowing in the merest breath of a south-westerly breeze. It was irritating after the slow passage they had already made, but better far than fighting their way off a leeward shore.
“What does the chart give us, Sir Iain? A middling large but strategically insignificant fortress would be ideal!”
Fortresses; harbours with batteries; ancient castles; fishing villages – all seemed to proliferate on the Catalan coast, but it was no easy task to determine their relative importance. No sensible decision for action could be made except with local information.
They waited for Nellie and Stour to return, hopefully with Spanish or Catalan patriots aboard who could tell them what must be done next.
“Cape Bugger in sight, sir!”
The chart showed ‘De Begur’, which was nearly the same, after all.
“In a rich part of the province, by the looks of things, sir. A deal of farming land and well-cultivated. Reasonable to expect a heavy French presence, sir, with them living off the land.”
Frederick agreed – there would likely be fat pickings here.
“Stour and Nellie, sir! Signalling ‘Despatches’, sir.”
That seemed highly unlikely to Frederick – they were coming from entirely the wrong direction to be carrying orders. Therefore, they must mean that they had important news.
“Squadron to close the brigs, Sir Iain.”
Lieutenant Porteous was rowed across from Nellie, in the company of a disreputable looking fellow dressed in a shaggy sheepskin coat. Frederick was certain he would smell; he chose to meet him on the quarterdeck, in the open air.
“Bosomtwi! Refreshments, please.”
“Yes, sir. Tea, sir? You got an English officer, isn’t it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He think he disguised like a peasant, isn’t it, sir. Got to be an officer, to think that, who don’t know what a farmer look like. He sat up, back straight. Old peasants all bent over, sir.”
Frederick looked across the cable of water separating the boat from the ship, took his telescope to peer more closely.
The man in the sheepskin had undone its ties, was wearing it loosely wrapped round his shoulders and displaying a waistcoat and white shirt underneath.
“You are right, Bosomtwi. He looks like a Guards officer, in fact.”
“Guards, sir? A cup of tea and a ship’s boy for that sort, isn’t it, sir!”
“Just the tea, Bosomtwi. You have been in England too long, man!”
Frederick saw, but did not notice, that almost all of his quarterdeck was doubled up laughing.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Mr Aggers, are you ready to make a full record of the observations and advice of the gentleman from the Brigade of Guards?”
“Yes, sir. Pencil and paper to hand, sir.”
“Very good. Straighten your faces, gentlemen. Our visitor is here and I would not wish him to be offended.”
Lieutenant Porteous came aboard and brought the man in the sheepskin to Frederick.
He smelled, quite remarkably; Frederick suspected that he had made the coat himself, from a newly-skinned sheep.
“Mr Fastun, of the Guards, sir. Spelled ‘Featherstone’, sir.”
“Captain and Major Fastun, sir.”
Guards officers outranked officers in less exalted regiments, Frederick recalled, thus carried two ranks. So many Guards officers were employed in non-regimental functions that they carried perhaps twice as many officers as were established – a typical battalion might have as many as two dozen captains.
“You are welcome aboard Waldeman, Captain Fastun. Have you intelligence from Catalonia? Do you actually know what is happening?”
“To the first question, the answer is ‘yes’, sir. I wish I might say the same to the second. I much fear that no man in the whole of Spain knows what is happening out of his immediate sight at any given moment. I would add, sir, that even the man who sees what is going on may not comprehend the extent of its implications. I do not pretend to understand all that is occurring, sir; still less do I imagine that I know what may happen tomorrow. I do have certain proposals to make from a group of gentlemen who claim to lead a substantial number of troops of various sorts. How honest they are, I do not know. How deluded they may be, I cannot imagine. I would merely say that most have impressed me as men of honour.”
Frederick was entertained – the gentleman seemed almost as able a man as Captain Murray – Lord Turner, he corrected himself – had been.
“What is the proposal, Captain Fastun?”
“The largest single road between Barcelona and France runs within a mile of the coast, not so far from here, sir. There is an ancient fortification, a castle rebuilt as a battery, on the coast and within range of the road. Take the battery, sir, and add to its guns, and the coast road could be closed. The French would then be forced to send an army, possibly two, to retake the battery and then garrison it. They might well withdraw forces from Spain itself to add to the troops coming from France. When the French had sat down in front of the battery, siege commenced, then the Spanish gentlemen would hit that army, hard, in the rear of its entrenchments. It should not be difficult in such circumstances to submit the French to a shattering defeat. The Spanish would lend you a battalion of regular infantry to assist in taking and then manning the fortification, I should add.”
Deadly Shores (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 11) Page 7
