Deadly Shores (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 11)

by Andrew Wareham

  “Pipsqueak, sir?”

  Lieutenant Aggers was busily noting Frederick’s words.

  “Despatches to Gibraltar, at first light. The news of Mr Otis’ treachery must go to London as quickly as possible… These damned muskets could be a nuisance, I suspect. We might all go the way of Lord Nelson, picked off on our quarterdecks… I think this is an action to be worked at half a cable and no closer. The carronades must be given full play and we are not to board. Even so, we will lose men, I fear, which can never be desirable. Bugger it all! I hate trying to plan for new eventualities! Damn the Frogs and their revolutions, spoiling a perfectly good war with bloody innovations!”

  Captain Warren gravely agreed – it was all a part of the essentially inferior nature of the Frog that they could never leave well enough alone.

  Captain Vereker wondered if it might be advantageous for the pair of sloops to attempt one of the frigates while Iris or Perlen made quick work of the other before joining them to finish off the job. That would free a frigate to work bows and stern of the liners, using her speed and greater manoeuvrability to rake them with grape and discourage the soldiers from forming their ranks.

  Frederick was no more than half convinced.

  “Sensible suggestion, I think, sir. Both sloops have heavy carronades, I believe. But that means that the convoy must be left to the brigs and the three gunboats, and that would not do. One of the brigs must discourage the gunboats from Barcelona while the other keeps a weather eye out for the French liners in case they are early on the scene, and that really does mean that the sloops must take the convoy. Perhaps the gunboats should do all they can to assist the sloops, thus to release Nid Elven or Glommen at an early stage to do what she can with the frigates. Too many theoretical possibilities, gentlemen!”

  Captain Warren tried to bring the discussion back to the severely practical.

  “We took an amount of chain shot from the castle, sir, the old-fashioned stuff. Norge has an amount in the lockers, I know, sir. I have always had a weakness for chain, sir. Far better for taking a prize, you know, sir, for not cutting up the hull. Much less expensive to replace rigging than to mend a hull!”

  “Very true, Captain Warren, but…”

  “Was we to slash into the rigging of the two liners, sir, then we could dictate the range of the fight. Not normally a consideration, but useful on this occasion, one might think, sir. Open at a distance and close hard as is our wont, sir, then unexpected chain at a cable and pull out to two or even three cables and fire carefully aimed broadsides, sir. Not elegant, perhaps, sir – but bloody effective!”

  Frederick nodded thoughtfully and Sir Iain took up the discussion.

  “Can you put eighty rounds of chain across to Waldeman, Captain Warren?”

  “I suspect you might wish to talk to your gunner first, Sir Iain. I think you may already have sufficient.”

  “I shall speak to him, Captain Warren. It is wonderful, the things that happen behind one’s back!”

  Orders were written and distributed next day, the captains perusing them in late afternoon, all of them suffering from their disturbed night and from drinking a bottle of wine at four in the morning.

  Captain Vereker called his officers to the cabin.

  “We are to fight a small flotilla – three of hundred-gun Spaniards and two large frigates. No sea-time and makeshift crews would normally say a very simple task, but the word is that there will be upwards of a thousand soldiers with their muskets spread between them – where, we do not know. We are not to grapple, that is for sure, and should only take possession by boat after the flag comes down. We cannot trust Bonaparte’s soldiers to honour a surrender. Accurate and careful shooting by the long guns will be essential. The first little action over, or possibly before it is ended, and there will be a pair of Frenchmen, seventy-fours, it is said. If they see the battle lost before they arrive, they may flee the scene, and it will be up to us and Iris to catch and hold them. Assuming we have the legs of them, then it will be the old game of crossing and recrossing their sterns. We may be forced, however, to a long chase, and in that case, it will be accurate and careful work with the long thirty-two. I do not doubt that we will do very well, but I have no wish to see certain glory-hunters making the most of their ship’s part in the action.”

  Captain Vereker could not actually mention Captain Dench’s name; he did not need to.

  He was assured that Perlen would not let him down.

  Two days and the fishing boat arrived and called for the presence on shore of Mr Otis.

  Manuel leant over the rail and shouted down to them that he much regretted that Mr Otis had eaten something that did not agree with him; he had a dysentery, in fact. He went into some details of the liquid nature of Mr Otis’ complaint, sufficient for the fishermen to be as repelled as they were sympathetic.

  “He cannot leave his bed for more than two paces to the close-stool, and is in no case to write a coherent letter, poor man! It is best that you delay the meeting for some days.”

  The boat drew away, satisfied that Mr Otis was not about to leave the ship.

  “There was a Frenchman aboard that boat, sir. They would not talk freely to me. I think they accepted that Mr Otis was either ill, or frightened to come ashore. It might be that he would be scared for his own skin if he was left in Barcelona with no certain way of reaching France – they would see that as logical.”

  “Possibly so, Manuel. In any case, let us show willing and appear to sail away. They will know the gunboats, so we cannot leave them behind to give warning of the actual sailing of the convoy. All we can do is be seen make a tack to the south and then come back along the coast after dark.”

  Manuel agreed that they must seem to leave. As for knowing when the convoy sailed, that would be no problem.

  “The same fishing boat will come out, hoping to find us, sir, and lead us into the trap if we have not been seen to go off in pursuit of the convoy. I said that we would hover offshore for another three or four days in the expectation that Mr Otis would recover from his sickness and be able to attend another meeting.”

  “Well done, young man! Has it occurred to you, Manuel, that you might consider a place in the Navy? Sir Iain has need of a confidential clerk to sail with him and remain in his service when he is ashore, as an example. You would not return to Spain for many years, if ever, but there would be a very secure living for you.”

  Manuel had had hopes of becoming a lawyer and rising to some prominence in his home town; the condition of Spain said that was unlikely to eventuate now. He thanked Frederick, said that he would be honoured to enter Sir Iain’s service. He enquired whether he would then be eligible for this prize money he had heard so much talked of, was rather pleased to be assured that he was already in for a small share as a follower of the Commodore.

  The squadron sailed out of sight of the shore, waited for full dark and reversed their course, hoping to be unobserved. It seemed logical to Frederick that the Spanish convoy would attempt to leave harbour before dawn, the merchantmen possibly towed by their boats for safety’s sake, in the hope of making a few miles unobserved, in pursuance of their aim of being intercepted on their second day of sailing.

  The gunboats were unhandy craft, because of the great weight of the single cannon mounted on a slide in the bows and kept well inboard when they were on passage, and they were not best-suited for scouting. Sir Iain sent a longboat ahead of Waldeman, masts rigged and with the best boat-handler of his midshipmen in command. The boat had instructions to keep clear of all activity, to watch and under no circumstances be seen.

  The longboat cast off at midnight, five miles off Barcelona, returned at five o’clock under full sail, the crew leaning out on the gunwales and pretending they were enjoying the thrill of racing through the night sea.

  “Ships leaving harbour, sir. I could see at least a dozen of little lights, sir. I think they had small boats out with lanterns, acting like buoys, sir, so that the ships could
sail down the safe channel.”

  “Clever, Martin, and well-spotted. How many had sailed?”

  Sir Iain sent a boy to wake Frederick while he questioned his midshipman.

  “I think we saw the last of them going out, sir. We had to stay well out and I could not see the head of the convoy, but I am sure that the last ship was a frigate, sir.”

  Logic suggested the ships of the line to leave harbour first, followed probably by one of the frigates; the junior frigate would bring up the rear, acting as whipper-in.

  Sir Iain glanced at the wind-vane, still steady from the south-west and moderate. Probably six knots for a typical merchantman – so assume that the convoy would form up perhaps fifteen miles up the coast from Barcelona at first light.

  “All hands! Mr Popper, lantern signal to the squadron for make sail. Course to intercept a six knot convoy at say twenty-five miles up the coast from Barcelona.”

  The convoy had made no more than four knots, the merchantmen very chary when leaving harbour at night, light boats or no. They came in sight still forming up less than fifteen miles to the north of Barcelona and well inshore.

  “On deck! Three ships of the line, sir, in line astern. Eight various merchantmen, four in a line, four more all over the place, sir, and two frigates trying to chivvy them into order.”

  “Signal ‘General Chase’, Sir Iain. Then fly ‘Frigates to engage frigates. Sloops to take convoy. Nellie to scout along the coast, as ordered. Stour to seek out and destroy gunboats. Gunboats One, Two and Three to use their discretion but to seek out ships of war’. Long-winded, I fear, but hopefully clear.”

  “No mention of Norge, sir?”

  “Captain Warren will know that I wish him to engage liners, hopefully on both sides. If we can, Sir Iain, form a line with Norge.”

  Sir Iain shook his head.

  “Norge is three cables distant, sir, and has the legs of us in this wind. She will be a good half-mile clear when she opens fire. That will mean the better part of four minutes, perhaps a little longer, before we can come to her assistance.”

  “She will take, and deal out, some harm, Sir Iain. Much depends on the willingness of the Spanish, or French, whoever has the command, to fight. If they choose to tack and come down wind, then they may be able to cluster around Norge, all three firing broadsides of fifty guns a time. That could mean three hundred roundshot coming aboard her – which would do some very substantial damage.”

  “In four minutes, she should fire three broadsides from loaded, sir, both sides, one would presume. The first two of ball, or so I would choose, and the third chain. She will be cleared and the nets will be rigged against falling debris; if the French fire high, as is their standard practice, then she may not be too much harmed in her capacity to fight.”

  The master was eying the rigging with some anxiety.

  “When may I strip to fighting sail, sir? Or at least put two reefs in the courses.”

  “Wet the courses, Mr Popper. Do not strip anything except at my explicit command.”

  “I shall perhaps note that command, sir.”

  “Do so, Mr Popper. If we catch fire I shall testify that it was not your fault!”

  The master’s job was to sail and protect his ship; he could not approve of risking the lowest tier of sail catching fire from the plumes of the cannon just a few feet below the canvas. He bellowed for his sail handlers to hurry with their buckets and called the boatswain to rig the fire pumps to cast thin jets of water upwards.

  Neither Frederick nor Sir Iain could find it in them to approve of such an excess of caution.

  “Cluck, cluck, Sir Frederick?”

  “It smacks of the henhouse, Sir Iain.”

  Neither could actually say the word ‘chicken’ – it would have been most discourteous.

  They watched as Norge forged ahead, cramming on sail, setting extra flying jibs in the most inventive fashion.

  “Do you remember, Forshaw, sir, on our way to the Papues? Suggesting that we should sail four-masters, rigged fore and aft?”

  “Almost led to bloodshed, I recall. Trouble is, he had more than half a point in his favour. Whenever we try to squeeze a little more speed from our ships, we set fore and aft sails for the purpose, in Norge’s case in preference to the royals. “Nasty, frail and flimsy things, royals’, or so I seem to recall.”

  Thirty minutes of slowly overhauling the three Spanish ships, all flying Spanish colours, so not overtly taken into French command. They watched as the one hundred-gun ships changed to line abreast; they showed no sign of seeking to close the action, possibly more concerned to reach the French vessels coming from the north.

  “Admiral’s flag on the centre vessel, sir. Norge is making for the gap to the starboard, sir.”

  “Then we shall look to go between the admiral and the ship to port, Sir Iain.”

  Sir Iain called to run out both sides and shouted to Mr Patey on the forecastle to open fire with the chasers at his discretion, targeting the ship to port.

  “I would not wish to risk hitting Norge, sir.”

  “Captain Warren would be most upset if you did, Sir Iain.”

  Patey fired at six cables, well within the range of a long thirty-two pounder, but not easy shooting in the conditions, the ship pitching as she was driven hard.

  “Both under, possibly to hit on first bounce, sir.”

  The second discharges were made at four cables, just eight hundred yards. Both balls hit high on the stern, certainly doing great harm on the quarterdeck.

  The chasers fired again as Norge pushed her bows between the two Spaniards to the starboard. She had been firing her chasers, now commenced a rolling double broadside, firing into the stern and quarterdeck of each ship rather than waiting until she was fully alongside them.

  “Now, Sir Iain, that was a very wise decision, I believe. A pity Norge has only thirty-two pound carronades – they are useful, but ours would do so much more harm. The admiral is sheering off, I believe. Breaking off the action or steering gone, do you think?”

  Sir Iain called to his masthead for information.

  “Quarterdeck emptied, sir. Wheel destroyed, sir!”

  Sir Iain shouted to his starboard broadside to load grape over their round of ball.

  “Just time, I think, sir. Port your helm, Mr Popper!”

  The starboard guns ran out in time to hammer the Spanish flagship at pistol shot while the port fired ball at half a cable.

  “Carronades, into her waist!”

  If there were soldiers waiting to fire their volleys, then they should be hidden below the gangways in the waist, about to stand and take their aim.

  Three separate blasts from the sixty-eight pound carronades, each smashing a hole through the bulwarks and spreading their mass of grapeshot mixed with oak splinters across the whole of the upper deck.

  Frederick became aware that they were taking fire, almost all of it high. That suggested French gunners, following their standard practice; the Spanish were far more likely to fire into the hull.

  “Flagship lowered her colours, sir. Out of control, sir. No officers on deck.”

  “Send a lieutenant in a boat, Sir Iain. What is Norge doing?”

  “Exchanging broadsides with the other ship, sir. Two for one by the look of her.”

  “Good. Close the ship to port, Sir Iain. Use chain and then hold off. We must remain in condition to meet the Frogs later today.”

  Frederick turned to see what was happening in the convoy. He could hear broadsides from the twenty-four pounders of the frigates, the exchange lessening, the French facing their expected defeat, he would think. Ships that had left harbour a few hours before with green crews could not realistically put up much of a fight.

  Captain Vereker in Perlen had taken his adversary, was tacking across to Iris, who was close pressed by the second frigate and two merchantmen, each showing massed ranks of musketeers firing at close range.

  “That’s where the soldiers are, Sir Iain.”


  “Were, sir. Look just astern of the merchant ships.”

  Nid Elven and Glommen were under full sail and just about to cross the ‘T’, firing their broadsides of twelve-pounders loaded with grape at close range. Each ended their broadsides with the flatter explosions of carronades of at least twenty-four pounds.

  “Pretty work, sir. Up into the wind. Tack. Return, crossing their quarter now. Any soldiers trying to take cover under the bulwarks will be exposed this time.”

  Frederick turned again, took a pace forward and dropped as a splinter slashed across his left side.

  “Get him below!”

  A party of seamen carried Frederick down to the cockpit, put him into the surgeon’s hands.

  Sir Iain watched as Norge took possession of the starboard one-hundred gun ship, and approved as his lieutenants fired chain into the rigging and then hammered ball every two minutes into the hull of the remaining Spaniard. Twelve minutes, in which the Spaniard returned only two partial broadsides, doing surprisingly little damage, her fire wild, and then striking her flag.

  “To squadron. ‘Commodore fallen. Captain Sir Iain Jackman has the command’.”

  Sir Iain looked about him, assessing the situation. He wanted to complete Frederick’s intentions, to take the two Frenchmen if they appeared, but he was under no obligation to follow his orders. The Commodore was incapable and the command was wholly his, as was the responsibility. He nodded grimly – he could do the job, and well.

  Perlen seemed fairly much undamaged, had sent boats to the assistance of Iris, who must have lost many men to the musketry. Glommen and Nid Elven were ahead and astern respectively of six of the merchantmen, shepherding them as prizes. The two ships that had carried the soldiers were both in poor condition, down by the head and probably slowly foundering; boats were taking off their crews and the surviving soldiers, assisted by the gunboats. He had not seen the barca longas during the action, wondered where they had been. Nellie was out of sight to the north, Stour visible on the horizon towards Barcelona, flying a signal.