Shores of Barbary (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 12)

by Andrew Wareham

  “As fine as basilicum powder, sir! But I doubt it has the soothing properties!”

  Frederick grunted his agreement; the stump of his arm was sore, had been irritated by the dust which had worked its way through every layer of clothing. Bosomtwi had washed and dried the healed wound and had dressed it with basilicum powder, which had done very little of good, Frederick thought, replacing one layer of dust with another.

  “Small wonder the Barbary pirates are such villains if they have to live with that sort of thing every year, Captain Arbuthnot. What course would our French convoy take in this wind?”

  “Mr Relph?”

  The master was pleased to be called upon – he had studied the weather conditions of the North African coast before sailing.

  “Ah, yes, sir. A good question, indeed! You see, sir, much depends on the very nature of the wind. We are in the grips of the Saharan summer air – very hot and blowing from the south – but the question arises of just how far its influence is to extend. It has been known, sir, so the records tell us, for the wind to be felt in Portsmouth, dropping red sand in the so-called ‘rains of blood’, but that is rare and would, there can be little doubt, be experienced as a positive hurricane hereabouts, which we have not had.”

  Mr Relph sensed he was losing his audience, who were not currently interested in the weather in Portsmouth, and censored his scholarly disquisition.

  “In short, sir, this is no more than a topsail wind and might well not be felt as far north as Crete, possibly not fifty miles offshore, in fact. We may assume an easterly off the Greek Islands – for such is normal there at this time of year, and that would permit a nearly direct sou’westerly course for the convoy; an easy reach, in fact. Half a day off the North African coast and they would discover our northerly, and must take a long, long set of tacks east or west, pointing up as hard as the merchantmen can manage. The decision then must be taken, whether to set to west or east of their desired course. Going west, there is Malta, and its patrols and a not insignificant squadron of line of battle ships. To the east – very little that can offer a direct threat.”

  Captain Arbuthnot was more tolerant than Frederick – he had to work with his master, must maintain an easy cooperation over the years.

  “Thus, Mr Relph, it is probable that we will find them to the east rather than the west, and we may expect the last few leagues to consume as much as two days of hard sailing, the more perhaps for the nature of the merchant ships they are escorting.”

  “Just so, sir.”

  Frederick smiled his kindest – not wanting sourly uncooperative officers on his quarterdeck.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. A mean course to the southeast, to bring us in sight of land and then a search until, perhaps, we are off Benghazi?”

  They agreed that was more likely than most to be profitable.

  “Repeat as necessary, sir?”

  “Take a northing off Benghazi – depending on the wind there – and then search back until we are off Misrata. Then, if nothing has been seen, do it all again. We shall allow three weeks, on this dragging business, gentlemen, hoping to meet up with the sloops the meanwhile. I do so wish we had a pair of frigates at our disposal – so much better suited for this sort of work.

  Two weeks, a little more than two thousand miles sailed, and nothing seen. Sea, unending sky, every third day a sight of land – but nothing else at all.

  On the fifteenth day, north of Misrata by sixty miles and about to turn onto another weary leg back to the shores of Benghazi, and the lookout called a sail.

  “Due north. Three masted ship, sir. Small. Sloop, sir. Lapwing, sir.”

  Since her refit, Lapwing’s fore and mizzen masts were of equal height, a distinguishing mark obvious to the able seaman.

  “Signalling, sir. Flags blowing away, sir. Gun smoke, sir, and that looks like a red light, sir.”

  “Enemy in sight, Captain Arbuthnot. Harfleur to form line astern. Close Lapwing.”

  Harfleur was little faster than Conquest and was almost at the furthest distance of signalling range, to increase their search area. Frederick saw the error of his order while Captain Arbuthnot was still trying to phrase a subtle protest.

  “Belay that signal to Harfleur. Instead, say, ‘to close on Lapwing with all speed’.”

  Harfleur was thus permitted to cut the corner rather than being forced to chase Conquest’s tail.

  “On deck! Lapwing tacking.”

  The signals midshipman ran for the mizzen masthead, telescope in hand, began to shout the flags to his yeoman.

  “Enemy in sight, sir. Two frigates. Consorts lost. Three ships of the line. Eight merchantmen. Distant.”

  “Acknowledge.”

  They had the wind gage and could choose the nature of the action. Three of liners and a pair of probably heavy frigates opposed to an eighty-four and a sixty-four; a possibility of three hundred guns to one hundred and fifty.

  “Not the best way to spend a summer’s day, Captain Arbuthnot. Curlew and Gannet gone, which is not good news. Lapwing to enter Misrata at soonest, passing within hail Conquest.”

  Captain Arbuthnot approved – that would scrape the frigates off Lapwing’s tail.

  Even a big frigate would normally be less heavily built than a ship of the line, apart from the largest Americans, which did not comply to ordinary rules. They would not willingly pass under a liner’s broadside.

  An hour, Lapwing making three tacks, the sails of the frigates clearly in sight, and the sloop passed within pistol-shot of Conquest.

  Frederick leaned over the side and bellowed.

  “Inform Major Prentice of the French. He is to ready harbour guns.”

  “Aye aye, sir.”

  The two frigates came hull-up and hove to, examining the pair of British ships. Twenty minutes and they left the scene, choosing to report back to their convoy rather than continue their pursuit of the sloop or even make an attempt on Harfleur. Properly handled, they could have been an annoyance, able at least to cross the bows or stern of the smaller ship and do some damage, even if not realistically to destroy her. They would have been at great risk – and Bonaparte’s captains were not encouraged to hazard their ships.

  Frederick saw them to be cautious, but knew it was most unlikely that they were shy – they had orders to preserve their commands, and only the foolish disobeyed the autocratic, short-tempered Emperor.

  “Heave-to, Captain Arbuthnot. Better that Harfleur should join us quickly. Captain Paget to repair on board Flag.”

  “Bosomtwi, dinner for the two captains, if you would be so good.”

  Two hours to dinnertime, and invitations casually thrown about – just how was he to provide a respectable meal, one that would not shame an admiral’s table, in two bloody hours?

  The only answer was to raid his store cupboard, to pull out the delicacies in glass jars, picked up in Malta, and the dried stuffs from England, and hope the cook could do something with them. Fortunately, the fishing had been rich lately, the men casting their lines when off-duty, and it would be possible to buy in from the crew.

  The dinner was sufficiently successful – the food perhaps unusual to English tastes, long on olive oil and rice and such foreign stuff, but the wine bottles more than adequate. Frederick offered his ideas for the forthcoming action, and begged informal opinions from his captains; they agreed that his notions were very wise, neither knowing him sufficiently yet to venture alternatives.

  “Thus, gentlemen, it is my decision to assume that the French are as ignorant of conditions in Misrata as their first party. They do not know of our presence, are not aware that the harbour is fortified against them. They must assume us to be no more than a pair of ships on business of our own, come across them by happenstance. With three of the line and the pair of heavy frigates, and a frigate and another of the line to our rear at Misrata, they must believe us to be no more than plums ripe for the picking. They will leave one of the frigates with the convoy, possibly not that if
they have small craft in consort, and come hunting us – a pair of two-deckers will make a substantial victory to play off in their newspapers – they do not often have naval victories to flaunt in front of the people of Europe.”

  They drank ‘Confusion to the French’, followed by ‘Blood for Supper’, always a favourite toast, and then offered each other’s healths before deciding they must remain within reason sober and breaking up the party, there being a likelihood of business even before nightfall.

  “Best uniform, Bosomtwi. I must be seen to be seen, today. If it did for Nelson, then it will do for me.”

  “Powder smoke on the lace, sir. Never will brush off, isn’t it! The white cloths is all grey, and the blue show up all the spots and specks, sir. That forty pounds of tailors’ bills, isn’t it, sir, can’t never wear as best no more, sir. And it get blood all over, sir – all it need is one man stop a ball, sir, and splash all over. Better Number Twos, sir – ain’t no Frog going to know what different, isn’t it, sir.”

  “Best, Bosomtwi! But no feathers in the hat – that’s too much of a good thing.”

  “Can’t nohow, sir. All the feathers all wrapped up in tissue paper in the small trunk, sir, to look after they for special, isn’t it, sir.”

  The bulk of Frederick’s clothing and personal possessions had been struck down into the hold when they had cleared for action. Bosomtwi had retained the best uniform, knowing that despite all his protests Frederick would insist upon it. Nelson had much to answer for, in Bosomtwi’s opinion.

  The call came from the masthead as Bosomtwi finished dressing him, a midshipman running to the cabin door inside the minute.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Captain’s compliments, sir, and three of the line and two frigates, hull down to the north, sir. Wind still in the south, sir.”

  “Well said, young man. I shall come on deck.”

  The midshipman ran, to ensure that his captain was not taken by surprise at the appearance of the admiral; he might, perhaps, be chewing at a slice of beef or other little snack which he would wish to dispose of.

  “Close under a full suit of sail, Captain Arbuthnot, as discussed. Harfleur to conform.”

  Frederick glanced about the decks, with no expectation of discovering anything out of order. The boats were towing astern, as was right; gunners in place and waiting, with slow match lit in case of failure of a flintlock; no Marines, they being ashore in Misrata still. An observant Frenchman might wonder why he could not pick out the scarlet coats of the Lobsters on the quarterdeck, but a short-handed ship would have the Marines at the guns, and British ships in the Mediterranean were only rarely at full complement. The probability was that there would be no alarm raised in French minds for their absence.

  “On deck, French in line, sir. All five, sir.”

  It would have been more convenient to Frederick’s plan if they had sent the frigates ahead; tagged onto the end of the line of battle, they might well escape.

  The master had his telescope at work.

  “French on the starboard tack, sir. We must expect them to come to the larboard, sir, in the hope of reducing our advantage, forcing us almost directly before the wind, which cannot be our best point of sailing, sir.”

  That seemed obvious, even to Frederick; he presumed that Relph was one of those who talked when under the tension of waiting for action to commence.

  “Tacking, sir. Losing their line, sir – coming to line abreast, sir!”

  The French had learned from the great battles when Nelson had defeated them – they were no longer in the habit of presenting a line astern that could be broken and doubled by the English. Frederick had hoped they would come at him line abreast – it seemed to be their new habit, and, like any habit, presented weakness as well as strengths.

  “Ease to starboard, as discussed, Captain Arbuthnot.”

  Captain Paget of Harfleur should be waiting the move.

  “What have the French got, Captain Arbuthnot?”

  “Mr Relph?”

  “Two-deckers, sir, none of the big first- or second-rates, sir. I think I see two of seventy-fours, sir, and that third may be a Venetian, sir, sixty or sixty-four, but very heavy.”

  The Venetians had chosen to build slightly smaller ships than were normal for Atlantic use, but powerful and very handy, tacking as hard as any frigate.

  “Must they tack again, Mr Relph?”

  “Very probably, sir.”

  “Make it certainly so, sir. Commence the strip to fighting sail, as if we are short-handed and must take it slowly.”

  It would be convenient if the French took themselves somewhat to the west, on their starboard tack.

  Twenty slow minutes, Conquest making an easy six knots, the French struggling for four, pointing up hard and achieving a south-westerly course.

  “A fraction more of east, Captain Arbuthnot, just to drift along their line, sir.”

  The frigates were at the west of the French line, their admiral thus quite happy that the English ships were coming up against his heavier ships, and not asking why they were doing so.

  “In gunshot, sir.”

  “So I see, Mr Relph.” Captain Arbuthnot turned to Frederick. “Chasers, sir?”

  “At the second in the line, Captain Arbuthnot. Let the Frogs assume we intend to attack there, perhaps to penetrate their line firing both sides. They will have no great objection to that, I would imagine.”

  “They will see a certain victory, sir. Will they believe it of us?”

  “I hope so, Captain Arbuthnot, for I shall certainly seem foolish if they reform line astern to prevent our breaking them.”

  The chasers opened fire, one then the other, to observe their fall.

  “Very close to the bows of the second ship, Captain Arbuthnot. Good practice, sir.”

  “Tolerable, Sir Frederick. I must expect the next rounds to be more exact at five cables or thereabouts.”

  “Not too good, one trusts, Captain Arbuthnot – it would be an embarrassment if we were to knock down the foremast and destroy their line.”

  The guns fired and they saw two hits almost on the mast, but fortunately just forward.

  “That will have raised a few splinters, Captain Arbuthnot. Just what we wanted, sir. The French are returning fire now. Smaller guns – not more than an eighteen-pound long gun, I would suggest.”

  The French fire was less accurate as well, but their deck would be pitching more on that tack.

  “Lord Turner told me that the French are still not producing long naval cannon to match ours, Captain Arbuthnot. Up to the twelve-pound gun, they match us for quality, might even be better, but they have no steam lathes to produce a perfectly straight bore in a larger gun. Our ironmasters outmatch theirs, it would seem, and do us a great deal of good at sea. Now, do you think, sir?”

  “Not quite, Sir Frederick… I would prefer to delay until we are just two cables clear, sir. A minute yet.”

  Captain Arbuthnot watched and waited.

  “Courses, Mr Relph. Helm down, sir! Shoot as the broadside bears, Mr Surrey!”

  The first lieutenant acknowledged, waited for Conquest to return to an even keel from her hard turn to starboard, raised his hat in the air as the first ship in the line slid into view, distant no more than a cable now.

  “Shoot!”

  A full, simultaneous broadside, forty-two cannon and the big carronades firing as one, Conquest rolling again and a cloud of powder smoke obscuring all.

  “Make your tack, Mr Relph!”

  A far smaller explosion behind them as Harfleur turned in succession and fired her own guns.

  Seamen ran from the guns to the braces as the tack was called. The topmen scampered high, made all sail, pushing Conquest as hard as the wind would permit.

  “That should have stung the Frogs, Captain Arbuthnot. How long till nightfall, sir?”

  “Ninety-five minutes, sir, and a sufficiency of dust in the air for full darkness to come quickly.”

  They watched as
two of the French ships of the line commenced a pursuit while the frigates closed on the hard-hit first ship, her maintopmast down.

  “That may well have been the admiral, Captain Arbuthnot. I hope so.”

  Five minutes, the French closing just a little, a mile or so distant, unlikely to catch up in daylight, Conquest on a course towards Benghazi, and a signal was raised on their admiral.

  “French Discontinuing, sir. Making course for Misrata. Convoy in sight, sir, distant, hull down.”

  “Hold our course until full dark, Captain Arbuthnot, then make to Misrata.”

  Dawn found Conquest east of Misrata by three miles; the French were in the harbour mouth, the admiral leading in his wounded flagship, followed by the merchantmen and then the ships of war. All was silent.

  “Harfleur line abreast.”

  Signal flags rose on the French admiral as Conquest was spotted and the merchant ships made more sail, abandoning caution on entering an unknown harbour. The frigates pressed in on the heels of the transports, the line of battle ships close behind them. It was obviously in the admiral’s mind to protect his convoy, which was the responsible course, Frederick admitted, and the one he had hoped for.

  There was a sudden great bellowing of guns in an arc around the harbour, the thirty-two pounders from their batteries along the wharf and the twenty-four pounders from the harbour mouth itself, mounted behind breastworks to either side; Preston’s starboard battery joined in.

  “Major Prentice has been busy these past weeks, Captain Arbuthnot. The French are all hemmed in by each other, do you see. Most cannot fetch their tacks in the confined waters of the harbour. What of the last two-decker? She may be just too far distant for us to come up on her.”

  “The gunboats, sir, they must have been anchored along the shore from the harbour, sir. They are at her stern, sir. And those are not twenty-four pound guns, sir. They have mounted the carronades, sir, are battering her steering with those old sixty-fours, sir.”