Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars

by Jay Worrall

  Charles proceeded carefully, stooping as he walked to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling beams. He soon found a group of men, about a score in number, sitting on the deck or on wooden crates. One had broken out a pack of cards and was preparing to deal them. Others sat in twos and threes, talking or lighting their pipes. Two lanterns swung from the ceiling above.

  “God’s bones, it’s the cap’ain,” one of the men in the card game exclaimed and leaped to his feet. The man with the cards tried to scoop up the lot and hide them in his pocket while he rose to his knees, dropping seven or eight. Undecided whether to collect the errant cards or stand, he remained frozen where he was. Everyone else stood immediately.

  “As you were, please,” Charles said. “Where’s Saunders, the captain of the foretop?” The men remained rigid, as erect as the deck beams would allow. Even the card dealer elected to rise to his feet.

  “Here, zur,” a short, burly man Charles recognized as Bobby Saunders said, stepping forward apprehensively and knuckling his forehead. It wasn’t often that a ship’s captain arrived unannounced belowdecks, and when he did, it was usually for something unpleasant.

  “Please be at your ease,” Charles repeated. “This is a friendly call, not an official one. I just wanted to tell you, all of you … to express my appreciation of your efforts in the rigging just now.”

  This was met with uncertain stares all around. Charles thought he should say something more, so he added, “I am grateful and I want to show it. I intend to send a bottle of tolerable French claret around to each of your mess tables at supper in place of your usual spirits.”

  There were murmurs at this and glances exchanged. Still, none dared speak.

  “Dickie Johnson,” Charles called to a man who stood looking downcast at the edge of the group. “I understand that you have had your drink stopped for a week by Lieutenant Winchester for indiscipline.” Actually, Dickie had overslept his watch two days before, after having been observed drinking both his own and a messmate’s rations of spirits the night before.

  “Yessur,” the man said shyly.

  “I will make an exception for this one meal, Dickie, but you must serve out the remainder of your punishment after.”

  “Yes, sur, thank you, sur.”

  Charles looked around at the men and felt unreasonably pleased. He knew all their names and could remember when most of them had first come aboard in Portsmouth: a raw crew, many inexperienced and untrained. A few had been released directly from gaol into the navy as so-called sheriff’s quotamen. They had grown into capable seamen as he watched. “We’re not out of danger yet, so look lively,” he said to bring his visit to a close. “And don’t expect a bottle of wine every time you climb the shrouds.”

  There were some smiles at this, but Charles knew that his presence was awkward for them. “Well, then,” he said, “if you will pardon me, I’ll return to my duties on deck.”

  “Zur,” Saunders interjected.

  “Yes?”

  “Zur, if it ain’t too forrard”—the man glanced meaningfully at several of his mates—“some of us were wonderin’ if you’ve heard from Mizzus Edgemont and how she might be farin’.”

  Charles was surprised at the question, then remembered that most of these men—most of his crew, in fact—had been present at the wedding. “She is doing very well, from what she writes,” he answered. “She mentions you men in her letters and often inquires after your well-being.”

  This line of conversation seemed to put them more at ease; there were significant glances and whisperings all around.

  “Well, zur, thank you, zur,” Saunders said. “If you would please write that we asked after her.”

  “I will be sure to,” Charles answered.

  “She’s uncommon fine, sir,” another seaman named Connley said boldly. “She spoke with some of us at the wedding party, she did, and asked us personal to take special care that no harm comes to ye.”

  This was new information to Charles, but it was very like Penny to have done so. “I will be sure to pass on that so far you have all done excellent jobs.” An outburst of laughter filled the space, followed by a loud “Shut all yer fucking gobs, you sons of whores. We’re trying to sleep here,” from one of the hammocks.

  “Sorry,” Charles called back. To the men before him, he said in a softer voice, “Thank you all again for your efforts. If you will excuse me, I must return to my duties.”

  He made his way back between the hammocks and onto the deck, reminding himself to tell Attwater to deliver three bottles of his diminishing supply of claret to the men’s messes. Attwater, he suspected, was not going to like it.

  Charles returned to the quarterdeck and stayed there as the dawn broke, revealing racing clouds that looked to be almost touching the mainmast truck but were probably a fair deal higher. The seas were tall gray ridges, angry white across their tops, stretching as far as the eye could see. Louisa rode almost disdainfully, as if aware that these elements had done their best to destroy her and failed. She rose gracefully to the top of each line of waves, accelerated as the full force of the wind found her, flicked her stern sideways just enough to be noticeable as she crested, then slid ladylike and triumphant down into the trough. The wind still blew fierce and steady, but with the daunted determination, Charles thought, of a fighter who knew in his gut that the match had been decided against him. He considered briefly whether there could be some separate god for the seas, a Neptune or Poseidon that contested for seamen’s fates. At that moment he could well believe it.

  As soon as it was light enough, he took a sighting of the ship’s wake with a pocket compass and decided that she was making more or less due south, perhaps a point westerly. He sent a lookout into the tops with a glass, but no other sails were seen on the empty, ill-tempered sea.

  The overcast precluded any noon sighting to determine their position. The ship’s bell rang for the afternoon watch to mark the official beginning of a new day, and the hands were fed another cold meal of beef, cheese, biscuit, and blackstrap. Talmage replaced Winchester as deck officer. Charles went below to his cabin to eat most of the indifferent food his steward put before him and drained his porter. Afterward he returned wearily to his accustomed place on the weather railing of the quarterdeck.

  The long afternoon passed slowly. Conditions were too difficult to attempt replacing the mizzen topmast, too constant to call for a change in sail. At the approach of the first dog watch, he sent Midshipman Sykes to tell Attwater to deliver the claret to the mainmast topmen’s mess in hopes of avoiding discussing the matter with his steward directly. Attwater appeared on the quarterdeck ten minutes later, grim-faced and clutching the three bottles tightly to his breast.

  “But, sir,” he pleaded loudly, “there ain’t no more than half a case left in the larder. We’ll ’ave to drink the port.”

  “ ‘We’?” Charles said, raising his eyebrows. He had long known that the steward helped himself freely to his wine supply, but had left the matter unremarked on.

  “Didn’t I mean ‘you,’ sir, I did,” Attwater replied without a trace of hesitation. “I only sample to ensure that it ain’t gone sour.”

  “Then I can do with the port,” Charles answered happily. “See to it, if you please. And be pleasant about it.”

  Attwater twisted his face as if to complain further, apparently thought better of it, and turned reluctantly away, muttering under his breath.

  The watch changed, Eliot assuming the responsibilities of deck officer. Toward dusk a narrow streak of clear blue appeared on the horizon to the northeast. Charles pushed himself off the quarterdeck railing, spoke briefly with the sailing master, and went below to his cabin to eat, drink as much of the claret as Attwater would allow, and find his bed. He lay for a time, too tired for sleep, thinking of Penny and her influence, even here in the middle of the sea, through her words to his crew, and how taken they were with her. His last thoughts as he drifted toward oblivion were remembrances of the warm
th of her breath on his neck as they lay together, the softness of her breast …

  He awoke slowly the next morning, stupefied with sleep, to the sound of many feet on the deck above, the rasp of a saw, and the pounding of hammers. The movements of the ship had eased greatly, he noted, and he guessed that someone had taken the opportunity to jury-rig the mizzenmast topgallant section. There being no pressing reason why he should be on deck, he lay beneath his covers and dozed fitfully for a time until he heard his steward padding about in the outer cabin.

  “Attwater,” he yelled.

  The gray-haired head showed itself through the curtained doorway. “Yes, sir?”

  “What o’clock is it?”

  “Nigh on the forenoon watch,” Attwater answered. “Which you don’t need not to stay abed a bit longer.”

  It took Charles a moment to dissect the meaning of this last sentence, then he said, “Run along and see if the galley fire is lit. I would be pleased for a mug of coffee.”

  He appeared on deck a half hour later, feeling rested and refreshed, to a bright blue sky with much diminished seas, and a moderate gusting breeze that had shifted during the night from north-by-west to mostly westerly. Winchester was supervising the carpenter, boatswain, and their mates in hoisting a suitably modified spare mainmast yard onto the mizzen top to replace the lost mast section.

  At noon all of the ship’s officers and midshipmen clustered on the quarterdeck with their quadrants and sextants to take the noon sighting, from which they could readily calculate their latitude, which would tell at least how far south the storm had blown them. After sightings and scribbled calculations on their chalkboards, all agreed that they were more or less at thirty-eight degrees and twenty minutes north, except for Sykes, who found them magically in the Baltic, off Sweden.

  “Does that make any sense to you, Mr. Sykes?” Charles said, taking the boy’s slate and inspecting it.

  “No, sir,” Sykes answered agreeably.

  “Look, you’ve added these numbers here when you should have divided.”

  “Ah, I see,” Sykes intoned, clearly not seeing at all.

  Charles sighed. “You will please call on Mr. Eliot when he is free and have him explain the calculations to you again.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sykes answered. As soon as he thought his captain had focused his attention elsewhere, he grimaced.

  Charles let it pass and turned his mind to fixing their location. Exactly where along the 38th Parallel they were was a matter of conjecture, but by dead reckoning, he thought probably about seventy-five miles southwest of Cape Sperone on the tip of Sardinia. The storm had driven them fully three hundred miles south-by-southeast from their starting point.

  “We will increase sail directly the yard is crossed on the mizzen,” Charles said to Eliot. “Set a course for ten leagues due south of Cape L’Aigle, if you please.”

  “That’s our rendezvous?” Eliot asked.

  “In the event the squadron has been dispersed, yes,” Charles answered.

  AFTER SEVEN DAYS, Louisa approached the appointed spot on the sea off the coast of France, midway between Marseille and Toulon, as specified in his orders. A brilliant midmorning sky shimmered over sparkling blue waters.

  “Deck there,” a call came down from the lookout in the foremast crosstrees. “Sail dead ahead.”

  “How many do you see?” Charles yelled back up.

  “Just the one, sir. She’s a brig. I think she’s Pylades, sir.”

  TWO

  “AND A GOOD DAY TO YOU, CAPTAIN BEVAN,” CHARLES SAID as he climbed through the entryway onto Pylades’s deck. “Anything interesting while I was away?”

  “Ah, the esteemed Captain Edgemont,” Daniel Bevan answered. A large smile showed on his face as he extended his hand. “We worried about you in the blow. Didn’t think you were used to seas much rougher than what you generally get in a bathtub. Not that you’ve ever found much use for a bathtub.”

  “Nonsense,” Charles said as he shook the offered hand. “It was like a walk in the garden.”

  “Come below, Charlie, and we’ll discuss it,” Bevan said with a gesture toward the hatchway that led below to his cabin. “Mind, we’re not as well supplied as the palatial Louisa.” He made a pointed show of studying the relation of the sun to the nearest yardarm and added, “Would you prefer port or sherry?”

  Charles took a moment to look around him. From his gig, he’d noted a freshly replaced foretopmast section and a hastily jury-rigged fore-bowsprit. From his vantage on deck, he saw that Pylades’s longboat was missing from its normal stowage place between the masts and that there was a splint scabbed onto the spanker’s sprung lower yard. The gig was in its place, though. There were hands in the foremast crosstrees and on the bowsprit, apparently preparing for more permanent repairs. “How did you fare?” he asked seriously as they walked toward the ladderway.

  “Touch and go,” Bevan answered. “I saw you start to strike your topgallant masts and couldn’t think what you were up to with Pigott’s flurry of signals and cannon fire to the contrary. When I finally did catch on, it was all we could do to turn and put her into the wind. We lost the upper part of the foremast almost immediately. Took part of the bowsprit with it.”

  Bending under the deck beams—even lower than those on Louisa— they made their way through the aft bulkhead into the cramped space that served as Bevan’s cabin. Charles promptly dropped himself into the nearest chair so he could straighten his neck. “Must have been interesting with no headsails,” he continued.

  “There were moments, Charlie, that I feared it was all going to carry away,” Bevan said earnestly. He crossed the cabin and opened a cupboard, removing a wine bottle and two glasses. Returning, he sat down across the table from Charles and pushed a glass across. “We set a drogue anchor to keep her bow to the wind and prayed like the damned until the storm blew itself out.” Bevan uncorked the bottle and poured out two glasses. “And how’s life aboard Louisa,” he asked, “now that the best first lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy has moved on?”

  Charles answered evasively, “About as good as could be expected, I suppose.”

  Bevan eyed him. “Not all sweetness and harmony?”

  “It’s not that. It’s just … Well, things aren’t running as smoothly as I would have hoped.”

  “Talmage?” Bevan guessed.

  As Bevan knew, Charles had not requested Jacob Talmage as his first lieutenant. St. Vincent had named him. He was from a well-connected family with a long and distinguished military history, at the time serving as flag lieutenant on Victory. Charles wondered why he hadn’t been promoted long before. Presumably, the admiral felt his protégé needed a little seasoning and a chance to distinguish himself before being advanced.

  “Yes, well,” he began, reluctant to speak ill of another officer but glad of the opportunity to share his doubts. “He tries hard enough. It must be awkward taking orders from a considerably younger captain. No matter how I look at it, though, he’s no seaman. Just before the storm struck, there was some problem with the mizzen topgallant mast, and he didn’t know what to do about it. That ended with the topmast eventually carrying away. On the second day, he had an argument with Eliot about reducing sail. An argument in which he was entirely in the wrong.” He sighed. “I expect it will improve in due course.” To change the subject, he said, “How do you find life among the high and mighty as commander of Pylades?”

  Bevan made a sour face. “My God, it’s all paperwork. From your example, I thought all I had to do was sit on my duff, ask my lieutenant what to do, and take all the credit. But no, there are reports to write and accounts to keep and people asking things like how much cheese there is in the larder. An uncountable number of things. Then the odd storm comes and scares the hell out of you.”

  Charles laughed.

  “It’s enough to drive a parson to drink,” Bevan retorted, refilling his glass and reaching for Charles’s.

  “Or a priest, as Penny would say,
” Charles offered.

  “Ah, the much admired Mrs. Edgemont,” Bevan said, raising his glass for a toast. “Got a bun in her bakery yet?”

  “If you mean with child, I don’t think so. She hasn’t said anything in her letters.”

  The conversation continued. When Charles had finished his drink, he pushed away his glass and stood. “I should return. God knows what they’ll get up to if I’m too long away.”

  The two men made their way up to the brig’s deck, where the boat crew waited, the gig tethered alongside. “You’re the senior officer,” Bevan said while the crew descended into the boat. “What are our orders?”

  “We wait for Nelson and the rest of the squadron,” Charles answered. “I’d expected them to be here ahead of us. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  CHARLES CAME ON deck the next morning to be greeted by clear skies under bright sunshine, and a breeze that made fine ripples on the deep blue water that sparkled like thousands of diamonds to the horizon. He opted to use Louisa’s second day at the rendezvous to exercise the men at the guns. It would be good for them to go through some honest physical effort after the days of cramped idleness below during the storm. Practice with the cannon normally emphasized one or more of the elements of accuracy, speed, or safety. On this day he was interested in how quickly the brutes could be fired from one shot to the next. He could not actually fire the guns while at the rendezvous for fear of the noise giving away their presence to a passing enemy, but he could have the men run them in and out, simulating firing, cleaning, and reloading.