Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars

by Jay Worrall

  Louisa carried twenty-four freshly painted black twelve-pounder cannon on her gundeck, twelve to a side, and four long nines on the quarterdeck, which accounted for her rating of twenty-eight guns. She also had eight brutally powerful short-range thirty-two-pound carronades divided between the quarterdeck and forecastle, which were considered supplementary. It was the main armament of twelve-pounders that Charles selected for a competition. Each gun was nominally manned by a crew of five, with specific roles as gun captain, loader, and sponger, all but the gun captain heaving on the relieving tackle to haul the two-ton cannon out against the side for firing. In actual practice, only one side of the ship was usually engaged at a time, and two crews would combine to serve a single gun.

  “These are the rules for the first contest,” Charles said loudly from his place near the mainmast to the men grouped around their cannon on the starboard side of the deck. Almost all of the warrants and standing officers stood on the quarterdeck, where they had a good view. Many of the seamen and marines crowded along the port side to witness the event. “You will run the guns in and out five times, quick as you can. We’re not going to fire off any powder, but each action that you would normally take—worming, sponging, loading with powder, shot, and wad, priming, and sparking—must be clearly performed. Lieutenant Talmage, Lieutenant Winchester, and Sergeant Cooley of the marines will be watching to see that every step is executed properly.” He paused to look at the assembled men watching him expectantly. They had all practiced at the guns many times before and knew how it went.

  “We will begin with three guns competing against each other,” he explained, glancing at some notes he had written. “First will be guns two, ten, and eighteen—I’m sorry.” Charles remembered that he had allowed the crews to paint names for their weapons in discreet lettering on the sides of the carriages. He’d had to countermand only one of the names chosen: Bend Over, Frenchie, which he thought inappropriate. He smiled. “The crews for Smasher, Instant Death, and Hellfire will compete first. The gun that goes fastest through the motions five times will advance to the second round. Is everyone ready?” He saw the men assigned to the selected guns poised expectantly at their stations. The three gun captains raised their hands.

  “All right, open your gunports, out tompkins. When the boatswain blows his whistle, you may begin.” Charles checked his watch, then nodded to Keswick, the boatswain, who raised his call and puffed his cheeks: Tweeeeet!

  Instantly, the men on the receiving tackles heaved, and the three guns, squealing on their trucks, rolled forward until they bumped against the bulwark almost as one. Two of the three gun captains made a show of sighting along the barrels before stepping back and jerking the lanyards, which would have caused the flintlocks to spark the priming powder, had there been any. Smasher’s captain merely yanked his firing mechanism the second his gun was run out and thus was fractionally ahead of the others. Since there was no recoil, the men leaped to the ropes to drag the guns inboard.

  Charles watched closely as the cannon were run in and out, in and out, their crews heaving and grunting while those not engaged yelled out encouragement for their particular favorites. Smasher had taken an early lead, but slowly, turn by turn, Instant Death closed the gap. In the end it was Instant Death that bumped against the ship’s side for the fifth time, half a gun barrel ahead of the others. The delighted crew thrust their fists into the air and jumped up and down in victory. Charles looked at his watch and noted the time: five minutes and fifteen seconds, near enough. That would be one minute three seconds per firing, he calculated. Of course, there had been no recoil, and the guns had to be withdrawn manually, which added some time. But then there had been no actual cartridge, shot, or wad, and only the slightest nod at aiming. The net might be just over a minute per evolution under normal conditions. That was good, for some good enough, but not spectacular.

  Charles stepped forward and held up his hand for silence. “ Instant Death will move on to the second round,” he announced loudly. “Now, the crews of Black Bess, Dorothy, and Rose Marie—ah, the three sisters— will please man their guns.” There was laughter among the onlookers and much excited chatter. “Be ready! Steady!” he shouted out, glanced again at his watch, and signaled to Keswick.

  In and out the guns ran, the trucks screeching in protest. The gun crews, mostly barefoot on the dampened and sanded deck, and many stripped to the waist, heaved with purpose. Not even a gesture was made to aim or transit the weapons this time, only a grim determination to pull them out, pull them in, simulate cleaning and loading, and pull them outboard again. “Heave, you buggers, heave,” one captain kept shouting. “Home, heave, clear!” Dorothy, with the most loquacious captain, won by a clear margin, five minutes and five seconds, by Charles’s watch. Better.

  As the morning warmed, all of the gun crews competed shirtless, some tying their kerchiefs around their heads to keep the sweat out of their eyes. The third set of guns competed, then the fourth. The fastest times were within seconds of five and a quarter minutes for each group. Thunderbolt and Naughty Nancy were added to the list of winners.

  “Each of the crewmen who have made it this far,” Charles said, “will receive an extra half-ration of spirits with this evening’s supper. The victors in the next round will receive an extra half-ration both tonight and the night after. The crew of the champion gun will get a golden guinea from my own pocket. That’s two shillings a man.” He held the coin up above his head. There were good-natured cheers and a generally enthusiastic atmosphere, while the four remaining gun crews huddled around their captains to plot strategy with grim seriousness.

  Instant Death surprisingly defeated Dorothy, with a time of five minutes flat, while Thunderbolt lost by a hairsbreadth to Naughty Nancy in five minutes and two seconds, members of both crews gasping for breath after they finished. Charles gave the winning crews a few moments to drink some water and collect themselves before the final. When he thought they were sufficiently recovered, he had the marine drummer tap out a long roll.

  “Are you ready?” he called out. The men nodded, and the captains responded, “Yes, sir,” and “Aye, we are, sur.”

  “Remember, a guinea to the winner.” Two of the men on the receiving tackles spit on their hands and rubbed them together; others shuffled their bare feet on the deck for better traction. “Steady.” He signaled to the boatswain. Tw-e-e-e-e-e-t!

  The men fell furiously on the relieving tackle of both guns, yanking them back where the wormers, spongers, loaders, and rammers worked as fast as they could at the muzzles. Back and forth, in and out ran the guns. The noise from the onlookers increased, cheering and clapping, urging the men on. The two guns moved in perfect unison as if they were somehow connected. Instant Death and Naughty Nancy lunged into the open gunports up to their carriages and withdrew two times, three times.

  On the fourth repetition, Charles thought Instant Death had gained an infinitesimal advantage. The guns were jerked backward, the wormers, spongers, and all did their work, and all twenty men fell on the tackles as one, even the gun captains grabbing at the lines and lending their weight.

  Thunk-k. Naughty Nancy and Instant Death slammed hard against the bulkhead. “Clear,” both captains shouted in unison. The lanyards jerked and the flintlocks sparked.

  A silence filled the gundeck, broken only by the ragged gasping of the exhausted men lying or sitting on the deck by their guns. The cannon themselves rested hard against the side of the ship, quiet and unmoving. Charles looked at it a second time to be sure: four minutes and forty-five seconds. That would be—what?—fifty-seven seconds per firing. That was more than satisfactory.

  “Well,” Charles said, addressing the gun crews, “two winners, I hadn’t counted on this.” He made a small display of patting his pockets and even turned one out as if to show that he hadn’t any more money. This brought some laughter from the crew. “Ah, here it is,” he said, producing a second coin from an inside jacket pocket. He called Naughty Nancy and Inst
ant Death’s captains forward and gave them each their coin. It would be up to the purser to change them into coins of smaller denominations.

  “There is one more thing before you are dismissed,” Charles said, turning serious and addressing the entire assembled crew. “Gunnery is why we exist. From time to time we may be called upon to engage enemy ships larger than ourselves and with more powerful armaments. To succeed, we must service the guns faster and with more effect than our opponents. This is our business. If you men attend to your instruction and give your full effort in practice, Louisa will be the most proficient twenty-eight-gun frigate in His Majesty’s Navy, and a menace to any Frenchman unlucky enough to come within range.” He paused for a long moment to lend weight to his words. Then he smiled and raised his arms. “A cheer for the winning guns!”

  When the noise died down, he turned toward the lieutenants. “You may dismiss the hands, Stephen,” he said. “Mr. Talmage, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, I would appreciate a word with you in my cabin.”

  “Yes, sir,” Talmage answered, and the two men went below.

  “How do we do it better?” Charles asked as he hung his hat and sword on their pegs along the bulkhead. He removed his coat and flung it on the settee under the stern windows. Talmage sat ramrod straight at Charles’s table, his jacket neatly buttoned and his hat placed precisely on the tabletop by his elbow.

  “Sir?” Talmage asked. “Do what better?”

  Charles dropped heavily into a chair across from his lieutenant and glanced at the clock on the wall above his desk. It was a little after eleven in the morning. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.

  “Tea would be fine.”

  “Attwater,” Charles called out. “One tea for Lieutenant Talmage and a coffee for myself, please.”

  “Aye-aye,” said a voice from his sleeping cabin. Charles guessed that his steward had been taking a nap.

  “The gunnery,” Charles said, turning back to Talmage. “You watched today’s exercise. Ten men each on twelve-pounder guns, and most of them took near a minute between firings, and that without the slightest wink at actually aiming them.”

  Talmage looked puzzled. “Is that bad? I thought a broadside a minute was acceptable.”

  “Acceptable? Well, yes, it’s acceptable, I suppose,” Charles said. “But they won’t be firing their guns once a minute in actual combat, not with any accuracy. We can do better. I’ve heard Marion Castle kept up a sustained fire of three broadsides in just over two and a half minutes at the Battle of the Saints. That is the rate of gunwork I’m looking for. If Marion Castle could do it, so can we.”

  “If I recall, sir,” Talmage said rather primly, “ Marion Castle carries thirty-two-pounders on her lower deck, and they have larger gun crews. And,” he emphasized, “she was an experienced ship and had been at sea for several years with the same crew. Captain Wilkerson was also known to be something of a fanatic about gunnery. It wasn’t like she was a normal ship.”

  This was not what Charles had wanted to hear. There was something about Talmage’s manner that pricked at him. He was a good first lieutenant in most respects: an excellent administrator and a gentleman to his toes. He was said to be an exceptional swordsman. But there was a certain distance, an unrelenting formality, an assumption of superiority toward subordinate officers that made Charles uncomfortable. There was the time when an ordinary seaman had tripped and fallen heavily against Talmage’s leg. The lieutenant had demanded the man be flogged. Charles refused and had had to smooth ruffled feathers.

  Winchester, he knew from experience, would pick up a line and haul with the rest of the men. He could not imagine Talmage doing any such thing, even if his life depended on it. And there was a certain lack of imagination when it came to things like experimenting with gunnery evolutions. There was all that and also Talmage’s want of seamanship. Charles thought the man would probably become one of those captains who loved a smart and perfectly run ship but would never willingly take her into danger.

  Attwater padded back from the galley with a cup of tea and a mug of coffee on a tray. “If there weren’t nothing more, sir?” he offered.

  Charles looked at Talmage, who sat motionless, then thanked and dismissed his steward. As he carefully sipped the hot liquid, he thought of Daniel Bevan. Bevan and he thought alike, he decided. They had much the same backgrounds and had worked closely as lieutenants on the old Argonaut for a half-dozen years. What they didn’t know, they picked at until they figured it out. But when Talmage was confronted with a problem he hadn’t been prepared for by his tenure as flag lieutenant to Admiral St. Vincent—how to improve the rate of fire for the guns, for example—he was at a loss.

  “I do not want Louisa to be a ‘normal’ ship, Mr. Talmage,” Charles said. “I want her to be as effective in battle as she can possibly be.”

  “Of course, sir,” Talmage said, bending forward and obviously attempting to be accommodating. “We could practice the men at the guns more often. Daily, even.”

  Charles knew this was not the answer he was looking for. He had already instituted a regular schedule for gunnery practice, three times a week, and sensed that more frequent repetitions would not help. He wanted a fresh approach. Something like a study of how the guns were worked, what individual tasks were involved, in what order. Was there a better way to do it? He’d had ten men on each gun. Was that better than eight? Or twelve? Or six? With the numbers and the way the tasks were distributed, did some of the men get in one another’s way? Sometimes they did, he knew. Charles thought it worth examining. Clearly, Talmage was not the man to do it.

  “That’s not what I’m looking for,” Charles said without thinking. “I’ll have Winchester look into it.”

  Talmage’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and his mouth tightened. “Sir,” he began in a tone that signaled a long-pent-up protest, then he fell silent. Charles thought for a moment that he might have too directly called into question the lieutenant’s abilities and would have to make amends. Before he could speak, he heard the lookout in the tops call down to the deck: “Sail ho, south-by-southeast, maybe twelve miles.”

  “We will continue this discussion at another time,” Charles said, pushing the issue to the back of his mind. He rose and took up his coat. “We’d better go topside. That may be the rest of the squadron.”

  It was Terpsichore, recognized almost immediately by the lookout. Within an hour, the tiny white dots of her topgallants were visible from the deck. Slowly, more of the distant masts revealed themselves to include topsails and then courses. Charles scanned the sea with his glass but saw no sign of any other ships. A call to the tops confirmed that it was Terpsichore and only Terpsichore bearing down on them. As it would be at least an hour before Bedford’s frigate came within hailing range, he called Winchester over to discuss his plan for an examination of the gun work. He noticed Talmage standing alone by the opposite rail, eyeing them sullenly. It will pass, he thought.

  Terpsichore glided majestically across the shimmering sea in the late afternoon under a full set of sails, to make the best advantage of the light winds. Before she began to take in her canvas and heave to on Louisa’s weather side, the signal Captains report on board soared up her halyards. Charles’s gig had already been made ready. “You have the ship, Mr. Talmage,” he said formally to his unsmiling first lieutenant and descended over the side.

  Charles’s and Bevan’s boats reached Terpsichore almost together. By centuries of naval tradition, Charles was given preference, Bevan doffing his hat and smiling broadly while his boat’s crew backed their oars. Charles grabbed at the ropehold for the side ladder and hurried up over the tumblehome.

  Captain Edward Bedford stood by the entryport to greet the two captains as they emerged onto the deck. Charles touched his hat and shook the offered hand. Bedford was a broad-shouldered man in his early forties, with thick black eyebrows and a weather-beaten face. Charles had heard somewhere that Bedford had worked his way up the ladder of naval command
after beginning his career before the mast. This was a rare enough accomplishment in George III’s navy and unheard-of in the army. Any man who could do it had Charles’s automatic respect.

  “How’d ye fare in the blow?” Bedford asked straightaway. Charles had already noticed while he was being pulled across that Terpsichore showed little if any damage from the storm.

  “Lost our mizzen topmast,” Charles answered. “Nothing serious. We had our moments, though.”

  “Aye, she was a fucking determined little tempest,” Bedford responded, turning toward Bevan as he climbed through the entryport. “Ah, Captain Bevan, welcome aboard. I do love a Welshman. Born to be hanged, I say. And how did tiny Pylades survive the gale?”

  “We’re still afloat,” Bevan answered. “Although only God knows why.”

  “Good seamanship is why,” Bedford said seriously. “There was little enough time to prepare. I watched as that first rush damn near rolled ye over.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bevan answered.

  Bedford turned back to Charles and chuckled. “It were a rare treat to see Emerald signaling for you to increase sail and firing off her guns while you were doing the opposite.” He laughed heartily. “Pigott probably wet his breeches. And then the fucking wind comes up from behind and lays him right over on his beam ends. What a nasty surprise that must have been!” Bedford laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

  “I did attempt to warn him,” Charles said, vainly trying to suppress a chortle.

  Bedford wiped at his eyes. “Pigott is nay the kind of man who pays much attention to signals from those under him,” he said happily. “He starts with a lofty notion of his own importance and soars upward from there.” Leaning forward with a conspiratorial wink, he added, “The Right Honorable John Pigott is an old sow’s arse, the spot right between the hams and just south of the tail.”

  Charles couldn’t help laughing but was shocked by such blunt speech about a superior officer. As he secretly agreed, he said nothing. Bevan discreetly cleared his throat.