Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars

by Jay Worrall

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said.

  “I intend to keep my fleet in tight order and fall upon the French the moment we sight them. It doesn’t matter what time of day or under what conditions. I’ll not give them additional time to prepare.” The admiral seemed genuinely excited by the prospect.

  “Yes, sir. I see.”

  “How we engage will of course depend upon their disposition. I’ve no doubt they will be well aligned. My preference is to break their line and double the near part so as to destroy them piecemeal, but we shall have to see what they offer. I also have no doubt,” Nelson continued, his good eye shining, “that our little band of brothers—as I have termed the captains of this squadron, including yourself, sir—will be more than adequate for any eventuality.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charles said. “Of course.”

  “I haven’t had time to put your orders in writing,” the admiral hurried on. “I’ll give them to you direct. Louisa will take station well forward of the squadron. I should think five or six leagues so that you are just within signaling range. Once you sight their battle fleet, you will note how they have arranged themselves in such detail as you are able, then return to Vanguard to report. Is that clear, Captain?”

  “I understand, sir,” Charles answered. It seemed straightforward enough.

  “Good, good,” Nelson said. “I will not detain you further.” He looked at Charles again with concern. “You’re sure that you are fit?”

  “I’m as fit as I need to be, sir,” Charles answered firmly.

  “I have every confidence in your abilities,” Nelson said, taking Charles by the arm and walking with him to the chair. As Charles settled himself in before being lifted off, the admiral added, “Oh, yes, one last thing. How has Lieutenant Talmage acquitted himself? Appropriately, I trust. Or do I need to intervene?”

  Charles met Nelson’s eye. “Mr. Talmage died of injuries he received during the taking of the frigate, sir. He acquitted himself with both honor and valor.”

  Nelson had no visible reaction to this.

  With Charles back on board, Louisa soon passed easily through the heavy, slow-moving line of battleships with their twin parallel rows of gunports. Many of them were left open for ventilation, the hollow circles of their cannon mouths visible behind. The men at the railings or in the rigging waved their greetings as she slid effortlessly onward. Louisa’s crew happily returned the sentiment. Charles raised his hat to acknowledge the similar gestures of the warships’ officers. Toward the end of the afternoon watch, they came to their assigned position, with the topsails of the leading ships of the squadron just visible from the masthead. Charles ordered the courses taken in so as not to outpace the squadron completely. He began to turn his mind toward the orders he had received and what he might expect when they reached Alexandria.

  “Mr. Eliot,” he said, approaching the sailing master.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Do we still have the charts from that Frenchman we took off Rosetta? You know, the one we burned.”

  “Aye, from Félicité. I have them below.”

  “Were there any for Alexandria, showing the port and the roads?”

  Eliot rubbed his chin in contemplation. “There’s the one with the port and the coast a fair distance in each direction. As far as Rosetta itself, if I recall. It’s possibly the only such chart in the entire British navy.”

  “Might I borrow it for a time?” Charles asked.

  The master nodded. “I’ll just send one of my mates to get it for you.” After a moment, Jonathan Cleaves, the first master’s mate, returned with the neatly rolled tube of paper, bound with a piece of string.

  Charles took the document and went below to his cabin, where he opened it on his dining table. After laying his sword along the top edge, he weighted the lower corners with books to keep it from rolling back up. He struggled out of his coat (managing unassisted) and sat down to see what he had.

  It was a gratifyingly detailed chart of the Egyptian coast, from the Rosetta mouth of the Nile to beyond Alexandria, with its inner and outer harbors clearly drawn. Features of the land—including villages, roads, hills, and even stands of date and palm trees—were sketched in. Most gratifying of all, the waters had been sounded, and the chart showed the depths of the seabed and the shoals and reefs that would hazard navigation.

  Charles studied the chart closely, particularly the port and its approaches. The harbor itself, he quickly decided, would not do as a haven for the larger of the French warships. It was small and shallow, with a narrow mouth. While it could be defended easily by fortifications on the two moles that projected inward like crab claws on either side of the entrance, the restricted passage meant that the entire place could be bottled up effectively by only one or two British warships on blockade outside.

  If the French fleet could not seek protection in the port, Charles thought, they would most likely anchor in a defensive arrangement in the open waters somewhere outside. For divining what sort of arrangement, the chart proved singularly unhelpful. The seas were still relatively shallow at six and seven fathoms close in, but they deepened fairly quickly by a mile out. There was no indication of any shoal or reef that might present a natural defensive feature. What formation would be most advantageous for the large ships of the line? Presumably their frigates, the three that remained, and the belligerent Capitaine Baptiste with his corvette, would be arrayed far in front to warn of any approaching enemy. Charles stared at the paper, attempting to imagine himself as the French admiral, waiting for some spark of insight that would reveal the single obvious solution that the enemy would employ. By nightfall, when Attwater insisted that he go to his bed, Charles was still waiting for that spark. Well, he resigned himself, he’d know soon enough. By noon the day after tomorrow, Alexandria and whatever awaited there would be in full view.

  POMPEY’S PILLAR SHOWED first, the ancient Roman monument rising like a large finger over the dun-colored shore. The landmark promised that the ancient Greek, then Roman, and now French city of Alexandria lay just over the low sand hills along the coast. Charles heard the ship’s bell ring five times; it was two and a half hours into the forenoon watch. Scattered fluffy clouds dotted the sky but provided no relief from the glaring midmorning sun. He glanced up at the foretops where the lookout was stationed, resisting the urge to call up and ask what the man saw. He was uneasy that there had been no reports of outlying frigates. He would have expected to have sighted at least one, even at a distance. He glanced at Bevan, staring over the rail at the shoals and dunes that lay off the shallow Maraboo Bay, sliding by to starboard. Bevan met Charles’s eyes and shrugged. Whatever awaited, it wouldn’t be long coming.

  At eight bells, ten o’clock in the morning, the lookout in the foremast shouted down, “I can see into the harbor. There’s a mass of shipping inside.”

  Charles picked up a speaking trumpet, and without thinking of the rapidly healing injury to his rib cage, shouted back, “Do you see anything outside the harbor mouth?”

  “Naught, sir. It’s as bare as a—there’s nothing at all outside, sir.”

  “Are there any warships inside?”

  There was a hesitation. “Don’t think so. Not any big’uns, anyway. It’s hard to tell at this distance.”

  “Dammit,” Charles muttered. Where the hell was the French fleet? He didn’t think Nelson would be pleased. After all, it was Charles who had insisted they were at the port.

  “Mr. Beechum!” he shouted. It came out louder than he’d intended.

  “Yes, sir?” said the startled acting lieutenant, three feet to his left.

  “Please take your glass up to the fore masthead and report back to me what, if anything, you can see of the French battle fleet.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beechum said. He hurried to collect his telescope and started forward.

  Now what? Charles thought. If the French weren’t here, where were they? More troubling, he would have to signal something to his admiral, and soon. He
stood, consciously attempting to appear unconcerned, and waited for Beechum to return. After what seemed an inexpressibly long time, the lieutenant came hurrying aftward along the waist.

  “Sir,” he reported breathlessly, “the harbor is chock-full of transports and merchantmen. There might be a few corvettes in among the lot, but there’s no large battleships, not a one.”

  “And outside?” Charles said, disappointment growing in his stomach.

  “I couldn’t see a hint of anything as far as the horizon,” Beechum answered. “I looked carefully. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I see. Thank you for your effort,” Charles said. “Mr. Sykes, if you would signal to Vanguard that no enemy warships are present.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Sykes said.

  Charles leaned against the rail and drummed his fingers in an unending tattoo. He had a gnawing feeling that he was missing something. What? He tried to picture the chart still unrolled on the table in his cabin. If they weren’t here, where? Probably they would be someplace close by; they would be required to protect—what was that general’s name?—Bonaparte’s lines of communications. With a start, he remembered something and stopped tapping. He wished he had the chart in front of him, but he could see it well enough in his mind.

  “The flagship has signaled the recall, sir,” Sykes said, standing by his elbow and jolting him out of his reverie.

  Charles ignored him. “Mr. Beechum,” he said, “do you remember when we first saw that frigate on the far side of the Rosetta point a few weeks back? The one that chased us.”

  “Sir?” Beechum said. “Yes, sir. I climbed to the tops with my glass and picked her out.”

  “Think carefully now,” Charles continued. “Do you remember looking into the bay beyond the Frenchman? Aboukir Bay, its name is.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beechum said, clearly lost at the line of questioning. “There was a strong haze in the air. I couldn’t see anything.”

  “But you thought you might have,” Charles pressed. “Just for a moment, you said, you thought there might be something there.”

  Beechum’s face wrinkled in concentration. “Well,” he said doubtfully, “there might have been a ship in the far end of the bay. But it was very indistinct. When I looked again, it was gone.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. “Please see to it that there is a sharp lookout posted in the foremast crosstrees. Make sure he has a long glass, and send someone up to relay his messages.”

  “Sir,” Sykes said, thankful to finally get his captain’s attention, “what about the admiral’s signal?”

  “What signal?” Charles said firmly, turning to the boy.

  “The admiral’s signal to—”

  “No, Mr. Sykes,” Charles said. “I mean, what signal? If Nelson has telegraphed an order, we must have missed it. Do you understand? He’s at a very great distance. Signals get missed all the time.”

  “Ah,” Sykes said, the glow of understanding spreading across his face. “You mean like at home, when you are called to supper but you’re busy with something else.”

  “Exactly,” Charles said. To Bevan, who had overheard the conversation with obvious interest, Charles said, “We will continue eastward along the coast. Proceed at the same reduced pace so as not to outrun the squadron. It is my intention to look into Aboukir Bay. Hopefully, Admiral Nelson will follow.”

  “That’s where you think the French are?” Bevan asked, eyeing Charles with a kind of dubious curiosity.

  The longer Charles thought about it, the more firmly convinced he became that it was the logical place for the enemy fleet to anchor. For one, it was relatively close to Alexandria, a scant twenty miles or so along the coast, and so could be communicated with by either sea or road. Second, the bay would offer better protection from the elements than the open waters in front of the harbor. And third, it might provide any number of defensive advantages if they were beset by a superior force— anchoring as deeply as possible to prevent the enemy from doubling their line, for example.

  “I think it to be a distinct possibility,” Charles said. “If I were the French admiral, that’s what I might do.”

  “And Nelson’s signals recalling you?” Bevan said. “You’re supposed to do as he says, you know.”

  “I am aware of that, thank you,” Charles said uncomfortably. “However, I am doing what I believe Nelson would wish me to, had he but known of the circumstances.” He paused, then said seriously, “These are my direct orders, Daniel. We will continue eastward until we know for certain whether the French are at Aboukir Bay. I will put this in writing, if you wish, in the event there is an inquiry.”

  “That will not be necessary,” Bevan said.

  Before noon, the town of Alexandria came into full view off the starboard bow, a rather unspectacular, low-lying place, its skyline broken by a few minarets and Pompey’s Pillar in the background. Aside from the towering monument, it didn’t look at all like the kind of place Alexander the Great would have built as one of the finest cities of his empire. Charles saw that the port was indeed crowded with small shipping, and French tricolor flags flew from the forts on either side of its entrance.

  “Sir,” Sykes reported, “Vanguard has signaled again. It’s the third time, this one with an imperative. You’re to report on board without delay.”

  Charles scratched at the stubble on his cheek. How long would Nelson continue to follow if he received no answers to his signals? There was a very real possibility that he would anchor off the port so as to blockade the shipping there and detach a single ship to run Louisa down. Charles took a deep breath. It was one thing to ignore his admiral’s signals, and quite another to send his own false ones. In for a Penny, he decided, which led him to another thought that he quickly banished from his mind. “Very well,” he said, “you may reply to the flagship, Enemy in sight to the east.”

  “Have we really seen them?” Sykes replied excitedly. “I hadn’t heard.”

  “Not yet,” Charles replied. “Make the signal, please.”

  “I sincerely hope they’re there,” Bevan said after the midshipman had left.

  “Not nearly as much as I do,” Charles said. “It will be very inconvenient if they’re not.”

  Louisa sailed steadily eastward, Alexandria slipping farther and farther sternward. The coast became a series of small palm-dotted sand ridges and outcroppings. He saw ample signs of the French army along the dirt tracks: once a battery of artillery caissons moving in a dusty column, and another time a collection of what he took to be engineers building an emplacement atop one of the ridges. On a point of land well forward, he could make out the form of an old fort with a settlement nestled not far from its walls. That would be the village of Aboukir, he decided, or Le Village du Bequier, as the chart called it. Through his pocket glass, Charles looked briefly at the collection of whitewashed mud and reed huts amid a grove of palms. Beyond the point, he knew, lay the Bay of Aboukir. They were close enough that the lookout in the foremast should be able to see into the bay soon.

  Charles heard the ship’s bell and counted five strokes. It was half past two in the afternoon, Tuesday, the first of August. A day that might be celebrated for all history as a great naval victory, he reflected. But for which side? Or perhaps the French fleet had gone somewhere else, to Corfu or back to Toulon, in which case it would be nothing out of the ordinary. No, not nothing, he decided grimly. It could signify the end of his naval career. If the French were not in the bay, he knew full well he could be court-martialed for disobeying Nelson’s signals under any of a number of rules and regulations, or even the Articles of War. As for sending his own misleading signals …

  “Mr. Sykes,” Charles said, “is the squadron still following?”

  “Yes, sir,” the midshipman answered promptly. “They’ve flown the interrogatory with respect to our last signal several times, but I thought it best not to bother you.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. “That was considerate.” Unusual, but still con
siderate, he thought.

  Charles felt that he could wait no longer. The lookout would surely be able to see a sufficient distance into the bay by now. The man’s continued silence did not bode well. He probably found the waters empty and had nothing to report. A desperate anxiety began to creep over Charles. He opened his mouth to instruct Sykes to climb to the crosstrees and inquire directly what the lookout did or did not see, but he did not get the words out before an excited shout came down from aloft.

  “Deck there! I see masts, a whole line o’ masts t’other side o’ that spit for’ard.”

  A sense of intense relief swept over Charles. He snatched up his trumpet. “How many do you see?”

  “Can’t tell yet. More than a dozen, anyway,” the lookout answered.

  “Mr. Beechum!” Charles shouted.

  “Yes, sir,” Beechum answered, grabbing his telescope. “I’m on my way, sir.”

  “Bring a pencil and paper,” Charles said. “I want you to sketch their formation.”

  “Mr. Sykes, you may signal to Vanguard, Enemy fleet at anchor, east-by-southeast. Fly an imperative with it. Nelson will know what it means.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” Sykes answered. He left at a run.

  Charles had to stop to think what he should do next. “Daniel,” he said after a moment. “We will give that fort on the point a wide berth in case it is manned. I want to be able to look into the bay with my own eyes so that we may see how the French have arranged themselves. Afterward, we will come about and report back to the flagship.”

  Bevan nodded, then said, “My God, Charlie, but you’re lucky.”

  “A little luck can be a good thing,” Charles said seriously, then broke into a wide grin.

  Louisa sailed placidly past the crumbling castle a mile and a half distant. Charles noted the French flag waving from the castle’s battlements, and the black tubes that were probably a hastily positioned battery of six-pounder field artillery. He also carefully noted the shoals at the base of the point, which he knew extended to a small barren island two miles to the east, marking the seaward edge of the bay. The wind held steady from west of north. As they passed the castle, he saw, in all their majesty, the French battle fleet behind the island, arrayed in a long shallow V as close as they dared to the shore.