Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  There was a cheer from our decks and I think I might have had a sob of relief myself. I wiped wetness from my cheek, which, if anyone had asked I would have sworn was spray from the sea, but I doubt it was. We had pitched our single ship at an enemy fleet and survived, but by Christ it had been a damn close thing. My limbs were still trembling when I felt the ladder I was still clutching so tightly vibrate. Someone else was climbing up beside me.

  “Hello, old fellow,” called a familiar voice. “The admiral thought you might need a hand getting down.” I turned and expected to see a look of amusement in young Grenfell’s face but he appeared genuinely concerned as he took in my vice-like grip on the ropes. “I nearly fell myself once,” he confided. “A top man caught me by the ankle and managed to hold on until another arrived to help me down.” He gave a hollow laugh and added, “I still sometimes have nightmares about it and so I know how you feel.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, heartened by his honesty. “But it might be a moment or two before my muscles allow me to move.”

  Chapter 17

  I finally made it down to the relative security of the ship’s planking a few minutes later. I followed Grenfell up to the quarterdeck where several of the junior lieutenants were talking excitedly about the recent action. Cochrane stood alone at the stern rail, staring back to the frigate and the still-circling Portuguese fleet beyond. I realised that he had not changed much since I had first known him twenty years before. His red hair was flecked with grey now and his tall frame had developed a slight stoop, but at least in matters of naval warfare, his mind was generally one step ahead of everyone else’s. I knew that he would be busy reviewing what had happened. There was a lot to learn from our recent experience, from both the behaviour of his own fleet and that of the enemy. He would be busy calculating options to move his campaign forward and, knowing him, they would be far from conventional.

  Crosbie was watching his admiral too, but he did not know Cochrane as well as I, for there was concern etched across his features. He was obviously worried that their commander was downhearted over the recent experience.

  “Sir,” he called. “This is a victory of sorts. We have damaged two of their vessels and taken no great harm ourselves. We have also shown that at least the flagship is not intimidated by their entire fleet.”

  For a moment Cochrane made no response. I began to think that he was so lost in his thoughts that he had not heard. But then he turned and stared at the gathering of his officers and the excited expressions on their faces. “Gentlemen,” he declared at last. “We should not confuse a sow’s ear with a silk purse. That,” he gestured over his shoulder at where the action had taken place, “was one of the most shameful experiences of my career, and as you know, there have been more than a few of those.” His officers grinned sheepishly for they all knew that he was alluding to his earlier disgrace and imprisonment. He turned to Crosbie, “You are right we have escaped largely unscathed, but only due to extraordinary good fortune, the foolishness of our enemy and the perceptiveness of that fine fellow over there.” He pointed across at the Maria da Glória, which was now sailing along on our starboard quarter. Cochrane raised his hat and waved it at its captain. We all watched as Beaurepaire stepped to the rail of his own vessel and returned the gesture.

  The admiral turned back to us. “It is time to adopt a new strategy. An approach I have used successfully for many years.” He turned and winked at me. “Flashman, why don’t you tell our colleagues what it is?”

  I stared at him dumfounded for a moment. “I haven’t the first idea what strategy would serve here,” I admitted at last.

  “Come now, Thomas,” chided Cochrane. “Can’t you remember that phrase I kept repeating when we were together on the Speedy?”

  “Oh God, surely not,” I muttered, horrified as the memory came back. “You used to say that we had to turn our disadvantages into advantages, but surely that is impossible here. There are just too many disadvantages. We have a half-mutinous crew we cannot trust, we are hopelessly outnumbered and we are a month’s sail from a friendly port with the bare minimum of supplies on board.”

  “All true,” agreed Cochrane calmly. “But Flashman you are not seeing the potential advantages.” He held up a finger as though counting the objections. “The crews must be reorganised. We will send all the Portuguese back to Rio and put the best men in this ship and the Maria da Glória. Two well-handled ships will be far more effective than an unwieldy fleet. We will put the best Brazilians in the Piranga and the Nitherohy with some experienced hands. Jowett and Taylor can train them up to become competent crews.

  “But we can’t take on the Portuguese fleet with just two ships,” protested Crosbie.

  “Nor shall we,” agreed Cochrane holding up a second finger. “We are hopelessly outnumbered, but that means that the Portuguese will be spread thin protecting their huge merchant fleet and they only have one ship capable of matching the Emperor. With a skilled crew, we will give even their flagship a run for its money. We are no longer playing their game with fleet actions. From now on we will try to pick off their ships one at a time.” He held up a third finger. “As we start capturing their ships, we will also secure fresh supplies. We can cut up captured sails into new cartridge bags, then seize Portuguese gunpowder not to mention food and other supplies. As the men start earning prize money, it will also improve morale and encourage them to get even better.”

  “It might buy us some time,” I conceded. “But at best, we will only be a nuisance to the Portuguese; we still will not be able to defeat them.”

  “Ah, but that is just the start of my plan,” boasted Cochrane. “If it is still in Rio, I am going to get the brig that brought us from Chile sent here, as that is another crew I can trust. Then, once the Piranga and Nitherohy can be relied upon, we will have enough ships to take the war to the Portuguese in ways that they cannot even imagine.” I gazed at him with mounting alarm, while Crosbie and the others looked on in admiration. But Cochrane seemed oblivious to the reactions he had generated, and announced that he was going below to write his report to the Brazilian government.

  I spent much of the next few hours wondering how in God’s name I had managed to get myself embroiled in such an infernal mess. It was as plain as a pikestaff that there would be more danger before I could get back to Rio, or some other safe port. Additionally, it was all too certain that Cochrane would be in the thick of it. As I paced the deck muttering and cursing to myself, the rest of the Brazilian squadron gradually caught up with the flagship. They resumed their station behind her as though nothing had happened. At the end of the day the familiar coastline of Morro de São Paulo was on the horizon. By dusk the ships were all anchored in the bay as they had been two days before.

  The next morning saw the start of Cochrane’s reorganisation. Longboats and cutters were launched to start taking the Portuguese contingent ashore, while others moved the Brazilians to the two frigates. They also brought the British and North American seamen to the flagship and the Maria da Glória.

  “I dare say a few of the Portuguese will take the opportunity to desert,” suggested Cochrane watching the scene. “Salvador is only forty miles up the coast, just two or three days’ walk away, but I have passed word that they will be taken back to Rio as soon as ships are available.”

  I glanced back at a group of Portuguese sailors waiting to disembark from the Emperor. They still appeared sullen and resentful, presumably worried that the fleet would abandon them at this forsaken spot. Above the sandy beaches there were high rocky outcrops and beyond were rivers that led into mangrove swamps. To get to Salvador, they would either need to cross two wide rivers and some steep rocky terrain or risk the swamp.

  “Well, waiting like scorpions among the rocks will give them plenty of time to consider their own treachery,” I declared. I felt no sympathy for them. After all, their refusal to fight and what they had done to impede our gunnery had damn nearly got us all killed or captured.

&n
bsp; “Ah well,” said Cochrane, now appearing slightly uncomfortable, “I am going to need you to land too with your marines. If word of where we have based ourselves reaches Salvador, they are likely to send a regiment or two to flush us out.”

  “But you can’t seriously expect those marines to defend the anchorage against a regiment, never mind two.” I was appalled at the idea of being trapped on that miserable spit of land in the middle of nowhere. On top of that, there was the prospect of facing trained troops with men more used to wooden weapons. “Christ,” I muttered, “most of them barely know one end of a musket from the other. I would not venture them against a single company, never mind a regiment.”

  “We will try to intercept any troop transports while they are still at sea,” said Cochrane nonchalantly. “But it would be wise to build some defences to help deter any visitors. Perhaps a gun battery over there.” He pointed at a rocky outcrop that overlooked the anchorage and the river mouth.

  “A battery?” I repeated. “Where on earth am I to get the guns from? And I would need mortar and stone masons to build proper embrasures.” Then a darker thought crossed my mind. “If we are building fortifications, how long do you expect to stay here? I told the family I would only be gone for twelve months and we are past that now.”

  “Don’t worry, Thomas, I doubt we will be here for more than a few weeks. By then the crews of the frigates will be trained up. As for guns, you can take all you need from the Real and the Guirani; we no longer have the crews for them. Just build something that looks formidable. If the Portuguese arrive in force we will have to abandon the place.” He gripped me on the shoulder. “Things will go easier with the Portuguese if they see you ashore as well. They know you are one of my closest friends and that I would not abandon you.”

  Consequently, a few hours later I found myself standing on a sandy beach with my sea chest at my feet and a hundred and thirty dark, angry faces glaring at me. The marines had not been happy to learn that they were disembarking as well. Some felt that they were not trusted like the Portuguese. Others rightly suspected that life might be tougher on this lump of rock compared to a ship’s quarters that were cleaned for them and with three square meals a day provided. Lieutenant Moreira had been trying to organise the men into ranks as I arrived, but there was nothing military about their appearance. Many of their jackets were undone, they had no weapons and most were holding bundles of possessions in their arms as they shuffled aimlessly into line.

  “Why are we being punished?” a voice called out as I began to make my way towards them. I glanced up to see the big marine who had stormed the magazine glaring at me expectantly. He looked belligerent at the best of times, but now he seemed furious. “I fought as you asked,” he jabbed a finger in my direction, “and now we are being thrown off the ship.” He pointed his digit in the direction of the Portuguese making camp further up the beach. “You are treating us the same as those who fought against you.”

  “You are not being punished,” I called out so that all could hear. “You are soldiers and you fight on land as well as at sea. We have been put here to help defend this anchorage.”

  “Are we going to get weapons?” called out another voice and gazing around I saw that it was Mallee. “Real ones, not made of wood,” he added.

  “The Portuguese are not getting weapons,” I announced. “But you will be getting muskets and you will also have the time and space to learn how to use them.” I paused to watch nods of approval spread down the line. “But you are getting more than muskets,” I added. “You are getting cannon, big bloody guns that can sink a ship.” There were grins amongst the ranks now as they imagined firing cannons and causing carnage.

  I decided to quit while I was ahead. There was no need to tell them yet of the back-breaking work required of them to build the battery or the probability of hundreds of well-trained troops driving them into the sea. Instead I broke them up into three groups and had them concentrate on the essentials of organising food, water and shelter. Leaving Moreira in charge, I climbed up the gently sloping rock that led to the heights commanding the bay as I wanted to view the site for a battery. I swiftly realised, however, that it was a near impossible task. Much of the ground was overgrown with vegetation and where you could see the stone there was not a level yard of it anywhere. Yet from this we were supposed to build a gun emplacement that would deter soldiers and sailors alike.

  I was on that wretched stretch of land for a month. On the second day, the Emperor and the Maria da Glória weighed anchor to resume their blockade of Salvador. I confess to a sense of trepidation as they sailed away, not least wondering what would happen to us in Morro de São Paulo if they were captured or sunk. I was obviously not alone in feeling despondent, for the following night around thirty of the Portuguese deserted. We saw some crossing the river upstream the next morning, plainly on the way to Salvador. But the Portuguese were not the only ones to take the opportunity of liberty. Once they had muskets, presumably for protection and to trade, a score of the marines deserted as well, God knows in which direction. In fact, as the work got harder over the following weeks the roll-call each morning got shorter as more and more slipped away.

  It turned out that several of the marines were capable hunters and fishermen, so there was ample food for the pot. Fresh water was also readily to hand and so most of their time was spent building the battery. We spent much of that first week removing four eight-pounder- and two twelve-pounder-guns from the ships and then hauling the barrels and gun trucks up the hillside, a job that required a network of ropes, pulleys and frames. Meanwhile, others cleared undergrowth and used hammers and spikes to try to level the ground. It took a huge effort. When we had finished I rowed out in the bay to view the effect. For all the arduous work, if you did not know where to look, you were unlikely to spot the guns at all, never mind be deterred by them. It was all quite disheartening until one of the marines gave me a new idea. He was regarding his blistered hands and muttering that he preferred the earlier days when they had just fought with wooden swords.

  “That’s it!” I shouted, for I saw that what we were unlikely to achieve in reality, we could achieve by way of deception. The following week saw our bastion transformed. There were whitewashed stone walls around the guns at the summit and a second tier of eight cannon further down the hill, also well-embedded behind whitewashed walls. Any commander would think twice before pitching his ship or regiment against such an emplacement; at least as long as he did not get within a hundred yards of it. Close inspection revealed that the bottom tier of guns was made entirely of wooden logs, while the stone walls were nothing more than painted sail canvas stretched over wooden frames. Much of the walls around the upper tier were a similarly flimsy structure, but the higher guns were real and now much easier to spot from out to sea.

  We had carried out some practice firing, aiming at a grass-topped mud bank at the entrance to the river. It stayed above water at high tide and had an unobstructed view along the northern coast where any land force was likely to approach. I had sent some marines across to build a warning beacon from driftwood, which also served as a target for the guns. The marines had a launch on the mudbank in case the water rose too high. They also used it to row back to shore before any gunnery started. This turned out to be unnecessary, as they would have been perfectly safe sitting by the beacon itself.

  What some of the marines lacked in accuracy, they made up for with enthusiasm. Around thirty of them were keen participants in both artillery and musket drills. Both the big marine and Mallee were in their number, and seemed keen to learn anything that might help them fight and kill. I was still not entirely clear on who they saw as their enemy. It seemed to be anyone that had wronged them in the past, which included Brazilian owners as well as the Portuguese. As for the others, they would do only what they were bidden and invariably each morning, the roll-call would show one or two more missing.

  During the second week at Morro de São Paulo I had to restrict
drills to avoid running out of powder and ammunition. Already we were retrieving cannonballs that managed to hit the mud bank. The two frigates were trialling gun crews as well and twice they put to sea for a couple of days to give their men experience of managing the ship. Both captains reported good progress when they returned. Then on the horizon appeared evidence of Cochrane’s activities. They were a flotilla of half a dozen coasters, laden mostly with flour to feed the garrison at Salvador. Interestingly, these vessels had originated from São Matheos, halfway between Rio and Salvador, in what was officially Brazilian-government-held territory. While the ship’s manifests had been showing the cargo bound for Rio, Cochrane had captured them trying to enter the Portuguese-held port.