by Jay Worrall
“There’s one more thing,” Charles said, staying Winchester with his hand. “Most of the new men know nothing of life on board a ship of war. I don’t want to rely on rope ends and punishments to force them along. A little yelling and some pushing is all right, but no beatings. Life will be hard enough on them for the next few weeks as it is.”
“You’re sure about that?” Bevan asked skeptically. “What if there’s a mutiny?”
“There will be no mutiny if we do our jobs properly. I will deal with serious breaches of discipline personally, but pass the word to the bosun’s mates to keep their starters in their pockets or they’ll answer to me.”
Bevan looked at him dubiously but Charles ignored him. Turning to Winchester, he said, “The toast, if you will.”
“To King George,” Winchester intoned, raising his glass. “Long may he reign.”
DURING THE TWO weeks the Louisa took to sail from Plymouth to Lisbon, Bevan had the men swarming up and down the rigging for two hours each during the middle, forenoon, and afternoon watches, taking in, setting, and reefing sails, lowering yardarms to the deck and hoisting them back up again. They repeatedly wore and tacked the ship under differing conditions and combinations of sails, backed and filled, hove to, and every other maneuver that Charles and Bevan could think of. When the Louisa dropped anchor in the familiar confines of Lisbon harbor, she did so with almost credible proficiency.
“The flagship’s signaling, sir,” said Beechum, the signals midshipman. “Our number, ‘Captain to report on board.’ ”
“Call away my gig, Mr. Beechum, and have the mail sacks from Plymouth brought from my cabin.” Attwater had laid out his best uniform coat and hat earlier in the morning, and Charles had changed soon after Cape Roxant had come into sight on the port bow.
“Louisa,” the coxswain called as the gig approached Victory’s towering side. Charles mounted the sidesteps, four bosun’s whistles shrieking the moment his head rose above the level of the deck. The flag lieutenant led him aft to a bench in the passageway outside Jervis’s office. “Not a good day” was all he said, gesturing for Charles to sit. Charles waited for an hour before being called inside.
“You took your time getting here,” the admiral said sharply when Charles entered. “I expected you more than a week ago.” Jervis’s stern face looked tired and not at all pleased about much of anything.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Charles said quickly, standing at rigid attention in front of the desk. “I had trouble with the dockyard. I thought it best to see Louisa properly fitted out and provisioned.”
“At Plymouth, weren’t you?” Jervis said, his glare lightening marginally. “What was the problem? Did Admiral Grimsley want to sell your guns to you?”
“Something like that, sir.”
“That man’s a drogue anchor on the navy,” Jervis said, frowning in displeasure. “If he didn’t have so many high-placed friends, I’d have sunk him years ago.”
“I’d be pleased to see that myself,” Charles said, thinking of the papers he’d obtained illegally and sent to the Admiralty. “But that’s only one of the reasons I’m late. The other is that I have a very raw crew. I took some time to familiarize them with the sails and rigging.”
“I see,” Jervis said. “Well, that can’t be helped now. In the future I expect you to be more punctual.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said, still standing.
“Sit, sit,” the admiral said, gesturing to a chair. Then he opened a drawer in his desk, pulled out an envelope, and offered it to Charles. “These are your new orders. You may read them when you return to Louisa, but I’ll give you the gist now. I’m sending you to join Captain Ecclesby in the frigate Syrius, which is patrolling off the northwest corner of Spain—roughly between Cape Finisterre and Cape Peñas. Your duties are to interdict shipping and generally interfere with Spanish communications in the area. The only sizable harbors are at Coruna and the naval facilities at Ferrol across the bay. The entrance to the bay is well fortified, so you’ll have to exercise some common sense.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said, guessing there was more to come. He didn’t think it required two frigates to stand watch over such a small and isolated stretch of coastline.
“I’m told,” Jervis continued, “that there is a heavy Spanish frigate undergoing repairs at Ferrol, but she’s some way from being ready for sea. You’ll need to maintain a steady eye on the yards there and keep me informed of what they’re up to. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles answered. Two English frigates—the Syrius he thought had thirty-six guns and the Louisa had twenty-eight—should be able to deal with a single Spanish frigate, heavy or not. “Where do I find Captain…er…Ecclesby?”
Jervis frowned. “You were to rendezvous with him off Finisterre today. Seeing as how you’re late, you’ll have to find him somewhere along the coast. And you’ll have to hurry because Syrius is overdue for repairs and provisioning. As it is there will be just enough time for Ecclesby to show you the ropes and fill you in on the latest situation.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said. There was nothing else he could say. He assumed the interview was over, but the older man leaned back and appraised his young commander over steepled fingers in a way that made Charles uneasy. “One more thing,” Jervis said thoughtfully. “Young commanders always concern me. You lads sometimes do the damnedest things. My advice to you is, be careful. If faced with a superior force, use discretion. It is of infinitely more value to me just now than valor. The frigate in Ferrol mounts forty guns, eighteen-pounders. If you do have to confront her in two or three months, follow Ecclesby’s lead. Perhaps the two of you can do something together. In other words, don’t do anything unusually foolish. You’ve only just begun your career as a naval captain. I’d like to see it last for a while.”
Charles assumed that the admiral was saying he had potential. “Thank you, sir,” he said.
Jervis extended his hand and Charles rose from his chair to shake it. “You’d better get started while you still have the tide.”
“BEAT TO QUARTERS, Mr. Bevan,” Charles said, staring absently over the lee rail at the dark form of Cape Roxant, rapidly disappearing over the stern quarter.
“Have the marine drummer beat to quarters please, Mr. Beechum,” Bevan ordered, looking quizzically at Charles. The very short, fourteen-year-old drummer in his scarlet jacket and white trousers marched stiffly to the fore of the quarterdeck and started a ponderous roll. Almost immediately hands appeared, rushing up the ladderways from below to take their battle stations.
Charles cleared his throat and spit over the railing. “It’s about time we practiced with the guns.” He had told Bevan the essence of his conversation with Jervis shortly after he’d set foot on board, including their intended rendezvous with Captain Ecclesby, their patrol area, and the half-repaired Spanish frigate in the Ferrol yard. Charles had never heard of a Captain George Ecclesby. When he’d asked Bevan about him, the lieutenant shook his head in response. Together they examined the most recent Navy List—more than six hundred names, ordered strictly by seniority, starting with Admiral of the Red and ending with the most junior commander—Charles himself was third from the bottom—and found Ecclesby quite high up: high up enough to have been passed over several times for a larger command. It entered Charles’s mind that the northwest coast of Spain might be a place where the navy hid its incompetent and inexperienced commanders to keep them out of harm’s way.
When he was satisfied that the crew was all present and accounted for, and every man at his correct station, Charles said, “You may clear the ship for action, Mr. Bevan.”
The shrill of the bosun’s whistle and calls of “All hands clear for action” resounded along the Louisa’s decks as men raced in all directions to carry below everything not essential for battle. The temporary bulkheads in the officers’ quarters were struck and stored in the hold along with their furnishings and sea chests, the galley fires put overboard, the courses
hauled up and put in brails, the gundecks cleared, and sand spread on the decking around the guns to improve footing and absorb blood. Charles watched the operation carefully and noted a good deal of confusion, but not nearly as much as they had experienced leaving Plymouth Harbor.
“Ship cleared for action, sir,” Lieutenant Winchester reported somewhat sourly to Bevan. Both Charles and Bevan were studying their watches. Bevan glanced momentarily at Charles and received a silent nod in return. Then he turned to Winchester, who had also noted the time on his own watch. “Thirty-two minutes,” Bevan said. “I’ll settle for twenty-seven minutes next time, but before a real fight they have to be able to do it in twenty. Have them put it all back and we’ll try again.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Winchester responded with the smallest of grimaces. The courses were refurled, the bulkheads and officers’ furnishings replaced, the galley fire relit, and in general the Louisa restored to her original condition.
“Clear for action, Mr. Bevan,” Charles said. This time it took twenty-five minutes. After that he ordered that the ship’s main armament of twelve-pounder long cannons be run out. Each of the now newly black-painted monsters was eight and a half feet long from muzzle to cascabel and together with its carriage weighed two tons. Charged with four pounds of powder, it would throw a 4.4-inch-diameter twelve-pound shot almost a mile before it first hit the water; at two hundred yards it could penetrate two feet of solid oak. Charles directed Winchester to have the guns run in and out a half-dozen times so that the gun captains could organize their crews and the newer hands would become accustomed to the sequence of actions involved in loading, firing, cleaning, and reloading them. After that he permitted them to fire several slow salvos with powder only so they might appreciate the recoil of the guns against their restraining ropes and become familiar with the noise and smoke. Finally, just before dinner, he allowed each crew to fire a single round shot just so they could witness the satisfying splash in the distance.
At the end of the day, after the excited and talkative hands had their dinner and their spirits, Charles retired to his cabin (now replaced as if it had never been disturbed). He sat at his table while Attwater brought him his supper. As it did most nights after he had finished reviewing the ship’s ledgers and made the necessary entries in his log, his mind drifted to home and Cheshire and Penny Brown with a sense of longing. He enjoyed reliving the things he and Penny had talked about and done together. He especially savored the memory of their last day, her touch and the moist softness of her lips on his cheek. Sometimes he allowed himself to think about a future with her and what they might yet do together. He had not heard from her during the time the Louisa was still in Plymouth, nor did he expect to. Winchester, he knew, received multiple letters from Ellie with every packet. Ellie had mentioned several times that she continued to visit Penny, but that was all. In order to give him something to occupy his mind, and in the hopes of communicating at least indirectly with Penny (it would be highly improper to write to her directly—they weren’t even engaged), he began a letter to his sister in the expectation that she would share it with her friend. He wrote a few paragraphs nearly every evening, mostly describing the day’s events. Occasionally he would write of his feelings for Penny, that he missed her and hoped that she might think of him from time to time. The act of writing took some of his feelings of loneliness away.
He also thought about the changed and sometimes awkward relationship between himself and Daniel Bevan. They had been fast friends and nearly equals on the old Argonaut. Now their roles were different and rigidly defined by centuries of naval tradition. Charles felt awkward when Bevan saluted him or called him “sir,” and he guessed that his friend felt the same. After thinking on this for some time, he decided that the Louisa could make some of her own traditions.
THE WATERS OFF Cape Finisterre, the westernmost point of Spain and a major landmark for Atlantic shipping, lay calm and nearly empty in the late-spring sunshine. A few dun-colored fishing boats could be seen in the distance around the shoaling waters at the base of the Finisterre promontory that jutted from the mountainous Galician shore, but no merchantmen or warships, and no sails on the distant horizon.
“Crosstrees, what do you see?” Charles shouted to the lookout stationed high in the mast.
“Naught, sir,” came the reply, “’cept for them few fishing barks alee’ard.”
The ship’s bell rang four times—four bells in the forenoon watch. “Seems Ecclesby’s gone on,” Bevan said, stating the obvious. The Louisa glided slowly onward, creaking gently as she rolled under topsails and topgallants in a steady westerly breeze over the placid Atlantic swells.
“Yes,” Charles answered absently, thinking of Penny and wishing he could share the beauty of the scene with her, the rugged Spanish mountainsides covered in the fresh green of spring cascading down to the deep blue of the sea. He reluctantly shifted his attention to the present. Should he order further gun practice? The gun crews were becoming more adept with the weapons, but were still slower from one broadside to the next than he liked. And God alone knew how accurate they would be—they had not as yet practiced with shotted guns against a target. But it was Sunday and he had worked his crew hard since leaving Plymouth. He decided to give them an easy day. He would also make one other small change in the Louisa’s social routine.
“Let’s get the courses and royals on her, Daniel,” Charles said casually, omitting the customary “Mr. Bevan” for the first time since he’d taken command of the ship. “Once we clear the headland, I want to steer east by northeast. We’ll have a look into Coruna Bay before nightfall.”
“Aye aye,” Bevan said, giving Charles a sideways glance and a small smile.
___
THE CORUNA LIGHTHOUSE showed first. Kept dark during the war, it could be seen from fifteen miles away or more on a clear day, even from Louisa’s decks. It looked to be a very old stone tower indeed. Some said that it was built by the Romans when they ruled Galicia; others thought earlier, by the Phoenicians. Nearby, atop the bluffs that marked the southern entrance to the bay, sat a stark fort housing one of the batteries protecting against intruders. The fort was clearly marked on Charles’s charts, as was a second battery on the Ferrol promontory at the northern entrance to the bay. The width of the mouth of the inlet and the distance between the forts was less than three miles, close enough for the forty-two-pounder cannon on both sides to pour down a deadly crossfire on anyone who dared try the passage.
In an inlet on the northern edge of Coruna Bay, behind the Ferrol fortifications, lay the Spanish naval shipyard. It was from this yard and the bay itself that Philip II’s “Invincible Armada” sailed to invade England in 1588, and it was the city of Coruna that Drake captured and burned in retaliation a year later. With the sun low on the horizon lighting the hillsides in a warm glow, it was hard for Charles to imagine the now-empty roads as they must have been then, crowded with ships of war readying to make sail. The distant sounds of Coruna’s church bells reached him from over the water, and he could just see the steeples behind the headlands and Coruna’s whitewashed houses scattered like bread crumbs over the slopes. It looked tranquil—and would remain so, as long as he stayed out of range of the batteries in the forts.
The Louisa glided north by east across the mouth of the bay under shortened sails. In a few moments the lookout should be able to see into the naval yards.
“Do you see anything yet?” Charles shouted up to the top.
“Not yet, sir. Just a minute.”
Charles waited, tapping his fingers absently on the lee rail. “Sir, I see one ship-rigged craft in the yards, just the one. A frigate, I think,” the lookout reported. “There’s some small coastal craft and a hulk or two. That’s all.” That was what Charles had expected, one half-repaired Spanish frigate. A gun sounded unexpectedly from the fort at the southern entrance to the bay. Charles turned in time to see its smoke drift lazily past the battlements. What was that for, he wondered. The Louis
a was well out of range of either battery. He saw no telltale splash of a ball.
“Very well,” Charles said to Bevan, “we’ve—”
“The frigate’s dropped her sails!” the lookout shouted excitedly.
“What?” Charles said. He grabbed his telescope from its place by the mast and started up the mizzen shrouds to see for himself. At the platform at the mizzentop he steadied the glass on the entrance to the yards. He found her immediately, a large frigate with filling sails and a black hull, beating up against the wind. Charles snapped the telescope shut and turned to start back down, then he stopped and opened it again. There was something familiar about the ship. He studied her lines with his glass and it came to him. She was the Santa Brigida, the same ship that had cruelly raked the battered Argonaut at St. Vincent. “You son of a bitch,” Charles muttered to himself.
“Shoals dead ahead,” the lookout cried. He looked and could see the white line of surf among black rocks over the bow, about a mile distant. He had expected them. They were marked on his chart as “Dientes del Diablo”—the Devil’s Teeth.
Back on the quarterdeck, he ordered to the quartermaster at the wheel, “Two points to windward please, Mr. Mahone.” Turning to Bevan, he said, “Let’s get the sails back on her, courses to topgallants and a full set of jibs.” Charles knew there was little chance that any ship, especially a heavy frigate, coming out of Ferrol would overhaul them. Not only because the Louisa would show a clean pair of heels in light winds and moderate seas, but also because, with the wind west by northwest, the Spaniard would have to beat against it for several miles before she could round the reef and take up the Louisa’s wake in pursuit. Still, there was no point in taking chances.
