by Jay Worrall
“Oh, Charlie,” Ellie sobbed, grabbing Winchester’s arm with sudden tears streaming down her cheeks. “It’s so beautiful. You’re just perfect for each other. Isn’t that right, Stevie?”
Winchester nodded dutifully in agreement.
“Damnation,” Bevan breathed. Charles glanced at his lieutenant and saw him staring at something in the distance. He followed Bevan’s gaze and saw a lone horseman in the uniform of a naval courier trotting up the drive. The courier stopped beside a group of sailors and bent in his saddle, as if asking directions. Charles’s heart sank as he watched a man point in his direction.
“Commander Edgemont?” the courier asked after dismounting.
“I’m Edgemont,” Charles said.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the festivities, sir. I have orders for you.”
With a rising sense of dread, Charles signed for the Admiralty envelope. “You’re welcome to stay for something to eat,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. What’s all this in celebration of?”
“My marriage.”
“I am sorry, sir.”
Charles walked a little away and opened the envelope, his expression hardening as he read:
To Commander Charles Edgemont of HM Frigate Louisa
Sir,
You are hereby requested and required to report at your earliest possible opportunity onboard HM Frigate Louisa along with her officers and crew. Said Louisa is to be found in a restored state and ready for sea at the Portsmouth Naval Yards. You are further required to report to the Portsmouth Dockyard Admiral’s Office immediately on arrival for receipt of further orders.
Nor you, nor any of you may fail in the strictest and most immediate execution of these orders except at your peril.
Your servant,
Arthur Dorchester,
Admiral, Portsmouth Naval Yard
“What does it say, Charlie?” Bevan asked.
“You know what it says, Daniel.” Charles tried to keep the bile out of his voice. “Send one of the midshipmen on horseback to tell the Maryanne to prepare. Pass the word to muster the men at first light. We sail for Portsmouth in the morning. They’ve fixed Louisa in record time.”
“I’m very sorry,” Bevan said.
“Yes,” Charles answered.
He leaned on his cane and looked around him until he found Penny talking animatedly with some of her friends. He studied the blush of her cheeks, the brightness of her eyes, the happiness on her face. Reluctantly he moved toward her.
“I have to speak to you in the house,” he said as soon as he caught her attention.
“In a minute, Charlie,” she said. Then she saw the dismay in his expression. “Excuse us,” she said to her friends, took his arm, and walked with him toward their home.
“What is it?” she asked as soon as they were inside.
Charles led her into the parlor and they sat down. “I’ve orders to return to the Louisa,” he said solemnly.
“When?”
“We leave at dawn.”
“Oh, Charlie, thou and I have just begun.”
“I know,” Charles said slowly. “I feel so badly for you.”
“When wilt thou return?”
Charles sat silent, staring at the floor. “I don’t know,” he said at last.
Penny reached for his hands and held them between her own. “We have this day,” she said. “And whatever time God gives us in the rest of our days.”
THIRTEEN
THE BARQUE MARYANNE MADE HER WAY UP THE SOLENT and into Portsmouth Harbor on a clear cold morning with the tide still making and a moderate westerly breeze blowing a small chop across the anchorage. Charles picked out the Louisa among the crowd of naval ships as soon as they passed the point. She rode high in the water with all new masts, her yards crossed and a fresh coat of dark-gray paint on her hull. She looked more new than repaired, although, if he looked carefully, he could just see the joints in her strakes where damage from the Santa Brigida’s broadsides had been patched over.
Charles leaned on the Maryanne’s port rail to take some of the weight off his injured ankle. He had given up the use of his cane several days earlier, but still walked with a small limp. It was more of a dull ache than an actual pain, but it became bothersome when he spent too much time on his feet. “If you would be so good as to lay her close alongside,” he said to the Maryanne’s master. “And thank you for a pleasant and speedy passage.”
The barque came to about ten fathoms from the Louisa and dropped anchors fore and aft. “Get a boat in the water,” Charles said to Bevan.
“What boat?” the familiar voice of Samuel Eliot called out as Maryanne’s jolly boat approached the Louisa’s side. Eliot, Howell the carpenter, Keswick the bosun, and George the gunner and their mates had stayed on the ship to oversee the repairs.
“Louisa,” Bevan called back as they hooked onto the ship’s mainchains. “How be you, Mr. Eliot? Did you miss us?”
“Not likely, Mr. Bevan,” Eliot called back with a chuckle.
Charles climbed the entry ladder first, favoring his ankle, and was greeted by the twittering pipes of two of the bosun’s mates as he stepped on deck.
“Welcome aboard, Captain,” Eliot said warmly. “It’s good to have you back.”
“You have to call him ‘Mr. Captain,’” Bevan said, stepping through the entryway. “He’s gotten married, you know. Yes, he’s not his own man anymore. Now he answers to a higher and infinitely more attractive authority.”
“Really, sir?” said Eliot. “Congratulations. I wouldn’t have thought there was time for it. You’ve only been gone a month or so.”
“I’d expected to be home a bit longer,” Charles said, “but thank you anyway.”
“Seems someone was careless about informing the Spanish of our esteemed commander’s plans,” Bevan offered, “or they might have suspended the war for a time in consideration.”
Charles looked carefully around him at the decks, masts, rigging, and all the other details that made the ship function. Everything seemed to be clean, newly painted, and generally shipshape. If he hadn’t known, he could hardly tell which parts were original and which had been repaired or replaced. “The dockyard certainly worked quickly,” he said. “What kind of a job did they do?”
“You’ll get a full report from Davey Howell, but they worked on her in double shifts from dawn till dusk. On my word, I’ve never seen a yard make such an effort. To my eye it seems they did a workmanlike job, though.”
Charles counted the twelve-pounder cannon lined up along the maindeck. With satisfaction he saw that there were twelve on each side, one more than there had been before. “They’ve added another pair of carronades?” he asked.
“Aye, on the quarterdeck. There was a great deal of discussion about it. In the end they took away two of the nine-pounders and replaced them with twelves on the maindeck forward. The carronades are where the nines were.”
Charles nodded his approval. To Bevan he said, “Get the cutter in the water and bring the crew across. As soon as that’s started, lower the gig. I’ve orders to call on the dockyard admiral.”
After changing into his best uniform and hat, and with a boat cloak wrapped tightly against the cold, Charles climbed down the Louisa’s side to the waiting gig. He timed his jump carefully, landing mostly on his good leg, and made his way to the sternsheets, where he sat down.
“Let go all,” Williams the coxswain ordered to the four hands at the oars, and the small boat started toward the wharf ladderway.
“Do ye need help getting up the side, sir?” his coxswain offered as they arrived.
Remembering his last visit, when he was carried up slung over the shoulder of one of his crew, he smiled and said, “No thank you, Williams. I can manage this time.”
“Do you desire us to wait for you, sir?”
Charles shook his head. “Thank you, no. I don’t know how long I’ll be. I’ll hire a boat to take me back.” He climbed the ladder, consciously
favoring his ankle, trying to hide his limp as he crossed the quay, and entered the long stone building housing the Portsmouth port admiral’s office.
“IN A MOMENT; the admiral hasn’t had his coffee yet,” the dockyard lieutenant said—the same aide who had tried to prevent Charles from seeing Jervis on his previous visit.
“I’ll wait,” Charles said. He did not feel himself pressed for time, and in any event was not as sure of his ground with Dorchester as he would have been with Jervis. “Please inform the admiral that I’m waiting.” With that he sat on a wooden chair in the hallway and crossed his almost-healed leg over his good one. Ten minutes later, the aide reemerged and ushered Charles through the door.
“Good morning, Commander Edgemont,” Dorchester said, rising and extending his hand. “Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, sir,” Charles said, shook the offered hand, and felt for the chair behind him. Once Dorchester was seated he sat down.
“How are your injuries?” the admiral asked, searching distractedly through a large stack of papers on his desk.
“Much better, thank you, sir,” Charles answered.
“And the personal business you had to attend to? Jervis—er, Lord St. Vincent—told me you were to be married.” Not waiting for an answer, he said, “Ah, yes, here it is,” and pulled an envelope from the stack.
“Completed satisfactorily, sir,” Charles said.
“Eh, what?” Dorchester said, evidently having momentarily forgotten his question. Then, remembering, “Oh, yes, good. Capital thing, marriage. Don’t agree with the admiral at all about that one. He doesn’t like his officers married—thinks it makes them cautious, averse to taking risks.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said noncommittally. An elderly seaman brought in his coffee and placed it on a small adjacent table.
Dorchester extended his hand with the envelope, then paused and frowned. “I must say something about your absconding with Louisa’s crew.”
“I thought the change would do them good,” Charles said quickly, and braced himself for a stern reprimand.
“I’m sure it would,” Dorchester said gruffly, “but think of the discipline. You must have had men running at every opportunity. How many did you lose?”
“I had no deserters, sir. We had very little trouble with discipline; nothing that couldn’t be handled. The only men left behind were the most seriously injured and disabled, amputees mostly.”
“No deserters?” Dorchester said, skepticism showing on his face.
“No, sir, not one.”
“Still, it’s highly irregular, highly,” he said, his tone softening. He handed Charles the extended envelope. “But there’s nothing explicit in the regulations about it, I checked. I’ll let it go this time. Don’t do it again.”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said, breathing easier. He broke the seal on his orders and, scanning the handwriting, noted that the Louisa was to return to Ferrol to watch over the Spanish frigate and impede her in any way he could. There was more, but he didn’t have time to read all of it.
“On his return to Gibraltar,” Dorchester continued, “His Lordship looked into Ferrol and found your Santa Brigida to be advanced in her repairs. He sent word back to me immediately to make Louisa our highest priority, with a note requesting that I see to it personally. In deference to his Lordship, I have done so, including the addition to her armament you requested. I think you’ll find the work satisfactory.”
“It seems well done,” Charles said earnestly. “I appreciate the time and effort you’ve put into it.”
Dorchester smiled his acknowledgment, then lifted his hand to indicate that he wasn’t finished. “I’m to tell you that His Lordship is also urgently seeking a second frigate to assist in dealing with the Santa Brigida once and for all. There is something about this in your orders, and I believe Captain Hillard’s Thalis will be available shortly. Hillard will have more detailed orders and an extra complement of marines. I am told a cutting-out expedition is contemplated.”
Charles’s heart sank. Hillard, he knew, was a post captain well up the first third of the Navy List, and as such would have overall command of any engagement. He would never have admitted it, but he didn’t want some other commander giving orders and taking credit for what Charles considered to be his own personal fight.
“His Lordship feels strongly,” Dorchester emphasized, “that, in the short term, containing the Spanish frigate in Ferrol is of the highest importance. In no event should she be allowed to run free. The damage she could do to British shipping is simply too great.”
“I understand, sir,” Charles said, anxious now to return to his ship and put to sea. “Is Louisa provisioned?”
“That will be done this afternoon.”
“My crew is seriously under its complement,” Charles said. “Our casualties from the previous battle have not been replaced.”
“I am aware of that, Commander,” Dorchester said, frowning. “How could they have been? We didn’t know where to send them.” Satisfied that he had driven home his point, he asked, “How many do you need?”
“We are short sixty-five seamen, sir.”
The admiral looked for another paper in the pile on his desk. Finding what he wanted, he studied it and said, “I can provide you with forty.”
“Experienced seamen, sir?”
“Commander Edgemont,” Dorchester said sternly, “you will have to make do with whatever is available. After all, you might get it in your head to take them to see St. Paul’s or to enjoy the waters at Bath next.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” Charles said.
THE LOUISA SAILED directly from Portsmouth on the evening tide the next day, sorting out her crew and practicing at her guns as she went. They sighted the familiar outline of Cape Ortegal on the northwest corner of Spain late in the afternoon in the second week in February. A heavy fog along the coast forced them to stand out to sea during the night. They had turned back toward land that morning only after the wind freshened moderately from just west of south and blew the mist away. The Louisa made landfall again off Cape Villano, had worn, and now approached Ferrol from the southwest on easy seas with long undulating swells and a light but steady wind on its larboard quarter.
Charles leaned against the lee quarterdeck rail next to Daniel Bevan, listening to the breeze whisper through the rigging and the gentle groan of the timbers as the ship slowly rolled over the easy sea. He stared absently at the distant gray mass of the passing Galician mountains, wondering about the Santa Brigida, how far along her repairs really were, and where the timbers and supplies had come from with which to repair her. Perhaps the Spanish authorities had decided to restock the Ferrol yards for use as a fully functioning naval base once again. In any event, he would soon know; the entrance to Coruna Bay should almost be in sight from the masthead.
“Deck!” the lookout in the foremast crosstrees shouted. “There’s a ship in the entrance to the bay.”
“What bearing?” Charles called up.
“Two points to starboard, sir, maybe fifteen miles afar.”
“What heading?”
“She’s tacking to the east, out to sea, like.” There was a pause. “I recognize her t’gallants. She’s the Spanish frigate, sir! The same as we fought before.”
“Do you want to stand out again?” Bevan said, a trace of anxiety in his voice. “We’ll want the searoom.”
Charles thought for a moment. “Crosstrees,” he yelled. “Is she in or out of the bay?”
“Almost out, sir. She’s just under the fort,” came the reply.
He gauged the wind on his cheek and stared hard at the outline of the distant mountains.
“No,” Charles said to Bevan, coming to a tentative decision. “We’ll run straight down large on her and see what we have. We can stand out later if we want to.”
Within two bells the Santa Brigida’s topgallants were visible from Louisa’s quarterdeck—white specks outlined against the darker bulk of the land. The spot
s slowly grew and assumed an oblong shape, slivers of her topsails appearing beneath them.
“She’s making slow going,” Bevan observed. The distant sails seemed hardly to be moving.
“Yes,” Charles said, more to himself than his lieutenant. “There’s not much wind, and what there is isn’t in her favor.” His mind raced, trying to calculate the advantages and liabilities of his position. “Clear the ship for action, Daniel.”
Bevan looked at him with alarm. “You’re not going to fight her in the mouth of the bay?”
“I don’t know yet,” Charles said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the Spaniard’s sails. “I need a better picture. In the meantime, clear the ship for action. We’ll beat to quarters in half an hour.”
Bevan muttered something unintelligible under his breath and gave the order.
Charles left the quarterdeck and made his way to the foremast shrouds with his glass. He climbed slowly, finally reaching the high platform at the crosstrees with his ankle aching and short of breath.
“Mornin,’ Cap’n,” the lookout greeted him, sliding over to one side to make room.
“Good morning,” Charles said, and lowered himself gingerly down to a sitting position, his back to the mast. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Connley, sur, topman,” the lookout answered.
From high in the rigging Charles could see the entire land- and seascape spread before him—the entrance to the bay, the forts, the white froth of the reef, and the frigate now about seven miles away. The Santa Brigida was close-hauled, about as near to the wind as she could lie, and had just cleared the promontory that marked the far end of the mouth of the bay. Raising the glass to his eye, he saw her sails ripple, indicating that she was having difficulty with the wind eddies off the headlands. Charles watched his enemy closely for about ten minutes, studying her progress and her relationship to the features of the land and sea.
