The Barbed Crown

by William Dietrich

  The woman was clearly balmier than Emma Hamilton. Surrender to her command? Still pretending she was a comtesse? Returned under armed guard? I’d be tortured for information I didn’t have, and then disposed of.

  The bigger question was whether she was telling the truth about my wife. Catherine had made a fool of me already, and I trusted nothing she said. But she gave my mission new urgency. It was even more imperative that I find and rescue Astiza and Harry on my own. Yet I was trapped in an anchored fleet. I looked wildly about, as if I might find an answer in the admiral’s great cabin.

  “It’s distressing news, I know,” Villeneuve said. “This woman Marceau, she’s your lover?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “A political ally then?”

  “An enemy. She wants me at her mercy in Paris.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if such machinations occur all the time. Which they do. “My news is just as catastrophic. Word has come that Vice Admiral François de Rosily-Mesros has arrived in Madrid from France. Do you know what that means?”

  “He has been sent to make peace?” I’m always hoping.

  “Hardly. There’s no reason for a rival French officer to be in the middle of Spain unless he was en route to Cadiz, and no reason for Rosily, a senior and elderly admiral, to come all the way to Cadiz unless he has been ordered by Napoleon to replace the vacillating, hapless, Admiral Villeneuve—me.” His tone was ironic. “The new commander is delayed in the Spanish capital by a broken carriage and the need to assemble an escort against the bandits of western Spain, but still, he was only four hundred miles away when this letter of warning was sent to me. Even now he may be approaching. Which means Villeneuve’s career is over.”

  The admiral was referring to himself in the third person, as if already obsolete. Not encouraging. “My commiserations.”

  “Unless,” Villeneuve said grandly, “Villeneuve sails and proves his courage.”

  Suddenly, I saw why the admiral thought our letters needed to be shared. We were both men in a hurry, he to salvage his reputation, me to save my wife if she could still be rescued. Honor and glory motivate the military world, and a man’s rank is fixed not just by the braid on his shoulders but courage to the point of rashness. Villeneuve faced a grim choice. He could take an unready fleet out to battle and risk the lives of tens of thousands of soldiers and sailors. Or he could meekly wait to be dismissed, disgracing a thousand years of family history.

  “If you remain at anchor you’ll be replaced within days,” I summed up.

  “Exactly. And you’ll be transferred in irons to Paris. But if we’re at sea, the Combined Fleet is still mine, and my future is still mine. So I put it to you, Ethan Gage. Should I put you under guard for escort to this schemer of a woman? Should I wait for Rosily to take my command? Or should we both sally against Nelson and trust to God that either victory or defeat will hurry us to our goals?”

  “Death or capture?”

  “Be optimistic, monsieur. Victory, and a prize to sail to Venice. A long shot, yes, but when the table is almost empty, does not the gambler stake all?”

  I’d no choice, nor was I being given one. I dared not put myself under the mercy of Catherine. The way to Astiza was gunfire and glory.

  I stood straighter than I felt. “Agreed.” Maybe I could swim to the British when our ship went down. “I’ll bet on you over return to Paris.”

  Villeneuve seemed relieved by having his hand forced, as if a weight had been lifted. “Don’t be too pessimistic, Monsieur Gage. We’ve more ships than the enemy, I hope, and the winds of war can blow both ways. La fortune des armes, n’est-ce pas? Nelson will make clever plans, but who knows which fleet will hold the weather gauge, be closest to Gibraltar, or throw the initial broadsides? A first punch can be decisive.”

  “I just make poor cannon fodder. I think too much.”

  “Yes, I’ve considered your utility. You can read, and swim, and thus are unlike most of your shipmates. I suspect you truly meant well by coming here, and I don’t intend to keep you locked in irons as a condemned man while battle rages. I want you to fight with us with intelligence, courage, and free will.”

  I liked the sound of that plan, given the alternative. This Villeneuve was not a bad sort, I sensed, just the wrong man at the wrong time. “What do you propose?”

  He smiled wryly. “First, to lie down on the deck when the enemy broadside comes. We officers are required to stand tall to inspire our crews, but I allow the ordinary sailors to lie low to avoid the enemy cannonballs. If I were you, I’d kiss the planking in hopes of avoiding the worst of the flying splinters.”

  “Thank you, but not entirely reassuring.”

  “On the other hand, I’m reminded of your rather remarkable rifle. Such a gift from the emperor shows your talent as well as his favor. Consider being a sharpshooter for us in the rigging.”

  “That sounds most dangerous of all.”

  “Not entirely. Our navies employ different tactics. The British who are skilled at gunnery go for the guts of a ship, shooting hull against hull.”

  “I saw that skill at the Battle of the Nile.”

  “The French and Spanish have a different philosophy, necessitated by our rustier skills. The masts and sails are a target three times as high and almost twice as broad as the hull. So, with a less experienced navy, we shoot at the English rigging. There are three reasons to do so. First, it gives us a bigger target. Second, if we can bring down enemy masts, the English will wallow helplessly and give us time, with clumsier crews, to work around to stern or bow and rake them with impunity. Third, helplessness can simply encourage an enemy to surrender, so we capture an undamaged hull we can sell for more prize money, or press into our own fleet. There are two Swiftsures, one on the British side and the second our own, captured from the English.”

  “Yes, that Swiftsure was with Nelson at the Nile. Now it is deployed against him.”

  “So here’s my thinking, given your reputation as a marksman. The English will be shooting at our hulls while we are shooting at their sails. I wouldn’t want to be a topman on an English ship with all that French and Spanish iron whistling about my ears. But on a French ship, going aloft may be the safest place.”

  I considered this charity, my mind followed the shrouds and ratlines of the rigging to the spars far, far above. There were platforms like little tree houses up there, but I don’t like heights any more than I like caves or catacombs. “So long as the mast stays standing.”

  He shrugged. “Fortunes of war, again. But here’s my suggestion. I think a man of your talents is best employed by Captain Lucas of the Redoutable, which is a fine two-decker ship of seventy-four guns. It may escape the center of battle, while the Bucentaure will certainly be in the maelstrom.”

  “You’d give me a better chance? I’m not used to kindness, Admiral.”

  He shrugged. “The plight of your wife moves me. This letter makes me sympathize with your position; it’s terrible being at the mercy of a wicked woman. It’s too dangerous simply to put you ashore, where you’d be hanged as a deserter or put in irons for Paris, and too risky to allow you to carry observations back to the British. But Lucas could use you. More than any other officer he’s prepared to accommodate our weakness by attacking with boarders. He’s just four feet and nine inches tall, and jokes that low profile is useful for keeping his head attached to his shoulders as cannonballs come whizzing by. But his size makes him aggressive and innovative. He’s trained his crew in musketry and hurling grenades from the mast tops to sweep clear the enemy top deck. You could watch the battle from up high, escape the need to join his boarders, and climb back down when it’s all over. It’s the safest place I can think of. You may survive to seek your family.”

  “You are a better man than your reputation, Admiral.”

  “I’ve heard that Nelson is kind, too, constantly looking after th
e welfare of individual seamen. This is simple leadership. Kindness can infuse morale.”

  I felt faint hope. I’d no intention of shooting at the English, but I could fiddle aloft while the fleets burned. This Lucas, no bigger than a boy, might be just the kind of captain to stay on the edge of battle. When it was all over, I’d go to the winning side—almost certainly, Nelson’s—and demand to be sent on my way.

  It’s splendid how things work out, Sidney Smith had said.

  Better to have remembered Franklin: Wise men don’t need advice, fools don’t take it.

  “Thank you, Admiral. I agree, sailing is the best chance for both of us now.” Nelson wanted glory, Villeneuve to avoid humiliation, and I a way out of my oaken prison and a million miles from Catherine Marceau.

  So battles become inevitable.

  “If Captain Lucas has his way, you’ll win a great prize and have money to hunt for this wife of yours.” He shook my hand. “If she is not already roasted.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The Redoutable was indeed redoubtable, with 74 guns and 643 men, but it was just 170 feet long and small enough, I hoped, to steer clear of Nelson’s Victory, which was a deck higher, had 27 more cannon, 180 more sailors, and a tiger admiral out to finalize his place in history.

  Like all warships, every corner of Redoutable was crowded as a hot kitchen. At night the ordinary seamen swung hip to hip in hammocks, a hive of snores and farts that made a mockery of modesty. By day they practiced the deadly battle ballet required to serve crowded guns without trampling one another. Every man had a duty he learned by rote, but every ship had more sailors than needed to fill the gaps of the coming dead.

  The sensation belowdecks is of being corked in a crowded barrel. It’s dim as a cave because gunports are closed against waves in most weather. The sea smell is smothered by a musk of sweat, mildewed clothing, damp hammocks, salt-stained hemp rope and sails, wine, cheese, rum, bilge water, drowned rats, the pissdales where sailors pee, and the collected urine kept in tubs for washing clothes. A veteran connoisseur of naval imprisonment can pick out additional odors of oak, cooking coal, the ash of the ovens, tallow, tar, the heavy iron of the guns, and the pungent scent of gunpowder when that gingerly stored commodity is brought up to be fired in anger or practice. Vinegar and salt water, too, from attempts to wash things down, and vomit when the seas get rough. A call of nature is answered on the wooden seats of the head located under the bowsprit, where big swells mean a cold splashing. Sailors wipe with a tow rag, which is a rope with a ragged end that is rinsed by dragging it in the sea.

  The nose mercifully becomes insensitive, eyes adjust like a cat, and a constant stooping waddle to avoid deck beams becomes second nature. I still manage to knock my head, however. Nor do I escape feeling trapped in a thick wooden box designed to absorb cannonballs weighing as much as thirty-six pounds. Such a ship is built around its guns, is run for its guns, and is jammed with guns: sailors eat on a plank suspended by ropes over the barrel of each weapon. The Redoutable could hurl nearly a half ton of metal at an enemy with a single broadside. If such statistics sound obsessive, understand that naval war is a merciless slamming until one side yields first, with flesh-and-blood humans sandwiched between the oak and iron. Artists paint it as epic glory, but I’d seen the belowdecks fury at the Battle of the Nile, and the result is actually perfect hell. The object is to smash, smash, and smash, in a frenzy that sustains its own mad logic.

  It can be a handicap to know too much.

  That’s why I was grateful to have signed on with a captain shy of cannonballs, who wanted to win with sharpshooters, grenades, and a charge of boarders. Unfortunately, I learned upon transfer that Jean-Jacques-Étienne Lucas is also a bantam rooster of a man brimming with belligerency. He greeted me as if I were a knight-errant, eager for the fray.

  “The American marksman! I heard talk of you even in Paris, Monsieur Gage. You are perfect for my plans!”

  “My real talent is as an observer.”

  “The hero of Acre and Tripoli? Ha! Like all men of stoic courage, you are too modest.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “This will be a contest that will require every soul if we wish to prevail. I’ll tell the marines and soldiers you’ve fought Red Indians. It will inspire them.”

  This didn’t sound good at all, but I couldn’t be surprised. Naval captains live their lives for a showdown such as this one, some enduring entire careers without the sting of battle to relieve the boredom. The kind of showdown looming comes once a century, and capture of an intact enemy could set up a captain up for life, once the prize was sold. Moreover, I remembered too late that men like Lucas frequently make up for shortness with ferocity. He had something to prove, whereas I had more reputation than I wanted.

  The French and Spanish had a total of forty ships, thirty-three of them ships of the line, and twenty-six thousand men. This theoretically outweighed Britain’s thirty-three ships, twenty-seven of them ships of the line, and seventeen thousand men. The Spanish fleet included the four-deck, 136-gun Santisima Trinidad, the largest warship in the world, and the Combined Fleet had six hundred more cannon than the English. Properly employed, it should win a decisive victory.

  Its crews, however, were depleted by sickness and desertion. They’d been harbor-bound so long that sailors had little practice firing in the roll of the sea. Even the simplest sailing maneuvers were exercises in confusion because there’d been no opportunity for training.

  “We’ve one advantage, however,” Lucas explained, reviewing his own tactics by reciting them to me. I’d been allowed to bunk on an “English hammock,” or casket-like swinging cot near the wardroom, and wander the vessel without duties,

  since I was trained in nothing but shooting. As a result, as

  foreigner, diplomat, hanger-on, and friendless, I was the one person he could confide in without interrupting the chain of command.

  “We have nine thousand more men than the British. Soldiers and landsmen, true, but why not use them as such? We’ll broadside, of course, but my real strategy is to grapple, kill every Englishman on the uppermost deck, and board. We’ll trap their gunners belowdecks and rain grenades on them until they surrender. This is where you excel, Ethan Gage.” He clapped me on the back. “You will use your rifle to assassinate every officer in your sights.”

  “I admit I’ve been in a scrape or two,” I said politely. “But I really prefer talking things out, flirting with ladies, experimenting with electricity, and gambling at cards. Accordingly, I might actually be the most help below the waterline with the surgeon. It’s the safest place, I understand, and I’m clever enough to help with medical matters. If you keep me alive, I can write up your exploits in my memoirs.”

  “Ha! I think you like to joke, Ethan Gage! You can’t describe the most glorious battle in naval history by hiding below. You’ll write your book after you kill all my enemies. I think I’ll send you up the mizzen, the mast closest to me and the quarterdeck, and you can shoot down the English captain. We’ll win renown together, as Lafayette and Washington did at Yorktown.”

  Renown, as this exchange indicates, constantly gets me in trouble. “My advice is to keep a distance and save your ship for future duty. Nelson’s a bit of a madman. Already has his own coffin, just to give an idea of his mood. A charmer, though.” I aim to be fair.

  “I’m tired of hearing about Nelson. Does he want the end of our navy? Fine. I want an end to him. He’s haunted Villeneuve since the Nile. Shoot Nelson, Gage, and I’ll put you in my book. And send you to Venice, too.”

  So I reluctantly looked after my golden weapon, giving it a fresh cleaning and reflecting that gifts come with a price, as Napoleon knew when he armed me.

  Someday historians will make sense of the maneuvering that followed our lumbering exit from Cadiz, but to me we were a meandering herd of sail without clear direction, waiting to be attacked. We weighe
d anchor on October 19, but a light and fickle breeze meant that only Admiral Magon and six ships managed to work their way to sea that day. It took until evening of the next day to get the entirety of the Combined Fleet, twenty-five French ships and fifteen Spanish, untangled from the anchorage and out into the Atlantic. Several had to be towed by their boats. The glacial pace of the sally allowed huge crowds to line the shore of Cadiz as ship after ship slowly got under way, the wails of women carrying eerily over the water with a call as old as war itself. They feared their men doomed to slaughter by the notoriously able and ruthless English.

  The east wind that had released us swung to the south, blocking our intended route to Gibraltar and forcing the Combined Fleet west toward the British who lurked over the horizon. We watched anxiously for Nelson that first day. Finally, Sunday evening, October 20, a mild wind blew out of the west and enabled the Combined Fleet to turn and begin to straggle southeasterly toward the straits and, perhaps, escape. However, as the wind picked up that night, the untested vessels struggled to reduce sail with raw crews. A topman fell from the flagship Bucentaure. Our eager and sprightly Captain Lucas signaled we’d lower a boat to pick him up from the sea.

  I was surprised the fellow could swim long enough to survive. Commanders discourage sailors from learning to swim because it makes them less likely to desert in port and more likely to fight heroically at sea to avoid death by drowning.

  My father taught me to swim by pitching me into the Schuylkill and holding me off the dock with a pole. I didn’t appreciate the lesson at the time, but it’s served me since.