Saturday passed into Sunday, while the Castor ran down the coast of Portugal with the weather worsening as they went. Church was in progress.
Troubridge began with a short opening prayer and advanced quickly to the Articles of War:
“Article One: All captains shall cause the public worship of ….”
Smythe bellowed from the mainmast lookout: “Quarterdeck, there! Sail ho!”
“Where away, Smythe?” Ratcliffe yelled back.
Captain Troubridge continued as if nothing had happened, “… Almighty God, according to the liturgy of the Church of England established ….”
“Weather quarter,” shouted Smythe.
Troubridge nodded to Lt. Froste.
“Lieutenant Tripp,” called Froste, “send another up there with a glass to give us a second look.”
“…established by law, to be solemnly, orderly and reverently performed in their respective ships ….”
Mr. Aubrey, soon in the top, called down, “Gone in the mist.”
Troubridge continued reading; a half hour passed. Apparently satisfied that he had provided sufficient reminder to the old hands and struck fear into the new, he closed his book and called for a short hymn.
Captain Troubridge turned to speak to Lt. Froste again and, a moment later, Froste’s utterance of “Dismissed!” abruptly ended an unusually short service. He did conduct the usual inspection of divisions, however, and what seemed to be a more careful inspection of the great gun stations.
Neville stepped out into the main chains and was looking aft, studying the sea to the northwest. The previous day’s nausea was almost gone, and the fresh air helped. He could see nothing of sails.
Daniel came up behind Neville and touched him on the elbow. Neville jumped, having been so intent on the activity. “What do you think, Neville? Frenchie?”
“Dunno, but it might be. I’ll wager the captain doesn’t slow down to find out. Mebbe lookout can see something from an ‘undred feet up there, but I can’t see anything from here.”
A half glass later, Smythe cried from above again, “Sail ho! Weather quarter!”
“How many, Mr. Smythe?” called the captain. From so close, his voice boomed in their ears.
“Just one. Can’t tell whose; about four leagues distant and following.”
By afternoon, topsails could plainly be seen from the deck, so the unknown ship was definitely moving faster than the Castor.
“Lieutenant Ratcliffe says she’s English-built. Another half hour and we’ll know more,” said Froste.
A noticeable shift of the wind to the northeast occurred during their conversation, and it strengthened. “This could bring that ship down on us even faster if she desires,” said Ratcliffe to Neville, “and she’ll have the weather gage.” The two of them looked skyward.
A low rolling thunder followed, the sound riding on the wind. The sky was not yet fully overcast, and did not look so dark as to produce rain yet, though it would probably not be long in coming.
Burton and Ratcliffe looked to the captain, who had just said something to Mr. Graesson.
“Lieutenant Froste. Clear this ship for action, and put your watch on it. Run out the wind’rd guns.”
Men began running about like ants around spilled honey. Neville heard noises he had only before heard in practice. The captain’s cabin was being torn apart below decks. Marine sentries appeared at the hatches, fully armed. As he was running to his station at the starboard guns, he could see the splinter nettings being drawn up above him.
The ship behind was hull up – had been for five or ten minutes.
“English colours,” screamed the lookout.
Lt. Froste, his long glass resting on the pin rail amidships, called back to the Captain, “Mermaid, Sir. fifth-rate frigate under Captain Trigge; I’m sure of it,” he yelled in a voice rising to defeat the wind.
“Better safe than sorry. Have the men run in and stand down, Lieutenant Froste. How long to clear?”
“Five minutes and thirty seconds, Sir. We’ll have words with the hands.”
“Damn right you will. And take that man’s name.” Troubridge spat back at him, pointing to a seaman leaning on the rail watching Mermaid approach. It was obvious that he wanted the entire ship to hear his displeasure – or his relief.
“House the guns. Pass word for Mr. Colson.”
Midshipman Colson ran to the foot of the quarterdeck ladder, expecting a call for signals.
With no sail change expected, Neville descended to stand by the mainmast bitts in readiness for any order that might come his way. From ten feet away, he could see Colson pulling the jumbled bag of signal flags out of its locker beneath the quarterdeck steps; this may have been the first time it had been accessed on this cruise for anything more than a waft or the ensign. It certainly didn’t look as if Colson had sorted it.
Neville could see when Colson opened the sack that the flags were in no particular order and were not packed heady to hoist. As it was untied, some of its contents spilled; some flung wide in the stiff breeze. Both midshipmen jumped after the flags which, by luck, had wrapped themselves in the shrouds at the mainchains, and ran back to grab the sack before even more flags went astray.
“Thankee, Burton,” was all Colson had time to say. As signals mid, it was Colson’s responsibility to keep the signals in proper order, but it was obvious that he had not done so.
Lt. Tripp yelled down, “Signal Mermaid to speak.”
Colson grabbed two flags, stuffing the others back in the sack. He left Neville to close it properly and ran up the steps. In a sudden panic, Neville realized that Colson had the wrong flags for the hoist. He still needed to take a moment to dig in the sack for the proper flag and secure the sack before the wind whipped it away. He then charged up the steps after Colson, shouldering Lt. Tripp aside when he saw Colson attaching the flags. Before hoisting, Lt. Tripp would be required to approve the signals, and Colson’s error would be discovered.
“I’ve got this, Burton. I don’t need your help,” said Colson, but when he saw the flag Neville was holding out to him, he turned red in realization of his error and snatched it.
“What’s this about? Let me see what you’ve got there,” demanded Tripp.
“Where’s that signal, Lieutenant?” questioned the captain, looking up from his pacing at the weather rail.
“Checking it now, Sir.”
“This is not ‘Close to speak’. You’ve got ‘Engage the enemy’. This one in Burton’s hand is what you need. Get that up.”
Neville slunk back down the steps. Colson had the flag balls attached to their halyards; they were run up and stood straight out in another few seconds.
“She answers, Sir,” Colson reported, and Lt. Tripp relayed it to the captain, as was proper procedure for the officer of the watch, even though the captain was only a few feet away.
“Pipe the hands to dinner, Mr. Froste,” ordered the captain. “It’ll be an hour before we’re close enough … and put my cabin back together, would you, please.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Mr. Colson, please follow me down the stair.”
At the foot of the steps, which was Neville’s post at the foot of the mainmast, Lt. Tripp confronted the pair. He was looking down at the signals sack, bunched and tied sloppily, and did not look pleased. “What was that about, Mr. Burton?”
“It was my fault, Sir,” replied Neville. “He said these two, and I guess I just handed him the wrong one. Then the wind got hold of the bag, and I had to set it to rights before I could chase him up the stair. It won’t happen again.”
“As you wish, then, but it isn’t your job, is it? Next time, Mr. Colson will not use your assistance. Right, Mr. Colson?” he queried, walking away.
“Right, Sir. Aye, aye.”
HMS Castor spilled her wind for the next hour while Mermaid charged forward to catch up with her. When she was close behind, both ships let fly sheets in order for the captains to speak.
It was clear that they would not speak for long. The wind was rising still, and with it the waves. The entire sea was white, and the sky was almost closed over with dark cloud. Thunder pealed, and the first sprinkles of rain came fitfully.
Burton was not able to pay much attention to the process of speaking Mermaid. The Captain yelled into his trumpet and was answered the same way, sometimes with repetition.
He heard: “ … five days out of Plymouth … at Gibraltar … join Hood at Toulon.”
“Mr. Graesson, haul sheets. It looks as though we have a travelling companion. Same course, south by sou’west.” Then Troubridge bellowed forward, “Smartly, now, smartly! Call all hands to reef tops’ls before something carries away. Hands to the halyards, there!”
From his perch, where he supervised his men high on the mainmast, Neville noticed the ship’s changed motion. With tight sheets, Castor returned to the steady creaking roll of a downwind run. The wind was higher than it was before, causing white spume to fly. Rigging thrummed, and the masts and hull groaned with the passing of each wave. Nothing looked to be in danger of carrying away, so he returned to the deck.
Lt. Tripp walked up shortly and uttered, “Ah, the Bay of Biscay … I wouldn’t want it any other way, would you Burton? Cap’n’s ordered grog out as soon as we’re set. It’ll be a hard night, I suspect. Send the men down directly on the bells. There they are,” he concluded as the familiar faint chiming reached his ears. “But, wait a minute. That thing with the signals …. What was that?”
“Just what I told you, Sir,” Neville lied. He saw no reason to get his messmate into any trouble. He assumed Colson would be taking much more care from now on.
“Neville, what’s with Colson?” asked Aiden.
“Why, what’s he doing?”
“He’s sitting in my mizzen top reading a book, ain’t he? And he says Lieutenant Tripp told him he’s not to come down until after grog’s served out.”
“Hmmmm. Dunno.”
Neville was back on deck for the last dog watch. The weather had deteriorated significantly. “This is the biggest storm we’ve ever seen, Daniel. These waves must be thirty feet high.”
Waves marched past the ship with unfailing regularity. The ship surged forward as the stern quarter rose, shielding them slightly from the wind that rumbled around their ears. It would be almost quiet for a moment, until the bow began its plunge downward into the great trough beyond. Then she rolled when the wave passed beneath her center. When the wave slid forward under the fo’csl, she rolled back and dropped the stern into the next trough, corkscrewing her way across the ocean toward Galicia.
Their conversation was held in those moments of shelter from the wind, and they held tightly onto the rail. “I think we’ll get plenty ‘o practice on our sea legs before we get to Toulon,” said Daniel.
“Toulon?” he asked. “Where did you hear that, Daniel? I only heard ‘Gibraltar’ when we spoke Mermaid.”
“Cor!” Daniel answered. “I’ve heard muchwhat before you. That’s a surprise. Lieutenant Tripp just told me. Captain’s read some of the orders to the lieutenants, and not said they were secret. It turns out my foretopman Benfrees was right. Remember he said he had a brother with Hood, and that he were in Toulon? We are indeed to join with Lord Hood’s squadron at Toulon, France.”
“Where’s Toulon, Daniel? And, why is Hood there?”
“Dunno, Neville, but it’s a French port. I know that much. Blockade duty, whatever that amounts to –
keeping the Frog Navy in port, methinks. I’m sure we’ll find out.”
After the ‘Mermaid incident’ and the dirty night that followed, the curtain of night was drawn up to reveal a surprisingly clear day, with one sail to the north. O’Hanlan, Burton, and Colson stood at the larboard rail, while Daniel’s watch was up shaking out a reef on the foretopsail. The wind had dropped considerably, but the sea was by no means calm. The waves continued to march by from aft, and were still the height of a good stone house. Finisterre was clearly visible to the east.
“Look there behind,” said Colson to Neville, “we’ve passed Mermaid in the night. It’s a good job we’ve no admiral checking to see if we’ve kept station, or I’d be hoisting signals every minute. And, oh, yeah,” he added, “thanks for covering for my mistake yesterday. I didn’t look in that bag before. I’ll have to straighten that up before Lieutenant Tripp starts digging into it.”
“It don’t signify,” he said, changing the subject back again. “I expect you’ll be signaling the Mermaid to ask something as soon as Froste’s on the quarterdeck,” mused Neville.
“Colson, lay aft,” Lt. McLay said as he walked by.
“So you say,” he said, more to Neville than McLay, and scurried away.
The seas calmed after Finisterre. The northeast breeze came at them over Galicia as they sailed south; it was a land breeze rather than one from the expanse of the boisterous Bay of Biscay. The wind itself had less anger to it as they reached the latitude of Portugal. It was noticeably warmer and, even at twenty leagues, there were faint wafts of smoke or cattle. The temperature continued to rise, and the seas remained calm as the ships found their way south, then west through the thirty-five miles of the Straits of Gibraltar and on into the Mediterranean Sea.
At four bells in the forenoon watch, the breeze arose again, this time from the east. It came on cats paws and increased to a frustrating alternation of puffs and lulls. The easterly current from the straits did more for their easting than ever the wind might; they drifted slowly across the continual stream of merchant traffic heading for the Gibraltar Gut. No eastbound vessel passed them by, since every ship was afflicted with the same cursed wind. Near the mouth of the River Guadalhorce, they wore south.
“This Mediterranean Sea can be the most scurrilous puddle you’ve ever tried to cross,” said Graesson. “We shall have no wind at all, as we see here today, torturing us with heat whilst we go nowhere, and next may be a beautiful clear day with half a gale blowing right at our bows. Since we have no sailing to do, we shall do our trigonometry….”
For three days, the Castor continued thus, from the Guadalhorce to Melilla on the Barbary Coast, and from thence north to near Spain’s Almeria and back south to Africa at Oran. The repetition of sail and course changes was broken by another afternoon of gun drill, during which considerable progress was exhibited and no one was injured. Finally, with a wind backed to the northeast, Mermaid and Castor began the beat together under all sail for Toulon.
3 - “Angelique”
The sun rose directly on the Castor’s bows the next morning. All sail, but no wind. The steady northeast breeze of the day before was gone. Wind waves and white horses were replaced with ripples that twinkled with a brilliance that hurt the eyes. The sails, which had been full but a half hour before, hung limp above, and yards were beginning to bang on the masts. The morning sun had no layer of cloud to hide it.
“I am becoming quite weary, Daniel,” Neville said to him in the middle of the afternoon watch, “of climbing endlessly to the tops to furl or to shake out and then to change course and back again.”
“As am I, Neville, that’s for sure.”
“On top of that,” Neville said, “I feel as if I’m the Sunday roast.” He felt a trickle of sweat running down his back under the heavy blue uniform. “If we have to stand up there long, I swear I shall melt.” They climbed to the quarterdeck with their sextants.
“Deck, there! Sail ho!” hollered Smythe, the same man who had first spotted Mermaid in the Bay of Biscay.
Troubridge, who had been talking with Ratcliffe, completed his sentence and then looked to the maintop.
“Where away, Smythe?” yelled Ratcliffe.
Smythe pointed north and answered, “Fine on the’ Starboard bow.”
The captain noticed Neville. “We should be north of all but Spanish or French shipping. Mr. Burton, take a glass into the tops and give us a shout, if you please.”
It took Neville a minute t
o steady his big glass after arriving at Smythe’s side. “Why do you think this one’s different, Mr. Smythe?”
“Which he carries that long pendant from the main, Sir,” he answered. “It don’t look English. And, it ain’t in Spanish colours.”
A few minutes later, Neville yelled down: “Captain. French for sure. Course east.”
“Lieutenant Froste. Set all courses,” said Troubridge, “and call Mr. Colson to Signal Mermaid: ‘Enemy in sight. Make more sail.’ ”
The bo'sun’s mates began piping the hands. Neville slid to the quarterdeck and reported to Lt. Froste, while a group of officers stood nearby trying to overhear what news they could.
“She’s a brig, I’d wager, Sir, or maybe a corvette. She’s not ship rigged; maybe a packet for Marseille. From whence I could only guess.” Neville stopped there and politely waited for Froste to report the same to Troubridge without making further speculation. Speculation was the prerogative of a captain, and that only if he wished to share. This time he did.
“From Cartagena, most likely. If she hasn’t seen us yet, we may get between her and the coast. Then we can run her down as we wish. Mr. Burton, go visit Mr. Smythe again and keep a weather eye while we get what speed we can.”
“Lieutenant Froste,” he added as more of an afterthought, “no t’gallants yet. If he doesn’t see us, let’s not wave flags at him.”
Mr. Graesson came into his element. “We have luck today, Lieutenant Tripp,” he said. “See how the wind backs a point? That will make it harder for Frenchie to turn back, unless he comes down at us. We are not likely at our fastest, however,” he explained to anyone near him, “as we are full of water and stores and shot, and every other thing men bring with them aboard a ship.”
There was mumbling behind him – men speculating about prize money. “I would doubt there’s much prize money here; if she’s a packet; just a pile of papers and maybe a silly diplomat or two.”
The Glorious First Of June (Neville Burton: Worlds Apart Book 1) Page 4
