Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (27 page)

Charles had already read to them the thirty-five Articles of War (which he was required to do by act of Parliament at least once a month) the previous Sunday. The articles laid out in explicit detail the activities prohibited on His Majesty’s ships and their attendant punishments, usually flogging or death. Now he wanted to explain why they were on board, what was expected of them, what rewards might come their way, and hint at what type of captain he would be.

This would be the first time in his life Charles had addressed so many people, and he felt more nervous than he had expected to. “Our task is to defeat the French and her allies at sea wherever we meet them,” he began in a slightly faltering voice, which he covered with a cough. “I have noticed that we are not yet ready to do this.” A ripple of subdued laughter, mostly from the experienced seamen, spread across the deck as he had expected it would. Bevan moved to call for silence, but Charles stayed him. When the noise died away of its own accord, he continued. “I promise you that by the time we are called to action we will be ready to give England’s enemies more than they bargain for.” His apprehensions leaving him, he attempted a gesture, pointing at them. “If you follow orders and work hard I promise that
Louisa
will become among the best fighting frigates in His Majesty’s Navy—and, it is to be hoped, the richest in prize money.

“Some of you have a lot to learn,” he went on, much more easily now, with a broad sweep of his arm. “This is all new to many of you. There’s no shame in that. Listen to your officers, follow their orders, and you will all become expert sailors and proud of your profession. It will be hard and you will make mistakes. All I ask is, don’t make the same mistake twice.”

The faces continued to stare at him expectantly until it was clear that he was finished. Then someone yelled “Three cheers for the captain!” Charles had taken Jonathan Cleaves, one of the master’s mates, aside earlier and told him to yell that. Three indifferent “huzzas” followed from the waist of the ship. Charles waved his arms for silence. “Three cheers for the
Louisa
and her crew!” he shouted back, and the men broke into a series of uproarious shouts. With the noise still echoing across the deck, he turned to Bevan and said, “You may pipe the hands to dinner. Afterward we’ll exercise them aloft.”

“I WOULD BE
pleased if you and Lieutenant Winchester would dine in my cabin this evening,” Charles said to Bevan as they were standing on the quarterdeck, watching the topmen high in the topgallant yards practicing reefing the stiff new canvas. The more experienced were surefooted and confident even at those dizzying heights. The newer hands, at least those new to the tops, inched their way along the footropes, clasping the thick yard as if their lives depended on it, which of course they did.

“I don’t know, I’m sure, sir,” Bevan answered, his eyes never leaving the men working above. “Such short notice. I’ll have to consult my social secretary.” Charles was about to respond when his lieutenant interjected, “There, that man there, third in on the starboard yard. He’s no business being in the tops. He’ll kill himself.”

Charles saw the man Bevan pointed out frozen in place, clinging to the yard with his arms wrapped desperately around it. “Have someone bring him down,” he said quietly. “We’ll assign him somewhere else.” Finding good topmen could be a hit-or-miss proposition. Some were naturals, adapting quickly to working far, far above the decks on the wildly swaying spars, some came to it slowly, and some never adjusted at all. He listened as Bevan ordered a bosun’s mate into the shrouds to lead the man down—“and mind your bloody tongue, he’s scared enough already.”

“As to dinner,” Charles said, bringing them back to the subject on his mind. “I will expect you both at the end of the second dogwatch.”

“What’s the occasion?” Bevan asked, turning serious.

“I’d like your impressions of the crew, what we have and how do we bring them along. I think that should do for starters.” That was part of the reason, Charles knew, to discuss the ship’s business in a more relaxed and convivial atmosphere. The other part was simply to have company. He was rapidly discovering that being a ship’s captain was an exceedingly insular business. He answered to no one on board and the temptation to stand in splendid isolation, issuing orders from on high, was strong. Captain Wood had done that. Charles couldn’t remember him inviting his lieutenants to dine more than once or twice on the
Argonaut.
But the more he had thought about it, the more he liked the idea of regular, possibly weekly meals with Bevan and Winchester. Not only would it help to keep him informed of the day-to-day goings-on aboard ship, but it would also keep boredom away. He might do something similar with the warrants—the master, purser, gunner, surgeon, bosun, and so on—though not weekly, perhaps monthly. It would help him to get to know them better, and they him. The same could be said of the midshipmen, although that was a less interesting prospect. Some of them were mere adolescents and they ate like wolves. Which reminded him that he had to assign someone to see to their education, the basics only: reading, writing, spherical geometry, and celestial navigation. The small
Louisa
had no schoolmaster. Maybe the sailing master would agree to take that on; Charles would have to ask him. And if he invited all of them to dine in his cabin, and on his stores, on a routine basis, they would be obliged to return the favor. It would be good to visit the wardroom again from time to time, he decided. He missed the arguments, humor, the pranks, and tall stories he had known there. Of course, it would all be somewhat subdued with the ship’s captain present.

Dinner that evening, their first at sea in the
Louisa,
threatened to be a slow and awkward affair. It was as if neither Bevan nor Winchester knew how to relate to him as their captain when they were off the quarterdeck. Both lieutenants arrived wearing their best uniforms. Somewhat formal greetings were exchanged as Attwater took their hats and swords. “Wine before dinner?” Charles offered. “I have claret and port. I recommend the claret early in the voyage and that we don’t start on the port until that runs out.”

“Claret would be fine, sir,” Bevan ventured.

Charles nodded to Attwater. Bevan’s use of the term “sir,” which sounded more or less natural on deck, jarred him, but he let it go. “I have a toast,” he said as the wine was served. “To the
Louisa,
her officers and crew. May we all benefit from our experiences.”

“Especially the crew,” Bevan rejoined with a grimace. “God bless their lubberly, gaol-house ways.”

“And may God help their officers,” Winchester spoke. “We’ll need it.”

“No doubt,” Charles said as he lifted his glass and then drank. “The question is, what do we do about it?”

“What do you mean, sir?” Winchester asked.

“He means, Stevie, my boy,” Bevan answered, “how do we go about making this ragtag collection of misfits and criminals into the best frigate crew in His Majesty’s Navy? Do we bring them along fast and spotty or slow and sure? Do we start with sail-handling or gunnery, or both at once? Am I right, Captain?”

At that moment Attwater coughed discreetly to indicate that their dinner was about to be served. Charles gestured to the table laden with cooked freshly butchered pork and recently harvested vegetable dishes, purchased only hours before leaving port. As soon as they were seated, he said, “That’s exactly what I want to talk about. I have some ideas, but I’d like your thoughts.”

The dinner went well, with a lively discussion about new crews and their training, mixing experienced seamen among the raw ones, even (something Winchester proposed) holding small “theoretical lectures” on the various aspects of ship management, sail handling, and gunnery, explaining why things were done the way they were. “Oh, posh,” Bevan said of the suggestion, but Charles thought it worth trying.

“We’re agreed, then,” Charles said, consulting some notes he had scribbled as the after-dinner sherry was being poured out by a slightly tipsy Attwater. “We’ll concentrate on sail handling first, with explanations. Gunnery after they can get the canvas up and down properly. I suppose we must simply pray that we run into no enemy warships early on.”

“Agreed,” Bevan answered, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his belly. “Now, if you’ve had enough of us telling you how to run your ship, I suggest Winchester toast the king. I have the middle watch.” The toast to the king, always offered by the junior officer present and always given seated in the navy in deference to low shipboard deck beams, was the traditional signal for the evening’s end.

“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.”