Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars (44 page)

CANNON FIRE SOON
became general from both ships, without rhythm or meter, as the guns were loaded and emptied as fast as the crews could work them. Now and again, Spanish balls crashed savagely against the
Louisa
’s hull, reverberating throughout the ship. He couldn’t be sure of the toll from the
Louisa
’s fire, but he saw splashes in the water all around from the Spaniard’s efforts, including a goodly number that had been fired well high and landed in the sea a half a mile or more beyond. A more concentrated burst than usual came from the
Santa Brigida
and Charles watched as wooden blocks and pulleys clattered loudly to the deck, followed by silent snakes of rope.

“They’re aiming for our masts,” Bevan offered.

“Maybe, but I doubt they can see our masts, or anything else of us,” Charles answered. “It’s just luck. If they send enough balls, they’re bound to hit something.” The pall of cannon smoke hung like an impenetrable fog from the sea surface almost to the lower yards, and the
Louisa
belched flame and ball into it over and over again.

Charles looked back at the Ferrol fort. He saw a puff from a cannon disappear in the wind, and someone was frantically running the Spanish flag up and down on its staff. He smiled grimly. He knew what the fort was trying to communicate to the
Santa Brigida
’s captain. The reef would be as invisible as the
Louisa
in the heavy fog of spent gunpowder drifting onto and past the frigate. He doubted the Spanish captain was thinking about the reef now, or that he could see the signal.

From the position of the Spaniard’s masts, Charles saw that the distance between the two ships had gradually increased as the heavier frigate had drifted further to leeward than the
Louisa.
“Bring the yards around and close the gap,” he said to Bevan. “I don’t want too much space between us.” He looked again at the Ferrol fort, checking for the position of the landmark he had picked out earlier.

The incessant crash of cannons seemed to continue interminably; the Spaniard began to exact a toll with its repeated strikes to the
Louisa
’s masts, hulls, and men. Another gun upset, a twelve-pounder in the waist, and then a carronade on the quarterdeck reared backward with a loud clang as a ball struck its muzzle. Charles didn’t want to lose any of his carronades. “Get that gun remounted or replace it with one from the port-side battery,” he ordered, then saw that it was already being done. The topgallant mast snapped at its cap and came twisting down with its yard, through the stays and shrouds to land almost gently on the deck.

He heard a loud rending crack and saw the
Santa Brigida
’s entire foremast swing in a wide arc toward the sea, pulling the main top and topgallant masts with it. Ragged cheers broke out among the sweating gun crews on the
Louisa
’s decks.

“Silence,” Bevan bellowed. “Tend to your business.”

Whether from attrition or exhaustion or both, the gunfire on the Spanish frigate gradually began to slow to arhythmic bursts with lengthening silences in between. The
Louisa
’s own rate of fire wasn’t as intense as when they began, but it was noticeably stronger than the
Santa Brigida
’s. The breeze picked up and the murk of gunsmoke slowly lightened, allowing Charles to see occasional glimpses of his opponent. Her sides were battered, with numerous upended muzzles. In places two, three, and—just aft of midships—four of her gunports were beaten into one. Strings of rigging trailed limply in the water.

The Spaniard’s hull, deprived of the leverage of her foremast and most of her mainmast, rolled noticeably in the gentle swells. Still she fired from this gun and that as her few remaining gun crews reloaded them and heaved the beasts out against their bulwarks, but it was clear that the fight had gone out of her. Even with the clearing of the smoke, her guns were poorly aimed, firing high or short as she rolled.

Charles checked the Ferrol headland and then looked at the Spanish frigate again, cocking his head and listening.

“She’s done, Daniel,” Charles said.

A crash of three guns fired nearly together from the
Santa Brigida.
The
Louisa
’s foretopmast cracked and swayed down, hanging by its stays.

“Not yet, she isn’t,” Bevan said.

“Yes, she is. Listen.”

During a silence between the firing cannons, Bevan listened. “I don’t hear anything,” he said. “Her guns have slacked off, but she hasn’t struck.”

“Not that,” Charles said. “Listen to the surf, the reef.”

Bevan stood silent for a moment as a wave broke on the rocks close behind the battered frigate. Both men heard it clearly. “Oh, God,” he said.

Charles paused to consider that he had finally defeated the
Santa Brigida.
Her masts and hull were broken and battered and so many of her cannon were unserviceable that she was virtually disarmed. He had in his hands the means to avenge the brutal punishment the
Argonaut
had received from her guns at St. Vincent. But he felt little of the satisfaction he thought he would. He could sink her now if he wanted to. He could continue to pour shot after shot into her almost unprotected hull, or he could simply order the
Louisa
to put on sail and leave. For the Spanish frigate there was no escape. The reef was too close. Without her masts, she had no hope of clawing clear. If he wanted to, Charles could even order the
Louisa
to linger nearby, to discourage any boats from shore from coming out to take off the survivors. Even in this moderate sea, it would all be over in a few hours: The
Santa Brigida
would slowly break her bottom against the rocks, fill with water, and sink.

“What are you going to do, Charlie?” Bevan asked, reading his thoughts.

Charles watched the wiry Spanish captain with the mustache running back and forth on his quarterdeck, calling out orders, exhorting, trying to get the most from his dispirited crew. The man showed determination to fight to the end and no awareness of the all-too-rapidly approaching rocks.

“Cease firing,” Charles said. “Get me a speaking trumpet.” The
Louisa
fell eerily silent.

“
Señor Capitán, Señor Capitán,
” Charles yelled through the trumpet. No one on the Spanish frigate noticed and she fired two more guns, one striking the
Louisa
’s hull. “
Señor Capitán, Santa Brigida!
” Charles screamed as loud as he could.

The man looked up quizzically. Charles saw that his uniform and face were stained with powder smoke and there was blood from a cut on his cheek. “Strike,” Charles yelled. “Strike your colors.”

A gun went off on the
Santa Brigida;
Charles watched gratefully as her captain gestured for silence, then cupped his hand to his ear. “
Qué
?” he shouted back.

“Is there anyone on board who speaks Spanish?” Charles asked Bevan.

“Beechum, I think.”

“Fetch him.” To the Spanish captain Charles shouted, “Surrender, strike, give up! For Christ’s sake, the reef’s behind you!”

The Spanish captain shouted something back. Charles had no idea what he’d said.

Beechum arrived. “Do you speak Spanish?” Charles asked.

“Some, sir. My nanny was Castilian,” the midshipman answered.

“Ask him to strike. Do it politely,” Charles said, handing Beechum the speaking trumpet.

The midshipman puckered his lips in concentration, then shouted,
“Háganos el favor de rendirse Usted.”

The Spanish captain clearly understood, frowned, and waved his hands in a gesture of dismissal.

“What did you say?” Charles asked.

“I asked him to please do us the courtesy of surrendering,” Beechum said.

“That was polite,” Bevan observed.

Charles grabbed the trumpet back and raised it to his lips. “Behind you, behind you!
Dientes del Diablo!
” he screamed.

Someone on the
Santa Brigida
understood him and looked around. Charles could hear the shouts of warning and dismay among the crew. He was right when he’d guessed that the reef would be invisible and forgotten in the heat of battle. The Spanish captain looked behind him in time to see a churning cauldron of foam as a swell washed over the black rocks. He turned back to Charles with a look of horror on his face.

“Get a cable to her, Daniel. We’ll take her in tow.”

“Aye aye,” Bevan said and hurried off to organize the work.

“Keswick,” Charles called to the bosun standing near the wheel. “Get as many hands as you can aloft to repair the rigging. We’re going to need all the sail we can carry.”

“What’s the word for surrender?” Charles asked Beechum. “Just the word.”

“
Rendición,
sir,” Beechum said.

A lead line had already been heaved across to the Spanish ship, whose remaining crew were pulling it in as fast as they could. The small line would be attached to a larger rope, which would be tied to a cablet, eventually connecting to the anchor cable with which the
Louisa
would try to drag the
Santa Brigida
to safety.

“
Rendición?
” Charles shouted across at the
Santa Brigida
’s captain. “
Rendición?
”

“
Sí, sí. Rendición,
” the captain called back, gesturing his surrender with his hands and calling for someone to haul down the Spanish flag from its place above the taffrail.

Charles turned back to Bevan. “Send Winchester over with the marines and as many seamen as he thinks necessary to take possession of her.”

The cable was passed with some urgency and fastened securely to
Louisa
’s bitts. She took the strain as gently as Eliot could manage, given her wounded masts and stays. Slowly they pulled the
Santa Brigida
clear and then several miles out to sea, where they hove to in order to carry out repairs to both ships.

THE SETTING SUN
painted the underbellies of the clouds in spectacular hues of orange and gold to the horizon. Charles felt content and blissfully tired; there were only a few more things he had to see to. He found an intact section of the weather rail and leaned on it, enjoying the sunset and wishing Penny could be with him to share it. He felt Bevan’s presence on the rail beside him. “What day is it?” Charles asked idly.

“February fourteenth, seventeen hundred and ninety-eight,” Bevan answered.

“One year to the day,” Charles observed, remembering their first meeting with the
Santa Brigida
at Cape St. Vincent.

“That’s true,” Bevan said dryly. “But, far more importantly, it’s a day you’d better write to your wife. I’m told they expect such things on St. Valentine’s Day.”

“Beg your pardon, sirs,” said Midshipman Beechum, “but Captain Manuel de Santa María de la Valencia is here to surrender his sword. He insisted, sir.”

“Show him aft and stay to translate,” Charles said.

The Spanish captain loped across the deck purposefully toward them, bowed to Charles with a flourish, said something lengthy to Beechum, and held his sword out in front of him.

“He says you are a most worthy opponent,” Beechum summarized. “He is honored to surrender his sword to a man such as yourself. He said more, sir, much more, but that’s the gist of it.”

Charles bowed equally deeply in return. “Tell him he can keep his sword. Tell him…hell, tell him all the proper things he said to me, with the necessary embellishments and niceties. Invite him to dinner in my cabin this evening so that he can meet my officers. Tell him I’d be honored. You come, too. I want to propose an exchange of prisoners—he and his men for the British held captive in Ferrol.”

He had wanted to add: “Tell him he’d needlessly murdered young Billy Bowles a year ago this day,” but he didn’t. That was over now.

LATE THAT NIGHT,
after the dinner was concluded and the cabin cleared, he sat down with quill, ink, and paper to write a letter to his wife. In it he told her of his love and how she was constantly in his mind and in his heart, how much he longed to be with her, ending it with, “And I captured a Spanish ship today…”

PHOTO: © PETER WORRALL

Born into a military family and raised as a Quaker, J
AY
W
ORRALL
grew up on a number of continents around the world, in Africa and Europe as well as the United States. During the Vietnam War he worked with refugees in the central highlands of that country and afterward taught English in Japan. Later, he worked in developing innovative and humane prison programs, policies, and administrations. He has also been a carpenter. Married and the very proud father of five sons, he currently lives and writes in Pennsylvania.

This is a work of fiction. Though some characters, incidents, and dialogue are based on the historical record, the work as a whole is a product of the author’s imagination.