“I think this will do, sir,” Yelland said at last.
“Very well, Mister Yelland. Let go the kedge, springs on the cable!” Lewrie cried. “Topmen aloft, trice up and lay out t’take in sail! Open the gun-ports and run out!”
Shot keened overhead, and the main tops’l puckered as a shot punched clean through it. Another roundshot snapped the halliards of the middle stays’l between the main and foremast, bringing it down to drape the waist.
Sapphire rumbled and groaned as the kedge anchor cable paid out the stern hawsehole, squealed as the sheaves of the gun-port blocks lowered the ports, roared and drummed as the larboard guns were run out to thud against the bulwarks and hull. She snubbed as the kedge bit into the rock and sand of Corunna’s harbour, and began to ghost to a stop.
“Seize, and bring to!” Lt. Westcott could be heard yelling to snub the kedge cable. “Breast to the aft capstan bars! Mister Ward!” he called to the forecastle with a brass speaking trumpet. “Let go the bower!”
A 12-pounder shot passed close over the poop deck, clearing the larboard bulwarks by inches, but smashing the cap-rails of the starboard bulwarks as it caromed off. The Sailing Master and his Mates came tumbling down from where they had been making their calculations in a trice.
“Pass word to the gun-decks,” Lewrie ordered, “quoin blocks all the way out, load, and lay the guns!”
The first serge cartridge bags were being rammed down muzzles, followed by wadding, then roundshot. Lewrie leaned over the side to see the 12-pounders and lower deck 24-pounders jutting from the side, barrels jerking upwards as the wooden elevating quoin blocks were withdrawn, allowing the breeches to rest on the truck carriage beds.
Westcott was back at Lewrie’s side, speaking trumpet still in his hand, and they shared a look in the moment it took for Mids to dash up from below and report the guns ready. Lewrie gave him a nod.
“The larboard battery will open,” Lewrie gravely ordered, “by broadside. And skin the sons of bitches!”
“Larboard battery … by broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled.
Unconsciously, Lewrie crossed the fingers of his right hand along the side of his thigh as the guns lit off in a titanic roar, a sudden fog bank of powder smoke, and amber-red flashes of jutting flame that erupted from her side.
“Two-thirds of a mile, you made it, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie asked, turning to look for the Sailing Master.
“Aye, sir, about that,” Yelland said through a dry throat.
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” Lewrie groused. “Mister Harvey,” he called to the nearest Midshipman. “Aloft to the cross-trees with a telescope, and spot the fall of shot!”
“Aye aye, sir!” the lad said, snatching a glass from the binnacle cabinet rack and making his way to the larboard main mast shrouds.
The first broadside’s smoke was wafting away over San Diego Point, and Santa Lucía Hill was emerging once more.
If we can’t take their fire, we can get the bower up and the wind’ll blow us back on the kedge, then wheel back out to sea, he thought, taking time to look over to starboard at the other ships in port. Fully laden ships were shifting their anchorages further out of range of the French guns, some in groups that were leaving the harbour to stand off-and-on outside. The one transport that had been hit several times looked to be in a bad way, her main topmasts hanging over, her yards a’cock-bill in disorder, and listing a bit to starboard. At least the French weren’t firing at her, anymore.
“Run out yer guns!” Lieutenants Harcourt and Elmes could be heard from below as they pressed their gun crews to prepare for one more broadside.
“Shot was high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey yelled from aloft. “High and right!”
“Quoin blocks in a bit, Mister Westcott, and take in on the kedge cable spring!” Lewrie snapped, impatient for the adjustment in aim to be completed.
“Ready!” was shouted up to the quarterdeck.
“By broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott yelled, and Sapphire shook and roared as the guns lit off, as the truck carriages came rushing back in recoil. “Better aim as the barrels warm up, sir,” he said to Lewrie, with a confident wink.
A full battery of French artillery consisted of several 8-pounder guns, at least six of their famed 12-pounders, and a brace of howitzers. All were firing at a fixed target. Shot splashes towered close to the larboard side, Sapphire drummed to a solid hit, and a howitzer roundshot crashed down onto the starboard sail-tending gangway with a raucous shriek of rivened, splintered wood.
“Still high, sir!” Midshipman Harvey shouted over the din to the deck. “Traverse is still just a bit to the right!”
“Pass word, quoins in another inch,” Lewrie snapped, “and take another strain on the kedge cable spring!”
“Ready?” Westcott demanded after the adjustments were made. “By broadside … fire!”
What I’d give for fused shells! Lewrie bemoaned as the broadside bellowed, flinging heavy shot shoreward through the sudden pall of smoke. He’d dealt with fused mortar shells and bursting shot when he’d been at Toulon; he knew the dangers of such tricky, delicate shells being rammed down hot barrels, perhaps lighting the fuses as they were rammed down and bursting, destroying the guns and killing gunners. As he wished that he had stuffed some candle wax in his ringing ears, he began to imagine how that could be managed, despite the risks.
“Traverse is true, sir!” Harvey screeched, sounding triumphant. “Our shot is skimming the hill, by inches, I think!”
“Quoins out half an inch!” Lewrie shouted. “Serve the whores another!”
“Ready? By broadside … fire!” Westcott roared.
“Yes! Yes, that’s the way!” Midshipman Harvey yelled, far above the massive smoke clouds and able to see.
French shot was still striking close aboard, the ship boomed to hits crashing into her thick timbers and stout scantlings, and wood shrieked and squawked as the lighter upper bulwarks were ravaged. The fore course yard was hit, amputated just below the foremast fighting top, and both ends of the yard sagged downward in a steep V to drape furled canvas, and snap brace line, clews, and jeers. A Marine tumbled from the foremast fighting top with a thin scream, crashing to the deck in a pinwheel of arms and legs.
“Spot … on, sir!” Harvey reported, going hoarse.
“Pass word below,” Lewrie yelled, “our aim is spot on, and no adjustments are needed! Pour it on, Mister Westcott, pour it on!”
He lifted his telescope as the smoke thinned once more, peering hard to see the results of that last broadside. He saw raw divots in the slope just below the French guns, where roundshot had hit short and buried themselves, some lines ploughed a bit further upslope where other shot had ripped long troughs in the earth, as if God had drawn His fingers to rake at the French.
Damme, is that an over-turned gun yonder? he wished to himself.
Two-thirds of a mile range was just too far to make out close details, even with his strong day-glass, but he could make out French gunners scurrying to fetch powder cartridges from the limbers, which were hidden behind the crest of the hill. Their cannon and their wheeled carriages were little black H-shapes, surrounded by gunners who wheeled them back into position, fed their maws with powder and fresh shot … all pointed directly at him; he was looking straight down their muzzles!
“By broadside … fire!”
“Dammit!” he spat as his view was blotted out, lowering his telescope in mounting frustration. He wanted to see!
Climb the shrouds, high as the cat-harpings? he thought; No, it wouldn’t be high enough. I’d have t’join Harvey, and I’ve not been in the cross-trees in ages!
There were some good things about being a Post-Captain, or pretending to be one, after all!
“A gun dis-mounted, sir!” Harvey yelled down.
Lewrie whipped up his telescope again as the smoke cleared to a haze and did a quick count of the little H-shapes. Yes, there was one of them leaning to one side, with no one standing roun
d it!
“Serve ’em another, Mister Westcott!” he roared.
Firing, running in, swabbing out, loading, then running out and shifting the aim with crow levers; he lost track of how long Sapphire kept up her fire; he lost count of how many times his ship was hit. After a time, though, reports of damage came less often, and Midshipman Harvey’s shouts became more excited, raw and rasping as his throat gave out. Finally …
“Deck, there!” Harvey cried. “They are bringing up limbers! Three guns dis-mounted … they are retiring!”
Lewrie took a long, hard look, even though his eyes burned from all the irritants in gunpowder smoke, blinking away tears, swiping at his face with the cuffs of his coat sleeves.
Yes, by God! he told himself; They’ve had enough of us, they’re pullin’ out!
Horse teams, which had been sheltered near the caissons of shot and powder cartridges, could be seen near the surviving guns, being hitched up; carriage trails were being lifted to re-assemble guns to the limbers. One by one, the French battery was withdrawing to the shelter behind Santa Lucía Hill!
“Cease fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie bade in a croak through his dry and smoked throat. “Cease fire, and pass word below that we shot the living shit outa those bastards! Damn my eyes if we don’t have the best gunners in the whole bloody Fleet, tell ’em!”
“Took the better part of two hours, but we did it, sir,” Westcott said, grinning fiercely, his white teeth startlingly bold against the grime of gun-smoke that had coated him from head to toe.
“It did?” Lewrie said in wonder. “I didn’t keep track. Secure the guns, see that the hands have a turn at the scuttle-butts, then let’s take in the bower, make sail, and fall down on the kedge.”
“Aye, sir, I’ll see to it,” Lt. Westcott promised.
“Mister Yelland, still with us?” Lewrie asked, turning round to survey the quarterdeck.
“Here, sir,” the Sailing Master said. “My congratulations to you, sir.”
“Mine to you, sir,” Lewrie replied, shrugging off the compliment with a weary modesty. “I wonder, sir … might you have a flask on you?”
“Just rum, sir,” Mr. Yelland said, sounding apologetic.
“I think we’ve earned ourselves a ‘Nor’wester’ nip, don’t you, Mister Yelland?” Lewrie asked.
“Why, I do believe we have, sir!” Yelland cried, breaking out into a wide smile as he handed over his pint bottle.
* * *
“There is a hoist from Admiral Hood’s flagship, sir!” one of Undaunted’s Midshipmen announced to the officers on her quarterdeck. “It is … Sapphire’s number, and … Well Done, no … spelled out … Bravely Done!”
“And so it was,” Captain Chalmers said with a vigourous nod of his head, “though I do wish that Captain Lewrie had summoned us to aid him.”
HMS Sapphire was standing out from her close approach to the shore, gnawed and evidently damaged, but putting herself to rights even as she made a bit more sail. Captain Chalmers could hear the embarked soldiers and transport ship sailors raising cheers as the old 50-gunner Fourth Rate passed through their anchorages. Ship’s bells were chimed in salute, clanging away tinnily like the parish church bells of London. Chalmers’s own crew was gathered at the rails waiting for their chance to cheer, her, too. He looked round cutty-eyed to seek out Midshipman Lewrie, and found him up by the foremast shrouds, safely out of earshot.
“Pity that the ‘Ram-Cat’ is such a rake-hell of the old school,” Chalmers imparted to his First Officer in a close mutter. “He don’t even have a Chaplain aboard! From what I’ve heard of him, it’s doubtful if one could even call him a Christian gentleman. A scandalous fellow, but a bold one. Runs in the family, I’ve heard.”
“Surely not in his son, sir,” the First Officer said.
“Perhaps we’ve set him a finer example, and altered the course of his life,” Chalmers said, congratulating himself for being one of the principled, respectable, and high-minded sort.
Then, as HMS Sapphire began to come level with Undaunted, about one cable off, Captain Chalmers doffed his hat, waved it widely, and began to shout “Huzzah!”, calling for his crew to give her Three Cheers And A Tiger!
Scandalous reprobates still had their uses.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Night on the open sea, as dark as a boot, with the Westerlies keening in the rigging, and HMS Sapphire plunging and hobby-horsing under reduced and reefed sail. The clouds overhead were thick, and there was no moon. Captain Alan Lewrie was on deck, bundled up in his boat cloak, with a wool muffler round his neck, and his oldest hat on his head, peering into the darkness to count the many glowing taffrail lanthorns of the transports ahead of his ship to make sure that none of them were veering off, or lagging. There were even more astern, a second convoy low on the Southern horizon, with its own escorts over-seeing its safety. And, far out on the Northern horizon, beyond his own group, hull down and barely guessed at, there were even more, their night-lights winking as the sea surged ships atop the long rollers, then dropped the trailing ships into the deep troughs. All bound for some port in England.
He paced about, from the windward side which was his, alone, by right, to the helmsmen at the massive double-wheel, then down to leeward for a bit, where the officer of the watch, Lt. Elmes, stood.
Looking forward along the length of his ship, he could see a wee glow from the lanthorn at the forecastle belfry, and the ruddy square glows of the hatchways that led down to the upper gun-deck.
England, my God, he wearily thought. He had no idea if Percy Stangbourne had survived the last French assaults, and wondered what would happen when he mailed that promised packet of letters for him. Most of the army was off and away, large clutches of ships sailing as they were filled and sorted into convoy groups. There were still ships waiting at Corunna for the rear-guard, for the men who spiked the guns and despoiled what was left in the depot that could not be carried away. He had no idea what their fate might be.
At least the people are in good takings, he noted as the sound of music came wafting up from below through those hatchways. “Spanish Ladies,” “The Jolly Thresher,” “One Misty, Moisty Morning” were being sung in hearty bellows. The crew was happy; they would be in England soon.
He frowned, feeling very glum, as he speculated if he would be going back to Spain, to Gibraltar, or Lisbon anytime soon. Would Thomas Mountjoy still have need of him and his ship, or would he and Sapphire be sent halfway round the world to do something else? And, there was Maddalena to gloom about. If there was no return to Gibraltar, they would never see each other, again, and he would have to send her a very sad letter and a note of hand with which to support her ’til she managed to find someone else who would see to her up-keep.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he growled.
To make things worse, the musicians below struck up a new tune, and a strong tenor voice, he thought it might be Michael Deavers from his boat crew, began to sing “Over the Hills and Far Away.”
He only could recall the few lines that Captain Chalmers had sung, even though he had tried to play the tune on his penny-whistle that afternoon.
“‘And I would love you all the day … all the night we would kiss and play, if to me you would fondly say, over the hills and far a-way,’” he mouthed along under his breath, humming the tune at the rest. “Oh, damn, but I’m sorry, girl,” he whispered. “Minha doce … meu amor.”
Over the hills and far away.
AFTERWORD
Napoleon Bonaparte, self-crowned Emperor of The French, must’ve been very bored when he decided to overthrow the Spanish Bourbon king and conquer the Iberian Peninsula. Oh, there was still England to be invaded (he hadn’t completely given up on the scheme) but he’d beaten everybody else in Europe, had Russia cowed and allied (sort of) with his Empire, and ruled the roost from the Atlantic to the Germanies, Poland (still beholden to Russia, anyway), and most of Italy.
There was Portugal, long a friend of England,
that must have her ports closed and all her trade with Great Britain shut down, to complete the implentation of his Berlin Decrees and establish his Continental System to destroy British–European trade and bankrupt his last enemy. Fine and dandy, but, why Spain?
After all, Minister Manuel Godoy had cozened his country into an alliance with France in late 1804, had handed over good warships, money, food, and access to Spain’s overseas colonial ports, not that the French were in a position to take advantage of that after losing control of the seas after the Battle of Trafalgar. Spain was supine, a lick-spittle ally, and as said in A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy … “mostly harmless.” Napoleon was allowed to march an army through Spain into Portugal and conquer, but occupied cities in the North and centre of Spain. Did he really imagine that by conquering Spain he also gained every Spanish colony in the world, including the Phillipines in the Pacific? Or, was Spain merely a stepping-stone to grander ambitions, like seizing both Gibraltar and Ceuta, then crossing into North Africa, marching East to Egypt (again!) and even to British-held India? You have to give it to him; the little bastard dreamed big!
There was no real point to it, but, perhaps Napoleon thought it would be a walk-over. He did not take into account the Spanish people, nor did he take into account, or thought very little of, the British, who thought it possible to confront Napoleon on land, at last.
Everywhere that French armies went, once they had conquered a new province or country, they usually found quick-thinking collaborators who’d go along with them, and populations so weary of all those Thirty Years’ Wars and Hundred Years’ Wars that had plundered their lands and wealth that they would meekly succumb and try to make the best of things. Garrison duty was usually dull for the French, and they could quickly enlist, or conscript, young men into “allied” militaries who could police their own countries, and march to flesh out the already-massive French armies.
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