by Jay Worrall
He stared at them in awe. They were a thing of terrible beauty, riding placidly at anchor in a line stretching south nearly two miles long. His attention was quickly drawn to the flagship L’Orient at the center, far larger than the others with three full decks of guns, 124 in all. Charles felt a lump rise in his throat. She was big, he thought, too big for the British seventy-fours.
Charles remembered Nelson’s orders. He was to note the manner in which the French fleet had arranged itself in as much detail as he could, then report back to Vanguard. He also remembered Nelson saying that he intended to attack without hesitation, and his preference for doubling their line so as to engage one section at a time with overwhelming force. From what Charles observed at the northern tip of the line, looking along its length, that didn’t seem possible. Perhaps the view along their front would reveal some opportunity. It would delay his return to the flagship, but he thought it worth the time.
“Daniel,” he said. “We will proceed beyond that small island up ahead and then turn into the bay for a better viewpoint. It would be advisable to place someone reliable in the forechains to take soundings as we go. It wouldn’t do to run aground now.”
“No, it wouldn’t,” Bevan said, his eyes fixed on the French fleet. He turned to issue the necessary orders.
“Mr. Sykes,” Charles called. “Would you be so good as to run down to my cabin and bring me the chart off my dining table.” From his memory, the bay was shallow, rarely over seven or eight fathoms, and shoaling to one or two a mile or more from shore. Louisa needed a minimum of three in order not to run aground, four to be safe. The heavier seventy-fours required the entire four fathoms.
Soon Sykes returned, and the chart was laid out on the binnacle. Charles moved to study it again as Louisa wore around the western end of the island. Aboukir Bay was thirty miles from west to east, about four miles deep, and relatively open to the sea on its northern side. The western end, just behind where the French had positioned themselves, was a treacherous warren of shoals and shallows, undetectable on the water’s surface. Out of curiosity, he took a pencil from his pocket and, using the soundings on the map as a guide, sketched where the four-fathom line ran. The outside of that would be safe for navigation; the landward side would not.
As they cleared the island, the entire front of the French fleet showed itself spread across the bay. From three miles away, Charles raised his pocket glass. The warships rode at single anchors by the bow, and there was a full cable’s length between them. That was interesting, he thought. They’d left themselves plenty of room to swing with the changing wind and current, although they had springs on the cables to keep their starboard broadsides facing outward. He surveyed the length of the line with his glass, lingering again on the massive flagship. It was a strong defensive formation, he decided grudgingly. Probably too strong, with the three-decked first rate anchoring the center, for any frontal attack by Nelson’s squadron. Charles searched for some weakness but found none other than that they were more widely spaced than would be usual for a battle in the open sea. Of course, this was necessary if they were to swing.
He also noticed three frigates and a familiar corvette, similarly moored behind the line of battleships. It seemed curious that they would be kept confined like that, instead of at sea scouting for an enemy, but it was not especially remarkable.
“I think that is enough, Daniel,” Charles said. “Wear ship. We shall return to Vanguard.”
Charles breathed a little easier. He’d found the French and would soon be able to report on their alignment to his admiral. He could congratulate himself that he’d done his duty, even if he had stretched the truth a little to accomplish it. Nobody would be upset about that now. He stared idly at the French line as the wheel came over and the sails braced around, putting the wind first on Louisa’s stern and then on her port beam as she turned. It was a little unnerving that he’d sailed baldly in front of an entire enemy fleet. He wondered if any of them guessed that Nelson’s squadron was at that moment running down on them from the west.
As they passed the island on the opposite beam, Charles returned to the chart. He thought to mark on it the exact location of the French formation to pass to Nelson. He looked up at the land to pick out some feature he could line up with the warships, found a suitable low hill, then bent over the chart to mark where they lay. He jerked up his head to stare at the French warships again. “My God,” he uttered.
“What’s that, sir?” asked Eliot, standing by his shoulder.
“They’ve left room to swing,” Charles said, more to himself than to the sailing master. “They’ve left room to swing,” he repeated.
Eliot eyed him, uncomprehending. “Aye,” he said. “It’s either that or put down two anchors. Twin anchors is a bother getting up.”
“Don’t you see?” Charles said, excitement growing in his voice. “The French have anchored themselves too far from the shallows. They’ve left room for a seventy-four to sail in behind them. They can be doubled.”
Before Eliot could respond to this, Beechum’s voice carried down from the foremast tops. Charles had forgotten that he was still up there. “Captain, sir,” he shouted, “Goliath is signaling. You should be able to see her from the deck.”
Charles turned to look forward. He saw two sets of sail from the topsails up, bearing down on him. They couldn’t be over five or six miles distant. He could see the signal flags.
“She wants to know how many French warships there are, sir,” Sykes reported.
“Answer that there are thirteen. Give a bearing,” Charles said hurriedly. The appearance of the two British ships of the line was troublesome. Where was the rest of the squadron?
“Beechum, what are those two sail?” he shouted up.
“Goliath and Zealous, sir,” Beechum replied.
“Where are Vanguard and the rest of them?”
The answer came back promptly: “About a mile behind, maybe more, in a bunch like. One or two are trailing.” After a pause, Beechum added, “Vanguard is signaling for us to return, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Beechum,” Charles shouted back up. “You may come down now.” Oh, hell, Charles thought. As Nelson had promised, his fleet was coming pell-mell at the French so as to give them no time to prepare. There was no way Charles could report to Nelson in time for the admiral to use the information Louisa had gleaned to shape the battle. By the time Charles reached the flagship, any number of the squadron would already be engaged. There was also no signal available to the British navy that would allow him to say the French line could be doubled, that they’d left room to swing on the landward side. He thought it unlikely that the English captains would see the opportunity on their own.
He took a deep breath. There was only one way he could think of to communicate unmistakably what he knew. “Daniel, put the ship on the reverse tack and clear for action,” he said. “After that, we will beat to quarters.”
TWELVE
“WE’LL LAY TO AND WAIT UNTIL THEY CATCH US UP,” Charles said. Louisa took in most of her sails, laid one on the mast, and slowed to a near standstill in the bright afternoon sunshine off the eastern tip of the small sand island at the edge of Aboukir Bay. The two leading British seventy-fours appeared hull up to the west, the masts of the rest of the squadron visible behind them. Charles turned his attention to the French line. Signal flags had soared upward on the nearest warships, indicating that they had sighted at least part of the squadron. L’Orient soon answered with her own bunting. Charles felt a sense of foreboding whenever he looked at the huge flagship. “Mr. Sykes,” he said, “please inform me when the leading British vessels have closed to within a quarter of a mile.”
Charles began to think about the preparations he must make if Louisa were to lead Goliath, Zealous, and others of the squadron into the narrow channel behind the French, and have any chance of survival.
“The ship is cleared for action, Charlie,” Bevan said. Just then the drummer began his roll to send
the men to their battle stations.
Charles waited for the noise to end. “See that the guns are charged and the crew at their stations, if you will,” he said to Bevan. “Do not open the gunports and do not run them out.”
“May I ask why not?” Bevan said.
There were several reasons that Charles could think of. It was ludicrous to consider placing the tiny Louisa alongside an enemy ship of the line and opening fire on her. He doubted his twelve-pounder guns would even penetrate her planking. A single French seventy-four, however, could deliver such a weight of twenty-four- and thirty-six-pound cannon-balls that his frigate would be crippled and might well sink in a single broadside. He had thought to leave the guns unmanned, but that might unsettle the crew, who took courage from their weapons. In any event, it gave them something to focus their attention on other than the large enemy line of battleships that would be passing within speaking distance along their port side. Another reason—this one admittedly more hope than certainty—was the centuries-old tradition among European navies that heavily armed ships of the line did not fire on smaller vessels such as frigates, corvettes, or brigs. It was not considered a fair contest and thus it would be dishonorable for a captain to do so. Unless, of course, such frigate fired, threatened to fire, or in some other way angered them first.
“I do not wish to provoke them,” Charles answered.
Bevan assumed a look of disbelief. “I understand, Charlie, that you are planning to sail blithely along behind the French line in order to demonstrate for the squadron that they might safely do the same. This is not a provocation?”
Charles answered hesitantly, “Daniel, I don’t know of any other way to inform the squadron that the French have left room behind them. It is our duty to do this. If we are fired upon, sunk even, in the course of doing what we have to, then so be it.” He met Bevan’s eyes firmly. “If you have a better plan, I would like to hear it.”
Instead, Bevan had a question: “Do you intend sailing their entire length?”
Charles hadn’t yet gotten around to what he would do after they were behind the line. “What do you suggest?” he said.
“Two ships, Charlie,” Bevan said. “I suggest that we pass behind the first two ships only. That’s enough to show there is room, and it is remotely possible that their captains will allow us to pass, from either surprise or disbelief. Then we cut between the second and third and, with the wind behind us, run like all hell for the open bay.”
Charles considered this thinking very sound. With a smile, he said, “All right, two ships only. It’s a pity, though; if we tried the entire line, we could have taken wagers on how many we might pass.”
“My money is on none,” Bevan said.
“Sir,” Sykes interrupted. He had been waiting and finally sensed a pause. “You asked me to tell you. Goliath and Zealous are within two cable lengths. Goliath has signaled Take station to leeward. Vanguard has also signaled the recall again.”
Charles looked over the starboard rail to see the two leading British warships bearing down on him and racing toward the French. It was probably a point of honor with their captains as to who got there first. Goliath ’s captain was ordering Louisa to get out of his way. It crossed Charles’s mind that Admiral Nelson would be growing quite vexed at him for responding to so few of his signals. Louisa’s bell sounded eight times, ending the afternoon watch. It was late in the day to begin a major battle.
“Mr. Sykes, if you would be so kind, please signal for Goliath and Zealous to form line astern,” Charles said in an elaborately calm voice that he hoped masked a growing anxiety. He strongly suspected Bevan to be correct: The first French warship they came to would perceive exactly what he was doing and blow them to kingdom come. He turned to Bevan. “We will begin,” he said. “I suggest we show as much canvas as possible.”
“Aye-aye,” Bevan said, and issued the orders. Louisa ’s sails soon filled, and she began to gain way.
Charles looked over the stern and saw that the two warships had taken up his wake. To his surprise, he noticed that both had run up Acknowledge flags on their halyards in response to his signal for them to follow. Both of their captains were vastly senior, and he knew he had no business issuing them orders of any kind.
Louisa rounded the island and braced up toward the end of the French line. On the far side of the island, he saw Audacious, Orion, and Theseus already beginning to make the turn, the remainder of the squadron not far behind. He looked ahead at the endmost French seventy-four. Even at two miles, she looked large and menacing. Charles thought of another detail that he should attend to.
“Mr. Beechum,” he said. “Where the hell is Beechum?”
“Here, sir,” the young man said, mounting the ladderway from the waist. “I’ve just been attending to the guns forward.”
“I apologize for my language. Please see that the boats are hoisted out. We will tow them along our starboard side.” If they were fired upon, it wouldn’t do to have the ship’s boats destroyed as well.
“Yes, sir.” Beechum touched his hat and went back into the waist.
“Mr. Sykes,” Charles called.
“Sir,” Sykes said, “Vanguard is still signaling for our return. Don’t you think we should answer?”
Nelson would not know what Charles was doing or why. He was probably furious by now. Well, Charles thought, that can’t be helped. It would all be clear within the hour. “Ignore any signals from Vanguard, ” he said. “If you would, please run up the Union flag on the mizzen.”
The French battleships looked larger now, impossibly large, still a mile away. The closest ship’s masts seemed to soar into the sky, a tiny wash of white surf around the dark hull where the current pushed against it. With his pocket glass, Charles could see a great deal of activity on her. The gunports swung open, and the black cannon poked out. Her officers stood in a group on her quarterdeck, looking in his direction, he was sure. There was a lump in his throat that made it difficult to swallow. He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them from fidgeting. It would be only about fifteen minutes until his precious little ship would pass just beyond the Frenchman’s bowsprit before turning to run at point-blank range along her far side. What would those French officers decide then?
Charles glanced aftward and saw that Goliath and Zealous were still dueling to see which would have the honor of being the first to engage. Goliath seemed to have a small lead. He noted with relief that both were closely following his course. He suspected they may have divined his intention to lead them behind the French, but he couldn’t be sure.
The arching bowsprit of the French ship of the line pointed like a giant spear into the clear blue sky as Louisa sailed across her bow. Charles could see the scrollwork at her beak and the rather admirable figurehead of a woman showing alabaster skin and gilded hair, with both breasts exposed. A single seaman stood just above and waved tentatively as they passed. Charles raised his hat and nodded in return.
“Put down the helm,” he said almost calmly to Eliot. Then, “Brace her around.” Bevan stood tensely beside him.
As Louisa turned under the bow of the warship, Charles noted with intense relief that her gunports were closed and no cannon awaited them. It took an almost desperate effort for him to remain standing motionless, as if he hadn’t a care in the world, while the towering oak side slid silently by not twenty yards away. A figure in an officer’s hat and epaulettes appeared at the railing when they were opposite the ship’s quarterdeck. Again Charles raised his hat, a polite greeting in passing. In response, the man produced a pistol, extended his arm, and fired. The ball gouged the deck near his feet with a sharp thunk.
“Don’t answer,” Charles said to anyone who might be listening on his own quarterdeck. “They have a lot bigger they could throw at us.”
The warship’s stern showed just ahead. Charles took a deep breath. Open water appeared beyond, and a full cable’s length before the next battleship. As they passed the rudder, he looked
up at the ship’s ornately carved stern gallery; her name was Guerrier, carved in gold letters. He thought to turn and run now, before he reached the second in the French line. He looked behind to see if Goliath or Zealous had made it around, but saw nothing, his view of them blocked by the mass of the Guerrier. All right, he decided, they might as well do it properly. One more ship and they would turn to escape. Their luck had held this far, it might well serve a little further.
In the gap between the first and second French ships, he saw that more of Nelson’s squadron had rounded the island and were making for the head of the French line. He quickly identified Vanguard, Minotaur, and Defense, with several more close behind. The second enemy warship loomed just ahead.
“What do you think, Daniel?” Charles said.
Bevan was standing by the wheel, his eyes fixed on the nearing seventy-four. “It surely focuses your attention,” he answered, flashing a grin. “If we get away with this, I’ll buy you the best bottle of wine I can find.”
“Ha,” Charles answered, more relaxed now that they had passed at least one French warship without incident. “If we get past this next one, you’ll owe me the vineyard.” At that moment he heard the crash of a ship’s broadside from close behind. He turned and saw Goliath just emerging from across the bow of Guerrier, the British ship’s side swathed in smoke. Guerrier’s foremast tilted and fell.
Charles looked forward. Louisa’s bowsprit was just coming level with the second ship in the line. He was committed now. Her dark sides reminded him of the walls of a fort. His heart stopped as her gunports flipped abruptly upward, the hard stubs of her armament thrusting out.
“Bear away, bear away!” he shouted at Eliot. To Bevan, still looking aft, he said, “Clear the decks. Get everyone below.”