A Hard, Cruel Shore

by Dewey Lambdin

  “What in the world is Undaunted hoisting?” Midshipman Kibworth wondered aloud after Sapphire’s hoist had been struck, the signal for Execute. He clapped his telescope to his eye.

  “Can you make it out, Mister Kibworth?” Lewrie asked.

  “It’s Peregrine’s number, sir, and P … S … A … L … M, Psalm, sir,” Kibworth decyphered slowly, “number twenty-three, dash two.”

  “Captain Chalmers’s little joke,” Lewrie said. “He’s telling Blamey t’lay him down in green pastures, and lead him to still waters.”

  “Now, Peregrine’s making Undaunted’s number, and … Psalm 23 dash 4!” Kibworth exclaimed.

  “‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me’,” Lt. Westcott quoted.

  “Your bigger, heavier guns, they comfort me,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Well, I expect they should!”

  * * *

  Midshipman Hugh Lewrie stood near the flag lockers right aft of HMS Undaunted’s quarterdeck, reading the hoist from the Peregrine.

  “Hah!” Capt. Chalmers exclaimed in delight. “I did not know that Commander Blamey would be such a biblical scholar. Better and better! Proof that we’re not all heathens.”

  Chalmers cast a quick glance over at the flagship, wrinkling his nose before turning back to the matter at hand. “Alter course to East, Sou’east, if you will, Mister Crosley,” he ordered the First Officer. “I wish to strike the coast somewhere near Santander by first light tomorrow, so we can begin scouring for prizes.”

  “Aye, sir!” Lt. Crosley replied, then began calling out his own orders to man the braces and swing the ship’s head about.

  “Jump to it, Mister Lewrie,” Chalmers sang out with great cheer, “aloft with you, now. We’ll show the Commodore how to Pursue the Enemy More Closely, hah hah!”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Midshipman Lewrie responded and going forward to the mainmast shrouds, wondering if he would have to learn how to quote chapter and verse in future, and what his Captain had against his father.

  It was a good signal he sent us, he thought.

  * * *

  Wish I could send something personal, Lewrie thought as he saw Undaunted altering course, but he could not. Damn your eyes, Chalmers, you better take good care of my boy!

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Here we are, again, sir,” Lt. Westcott said as he scanned the dawn’s horizon for threats, or prey.

  “Off Spain?” Lewrie asked, thinking that was his meaning.

  “No sir, on our own with none of our ships in sight,” Westcott replied with a snigger. “The last time we hoisted a broad pendant off Spanish Florida and the Carolinas, the other ships of our little squadron might as well have been on the other side of the Atlantic most of the time. Oh well, fewer to share in our prizes.”

  “If there’s something to take,” Lewrie said with a shrug as he raised his telescope to his eye for another long, sweeping look along the line of the horizon. To the East, the West, and the North from where they had come during the night after the squadron had separated, there was not a sail in sight or even a suspicious cloud to darken the morning, that might be mistaken for a sail.

  The skies were still almost fully overcast, casting the seas a gloomy steel grey with no sunlight to glitter off wave tops in joyful sparkles, and the slowly churning white caps and white horses were a dingy sud’s-water grey, which made Lewrie shake his head in disappointment that Noon Sights might prove to be as “iffy” as yesterday’s, forcing them to depend again on Dead Reckoning. Which dependence might prove dangerous, for the Sailing Master had estimated that the rocky coasts of Spain lay only twelve or fifteen miles to the South.

  Lewrie swivelled round to peer in that direction, hoping for a prominent cape or headland, or a mountain peak, that might reveal to them just where along that coast they might be, but the Southern horizon was even murkier, the overcast skies and clouds lower, shrouding the Costa Verde in enigmatic gloom. It even appeared darker down in that direction, as if they would sail into a coastal storm, a storm which Lewrie hoped was rolling inland ahead of them, not sweeping off the mountain ranges out to sea.

  “Well Hell,” Lewrie said at last as he lowered his glass. He looked aloft at the commissioning pendant which streamed to larboard almost at right angles to the ship. HMS Sapphire trundled along on a beam reach, and a slow one at that, pressed over a few degrees from from level by a weak wind that, at the last half-hour cast of the chip log, showed only five and a half knots.

  ‘Give me a fast ship, for I wish to go in harm’s way’, that American pirate, John Paul Jones, said, Lewrie thought; Harm’s way, mine arse! He only wanted t’get somewhere before he died of old age!

  He scowled as the commissioning pendant began to curl and lazily whip even slower, its yards’ long length beginning to droop as the winds turned weaker and more fitful.

  “Change o’ weather coming, sir,” Mr. Yelland pointed out with a jut of his chin towards the Southern horizon, “Change o’ wind direction, too. That yonder gloom may bring a gale of wind.”

  “Nothing for it, then, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie replied, scowling even darker. “We can’t risk closing the coast, for now. Let’s come about to Sou’east ’til we know which way that storm’s going.”

  “Both sheets aft, aye sir,” Yelland gloomily agreed. On that point of sail, they’d have the prevailing wind on their starboard quarter, almost fully astern.

  “At least it’s warmer,” Yelland pointed out. “Sort of.”

  “Small blessings,” Lewrie agreed. “Carry on, Mister Westcott. Let’s alter course.”

  “Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, going to the compass binnacle cabinet for a brass speaking-trumpet so his orders could be heard as far as the forecastle.

  Lewrie went up to his favourite perch on the poop deck above his cabins to continue scanning the seas from a slightly higher vantage point, thinking that the morning, early though it was, was definitely warmer than it had been when they had left England. It was getting on for early Spring of 1809, and they were hundreds of miles South of sleet, snow, and icy winds. It still could be nippy and raw in the mornings when he was roused from his bed-cot in the dark, but he no longer needed both blankets and the quilt-like coverlet to sleep snug. The thermometer attached to the Sailing Master’s sea-cabin bulkhead now usually registered in the 40s before dawn, and might get into the high 50s by mid-day. At the moment, fully-uniformed and with his boat cloak on, Lewrie didn’t even feel the need to shiver!

  Once the ship had been brought round to steer Sou’east, the winds did pick up a bit, again, coming from a quim-hair ’twixt Due West and West by North, and Midshipmen Griffin and Chenery reported that the last cast of the log now showed six and a quarter knots.

  The decks had been sluiced and holystoned, the wash-deck pumps had been stowed away, and the galley funnel was fuming in promise of breakfast, even if it was a Banyan Day with no meat served. Lewrie’s stomach was growling in protest by the time he went down to the quarterdeck for a last look round, to determine that everything was in good order, then retired to his cabins.

  “You oughta play with him, Chalky,” Lewrie said as he cast off his boat cloak and hat for Pettus to see to. The ship’s dog Bisquit was frisking and prancing round Lewrie’s now-made bed-cot, where his cat, Chalky, was taking refuge, fur on-end and hissing dis-pleasure to be “treed” so early in the morning. “Leave off, boy. Come here, Bisquit,” he summoned as he sat down on the starboard side settee to give the dog some attention, and the dog gladly galloped over to him.

  With nothing still in sight, the hands were piped to breakfast. It was traditional that officers dined later than the crew, sometimes by an whole hour, so Lewrie had plenty of time to devote to the dog ’til Bisquit was yawning and sprawled on the settee and plenty of time to go aft and mollify his nettled cat, too. Lewrie had Chalky purring on his back with his paws in the air before Yeovill breezed in
with the brass barge. Chalky rolled over to all fours and dashed for Yeovill, with Bisquit prancing round him, too, their past animosity quite forgotten as Yeovill filled their bowls with warm oatmeal gruel, livened with shreds of sausages or dried jerky, and cut-up hard-boiled eggs.

  “Makes their coats glossy, the eggs do, sir,” Yeovill cheerfully said as he laid out Lewrie’s breakfast in the dining coach.

  “Might even work for me, Yeovill,” Lewrie said with a laugh as he was presented with a bowl of oatmeal and a pair of hard-boiled eggs on the side. So soon out of port, there was still fairly fresh butter to stir in, along with liberal dollops of treacle, and Pettus had brewed a small pot of coffee on the sideboard, nowhere near as hot as he preferred it, but there was goat’s milk and sugar to make up for the lack of scalding-hotness. Admittedly, Lewrie cheated on Banyan Days, for he had stowed away two hundredweight of sausages and jerky for the cat and the dog, and could always dig into that stash, as he did that morning.

  He was done with his breakfast in a twinkling, and sipping on a second cup of coffee when the Marine sentry announced Midshipman Ward.

  “The First Officer’s duty, sir, and I am to report that the weather down to the South is clearing, and the coast can now be made out.”

  “Ah!” Lewrie replied, perking up. “My compliments to Mister Westcott, and inform him that I shall be on deck, directly.” He polished off his cup of coffee, tore the napkin from under his chin, and rose to his feet, requesting only his hat in his haste to follow close on Midshipman Ward’s heels, with Bisquit dashing out, too.

  “Sir,” Lt. Westcott said, tapping the brim of his hat, “we can make out the coast, now, though the capes and mountain peaks are still iffy.” He nodded to Mr. Yelland to continue his report.

  “It appears that what storm front there was preceded us ashore, sir,” Yelland said, holding out a large book of sketches of the coast, flipping idly from one to the next. “As you can see, the mountains, the Picos de Europa, are completely shrouded by it as it makes its way inland. There appears to be mists and rain lingering along the shore, but I do believe that we are about ten miles off Candás-Carreño, a few miles West of the port of Gijon, roughly where we hoped to be.”

  Lewrie lifted a telescope from the binnacle cabinet and peered shoreword. He got impressions of very green meadows above the stony coast, with darker green pine forests above those, and winter-blasted deciduous forests further inland on the slopes that led to the mountains, which were merely to be guessed at; all his observations veiled in mists which swirled tantalisingly, revealing a bit, then closing to hide what lay over there, like a stage curtain.

  “No sign of life,” Lewrie said as he lowered the glass, and collapsed its tubes. “Who’d be a sailor on such a day, even a French sailor, or Spanish fisherman.”

  “That is odd, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “Now the weather has blown inland, there should be some fishermen out at sea. Unless the French have prohibited them, of course.”

  “No, the French need fresh fish, too,” Lewrie dis-agreed. “I’d imagine they’re still allowed to fish, but they’re kept on a short leash, much closer to shore, right under what guns the Frogs have put along the coast. If they’ve placed batteries every few miles, as they do on their own coasts.”

  “Wouldn’t that tie up too many troops, sir, when they need them further down in Spain to complete their conquest?” Westcott asked.

  “Napoleon’s got more than enough to spare, I’m sure,” Yelland spat, “what with all the so-called ‘volunteers’ he scrapes up from all the lands he’s conquered, already. All Europe’s his recruiting ground, whether they want to fight for the bastard or not.”

  “Deck, there!” the lookout at the mainmast cross-trees sang out. “I think I sees a sail!”

  “He thinks?” Mr. Yelland scoffed, peering aloft.

  “Where away?” Lt. Westcott shouted to the lookout.

  “Two point off th’ starb’d … it’s gone!” the lookout began, then trailed off, standing on the cross-trees with an arm wrapped about the topmast, and trying to use his other hand to funnel his vision. “Two point off, no! Four point off th’ starb’d bows, and one point off … Kee-rist!” he could be heard cursing in frustration.

  “Blithering idiot,” the Sailing Master decided.

  “Mister Fywell,” Lewrie snapped at the nearest Midshipmen at hand, “aloft with you and discover what he’s about, smartly now.”

  Fywell patted a chest pocket of his jacket to assure himself that he had his own small telescope, then dashed to the mainmast stays to scamper aloft.

  “It is awfully hazy over yonder,” Westcott commented as he and the other officers on the quarterdeck lifted their more powerful day glasses to see if they could make out what was confusing the lookout.

  “One point off, two points, then four points?” Lewrie muttered. “It sounds like a clutch of fishing boats putting out.” He looked aloft for a moment, then returned to his telescope, straining to see through the mist and haze that thickened, then thinned mystifyingly.

  “Can’t really see much beyond five of six miles, sir,” Yelland commented. “Not clearly, really. It’s still raining along the coast, off and on. The seas aren’t up as fierce as one would expect, so it may be that the local fishermen are indeed out. When I was reading up on conditions along this coast, I found that the Spanish fishermen go to sea in all but a hurricane.”

  “Deck, there!” the lookout shouted, sounding sure of what he saw, at last. “Four sail, off the starb’d bows, ’bout six mile off, steerin’ West … small brigs or ketch-rigs!”

  “Too big for local fishing smacks,” Lewrie snapped. “Mister Westcott, alter course, steer directly for ’em, and beat to Quarters!”

  “Aye aye, sir!” the First Officer happily replied. Lewrie left the quarterdeck to fetch the keys to the arms chests as Westcott began to issue orders for the course alteration. A moment before Lewrie’s return, the Marine drummer began beating out the Long Roll, drawing Sapphire’s off-watch hands up from below to man their guns.

  A quick scan with his telescope showed Lewrie all four of the vessels, small brig-rigged ships perhaps no longer than seventy-five feet, strung out in a ragged line-ahead. A look aloft showed him the commissioning pendant now beginning to stream more abeam to larboard as Sapphire came about.

  Wind’s from the Nor’west, and they’re beatin’ hard against it, Lewrie told himself, seeing all four of them almost bows-on as they clawed their way out to sea from that dangerous coast, bows rising and plunging, their sails slatting as they dipped into the troughs. And, they would have to stay on larboard tack half the day to make any progress Westward, only tacking about to close the coast sometime round dusk to enter one of the many wee fishing ports to shelter for the night. Lewrie began to grin, knowing that their only choice was to haul their wind and put about, then run back to Gijon or Candás-Carreño, and they would not make it, not all of them. Sapphire was already making at least seven knots, and had a much longer waterline. With any luck on this new course, she might even attain eight knots, and those strange ships would be run down.

  “The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported, eager for a whiff of gunpowder smoke.

  “Bisquit dashed below?” Lewrie asked.

  “At the first drum roll, sir, aye,” Westcott told him, his eyes twinkling.

  “Load bow chasers, nine-pounders, and upper gun deck twelve-pounders,” Lewrie ordered. “The twenty-fours and carronades would turn ’em into kindling, and worthless as prizes.”

  “French colours, sir!” Midshipman Fywell shouted as he ran to his station at Quarters. “They fly French colours!” he added as he ran down to the upper gun deck.

  “Deck, there!” the lookout screeched with excitement. “They’s haulin’ their wind an’ puttin’ about!”

  Sapphire had strode down upon them before the French ships put about, all of them falling off the wind to wear about, sails fluttering untidily, and slowing down as they d
id so. The winds were just too gusty for them to try to perform a riskier tack to close the coast. They were now roughly only four miles off, and at least ten miles from the shore, with even more miles needed to get into shelter.

  “I think we have them, sir,” Mr. Yelland opined.

  “Many a slip, ’twixt the crouch and the leap, Mister Yelland,” Lewrie cautioned. “Or, don’t count your chickens, hey?”

  It did look promising to Lewrie, in point of fact. The four French merchantmen looked to be badly handled, taking far too long to brace their yards round to take the wind on their quarters, and their foresails winging out as loose as bed sheets on a line in a stiff breeze before being sheeted taut. Three miles, he made it, now, and not one of them looked like an armed escort of any strength. Stern transoms cocked up like the asses of feeding ducks as they plunged on in their bid to escape.

  “We take the trailing ship, the others might get away before we can send over a boarding party,” Lewrie said to the First Officer. “I’d admire did you arrange for a file of Marines and a boat crew for the barge t’stand ready, and have the barge drawn up closer astern.”

  Ship’s boats stored too long on the cross-deck boat tier beams dried out and developed wee gaps between their strakes, so it was necessary to tow them and let them have a good soaking to seal up those gaps, now and then. It slowed the towing ship, but they were handy at a moment’s notice if a boat was needed.

  “Mister Keane,” Westcott shouted to the senior Marine officer, quickly relaying the Captain’s wishes, then calling to Mr. Terrell, the Bosun, for him to tell off a boat crew and have them stand by. Lt. Keane picked Sergeant Clapper, Corporal Rickey, and six Marines. The Bosun quickly called for Crawley, the former Captain’s Cox’n, and his old boat crew to muster with their arms near the starboard entry-port.

  As Sapphire closed the coast, catching up the French vessels, she entered those bands of misty rain and haze that had partially hidden their prey, drizzling on the decks and wetting the sails, which was a wee blessing; wet sails captured more wind than dry ones, and in a long stern-chase, some warship Captains, and the Masters of the pursued ships, had buckets sent aloft to dampen their sails for even a quarter-knot more speed.