by Jay Worrall
Captain George Ecclesby was everything Charles expected and more, an old, tired man with unkempt hair, an unhealthy pallor, and a persistent cough. “Where in damnation have you been?” Ecclesby greeted him angrily. “I should have left weeks ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles began, trying to be contrite, “I came as soon as—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Ecclesby interrupted him. “You’re more than welcome to this pestilent, godforsaken region. Good day to you.”
“Good day?” Charles repeated. The Louisa had only just arrived. This wasn’t how brother officers treated each other.
“Yes, good day. You’re my replacement. I’m returning to England.”
“But, but…” Charles didn’t know where to begin. “What about the frigate at Ferrol?”
“Oh, she won’t be ready for sea for months, years, if ever.” A coughing fit seized the withered man. “Good day,” he wheezed when he regained his voice.
“But she’s out now,” Charles persisted. “I saw her. She chased me.”
“Not my problem,” Ecclesby snapped, his patience with Charles apparently at an end. “Now get off my ship.”
“Just a minute…” Charles began, his anger and alarm rising quickly to the surface.
“Sergeant of the marines! Show this gentleman over the side. Throw him over if necessary.”
Charles had no sooner indignantly climbed down Syrius’s side into his gig than the larger frigate dropped her sails and started north. Soon after he returned to Louisa’s quarterdeck, she was nearly hull down and receding quickly.
For the next several days he exercised the hands at the guns with a new intensity. Charles ordered contests between the starboard and larboard gun crews to see who could fire off the most broadsides in a ten-minute interval, with an extra half-ration of spirits to the winners. He offered prizes from his own pocket to the crews that came closest to hitting a floating barrel at one hundred, two hundred, and four hundred yards. When he was at least partially satisfied with their performance, he began his assigned patrol toward Cape Peñas, sailing purposefully along the beautiful high-mountain coast with its great spurs and gorges running down to the sea. The “Costa Verde,” this part of Spain was called, and for good reason, given its forest covered coasts and highlands. They looked into each of the numerous fishing villages and minor ports along the way. The only other boats they saw were small fishing vessels that scurried in all directions to give the Louisa a wide berth.
At Cape Peñas they brought the ship about and started the long beat against the wind back to the west. Off the port of Figueras, the lookout spotted a single brigantine merchantman, but it darted into the fjordlike harbor under the guns of a coastal battery before the Louisa could close on it.
SINCE HIS MEETING with Ecclesby, Charles had spent much of his time thinking about the Santa Brigida. Allowed to roam the seas, she was a menace to shipping. Huge amounts of critical British cargo sailed past Cape Finisterre on its way between England and Gibraltar. Most of Jervis’s fleet was supplied that way. A single Spanish frigate could do untold damage, slipping out of the Ferrol yards to snatch up a fat transport or two and then running for shelter behind the forts guarding the bay. He would have to do something, but what? Fighting her on anything like even terms was out of the question. The Santa Brigida could throw more than twice the weight of metal as the Louisa in a single broadside. Yet there had to be some way he could gain an advantage. And there was the element of revenge for what she’d done to Argonaut. Charles’s jaw clenched whenever he recalled the Spanish frigate’s shot screaming the length of the defenseless ship’s decks. One thing was clear: Jervis would have to be notified of the changed situation as soon as possible, and, until some opportunity presented itself, the Louisa’s responsibility was to dog the Spaniard wherever she went, to warn friendly shipping of her presence, and to strike if the opportunity arose. The question was how to inform Jervis without the Louisa deserting her station.
The afternoon the Louisa passed the entrance to Coruna Bay for the second time, Charles stood her far out to sea so as not to incite a chase. That evening Bevan and Winchester dined with him, as was their weekly custom. Over mutton, potatoes, and pease porridge, the three men talked easily about the progress of the crew and several small discipline problems that were easily dealt with. Over the sherry, Winchester brought up the subject that was on all their minds.
“What about the Spanish frigate in Ferrol?” he asked offhandedly.
Bevan leaned forward, his expression serious. “We’ll need help, Charlie. She’s too big. It’s a pity that old bag Ecclesby shot off like that.”
“Well, we need to inform Admiral Jervis in any event,” Charles responded. “To do that we need a boat, any boat. Preferably a Spanish one.”
The next morning they sailed south along the coast, examining each of the inlets and harbors with great care. They found what they were looking for well south of Cape Finisterre two days later—a small Spanish guarda costa lugger anchored in the Vigo estuary, under the guns of the fort at Bayona. The moment she was sighted, Charles had the Louisa come about and stand out to sea, well out of the sight of land. After nightfall, with a three-quarter moon showing intermittently through broken clouds, they crept back in. Charles had already written his report to Jervis about the Santa Brigida and the abrupt departure of the Syrius, stating that it was his intention to hamper the Spanish ship in any way possible until help or fresh instructions arrived. The report lay in a canvas satchel in his cabin along with the rest of the ship’s mail.
The guarda costa lugger was only forty feet long and would have a crew of no more than a dozen, along with a few tiny four-pounders for armament. Some of the crew might even be sleeping on shore. The trick would be to board and subdue her in silence, cut her anchor cables, and get under way before the guns in the fort could react. The wind was in their favor, blowing moderately but steadily from the southwest. Charles’s greatest worry was the moonlight—too much when it shined through gaps in the clouds and too unpredictable as to when and where it would. He also knew that delay would not necessarily bring a better opportunity.
The Louisa cautiously approached the Spanish shore as close as she dared along an uninhabited stretch of beach under a high bluff, four miles south of Bayona. The Spanish landmass rose as an impregnable wall of silent blackness in the night. The loudest sounds were the surf against the shore and the more distant cicadas in the treeline above. “Stay in the shadows as much as you can,” Charles said to Winchester, who was preparing to climb down into the Louisa’s cutter, where sixteen of the crew were already assembled with cutlasses and axes.
“Yes, sir,” Winchester answered tersely. They had gone over the plan several times already.
“If it goes badly, get out as fast as you can. We’ll think of something else.”
“Let him go, Charlie,” Bevan said, putting his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “He knows what to do.”
Charles stepped back. “Good luck, Stephen,” he said, intensely aware that he could be sending these men—including his brother-in-law—to their deaths, or years of miserable confinement in a Spanish prison. Stephen Winchester slipped over the side and into the cutter. Charles heard him say, “Let go all,” and heard the oars dipping into the water. The cutter soon disappeared, indistinguishable against the black void of the shoreline.
Charles stared hard into the dark for a moment longer, then turned back to Bevan. “Put the ship on the larboard tack and let’s get to our station.” Bevan nodded to the bosun beside him, and in a minute the hands climbed silently into the rigging without the usual whistles or shouted orders. As the topgallants and topsails were crowded on one by one, Louisa’s head began to swing and he felt the ship gain way. They stood a little out to sea, then sailed north, approaching the shore again just out of cannon range on the other side of the fort, with luck undetected in the night. If something did go wrong—if a cry was raised or the fort opened fire—they would stand in and try
to create a diversion so that Winchester and his men could escape. When they had worked out the plan the evening before, it had all seemed plausible. Now, staring over the railing into the darkness and straining his ears for any sound, Charles thought it possibly the most irresponsible, stupidest notion he had ever come up with.
A ray of moonlight pierced the clouds, briefly illuminating the fort on the headland. Snatching a glass, he could just make out the lugger still anchored where she had been the day before. Everything seemed deceptively quiet, peaceful, normal. A few dim lights from Bayona flickered in the distance, glittering off the wave tops. Time passed at a crawl. Charles’s stomach muscles began to ache. He could see nothing. Maybe the cutter had gotten lost, he thought, or hit a reef and sunk, or been intercepted by a Spanish guard boat, or…Surely the cutter should have gotten there by now. He waited, drumming his fingers on the lee railing until he noticed it; then he balled his hand into a fist and jammed it into his pocket.
After an interminable time there was a noise, distant and insubstantial. A warning yell perhaps, or a cry for help. Then the clear sound of a musket being fired echoed across the water. That was bad—Winchester’s men weren’t armed with muskets. Almost immediately a bugle sounded its warning from the fort. The clouds over Bayona parted again and with his glass Charles saw that the lugger had set her sails and was moving. If he saw it, he was sure the gun crews in the fort could see it, too.
“We’ll stand in. Prepare to fire, Daniel.”
“All hands to set sail!” Bevan bellowed, there no longer being any reason for quiet. “Run out the larboard guns.”
A bright flash from the fort lit the harbor for an instant, followed by three more almost simultaneously. The great bangs of the guns reached them an instant later. Charles couldn’t see where the shots fell but he would be surprised if they could hit the tiny lugger on their first salvo. “Come about and fire,” Charles ordered. The fort was out of range of Louisa’s twelve-pounders, but the muzzle flashes and noise would divert their attention.
The Louisa turned into the wind and the deafening crash of her broadside sounded, heeling her slightly with the guns’ recoil. In the instant of light Charles saw the lugger, with the ship’s cutter in tow, rounding the Bayona Point with all sail set.
“Time to go,” Charles said quickly.
Bevan shouted out orders. Louisa dropped her courses and began to pick up speed. One gun, then two more, followed by a fourth spit yellow flame from the fort. The first three were well wide of them; the fourth threw up a towering geyser far too close to their port side. And then they were out of range.
Three-quarters of an hour later, the Louisa found the lugger near the place where they had left Winchester and the cutter.
“Any trouble?” Charles asked when Winchester climbed aboard.
“Not really, sir,” the lieutenant replied. “One of them had a musket across his lap that went off when he woke up. We must have startled him. There were only four in the boat.”
Charles saw no prisoners. “Where are they?” he asked.
“Two died,” Winchester answered grimly. “Two jumped.”
Charles noted splashes of blood on the young lieutenant’s waistcoat and breeches. “I see,” he said, then turned to the master’s mate who was standing with four experienced seamen nearby. “Mr. Cleaves, check the lugger for food and water. When you’re sure you have everything you’ll need, take her to Lisbon.” Charles handed him the satchel with the report he’d written for Jervis, his very long letter to Ellie, and the other mail the crew had ready to send home. “You’re to take my report directly to the flagship. Tell them it’s urgent. Then get back here with the admiral’s reply as quick as you can. Most likely we’ll be off Coruna somewhere.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Cleaves said, touching his forehead. The first hint of dawn began to lighten the clouds over the Spanish mainland. Charles felt unreasonably pleased with himself, although he struggled not to show it.
THE LOUISA SAILED north and took up a position about five miles outside the entrance to Coruna Bay. The Santa Brigida, they could see from the masthead, was still moored near the entrance to the naval yard with her yards crossed and sails furled. She made no effort to exit the bay and challenge them, however, and Charles wondered why. Perhaps, he thought, her stores were not complete, or she lacked a sufficient crew. Most intriguing to him was the thought that she might be short of powder and shot. In normal times the Ferrol yards would be supplied almost exclusively by sea. The roads of Galicia were notoriously poor, and in any event the tip of northwestern Spain was a long, long way from Madrid. Charles had no way of knowing how much of her ammunition the Santa Brigida may have used at St. Vincent, but it might have been a lot, or even nearly all. The task of transporting the tons of powder and shot overland by cart or pack mule would require a train of several hundred animals and months to accomplish. The Spanish, who were frequently casual about such things, probably wouldn’t bother to try. And if the frigate only had a few broadsides to throw at him, then it was Charles’s duty to somehow draw her out and destroy her. He would wait for instructions from Jervis, as he had promised in the report he’d sent to Lisbon. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a nuisance of himself to the Spanish and see how the frigate reacted.
A series of rain squalls and a violent August thunderstorm delayed his plans by forcing him to stand out to sea to avoid being blown against the lee shore or under the guns guarding the bay. Charles watched with satisfaction, however, as the hands repeatedly raced up the shrouds to shorten sail in the howling winds and heavy seas without mishap. They had become at least a competent crew during the few months they had been at sea. Now they only remained to be tested in a serious action with the guns.
As soon as the storm abated, he put his ship before the wind and stood her in toward Coruna. Before they reached sight of land the lookout called down: “Sail ho! Fine on the starboard bow.”
“What can you make of her?” Charles shouted back. As yet, not even the approaching ship’s topgallants were visible from the Louisa’s quarterdeck. After a moment the lookout reported, “A sloop of war. One of ours, I think.”
“Show our number, Mr. Beechum, and the recognition signal.” A tiny rectangle of gray canvas was just visible on the horizon to the south as Louisa rose on a swell. As she dipped into the trough, it disappeared.
“She’s the Speedy, sir,” Beechum reported, peering through his telescope at the little ship now frequently visible from Louisa’s decks. Beechum hurriedly consulted a book by the binnacle. “Fourteen-gun sloop, sir. Commander James Allenby.” Signal flags shot up Speedy’s halyards. “He has dispatches for us, sir,” he translated.
“Heave to, Daniel,” Charles said, briefly wondering whether he or Commander Allenby were senior. He decided that the odds were in Allenby’s favor.
The sloop turned into the wind twenty yards away and smartly dropped her sails. She had a boat in the water before she’d lost all her way. Charles watched as Speedy’s cutter, with a dozen men in her, struggled across the heavy sea to hook onto Louisa’s lee chains.
The commander’s hat appeared above the rail as two of the Louisa’s bosun’s mates piped him on board. Cleaves and the rest of the lugger’s prize crew followed him up the side. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Captain Edgemont,” Commander Allenby said, touching his hat and extending his hand. Commanders were addressed as “Captain” only as a courtesy and Charles returned the favor. “The pleasure is mine, Captain Allenby,” he said, shaking his hand. “May I offer you some refreshment in my cabin?”
“Thank you, no,” Allenby replied and held out a canvas satchel. “I’ve only time to return your prize crew and deliver your ship’s mail. There are orders from Captain Elphinbottom in there, too.”
“Who’s Captain Elphinbottom?” Charles asked. “What happened to Admiral Jervis?”
“Oh, old Jervie’s in London on business. Elphinbottom’s handling things from Lisbon,” Allenby said, making
a gesture with his fist and thumb depicting a man drinking from a bottle. “He’s a bit—ah—peculiar, if you ask me.”
“Do you know about my situation here?” Charles asked, worried now that Jervis hadn’t gotten his report. “Do you know if they plan to send me any reinforcements?”
“Not a word,” Allenby replied. “Sorry.” He turned and started for the rail. “I must be off. I’ve dispatches for the Admiralty in London.”
“One thing,” Charles asked out of curiosity, “which of us is senior?”
Commander Allenby grinned and touched his hat. “You are, sir, by almost a month. You’re sixth from the bottom; I’m second.”
“Only a few short steps to admiral,” Charles said happily. “Good luck to you.”
“Good luck to you, sir,” Allenby said, and to the twitter of pipes descended over the side to his boat.
Charles took the satchel to his cabin and opened it, shuffling through the thirty or so envelopes until he found his orders from Elphinbottom and to his surprise a letter to him from Ellie. Without a qualm he opened his sister’s letter first:
Tattenall
14 June 1797
My Dearest Brother,
I wish you and your friend Daniel Bevan and of course my dearest beloved husband Stevie could be here at home this time of year. Everything is green and the roses are all in bloom. John sends his best wishes and asks me to tell you that he will be writing about the management of your estates soon. He says for me to tell you everything is going well and he has reduced the rents on the crofts and there has been some good result from this, exactly what I forget. He asked me to tell you more but it’s too complicated for me to remember right now.
I must tell you that Penny Brown (do you remember her? Ha ha.) and I visit together about once a week. She is such a wonderful, wise person, my closest and dearest friend in the whole world, after you and my darling sweetheart Stevie, of course. I even went to Quaker meeting (they call it meeting, not church) with her last Sunday. There was no minister or sermon or anything! Anyway, I subscribe to the Gazette now and Penny and I read it together as soon as it comes. We always look for some mention of the Louisa and her crew, but so far in vain. She said just the other day, after we read about some of the naval battles (I forget which ones), that she didn’t realize that being in the navy was so dangerous. She asked me to convey to you her fondest thoughts and that she is still laboring with your suggestion.