by Jay Worrall
“Beggin yer pardon, sur,” a topman named Jones shouted in Charles’s ear. Jones had been posted as lookout in the maintop.
“What is it?” Charles shouted back, raising his voice to be heard in the roaring wind.
“I seen a sail alee’ard, sur. Making for Coruna, like.”
“Are you sure?” Charles asked.
“Yus, sur. I seen him plain as day. Ship-rigged, under triple-reefed topgallants, he wus.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “Get back to your station. I’ll send someone up to relay messages.”
“Daniel, put on what sail she’ll carry,” he yelled through cupped hands. “Steer for Ferrol. Some fool’s trying to make the bay.”
Bevan nodded and yelled orders through his speaking trumpet. Seamen made for the shrouds as the Louisa’s bow swung with the wind. High above on the wildly undulating yards, the topmen struggled to shake out a reef in the topgallants and set close-reefed topsails. Soon the ship was plunging pell-mell across the rollers, her bow disappearing in a cascade of spray as she nosed into each new wave.
As the Louisa crested a mountainous swell, Charles saw a tiny oblong of canvas off the larboard bow. At the second and third crests it grew progressively larger, and soon the vessel’s hull was regularly visible, the mountains of Spain looming indistinctly in the distance.
“Christ, she’s making a lot of sail,” Bevan observed.
He gauged the distances. The Coruna lighthouse was just visible five or six miles away, and soon so would be the forts on either side of the entrance to the bay. Louisa stood a little more than a half-mile behind the ship and was closing. It would be a near thing, Charles decided, as to whether they could overhaul her before she reached the protection of the forts.
“She’s shaken out a reef in her maintopsail,” Bevan said in amazement. “The captain’s crazy. It’ll carry away.”
Charles watched the transport plunge madly over the heaving gray sea. The Louisa had closed: a quarter-mile, maybe less. He could see the flags standing straight out on both forts and to port he watched the rollers dissolving into towering explosions as they crashed down onto the unmovable black fangs of the reef.
“I think the bloody fool is going to make it,” Bevan said. Every eye watched as the Spaniard raced at perilous speed, burying her bow in green water at every crest, now almost level with the Coruna headland.
Charles was about to order the Louisa to reduce sail and give up the chase when some fluke in the wind off the headland caught the transport aback. She faltered, leaning almost to her port rail. He clearly saw a vertical split appear on her overtaut main topsail. The canvas immediately vanished, the wind shredding it to rags. Increased pressure on the Spaniard’s foresail threw her head before the wind like a vane and in an instant she had lost any chance of weathering the headland.
Everyone on Louisa’s deck watched in fascination and despair as the vessel made a desperate attempt for the narrow inlet to the Ferrol yards. A second wind eddy tossed her bow to port. Unbalanced without her mainsail, her rudder was slow, too slow. For a moment it looked as though she would run straight onto the rocks under the fort. The Spaniard fought for her life now, trying to claw clear of the Ferrol promontory and scratch her way back out to sea. She just cleared the headland under the Ferrol fortress, racing before the wind, and plunged helplessly for the waiting reef. Charles watched, horrified, as a white-capped wave picked the transport up and up, and heaved her bodily onto the rocks. The ship vanished in an enormous eruption of foam. As the water ebbed off the rocks, the vessel reappeared amid the stones, mastless and broken. He saw a few men clinging to the mast stumps or pieces of railing, but it was hopeless for their ship and hopeless for them. The next roller crashed with a roar, thankfully hiding the scene. As the froth receded there were fewer men to be seen, and the ship’s bowsprit and part of her bow had been carried away. The rest, Charles was sure, would follow within the hour, a few of her crew clinging miserably to the wreckage to the bitter end.
“Reduce sail,” Charles said in a shaken voice. “Take in the mainsails and reef the topgallants. Take her back out.” It would be lunacy to attempt a rescue from the windward in these seas and under the guns of the fort.
THE LOUISA SPENT the night hove to five miles off Cape Prior and let the storm blow itself out. In the chill gray dawn of the next morning Charles was called from his breakfast by a messenger requesting his presence on the quarterdeck.
“What is it, Daniel?” he said, buttoning his jacket as he arrived.
Bevan pointed over the starboard rail and there, bobbing in the swells, was an open boat not much larger than a ship’s gig. It had an oar lashed upright midships with what looked like a white shirt blowing from it.
“Close on her and let’s see what we have.” Charles thought it might be a few crewmen from yesterday’s transport, but for the life of him he couldn’t think how anyone might have survived. As the Louisa glided alongside, he saw the figures of eight men huddled in the bottom of the craft. One, the one who had evidently taken off his shirt to tie to the oar, was wearing a ragged blue jacket over his bare chest. He was a young man, Charles saw, no more than nineteen or twenty, with stubble on his face and disheveled hair. Charles was surprised to hear him announce in plain English, “I am a king’s officer. Where’s the officer of the watch?”
“I am the ship’s commander,” Charles called down. “We’ll have you on board in a moment.” To Bevan he said, “Rig a sling to hoist those men on deck. And send someone for blankets and something hot for them to drink.”
“AND YOU ARE, sir?” Charles asked the young Englishman sitting at the table in Charles’s cabin, clutching a mug of steaming coffee laced with rum.
“Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower, sir, of the Indefatigable. I’ve been a prisoner in Ferrol since February last.” He was a little taller than Charles, bone thin, with dark hair and alert brown eyes.
“And how did you come to be in a small boat with a bunch of Spaniards in the midst of an Atlantic gale?” Charles asked. The young man told of his organizing an attempt from Ferrol to save at least some of the crew on the reef after the vessel had struck. The others in the open boat were all Spanish, three from Ferrol and four rescued off the reef. It was a truly heroic deed, Charles thought, although Hornblower described it in matter-of-fact, self-deprecating terms.
“…and afterward the wind blew us north up the coast to where you found us this morning,” he concluded.
“I am pleased to have found you,” Charles said. “I can always use another officer, at least until we return to Portsmouth.”
Hornblower’s expression deadened. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I’m on parole. I’ve given my word that I’ll return.”
“Oh,” Charles said. “I’m sorry.”
“No more than I am, sir,” Hornblower said with a forced smile.
Charles wondered if he had a woman in the town. “Of course, but there’s no hurry. You can eat and sleep on board tonight. I think Winchester can give you a proper lieutenant’s uniform. He’s about your size. I’ll return you and the others to Ferrol under a flag of truce tomorrow.” After Hornblower left for fresh clothing and hot food, Charles shook his head. Woman or no woman, and parole or no parole, he was fairly certain that he would be hard-pressed to voluntarily return to captivity under similar circumstances.
The next morning dawned sunny and relatively calm. The Louisa beat south, back to the mouth of the bay and just out of range of the guns in the forts. Charles had the cutter hoisted over the side. As the Spaniards were climbing down, he took Hornblower aside. “Is there anyone you’d like me to write to in England for you?”
“I have no one, sir,” the young lieutenant answered.
“I’ll inform the Admiralty of your situation, then,” Charles said, feeling very sorry for the boy, and held out his hand.
“Thank you, sir,” said Hornblower, shaking it. Then he reluctantly desce
nded into the cutter.
Winchester came last, carrying a white flag that he fixed to the cutter’s bow. “All pull,” he said, and the boat started toward a small jetty at the base of the Ferrol fort. The cutter returned, minus its passengers, an hour later with a case of the local wine, a gift from Ferrol’s commander.
THE LOUISA RESUMED her regular course, southwest to Finisterre, then wore sharply northward. When they next looked into Ferrol five days later, Charles got a nasty shock. The lookout reported a brig in the naval yard that wasn’t there before, and the Spanish were in the process of hoisting a lower foremast section off her deck. From then onward he had the patrol shortened to Cape Prior in the north and the Sisargas Islands to the west so that he could look into the naval yard every day. Christmas came and went, observed by a more elaborate meal than usual, but with the same weevily biscuit, leathery pickled beef, roast potatoes nearly gone completely bad (the Louisa was nearing time for resupply), and an extra ration of spirits. When it was apparent that the Santa Brigida would be ready for sea in a matter of days, if not hours, Charles hove to five miles off the mouth of the bay—well away from the reef—and waited.
The Louisa sat outside Coruna Bay for three days, watching as the Santa Brigida’s rigging was completed and her stores taken aboard. Charles used some of the time to practice with the guns, running them in and out repeatedly, and firing powder broadsides. He wanted to exercise the crew and keep them sharp. He also wanted the Spanish to know that he was ready and eager to fight. The weather grew increasingly cold and overcast, with steady if moderate winds from the south.
The morning of January 1, 1798, began with rain mixed with heavy wet snow, then turned entirely to snow, which soon coated the decks and rigging. A quiet settled around the ship, the loudest noises being the muffled slap of the waves against her hull and the creaking of the blocks in the rigging.
“Sir, sir! She’s moving!” came an excited shout down from the main crosstrees.
“What do you see?” Charles called up.
“I’m not sure, sir. It’s hard to make out,” the lookout yelled. “But I think I see sails in the yard. Yes, sir, I see ’em. She’s headed out.”
Charles strained his eyes to leeward. He could just make out the vague outlines of the forts on the headlands, but even with a glass the falling snow blurred any attempt to make out details on the water’s surface. “Get the slush cleared off the decks,” he said to Bevan. “Let the cook keep the galley lit; otherwise, clear for action.”
After a short time Charles thought he saw something moving on the water, just clearing the Ferrol promontory. Slowly it grew more distinct, the darker shape of a ship’s hull as it rounded the point. There was something unreal about the scene, its quiet and softness in the white air.
“Cleared for action,” Bevan reported. Charles guessed that it would be an hour at least before the Spanish frigate came within range of Louisa’s guns. “Feed the hands below, then we’ll douse the galley and beat to quarters,” he said.
Charles stood on the quarterdeck by the lee rail and watched as the Santa Brigida slowly approached, a ghost ship against a pale background. She was well past the Ferrol headlands and would soon clear the reef. At about two miles distant, the line of her masts shifted to the left.
“She’s trying to reach on us,” Bevan said. “She’d like to get ahead downwind, then tack and cross our bows.”
Charles nodded. “Get some way on. I want to stay about a cable’s length ahead. But not so far as our guns won’t bear.” The two ships assumed slowly converging courses, both edging cautiously closer with the wind behind them. The distance narrowed: a mile, three-quarters, a half. “Run out the guns,” Charles said, his eyes never leaving the opponent. He remembered St. Vincent, the beaten Argonaut being raked again and again. He remembered young Billy Bowles, his body shattered by one of the Spaniard’s round shot. He itched for the thing to begin.
The Santa Brigida fired her broadside at four hundred yards. Charles heard and felt one ball strike the hull, the rest plunging into the water alongside or astern. The frigate was still closing on them but was about a half a cable’s length behind.
“Wait,” Charles said. “A little closer.” He mentally counted off how long it would take the enemy to reload.
“Eliot,” he barked to the master at the ship’s wheel. “On my command, starboard your helm two points. After we fire, straighten her out again.”
“Aye aye, sir,” the master answered.
“Ready, Daniel?” Charles said. “You may fire as the guns bear.”
Charles’s count reached sixty seconds. “Now,” he said to Eliot. The Louisa swung to the starboard, her guns easily sighting on the Spanish frigate.
“Fire!” yelled Bevan. Water boiled up around the Santa Brigida. Gaps appeared in her railing and holes in a few of the lower sails.
“Straighten her out,” Charles shouted. He glanced at the gun crews swarming over their weapons, sponging out and ramming home cartridges.
The maneuver had cost Louisa some of her headway, and the Spaniard’s bow was almost even with her stern and a hundred yards to starboard. With a powerful roar the frigate fired again, but with her bow still angled at closing the distance with the Louisa, many of her shots churned up the water in the English ship’s wake. A few told, however, severing a mizzen stay and one sweeping across the quarterdeck, killing a midshipman and a carronade gunner.
Charles studied the distance between the ships and calculated. “Reloaded?” he asked Bevan.
“Just now,” Bevan answered.
“Hard astarboard,” Charles ordered Eliot. To Bevan, he said, “We’ll rake her as we pass. I want every shot to count.”
The Louisa darted into the path of the Spaniard, clearing her bowsprit by a scant twenty yards.
“As you bear,” Bevan yelled, “Fire!”
Shot after shot crashed into the frigate’s bow, opening gaping holes in her hull. The foremost section of the Santa Brigida’s bowsprit caught momentarily in the Louisa’s aft rigging, tearing the mizzen topsail before catching on the mast and snapping off. Up to now it had been the Louisa’s starboard battery engaged with the Santa Brigida’s port side. The tables turned when the Louisa crossed over and they were on parallel courses, so close that the two ships’ yardarms almost touched, midships to midships. Both ships’ previously unused batteries fired together in a deafening blast, cannonballs and flaming wads spewing across both decks. Gaps appeared in Louisa’s larboard rail, and a gun reared up and twisted backward off its carriage, crashing to the deck. One of the nine-pounders on the quarterdeck overturned, its port dissolving into a ragged four-foot gap in the bulwark. There were screams and cries in the smoke, and unmoving bodies lay like so much scattered cordwood. The too-familiar smells of burnt powder and fresh blood curdled the air.
Charles stood by the port rail, almost close enough to speak to the Santa Brigida’s captain. He watched interestedly as his opposite, the same thin wiry man with a large mustache he remembered, ran back and forth on his quarterdeck, gesturing and yelling excitedly. Momentarily their eyes met, and Charles immediately doffed his hat and bowed deeply in a gesture that might be interpreted as comradely respect or utter contempt. The Spaniard instantly looked away, ignoring him completely. As Charles leaned against the railing something tugged momentarily on the sleeve of his jacket and knocked his left hand away. He glanced irritably to see who might be trying to get his attention, saw no one, then saw two neat holes in the cuff of his sleeve and blood running down onto the back of his hand. For the first time he noticed Spanish soldiers in the frigate’s rigging, priming and loading their muskets, aiming and firing down onto Louisa’s decks. His own marines were doing the same thing from Louisa’s tops and railings. Charles picked out one soldier in particular on the Spaniard’s mizzen top who had just lowered his weapon and was preparing to reload. He glared furiously at the man for a few seconds, then walked a few paces to a group of six marines by the quarterdeck
rail, pointed out the offending Spanish soldier, and said, “Shoot him.” The marines fired as one and the man fell twisting to the deck below.
The Louisa fired her next broadside well before the Spanish frigate. As the smoke blew clear, Charles saw new holes and gaps in the Spaniard’s hull.
“Are the starboard guns loaded?” he asked Bevan.
“Aye.”
“Back the mainsail.”
“Hands to the braces,” Bevan yelled. The Louisa immediately lost way. The Santa Brigida’s broadside, when it came, hit the Louisa’s bow, chopping off part of the bowsprit or splashing into the water in front of her. As the Spanish frigate’s stern pulled ahead, Charles called, “Hard to port.”
“Man the starboard battery,” Bevan shouted. The starboard guns went off in twos and threes as Louisa glided past the Santa Brigida’s stern, repeatedly smashing the gallery and aftercabin windows and sending shot after shot the length of her decks.
“There, you son of a bitch,” Charles muttered to himself. “See how you like it.”
The Louisa turned back on her course, parallel to the Spaniard but fifty yards behind. He watched with some trepidation as the Santa Brigida’s yards braced around and could see her rudder pivot on its pintles. She turned, a black hull belching flame and smoke as she crossed Louisa’s bows. The Louisa staggered under the blows. Her foremast tilted awkwardly to starboard, then fell in a great sweep into the sea.
“Clear that wreckage,” Bevan shouted forward.
“Port-side guns,” Charles yelled. The two ships had once again switched sides and were once more midships to midships. With the Louisa’s foremast by the board there would be no more maneuvering. “Fire at will,” he called.