Steam & Stratagem

by Christopher Hoare

  The fruit of England’s naval efforts still denied the French Emperor the supplies needed to build and equip a new battle fleet, but Lord Bond’s information must warn England of a stratagem whereby Napoleon might succeed with an alternate plan. He fumed and fretted—if only he could escape this pursuit and reach England.

  Chapter Two

  A Second Voyager

  Miss Roberta Stephenson reached the starboard engine room as her artificers finished rigging a hose pointing at the overheating bearing. She ducked her head to walk into the reek of steam and hot oil, and the thunderous racket of two hundred horsepower unleashed into the confined iron space. She and her staff were no strangers to the wonders of steam propulsion—they had worked for her father on railway locomotives for years, and she had grown up with an oil can in her hand. He still planned railways and built locomotives, but she had moved to Glasgow where she and her best women engineers had brought about an economical and reliable force of steam to the Country’s maritime needs.

  Reliable most of the time, but pressed hard on this voyage. The Admiralty had offered her a test to take the Spiteful into Napoleon’s lair and prove her ship was up to Naval requirements. Engineer Lieutenant Worthington followed her into the engine room to judge if that was the case.

  “I should suppose ye’ll have to stop the engine and let it rest, Ma’am. If that journal gets hotter it’ll throw the piston rod all abroad.” Engineer lieutenants in the Regency Royal Navy were not and did not sound like gentlemen—and neither were they welcomed into the officers’ messes; being but men promoted from the Black Gang for their experience with the foul and dirty devices they tended.

  “We shall see, Lieutenant. My engines have a better bearing metal than you might be used to. We have crossed the North Sea with more water pouring onto the engines than going into the boilers more than once.”

  Worthington wagged his head doubtfully. “I’m told your arrangement of stern paddlewheels allows the vessel to proceed on a single cylinder.”

  Roberta nodded. “Aye. We can stop both and couple the two wheels if we need, but it will not be necessary.” By this time she had arrived at the pounding cylinder and reached between her artificers to test the bearing with the back of her hand. It was hot but not enough to blister. “As long as we have this much water pouring on the bearing it will not fail,” she said confidently. “Let’s return to the weather deck.”

  On their way through the main deck she detoured to the engineers’ quarters and knocked on a door. Elizabeth Grandin opened the door and peered out, easing it closed somewhat when she saw Worthington standing behind Miss Stephenson. Elizabeth had her boiler suit partly unbuttoned.

  “I have checked the main bearing on the starboard engine, Elizabeth, and instructed the artificers how to deal with it. Perhaps you will inspect it again when you start your watch.”

  “I will do that, Chief. How far are we from England?”

  “In mid-Channel; perhaps five hours steaming to Dover.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Aye. Our phosphor bronze will handle that.” Elizabeth was one of the women Roberta had schooled with at Miss Mather’s Academy for Girls. The late Miss Mather had believed in training her girls to be helpmates for their future husbands and thought a woman’s patience and care over minutiae fitted them perfectly as reckoners and figurers—and so filled their heads with Euclid, algebra, and other mathematical things. It had born fruit as the girls had become the office staff for the compilation of Stephenson’s railway designs; for the improvement of the construction metals; and the assembling of a set of steam tables that allowed the more efficient employment of steam. From that start it had been quite a small step for them to become the design team for Roberta’s steamships.

  Up the companionway they climbed from the hot and humid below decks to the brisk wind and flying spray of the weather deck. Roberta took account of the fly of the Royal Naval ensign at the peak of the mainmast to determine if the wind had changed. An elderly sailing master served as her first officer for his experience in sailing ship handling and rules of the sea, but Roberta reserved the executive authority as her own captain. The Spiteful was a new type of vessel, and no one in the country had more experience than she in its handling.

  The steam galley was long and slender for its tonnage with three short masts rigged for gaff sails when winds were fair and coal could be economized. The two boiler chimneys were as high as the masts, for good furnace draw, and stood side by side between the main and mizzen masts. A short quarterdeck rose but four feet above the welldeck to give better visibility forrard and more headroom in the cabins below. The quartermaster and the ship’s wheel stood in the centre of this deck just ahead of the conning tower—an iron redoubt to serve as a safe post in action. Spiteful was a warship of a new and secret type, designed to sink enemy ships with its iron ram bow once its superior speed and manoeuverability under steam propulsion brought it within striking distance of the enemy.

  Roberta hoped to prove the vessel’s worth for home defence to the Lords of the Admiralty, and gain orders to build more at her Glasgow shipyard. With a crew of only 60 seamen and officers and a hull of iron, the design promised to economize on scarce naval stores for wooden sailing warships, ease manpower difficulties, as well as offer much shorter building times. Spiteful had taken but 200 days from keel laying to its first harbour departure on proving trials. It was the only warship in the world designed to carry no cannon, but had launching rails at the bow for Congreve rockets that could assail an enemy with fire and explosives as they approached to ram.

  She and Lieutenant Worthington made their way up the companionway to the quarterdeck, leaning with the roll of the waves and hearing the pounding and dull noise of the machinery below through the thrum of the wind in the rigging. MacRae, the master, came forward to them as they reached the binnacle. “Come to lee side a moment, Madam. Your ears are younger than mine.”

  “What do you hear?”

  He answered with a shrug as they followed him. At the rail he cocked his head to the wind. “Is that my imagination?”

  Roberta did as he did and strained to hear what the older man fancied. The noise of ship and wind made it difficult, and she was beginning to imagine sounds as she waited for evidence.

  At last, the dull boom of a distant cannon came to her. She looked at Worthington, who nodded to confirm her judgement. “That’s a cannon shot, Mr. MacRae. You do not imagine it. Change course—we will go to investigate.”

  Chapter Three

  Three Vessels

  The Frenchman’s first two shots splashed down well astern, the third hit the water close enough to the port quarter to send spray over Lord Bond and Bloggins as they stood beside the steersman. Bond glanced up at the ensign flying at the top of the mast to judge the wind. If he ordered a turn away they would be running closer to the wind and their fore-and-aft rig would lose some advantage and speed.

  He turned to the steersman. “Turn two points to port.”

  Bloggins looked at him doubtfully but said nothing as they stood watching the Frenchman for another telltale cloud of powder smoke. It seemed the Frenchies took an eternity to reload—not unusual, for their navy had little experience because they skulked in port to avoid being caught by the Royal Navy’s blockade.

  At last, the flash and gout of smoke came and they tensed as they waited for the fall of shot. The Frenchman was firing at near maximum range so their wait seemed to last forever. A gout of spray flew up from a wave away on their starboard side. He had guessed right—the gunners had corrected to their position before the change of course and the shot had gone wide. Bloggins shrugged and smiled.

  How long could they keep this up? They’d not fool the French all the time. There was an added problem—this course took them farther rather than closer to England.

  Lord Bond moved away from the others to stand beside the stern lantern. The Frenchman hadn’t copied their change of course, but would still shorten the range. They would stay o
n the wind for a while, where their square sails gave their greatest speed.

  As he stood watching the distant craft, still a mile distant, he fancied he could see a dark cloud or possibly a squall coming up from the southeast. Odd that it should seem to be coming against the wind.

  The fifth shot from the Frenchman’s bow chasers hit the starboard side of the Foresight at the midship rail. Two of the stays of the standing rigging parted and the mast began to totter. Lord Bond, Bloggins, and three crew members rushed to lower sail and repair the hit with a new splice of rope. While they worked feverishly, the vessel slowed with only the fore staysail propelling them. The Frenchman came noticeably closer, even though their steersman changed course to keep the yacht moving.

  Another shot hit them in the hull just above the waterline. If they tried to turn toward England the damage would be underwater and they’d ship the sea through the hole. As Lord Bond moved from the splicing to set the seamen to raising the sail again he realised they had sustained only the one hit while they’d worked. The Frenchman must have held his fire, thinking they intended to heave to and surrender.

  He waited for a signal from Bloggins before ordering the hoist, and remembered the squall cloud he’d seen astern. Indeed, it was still visible—even getting closer. It looked more like smoke now. How could that be?

  Bloggins waved that the splices were tight and Lord Bond grabbed the halyard. “Together now—hoist.” The two seamen with him hauled for all they were worth; they had been in his employ for many years and could not be more loyal if they’d won a royal pension. The hoist went smoothly but the Frenchman’s cannon shot sounded before the sheet reached the peak. Lord Bond didn’t hesitate his heaving but could not help flinching as he heard and felt the cannonball strike home.

  “Where were we hit?” He looked toward Bloggins and saw him staring horrified.

  Swinging around, he saw the steersman tumble to the deck in a spray of blood.

  He and Bloggins ran aft as the yacht began to broach without a hand at the wheel. Bloggins grabbed and threw his weight against the spokes. Lord Bond fell to his knees beside the steersman to lend assistance . . . or would have if the poor fellow still lived. He dragged the body away to give Bloggins room to work as another cannon shot sounded. Damn them, but they seemed vengeful at what they’d supposed was a feint. A few more shots would finish the Foresight.

  Two more cannon shots came hard on his thought. Both hit the hull, sending flying splinters and whole planks spinning into the air. The spliced mast stays began to unravel as the mast sustained damage below decks. The yacht lurched as water, pouring in through holes in the hull, sloshed about below.

  Lord Bond walked deliberately to the mainmast. His duty told him he must haul down his colours to save the lives of his crew. He stood a moment before untying the halyard. His frustration and regret at the failure of his spying mission blinded him for a moment from the sight on the horizon. Then he stared. He stopped fumbling with the wet rope.

  The Frenchman had turned broadside on to them. Did the devil intend to finish them with a broadside? Hardly, the cannon ports were still closed. What was the fool doing?

  He swung his head farther to look astern and couldn’t help his mouth from dropping open. The source of the squall, or the smoke, was clearly visible—a steamship at full speed, its Royal Navy ensign streaming in the wind of its passage.

  The French sloop tried desperately to get away but every new maneuver failed against the greater maneuverability of the steamer. The Frenchman’s cannon fired several times and the steamer replied with what looked like rockets that exploded in the sloop’s rigging. Bond left his Union flag flying and joined the others in the stern to watch the fight as the Foresight’s hull lurched and settled deeper into the water.

  “We’d better launch the gig,” he said, but no one moved. All eyes were on the warships.

  The steamer made a turn at speed that no sailing ship could match without losing way . . . which was exactly what happened to the Frenchman. The steamer didn’t stop or turn away.

  “By God,” Bloggins cried. “He means to ram.”

  Surely not, but Lord Bond had to change his thought. The steamer hit the sloop amidships; the mainmast of the Frenchman fell overside, and for several minutes the two ships were locked together. Then he could see the paddlewheels in the English vessel’s stern change their rotation and the steamer pull clear. The rest of the Frenchman’s masts fell into the sea as the shattered hull listed.

  But Foresight continued sinking as well, and dipped its bowsprit underwater. “We’d best get to the gig,” Bloggins said as the water reached the scuppers.

  Chapter Four

  Foresight Farewell

  Roberta Stephenson watched the French sloop drift broadside-on to the wind and list only long enough to determine their fight was finished. She could see its crew scrambling to launch the ship’s boats.

  Lieutenant Worthington groaned, but she guessed he mourned the loss of prize money that a captured ship would earn them.

  “I’d suggest as we not try to pick them up, Ma’am. They’d outnumber us three to one, easy.”

  “I had not planned to. I do not doubt but they’d rather chance their luck rowing to France than spend the next few years in Dartmoor Prison.” She walked to the other rail as MacRae stopped the engines in preparation for going ahead again. “Where is that English yacht? Is it still afloat?”

  Worthington pointed. “But barely. We’d best be quick.”

  The crippled yacht was just minutes from sinking when the Spiteful hove to beside them. The men aboard barely glanced up as they struggled to get a boat in the water. Roberta took the engine room telegraphs in hand and ordered one cylinder stopped and the other slow ahead to bring them alongside.

  “You are English?” she called down to the men, now staring at them as if at a conjuror’s illusion.

  “Aye,” answered a grizzled seaman, half into the small gig. “Lord Bond’s yacht Foresight. And ye be . . . ?”

  “The steam galley Spiteful out of Clydebank—on Admiralty business.”

  Another, taller man stepped forward, holding an oilskin package in one hand and what looked like a cast iron skillet in the other. A funny time to think of cooking. “Would you like to come aboard?” Roberta asked as she walked to the entry port.

  This man inclined his head and bowed. “If you please. I fancy it will get rather wet aboard Foresight very soon. I can pay for our passage.”

  Roberta heaved a rope ladder over the side. “No need. We are bound for Dover, would that suit?”

  “Admirably! Go on, Bloggins. You first.”

  The older mariner, three crewmen, a cook, and two ship’s boys all climbed the ladder as the tall man held the bottom of the rope. As the last boy reached the deck, the yacht lurched once more, and began to roll over. The tall man, still holding his package and the skillet, jumped for the bottom rung of the ladder and scrambled to safety.

  He reached the deck and regarded Roberta for a whole minute before bowing slightly. “Please convey my earnest thanks to the captain, Madam.”

  Roberta stifled a pained sigh. “I am the captain, Sir. This is my ship. And you are?”

  He stepped back and looked around as if for someone to make introductions but Lieutenant Worthington held back. The man shrugged. “I am Lord Bond. On the Prince Regent’s service.”

  “And I am Miss Roberta Stephenson, proprietor of the Stephenson shipyards and engine works at Clydebank.”

  Lord Bond blinked and then smiled—almost a laugh. “Well met, Ma’am. Your father and I were introduced at an Institution of Mechanical Engineers function in London a year ago. You have saved us from a very long swim to England . . . . Our gig had been holed by cannon fire. I must request that you make all possible speed as I must get to the Admiralty as soon as possible.”

  Roberta was just about to answer when Elizabeth Grandin arrived on deck and interrupted her. She held out something sharp and black with oil.
“Take a look at this, Chief. I’ve shut the starboard engine down—our last manoeuvres have finished off that bearing.”

  “Damn. Couple the paddlewheels, we’ll have to limp home on one engine.”

  Roberta noticed Lord Bond trying to hide a smile. She doubted he was offended by women who swore mildly, but her claim to being a lady had been betrayed by her ancestry in the Black Country. Well, damn him too. She was no man’s servant—she had her own life to lead. “I must apologize for the inconvenience, My Lord. We’ll not make Dover before midnight.”

  Chapter Five

  Five Hours Late

  The crew and passengers had a late supper as the Spiteful made heavy weather of the journey on one engine. They took their seats at the first bell of the first watch, 8:30 pm to landlubbers, and numbered forty officers and men, two women, and eight rescued from the Foresight seated around the trestle tables in the great cabin. Roberta followed the yeoman farmer custom of all the help eating with family, which caused Lord Bond’s eyes to rise almost into his hair. Her other custom of having the junior lads off watch take steaming hot pots to the sixteen men and one woman on watch before eating made the rest of the strangers shake their heads in grudging approval.

  Lord Bond sat at the head of the main table beside Roberta and blinked as the cook’s helper set a steaming kettle of stew before her for her to help herself. When she had done so, she offered Lord Bond the ladle. “As you see, My Lord, we do not have domestic servants aboard the Spiteful. All crew members are expected to attend to their own wants.”

  “Indeed,” Lord Bond replied, taking the ladle in his hand as if grasping the tail of a snake. “And how long have you all been . . . shipmates on the Spiteful?”