Chapter 20: Heavy Weather

Off the Portuguese Coast, October 1808

Tony was sitting at his desk and going through the mail. One of the fleet auxiliaries had arrived two hours earlier, bringing dispatches and mail to the squadron. Nothing looked like official orders, and therefore, Tony decided to read his private mail first. As usual, he picked Harriet’s latest letter first. It was thicker than usual since she had included newspaper articles and even a Gazette article. He unfolded the letter and began to read.

Tony shook his head when he finished the letter. What a story! He turned to the clipped newspaper articles, and a healthy chuckle broke from his throat. The writers had not held back on ridicule for the French, for losing a ship to four resolute women and wives of Navy officers. There was even a cartoon showing Bonaparte running from four cutlass-wielding women. The British propaganda machinery must have had a field day, it seemed.

Still, Tony could not help but feel a pang of bad conscience. Harriet had been in danger, their children had been in danger, and their unborn child, too. It had been foolhardy to have them travel by ship in times of war. It would be better for Harriet to stay safely in High Matcham or in the London town house which Tony still had to see.

The other pieces of news were less than encouraging. There was an uproar at home over the Convention of Sintra, where Dalrymple and Burrard had agreed to the free withdrawalwith baggage of the French troops in Portugal. Literally foaming with rage, Sir Charles Cotton had been compelled to ferry the French troops with their loot to Rochefort, as such was the agreement. He only refused to obey one condition of the treaty, to let the blockaded Russian ships leave Lisbon, insisting that naval matters were not within the authority of Dalrymple or any other Army general. The last Tony heard, they had reached a compromise whereby the Russian ships would be chained in an English harbour, but remain under Russian command.

All this had enraged the British public, and angry mobs demanded that the generals who had signed away the victory should face a court martial. Indeed, the government had commanded Dalrymple, Burrard, and even Wellesley home, even though the latter never agreed to the Convention nor signed it with his name. Tony’s suspicion was that the government wanted to rid itself of two generals who through their ineptitude were causing embarrassment, whilst performing a public white washing of the third, Wellesley, who was viewed as one of two or three soldiers with a future.

Meanwhile, Sir John Moore was in supreme command of the British troops in the Peninsula, and that was not a bad thing, for a new threat loomed. Napoleon himself was preparing to enter Spain at the head of a 200,000-strong army, if rumours were to be believed. Sir Charles Cotton was grating already that it would have been only 170,000 if Junot’s Portuguese army had not been ferried back to Rochefort. Somebody would have to do much answering over the Sintra Convention.

Maynard’s squadron had accompanied another convoy with supplies and was getting ready for the return voyage to the English ports. With the Spanish in open revolt against their former French allies and Joseph Bonaparte gone from Madrid, the British government was getting ready to support the local Spanish juntas which had replaced the weak central government under Godoy. If Napoleon could be busied on the Peninsula, the continental allies of Britain, led by Austria, might have a chance at forming a new coalition.

Now the transports were readying for yet another run to the English ports, to pick up supplies and replacements for Moore’s army. Maynard was trying to get Cotton’s approval for the ships to put into Portsmouth. There had been much wear on the squadron over the past months and bosun’s stores were getting depleted. With the winter looming ahead, it would be advisable to stock up. Yet, Tony could also sympathise with Cotton who wanted to keep his ships on the Portuguese and Spanish coasts.

Tony was philosophical. Even if they were granted a short spell in Portsmouth, there was little chance of him travelling to High Matcham, to see Harriet. He did not want Harriet to make the journey either in her advanced state, and so Portsmouth did not hold quite as much appeal for him.

He heard steps outside, and a few heartbeats later, a knock sounded.

“Come in!”

It was Midshipman Uxbridge.

“Sir, signal from Flag: Prepare for sailing with the daybreak.”

“Very well, Mister Uxbridge, kindly send for Mister Laughton,” Tony replied.

Laughton appeared less than a minute later, and Tony related the orders.

“Not much to do, Sir,” the stoic lieutenant answered. “I shall have the shore leave cancelled for tonight. Water came in yesterday, and we’re finished with the repairs in the mizzen top.”

Laughton was a very efficient First Lieutenant. Not once since Dougherty took over his own command had Tony felt the necessity to criticise his new second-in-command. Laughton was just like that — efficient. Tony feared he would never be one of those officers inspiring their subordinates, but for a first Lieutenant, dependability and stoicism were good traits indeed.

“Excellent, Mister Laughton. About those cracks in the foretop, are they getting worse?”

“No, Sir. Mister Poole had the spar wound tightly with Nº2 rope. It should hold until we get some harbour time.”

“Put that on your list as the first task once we put into an English harbour. That, and to get decent reserve spars. I cannot believe the commissioner in Portsmouth gave us rotten spars as reserve.”

Laughton shrugged with equanimity.

“We fitted out after Trafalgar, Sir. I should think good timbers were hard to come by, after all the repairs on Nelson’s ships.”

“You are likely correct in that deduction, Mister Laughton. Nevertheless, we need to correct that. Will you and the other gentlemen of the wardroom grace my table tonight for a dinner? I believe we shall have a rough crossing, and it may be our last chance for a decent meal in a while.”

“Certainly, Sir Anthony! I shall relay your invitation.”

The idea had come to Tony spontaneously. The Bay of Biscay would offer rough sailing this time of the year, and the Channel would not be better. Cold cuts and biscuit would be his sustenance, and one last decent dinner would have to tide him over until they reached port.

By evening, written orders from Maynard supplemented his flag signals. The transports would be escorted to Portsmouth and released for the most part. Only three of them would return to Portugal with supplies for Moore’s army.

Most of the transports would sail with ballast but four had taken cargo. The captains and Maynard had each invested £200 in a cargo of Port Wine and Sherry, the first to reach England in this year. Any wine merchant in England would snatch up that cargo for twice as much, and the risk was moderate. Tony had proposed this and Maynard jumped on the idea eagerly. He had earned some prize money in the past months, mostly due to Dougherty’s exploits in Daring, but to double that money was too tempting to resist.

The most important information was that they would sail for Portsmouth. Although Tony hoped for some harbour time, perhaps allowing him a brief visit to High Matcham, he was skeptical. They would stay for as long as it took to load the supplies into the transports, and that meant five or six days. The ships were sound and did not need major repairs. No, he decided, chances to see Harriet were marginal.

Tony was standing on his quarterdeck, letting his telescope sweep around to take in the ships of the convoy. As had to be feared, the Bay of Biscay was showing itself from its worst side, with gale force winds and lashing rains. Although the direction of the wind — due west — was ideal for the convoy, they made little way under their doubly reefed topsails, for showing more sails was not advisable for the transports. As it was, the smaller ships were tossed about badly and Tony felt sympathy with the wounded soldiers on board the transport ships.

The foul weather had begun when they rounded Cape St. Vincent. Now, during the fourth day in stormy weather, even hardened sailors showed ill effects, and the two surgeons were busy enough splinting broken arms and legs. Three men had already lost their footing and fallen over the side to drown. In the current conditions, no attempt of a rescue could be dared, even if the men could keep above water for even a few minutes. Less than one-third of the crew could swim, and to swim in the violent sea would have been impossible for even good swimmers.

Some of the empty transports made a maddening leeway as well as lying over badly, and Tony suspected that their captains had not loaded sufficient ballast. It was a chore to empty the hold again, and many skippers did not want to expose their crew to the tedious work. They were all paying for that laxness now, as the convoy was blown towards the French coast. Rounding Ouessant might even become a problem, and Tony did not envy Maynard for the task of keeping the convoy in some semblance of order.

Dougherty in his Daring bore the brunt of the situation. The former corvette was the most seaworthy ship of the squadron, and she hustled to and fro between their charges, sometimes even firing her guns to enforce compliance to the signals. Tony wondered how Mister Malloy would see this, having been in command of such a transport before he became first lieutenant in Daring. What goes around comes around, he thought.

The snap when Tony closed his telescope could not be heard over the infernal noise of the wind and waves. Mister Prince had the watch, and Tony regarded him for a few minutes. He had grown into his role nicely. If only his overbearing Chamberlain could be lost, he would be just a normal, efficient and ambitious young officer. Looking at the log book, Tony tried to guess their position. They had not seen the sun in five days, five days without an exact navigation. He had to guess their drift and rely on the log casts which were hardly exact under the current conditions.

Somewhere in the constant noise, Tony’s ear picked up something that stuck out. He looked at Mister Prince who had also heard something. Tony walked over, cautiously watching the waves.

“Cannon shot, Sir?” Prince asked.

“Likely,” Tony shouted back.

The lookout in the masthead was shouting something, but they could not hear.

“Get the man down, Mister Prince and send up a replacement,” Tony ordered impatiently.

Soon the man was standing in front of them, dripping wet from the rain and spray.

“There’s four sail, Sir, coming up from aft. Full-rigged ships and big ‘uns.”

Four sail coming up from aft could only hail from Ferrol. The current wind would not endanger the British ships blockading that Spanish port, and if it did, they would still not sail due north. If they were not British, they had to be French or Spanish. The Spanish navy ships had mostly fallen into Napoleon’s hands, so either way those ships were likely enemies. French ships blockaded in Ferrol using the bad weather for a run to Rochefort or even Brest, was the most likely explanation.

“Mister Prince, kindly make signal, Asia to flag: Enemy in sight, due south. Four sail.”

Prince made big eyes for a moment, but then he sprang into action. Only a few minutes passed before the flags rose on the halliard, accompanied by a signal gun. A little while later, a signal flag rose on board the Malta.

“Flagship acknowledges, Sir,” Prince reported.

Doubtlessly, Maynard had somebody climb into the masthead to take a look before he decided on any action. Whatever Maynard did, he wasted no time. Not ten minutes had passed when flags rose on the Malta.

“Flag to convoy: ‘Proceed to next British port, make more sail,” the signal midshipman reported.

Then, another ten minutes later, another line of flags rose.

“Flag to squadron, ‘Form battle line, prepare for action.’”

“Very well, Mister Prince, beat to quarters, if you please!”

Tony gave this command with his calmest voice, yet he felt excitement well up. An engagement under the current conditions would be chancy. There was no way they could open the lower deck gun-ports, unless ... Contrary to traditional tactics, the windward position would not offer advantages. The ships would be lying over to leeward, and the ship in the windward position would see its lower deck ports flooded. In addition, the guns would point downward, almost into the sea. The leeward ship would have problems, too, such as running the guns out against the tilt of the deck, but at least they could fire.

Tony was so engrossed with his plans that he almost jumped when Laughton saluted in front of him.

“Ship cleared for action, Sir. Eight minutes and thirty-five seconds, Sir.”

“Very creditable, Mister Laughton, under the current conditions. Please see to it that the officers on the lower deck know to shift crews to the windward side. The leeward side will be out of action, I fear.”

Laughton nodded.

“I’ll let them know, Sir. The wind’s moderating a little, I fancy.”

“We’ll take what we get. Let’s take down the top hamper. If we get hit in the rigging, it will be bad enough with just the top masts, and there’s no way we can show t’gallants in this gale, even when it’s moderating. We’ll roll less that way, too.”

“Aye, aye, Sir!”

While the four ships were making their way to meet the suspected enemy ships, the Asia’s crew worked hard to get down the royals and topgallant yards, followed by the standing rigging above the topsail yards. Tony knew he was running a slight risk. If the wind moderated considerably, Asia’s speed would be impaired. Yet, he reasoned, a moderation of the wind would not happen shortly, giving them time enough to bring up the top hamper again.

“They’re following our example, Sir!” Laughton announced.

It was true. Both Warspite and Malta were changing their appearance as their crews followed Asia’s lead. Tony directed his telescope to where the approaching ships were. There was no sign of them following suite. The ships were hull up now, and Tony could see that they were men of war; three of them third-rates, and a smaller full-rigged ship, likely a frigate.