Chapter 41: Winter Storms

Portsmouth, December 1808

Harriet and Anita Heyworth were both delightfully naked. With a wicked smile, Harriet had just latched her mouth on Anita’s extended nipple, and Tony was preparing himself to climb between Anita’s thighs, when John Little’s voice shattered the life-like illusion.

“Sir, sunrise in a half hour!”

“Er ... whatisit ... oh, yes, right,” Tony mumbled, embarrassed over the obvious erection that tented his blanket.

John Little looked pointedly elsewhere to give his captain some privacy whilst Tony put on trousers, stuffing the shirt inside. Next came the woollen vest, and then his winter coat. No need for neckties and other niceties on a dreary winter morning. The stockings were made of bleached sheep wool and warmer than their silk counterparts, and the shoes were in fact short boots. Being a senior captain gave Tony some leeway with regard to uniform codes.

He decided against shaving; there would be time enough later. His hair was still tied in a queue, and it was neat enough for this ungodly hour. Tony still felt the after effects of last evening’s dinner, namely the effects of well aged French Brandy and he resolved to leave off the wines and spirits for a week. It had been a very special occasion, as he admitted to himself. The farewell dinner had featured Anita Heyworth as guest of honour, and it had left most of his junior officers quite speechless. HSH, Mr. Prince, had been particularly awed by Anita’s presence. Her vivacious nature and her witty humour had deepened that feeling, and when Anita finally bade her good-byes, the young prince was thoroughly smitten by the older actress.

Anita had left together with Margaret Maynard, and both would travel to High Matcham together before Anita planned to return to London and her make-believe paramour. For Tony, her stay in High Matcham had been pleasant and slightly disturbing at the same time. Sleeping with two women, one of them his wife and the other his former paramour, pricked his conscience but also re-awakened his long-buried desire for Anita. In a way, he was glad that she was returning to London. She was making his life ... complicated.

On deck, he could hardly make out the silhouettes of the masts in the darkness and the light fog. His eyes took some time to adjust, and then it was almost time to ready the ship.

“Mr. Chalk, kindly have the capstan manned and both watches roused. Anchor up in a quarter hour.”

“Aye-aye, Sir!” his new second-in-command rapped in response.

Seconds later the pipes sounded and sleepy men rushed to their stations. Sir William Maynard KB appeared on deck too. Tony touched his hat.

“Good morning, Sir William. Sun-up in ten minutes.”

“Good morning, Sir Anthony. Any sign of life from the other ships?”

“Warspite is ready, Sir William, and I assume the same for Daring. As for the transports, I have a thirty-two pounder loaded with a sandbag charge,” Tony grinned.

“Yes, that story made the rounds,” Maynard chuckled. “By the way, I noticed that your officers address you as “Sir” only. May I ask for the same brevity when you address me?”

“Certainly, Sir,” Tony answered spontaneously. “The address “Captain” should also suffice to call my attention.”

Maynard smiled.

“Splendid, Captain. It was flattering during the first days, I’ll be ready to admit, but it can be trying. Don’t get me wrong — I appreciate the honour, but I can do without the honorific.”

Tony bowed his head to acknowledge the bon-mot. He found that he liked the man behind the admiral’s uniform.

“I realised one morning how much time was wasted with the extra three syllables, Sir.”

“There is that, Captain. What about His Serene Highness? He is performing well, I trust? I was asked about him at court, and His Majesty’s Secretary asked me to convey his appreciation to you. I expect him to be posted soon.”

“I should hope not too soon, Sir. With more experience, he’ll make a good captain. If they post him now they will have to support him with an experienced 1st Lieutenant.”

It was time now. Tony gave Chalk a nod. Seconds later, a signal shot was fired from the forecastle. Asia‘s Lobsters — the sailors’ nickname for the red-coated Marines — began to turn the capstan. Asia crept forward along her anchor cable whilst close to a hundred men on two decks threw their weight against the capstan bars.

“Anchor’s free!” came the shout from the forecastle.

“Mr. Chalk, double-reefed tops’ls, if you please,” Tony gave his next command. “Quartermaster, course south-southeast.”

“South-southeast, Sir, aye-aye, Sir!” came the laconic reply. After almost three years, the men could anticipate most of their captain’s orders.

Whilst the land breeze caught the reefed topsails, Tony inspected the rest of the squadron. Warspite and Daring were under way, too, the latter already under full topsails to assume her vanguard position. As had to be expected, the transports with their smaller crews were lagging behind the men-of-war but not by much.

For a brief moment, Tony reflected on the excellent business they had made with the cargo of wines and spirits they had brought back from Portugal. Of course, the sums earned would be dwarfed by the prize money from the two French battle ships but their investment had earned them 16 Shillings on the Pound. His own share had been enough to restock his cabin stores for a half year, even counting the quantities of Madeira and Port he had taken out for his own table. As the temporary flag captain Tony expected to host fellow officers regularly.

Finally, the transports were falling in line behind Asia, whilst Warspite sailed as rear-guard. Slowly, the squadron crept through the inner harbour. Visibility was still poor, but even at this ungodly hour, there was a lively traffic of lighters and wherries all across the World’s largest naval port. Soon they sailed past Round Tower and Square Tower and out into the still sheltered waters east of the Isle of Wight.

“Can I entice you to have breakfast with me, Captain?” Maynard offered. “It would seem we have time enough before we have to wear ship.”

“With the greatest pleasure, Sir,” was Tony’s automatic reply just as if he had a choice when invited by his admiral.

The table was laid with all the delicacies one could expect just a half hour out of harbour. Maynard’s steward had made a run for a baker before dawn, securing fresh bread that might keep for three or four days. The coffee was hot and strong, the bacon was still sizzling in the cast iron pan, and scrambled eggs completed a breakfast that was fit for a king. Maynard showed an excellent appetite and was quite upbeat in spite of the worrisome news that had come in the recent days.

“I imagine we’ll have our hands full once we arrive. The last despatches had Boney driving the Dons to pairs in the South.”

“I hope that Moore can hold the North and Portugal, Sir. With Boney there in person, there’ll be no half-assed conventions.”

Both men were referring to the newest development on the Spanish Peninsula. The Emperor Napoleon in person had taken command over the French troops and was sweeping into Spain at the head of a huge army. Now, barely a month after his first movements he was already threatening Madrid. The Spanish fought heroically but ineffectively, each local junta jealous of their neighbours and their troops ill-equipped and -trained. Only in the North the Spanish troops were able to offer meaningful resistance. There, General La Romana’s well-disciplined troops were standing fast.

“Moore has orders to join La Romana’s army in Northern Spain, to bait the French,” Maynard nodded. “If he stays close to the coast, we can support him. Sir Charles Cotton will shift his ships northward, too.”

“Shall we evacuate Moore and his men, Sir?”

“Hard to say at this point. If the Dons cannot stop Boney, Moore’s position will be untenable. Boney has 200,000 men, and all Moore can field are perhaps 30,000. I cannot see much of a chance. Perhaps, he can hold on to Portugal, at least. Let us see what intelligence Sir Charles has.”

They were to rendezvous with the squadron off Lisbon, the first direct contact with Sir Charles since spring. It was likely that Maynard’s independence was over and they would be part of the larger squadron.

“Any evacuation from Northern Spain will be difficult in Winter, Sir,” Tony mused. The Bay of Biscay was a notoriously challenging water, especially in the cold season.

“That cannot be helped,” Maynard sighed. “I’ve looked up the charts. Coruña and Gijón are likely embarkation points, even Ferrol, and I don’t like any of them.”

That started a technical discussion about the impending tasks. Too soon, Tony had to ask his leave to return to the quarterdeck, but the points raised during the breakfast gave him enough food for thought.

The weather along the Portuguese coast was as unfriendly as one could expect in mid-December. The big ships were wallowing heavily in the waves, and the situation in the smaller craft would be much worse, Tony knew. For days, he had not worn dry clothes. Even under the heavy oilskin watch cloak, the constant spray found its way to the layers of clothing close to his skin. He felt cold and miserable. For the last two days, the fires had been out, effectively making the drying of clothes impossible, and adding to the cold misery officers and crew experienced. They were cruising in and endless zig-zag pattern, trying to find Sir Charles Cotton’s ships, so far without success.

Tony felt another small rivulet running down from his neck along his spine and he shuddered involuntarily.

“The glass has been rising in the past two hours, Sir,” Lieutenant Chalk announced at his side. “With luck, we’ll get some better weather.”

“We can always hope, Mr. Chalk,” Tony answered. “Infernal luck, to have a rendezvous in this weather.”

“Sir! Daring‘s signalling!” The shout came from the main top where the midshipman of the watch would be huddling under a tarpaulin.

Seconds later, the young man came down over the ratlines and ran aft.

“Sir, Daring signals, ‘Six sails eight miles ahead, bearing SSE.’ Masthead thinks he sees something, too.”

“Thank you, Mr. Uxbridge,” Tony acknowledged the midshipman. “Runner, my compliments to Sir William, and we may have sighted the fleet.”

Maynard joined Tony within seconds.

“A sighting?” he asked hopefully.

“Daring has sighted six sails ahead of us.”

“Sail ho!” the lookout hailed from the masthead. “Four sails, no six, seven, there’s another two; nine sails bearing SSE!”

“That has to be Sir Charles,” Maynard said, clapping his cold hands.

“Very likely, Sir,” Tony agreed. “We’ll know for sure soon.”

Just then, the cloud cover opened for a few precious minutes and visibility improved dramatically. The officers on Asia‘s quarterdeck could spot the sails perhaps six miles ahead.

“It’s the old Neptune, Sir,” the masthead hailed. “I can make out her tops’ls!”

“So far, so good,” Maynard said, the relief evident in his voice. “Kindly bear down on her, Captain.”

The small convoy went closer to the wind and thrashed over the still angry waves, clawing closer and closer to the main fleet. Soon, they were within signalling distance.

“Flag to Asia, ‘Welcome. Form vanguard. Course North, C-o-r-r-u-n-n-a.”

Just minutes later, they were sailing bak the way they had come, now leading a long line of ships, twenty-eight sails strong. Sir Charles had mustered every sail he could assemble. By way of short bursts of signals, he briefed Maynard over the next hour. They were to head for Coruña, to rendezvous with Sir John Moore and to evacuate the British troops.

Over the next days they made only pitiful progress. With a violent northwesterly storm blowing into their teeth, the fought their way northward under close-hauled sails. For two days, they even had to heave-to, to ride out the gale, losing all of their gains. Christmas was celebrated in a tossing, cold ship, with the fires out. It was three days later when the wind finally moderated and a fire could be lit in the pantry. The still strong winds still did not allow much progress. The two-deckers could have made better headway, but the huge and unwieldy Neptune was a poor sailer, and such were most of the transports.

Come New Year’s Day, they had not even reached Oporto, and they were still fighting their way north. At least, they had a fire in the pantry and even coal basins going in the cabin and wardroom. It was smelly, but warm and served to dry the wet coats.

Still, their infernal bad luck held when they encountered yet another violent winter storm which set them back by another week. The weather was horrible, sending even experienced tars into despair. Jonathan and his colleague were constantly busy mending the various injuries suffered when mere humans battled the sail canvas and the elements high on the yards. Asia lost three men to falls and another two were washed overboard, never to be seen again. Two dozen crew suffered injuries, ranging from dislocated shoulders to broken hip bones.

Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the gale weakened to a strong breeze which allowed them to struggle northward. They were already weeks behind their schedule, and Sir Charles showed his impatience with scathing flag signals for every further delay. Maynard was miserable and suffering great pain in the moist cold, but he maintained his composure. By January 15, they sighted Coruña, and it was obvious that there was heavy fighting — a battle even — going on around the city.

There was no time to waste, and even in the dusk of the winter evening, the first boats were rowed ashore to assess the situation and to evacuate the first boatloads of wounded. Already busy, the surgeons worked through the night treating the various shot and stab wounds of Moore’s men.

In the morning, the French Marshal Soult began his attack on Coruña in earnest. At this point however, the British ships were able to support the defenders with their rolling broadsides. Moore had built up his position carefully, and all day the French attacks were repulsed whilst more and more of the expedition force made their way to the ships and to safety. By early afternoon, the news came that Sir John Moore had been hit by a cannonball and suffered mortal injury. The French attacks, however, were repulsed time and again, until by late evening they fell back to their positions, thoroughly beaten back.

The embarkation continued at a frantic pace all through the night. Tony was on his feet incessantly directing the efforts of his crew. By daybreak, the French had posted a six-gun battery on a promontory overlooking the anchorage and began to fire upon the transports, thus creating not a little panic among the embarked soldiers. Sir Charles brought the Neptune close, however, and the French battery was blown to smithereens by the Neptune‘s gunners. That ended all French efforts to interfere with the embarkation.

By evening, all but the rear guard were evacuated, and those brave men made it to the ships during the night, whilst the senior captains and Maynard joined Sir Charles Cotton in Neptune for a tactical discussion. General Hope was also there, ragged and hollow-cheeked, but showing the pride of a victorious soldier. The French had been repulsed in open battle, and the British army could leave the Peninsula with their heads held high.

“Gentlemen,” Sir Charles started, “Let us raise our glasses in the memory of Sir John Moore. A man possessed of every quality desirable in a gentleman and almost unmatched as a soldier. Our sympathy goes to his family, his friends, and to his comrades in arms.”

They all stood silently, watching their heads under the low beams nevertheless. Finally, Sir Charles spoke up again.

“Our felicitations to General Hope, his officers, and his soldiers, for their victorious action!”

The all bowed to Hope who was barely able to stand. Cotton had mercy, though, and after they sat again, refreshments were served.

“Gentlemen, we shall sail in the morning, weather permitting. The squadron will sail directly for Portsmouth. From the reports I have received, almost all ships have suffered considerable damage during the two gales. Sir William, can your ships perform an extra task, nevertheless?”

Receiving nods from his captains, Maynard nodded.

“Yes, Sir Charles. We we able to repair most of the storm damage in the last two days. What extra task, if I may ask?”

“I have been informed that the Spanish General La Romana has taken a stand against Marshall Soult’s superior force, delaying the French sufficiently to allow the re-embarkation of our men. From what I heard from General Hope, Sir John Moore has promised General La Romana to evacuate any of the Spanish soldiers who may reach the port of Gijon. It’s isolated enough for our purposes and only weakly fortified. I would ask you, Sir William, to make the attempt. I have no transports to spare, but then again, we do not expect many of the Spaniards to escape captivity in the face of the French superiority in numbers.”

“When should we sail, Sir Charles?” Maynard asked.

“Can you make it out of Coruña tonight?”

This time, Maynard did not look at his captains.

“Yes, Sir Charles. The wind has veered to west, but there’s no telling when it’ll shift back to northwest. We better make that northward dash whilst the wind supports us. Are the Spanish still holding on to Gijón, and do we have any Spanish interpreters to make the contact?”

“We have a Spanish-born bosun’s mate, one Juan Garcia. He can come along,” Captain Paynter said.

“Juan Garcia? Small, swarthy, a scar on his forehead?” Tony asked, showing his surprise.

“Yes, you know the man?” Paynter asked.

“He sailed under me, both in Medusa and in Clyde, and he was a great help at times. I’ll be glad to have him.”

Garcia had assisted Tony as interpreter in ‘04, when the Clyde‘s crew had evacuated the monastery on Hispaniola, freeing British prisoners of war and rescuing Doña Maria from captivity.

The discussions went on for a few more minutes, but Tony’s mind was already busy, planning the next task. He would have to study the charts of Gijón’s harbour, to make sure of the proper approach. If the wind kept blowing from the West, things would be easy, but once it shifted back to a northern direction, they would be trapped on a lee coast.

The westerly wind held over the night and during the next day, but the long rollers coming from the West did not allow them to sail a straight course for Gijón; the risk was too high that a ship would sail into the back of a roller. Instead, they sailed in northeasterly direction first before the ships wore and headed southeast to make the coast near the small port. Gijón was a small town with an insignificant harbour, but there was a well-suited beach west of the small harbour if the charts told the truth.

They arrived when the dusk fell over the bleak coast line. No fishing boats were out at sea and thus they could not learn anything about the situation in Gijón. There was no choice but to send a side boat with Garcia and a small crew of volunteers to find out if the French were in charge of the place. Tony promised each crew member in the boat a Guinea reward for when they made it back with information. Thus motivated the six men set out on their dangerous reconnaissance. The ships anchored in the still deep water off the small town, a full mile from the shore, and Tony spent the next three, nerve-wrecking hours waiting for the return of the boat.

Finally, the watch espied the boat fighting its way back to the ship. The men were panting heavily from the exertion of rowing a full mile in the choppy water and they were sent under deck where they received hot food and an extra ration of rum. Tony sat with them as they ate and drank and extracted what information they could give.

“So, Garcia, what’s the situation ashore?”

Garcia’s English had improved in the past years.

“No Frogs in town, Sir, not yet, but they’re marching on Gijón from the direction of León. La Romana was beaten and captured with most of his men. I went into town and met a few soldiers. There are two- or three hundred of them who escaped to Gijón and a hundred of the garrison, Sir. They will tell their Major that we are here.” Now, Garcia paused, looking slightly dazed. “They also told me that they have a princess with them. She was in León when the Frogs came closer, and she fled to the coast hoping for a fishing boat to take her away.”

“A princess? What princess?” Tony demanded.

“Doña Isabella de Burgos y León, Sir. She is the grandniece of King Carlos, the one Boney forced out.”

Tony shook his head. If she was of the House Borbón, then they had to bring her to safety. Yet, other things had to be decided first.

“Who is in charge of the soldiers and the town?”

“The sergeant I met will speak to his Major, Sir. They’ll probably send a boat tomorrow to parlay.”

“All right, Garcia, you turn in now. You are watch-free tonight; I’ll need you come tomorrow.”

Tony doled out the promised reward to the volunteers and returned to the after cabin. There he reported to Maynard.

“Sir, the French are in approach on Gijón. There are about three hundred Spaniards to evacuate. We’ll know more tomorrow. There’s also some princess, a grandniece of King Charles, who fled from León and may ask for evacuation.”

“A princess you say?” Maynard shook his head. “What on earth is she doing in Gijón?”

Tony shrugged.

“We have no information, Sir. With luck, the Spaniards will send out a boat tomorrow morning. Then we’ll know more.”

“I guess. Well, Captain, let’s get some sleep whilst we can. Have me notified if news arrive from the shore.”

Tony withdrew and after laying out his uniform and his watch cloak in readiness he dropped onto his cot for a few hours of sleep in the bucking ship. It was still dark when a runner came to wake him.