Chapter 46: Exile

“Sir Anthony, Ushant is bearing two points to larboard, ten miles ahead,” Captain His Serene Highness the Prince of Hohenstein announced to his commodore.

“Thank you, Sir August. The sloops are in sight?”

“Yes, of course, Sir Anthony.”

“Kindly have a course set for Cape Finisterre, Sir August.”

“Aye-aye, Sir Anthony,” Hohenstein answered stoically.

Their destination was not quite New South Wales, but it certainly felt like a punitive mission. They were headed for the Mediterranean coast of Spain, well away from London and from the angered politicians.

Only a week ago, Tony had called at the Admiralty armed with his reports and all the supporting letters. His first report had caused the Secretary to their Lordships to lose his colour entirely, and soon, Tony had to repeat his report and his reasons to Lord Mulgrave, the First Lord of the Admiralty. That had not ended it. Two officials from the Foreign Office had appeared next, followed even by the Private Secretary of His Majesty George III.

As Tony had expected, his report caused shortness of breath and heart burn for many of the gentlemen in the Ministry and at Court. Fortunately (in their view), His Excellency the Spanish Envoy was travelling in Ireland and would not learn about the effrontery until his return.

More than once, Tony heard the question whether he had lost his mind entirely. However, the rather blunt letter from the Spanish Viceroy in Panama thanking the British Government to leave the governance of New Spain to the properly appointed authorities — namely himself — did not fail to fluster the Foreign Office representatives. In the end the assembled leaders decided on the time-honoured course to cover up the whole affair and to hope that nobody — least of all the newspapers — would ever learn of it.

It was late afternoon when Lord Mulgrave gave Tony his orders in person: to sail his little squadron into the Mediterranean Sea and to stay there for at least a year. His orders were rather vague there. He was to worry the coast line from Barcelona to Malaga to intercept French supplies. Most importantly, he was to sail on the next morning. Not even time for provisioning was granted. Weigh anchor and get out of London, was Mulgrave’s orders. Provision the ships at Plymouth, far away from London.

Thus, Tony had barely an hour to see his children and to bid Harriet good-bye before he had to return to the Clyde. A very flustered Hohenstein was already supervising the preparations for putting to sea. He, too, had been at the receiving end of a dressing down from several high ranking courtiers. Tony knew already that he’d not had the time to find proper accommodations for his young wife, and her Serene Highness was back to lodging with Harriet, much like before their departure for Colombia.

Even that was considered too risque and a grim-looking Richard Lambert had advised his daughter of the desirability to keep the London house closed and to move to High Matcham with her young companion. Harriet acceded to that suggestion without so much as batting an eye. The whole affair was partly of her own doing, and she accepted the consequences. Her good-bye kiss for Tony left nothing unclear.

Now the small squadron had provisioned in Plymouth and was heading for the Peninsula. They were not to touch Gibraltar, as rumours from there would quickly reach England. Instead, they would use Port Mahon on Menorca. The island was under Spanish rule but depended on English supplies and protection, and His Excellency the Governor was only too happy to offer his British allies the use of the port. There were worse duties than cruising the Mediterranean Sea looking for prizes, and Tony suspected that Lord Mulgrave had dreamed up the task to get him and Hohenstein out of the line of fire.

Lord Collingwood was still in command of the Mediterranean Station although Tony had read newspaper articles pointing at his impending relief. Not that he was found wanting: he was a model fleet commander. His health, however, was deteriorating. Tony hoped that the man would have some time left to enjoy his retirement and the recognition that was his due.

There was little to do for Tony, and he immersed himself in a year’s worth of newspapers to bring himself up to date on current affairs. The war on the Peninsula was a stalemate. Wellesley had returned to the theatre and given the French a beating at Talavera. He was however faced by a strong numerical superiority of the French troops, and he had accordingly built up a strong defensive line in the mountains to secure Portugal.

Given the large number of soldiers the French had to feed and supply the coastal shipping between the French Mediterranean ports and the southern Spanish ports was a natural target. Not since Cochrane’s campaign in ‘08 had the southern Spanish coast been the subject to British harassment and Tony was sent to change that.

Later that morning Tony showed on deck, but not for long. Hohenstein was growing into a confident leader and Tony did not wish to create the impression that he was involved in the ship’s affairs. Anyway, the young man modelled his leadership closely on the example set by his commodore giving Tony little if any reason for interference.

Crossing the Bay of Biscay in winter was never comfortable, and the two sloops were having a hard time to keep up. Hohenstein wisely kept in one or two reefs more than needed to give the smaller vessels some reprieve. The promise of milder weather beyond the Strait kept the spirits up, however, and the prospect of cruiser warfare added to that.

Once past Cape Finisterre the squadron registered improved weather. They gave the Portuguese coast a wide berth. Off Porto they met with a British transport and exchanged signals, but that was all the shipping they saw until they entered the Straits. Tony kept well to the African side whilst sailing past Gibraltar, adhering to the orders he had received from Mulgrave.

Once sailing in the Mediterranean Sea, the need to keep away from land was over, and Tony sent his two sloops on reconnaissance missions to Marbella and Malaga. Within a day they returned. Pickleberry had seen three French brigs in Malaga, but Burroughs could only report fishing boats off Marbella. Tony filed away that information, deciding against an attempt on Malaga. Those French ships had probably discharged their cargos already and were shipping only ballast. No, the first strike had to be delivered on more promising targets.

For three days, he kept his ships sailing up and down the coast east of Malaga, just out of sight from land. On the fourth morning, they were rewarded when another French brig ran into their arms. With the sloops closer to the shore, Tony had the Clyde positioned in a forward flanking position, and the French captain saw his escape routes blocked. Not that he would have stood a chance in a chase against the Clyde anyway, but Tony adhered to the principle to never give up a possible advantage.

The cargo was rice — always fetching good prices — and small arms ammunition. The brig was only on her second voyage and her canvas was spotless white. Including the cargo, the 400 ton vessel would easily yield them £2.500, perhaps more. The men of the squadron rubbed their hands. This was a promising start indeed.

Keeping the prize in their wake, they slowly sailed eastward in a line abeam, sweeping the coastal waters in a forty mile radius. Off Almeria, they caught the next coaster. It had only 200 tons, but it shipped a cargo of brandies, contraband as Tony suspected, but welcome nonetheless.

When they reached Barcelona, the northern border of their patrol sector, they were trailed by no fewer than five brigs and coasters. They had caught three more vessels sailing mostly with ballast, and Tony had transferred what little cargo they shipped to the other prizes before they were scuttled.

This success created an unforeseen dilemma. The nearest prize court was in Gibraltar. His orders were to use Port Mahon as his base, but where was he to have his prizes adjudged? To win some time, Tony had his ships head for their base. There had to be a British consul in Port Mahon who could advise him.

Upon entering Port Mahon they saw a huge first rate ship of the line anchored. It was the Ville de Paris, Collingwood’s flagship. Hohenstein knew Collingwood, having served as midshipman in the Ville de Paris, and thus Tony had his young captain accompany him when he had himself rowed over to the flagship. Tony had a surprise seeing Sir Edward Berry, formerly of HMS Agamemnon, waiting at the port.

“Welcome aboard, Sir Anthony,” he greeted them.

“Thank you, Sir Edward. May I present Captain His Serene Highness, Sir August Prince of Hohenstein of HMS Clyde?”

“Welcome aboard, Sir August,” Berry nodded. “I believe you served under my predecessor?”

“Indeed, Sir Edward,” Hohenstein returned.

“Gentlemen, if you came to report to Lord Collingwood, I cannot give you much hope. His Lordship is gravely ill and we fear that he is only days from meeting his maker.”

Tony was certain that he lost all his colour, for Berry nodded sadly.

“Yes, indeed. A great man is dying. From time to time he is still lucid. I shall undertake to ask him if he is willing to see you. I shall make a flag signal then. He always spoke well of you.”

“That would be kind, Sir Edward.”

“Be that as it may, gentlemen, may I offer you refreshments in my cabin?”

“We should be grateful, Sir Edward.”

Sitting a sipping a fine Minorcan red wine, they exchanged news and gossip. They also found out that the nearest prize court was indeed in Gibraltar. Berry promised to escort the prizes there once he left Port Mahon, freeing Tony of the necessity to put into Gibraltar. Of course, he had to explain a little of what had happened, and it put a small smile on Berry’s face.

“You’d think they’re doing us a favour letting us fight for them, the Dons do. Personally, I liked them better as enemies than as allies.”

For the next days the small squadron was busy affecting repairs and restocking their water supplies. On their second day, Tony had a chance to see his former admiral for one last time, and he returned to the Clyde shaken and depressed. Collingwood had been reduced almost to a skeleton by the illness, and it was easy to see that only days remained for him. Wincing with pain he had directed a few kind words at Tony, only to close his eyes again when the agony became too much. Then he opened his eyes once more to whisper a few words.

“How we mourned Nelson, but he was the lucky one dying at the peak of his glory.”

Tony could see how a man dying from cancer might consider the fallen Nelson lucky. When Collingwood closed his eyes again Tony bade his farewell, not wishing for the man to suffer any additional pain. Berry escorted him to the deck, himself with brimming eyes.

Early on the next morning, a ten-gun salute rolled over the harbour whilst Collingwood’s flag was slowly lowered to half-mast. Only minutes later, Clyde and her consorts answered the salute in kind, and the captains had themselves rowed to the Ville de Paris. The decks were filled with the crews when the chaplain conducted a brief memorial service for their dead admiral. He would be transported back to England in his flagship, like pickled fruit in a rum cask, and given a pompous burial. Here, however, on the decks of his flagship, the officers and crews had a true measure of the man, and the hymns they sang in his memory came from their hearts.

In the next morning, Ville de Paris weighed anchor. Accompanied by Clyde‘s prizes she left for Gibraltar, carrying the first set of reports from Tony. A day later the small squadron went up anchor to resume their patrols of the Spanish coast.

The pleasant spring weather had long made place for the sweltering heat of the Mediterranean summer, and HMS Clyde with the sloops was still patrolling up and down the Spanish south coast. The French were warned now and the pickings had become slimmer. Yet, a slow trickle of prizes was sent to Gibraltar for adjudication, and by July Tony had received the first statement from his prize agent in Gibraltar. The prizes had all been sold to private buyers, and the monies came in much faster than from the notoriously slow Navy agencies. The total value of the prizes already exceeded £24.000 of which one eighth was his share. The three captains shared in a quarter, yielding them each £2.000. Those sums even placated the ambitious Commander Pickleberry, and they were equally welcome for a prince without lands.

They had to weather a few severe summer storms, but nothing which could not be handled by the ships and their crews. Tony wrote letters once per week, and he received six to ten letters every two months, depending on when the package from Gibraltar met them at Port Mahon. Harriet was in good health she wrote, and their two children were a joy to have. Harriet admitted to some difficulties with Emily. Apparently, the girl was developing into a headstrong person, and she would not always listen to Harriet’s guidance.

Little Richard was approaching his fourth birthday, and apparently he was busy digging up the plants in Nadine Blacket’s herb garden, much to their housekeeper’s dismay. Little Eleanor was a sunshine, giving the nurses no problems whatsoever.

Tony was also informed of one important development. Isabella was carrying her first child. She had not been sure of it when Clyde sailed from London, but now she was more than half way along. There would be an heir to the throne of Hohenstein before long.

In other news, Harriet recounted the visits they had received. Lucy had paid a weeklong visit in May, followed by Anita who took a break from her paramour to enjoy fresh air and sunshine. The private secretary of the King had also payed a brief visit. He had spoken with Isabella for close to three hours, and neither had told Harriet of the topics. Harriet reported though that Isabella did not seem to be dismayed but rather showed amusement after the visitor had left again.

They’d had a wet spring, but now the sun was making regular appearances assuring the tenants of a good rye and wheat harvest. Mr. Brown had indeed married Miss Holland, and the young Widow Pettigrew was living with them. With the help of Mr. Hogsbotham, the barrister, Catrina Pettigrew had secured her late husbands possessions from his cousin’s clutches, and she was now courted by the new school teacher in Reading. Harriet was hoping for a successful outcome. Those letters gave Tony reassurance that his family and those dependent on him were indeed faring well.

Surprisingly, his own reports had also found their way into the London Gazette. Harriet had sent the clippings along with her letters. According to Harriet’s sources, the current draught in successful naval engagements and the stalemate in the Peninsular War had prompted the Admiralty to change their course, toting the captures made by Tony’s small squadron as convincing sign that the French hold on Spain would soon crumble for want of supplies.

So far the Spanish envoy had not caught up on their return, and according to Sir Richard Lambert the Foreign Ministry was not as concerned anymore. The Spanish insurgents in the Peninsula were an important factor in the war forcing the French to deploy the majority of their troops to secure their supply lines. However, what passed for regular Spanish troops was useless at best, and a hindrance for Wellesley’s campaigns at worst. Thus, there was the realisation that an annoyed Spanish envoy was not a cause for worries.

For Tony this meant that there might be hope for him to be allowed back home. On the other hand, their steady captures of French coasters might just prevent that. Right now, Clyde and her consorts were a thorn in the French side, and the Admiralty would be ill-advised to withdraw them. Also, the longer he was kept in his current rank as commodore, the less would be the chance of him being demoted back to captain.

He was of a divided mind. On the one hand, this appointment was the best he could dream of. On the other hand, his chances of seeing his family anytime soon were close to nil. He knew of course that he had been lucky through the last years in that he had seen his wife with a frequency of which other captains could only dream. Nevertheless, he missed Harriet.

Once again were they anchored in Port Mahon when the lookout sang out the arrival of a ship. It was a British ship, a frigate. When recognition signals were exchanged the newcomer turned out to be the Mersey, 32. He knew the ship of course as she had been part of Fanning’s Irish Sea squadron. Her captain was unknown to Tony, one Captain Duncan, a Scotsman. Tony hosted him as soon as the Mersey had cast anchor, and he learned that the frigate would join his little squadron. Inwardly he sighed, taking this for a sign that the powers to be planned for him to continue in his tasks for quite a while longer.

That evening he introduced Duncan to the other captains. His arrival changed the rankings within the squadron as Duncan was decidedly senior to Hohenstein. He was a quiet man who seemed to do everything with moderation. He ate sparingly, he drank sparingly, he spoke sparingly. Yet, Mersey had shown to be well commanded when she cast anchor, and Duncan had two successful ship-to-ship engagements to his credit. There had to be more to him than met the eye.

Tony filled him in on their next planned endeavours. Allowing for Mersey‘s arrival being unknown to the French, Tony planned a diversion. He would sail eastward with Clyde and the sloops, past the major ports. Seeing the British squadron disappear in eastward direction might just induce some of the French coasters lying under the protection of the batteries to venture forth towards their destination. Mersey would follow the squadron with a half day delay to sweep up any such coasters.

The plans were finalised and rendezvous points were agreed upon, and a day later the squadron set sail. Clyde and the sloops fanned out in their usual mode, and they sailed slowly along the Spanish coast line. Tony could see a number of vessels under the protection of batteries and in the small ports along the coast, and he hoped that some of them would end up as catches. There was no way to know whether their ruse was successful until they returned to Port Mahon a week later. There, lying in Mersey‘s vicinity were no fewer than four sail, two brigs and two schooners, flying British colours over French. A nice haul to be sure!