Read Online Sails on the Horizon: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall - Free Book Online
Authors: Jay Worrall
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the rest of the night pacing back and forth on the quarterdeck.
THE VICTORIOUS BRITISH fleet sailed grandly between Lage Point and Calha Point, past the now single-turreted Belim Castle (the other turret had been shot off by a British frigate during another war, when the two countries had been adversaries, two decades earlier) and up the Tagus estuary into Lisbon harbor, prizes and Argonaut in tow. There was much celebration, flying of flags, and firing of salutes to and from the forts overlooking the harbor entrance. No sooner had Victory let go her anchor than signals ran up her halyards with Argonaut ’s number and the command “Captain report on board.”
Charles was ready. He had arranged to borrow the Niger ’s gig—all Argonaut ’s boats had been beaten to scrap in the battle. He wore his best full-dress uniform and had his report and hat tucked under his arm; he had to carry the hat because it wouldn’t fit over the heavy bandage wrapped around his head. He’d also noticed while shaving that the side of his face below the wrapping had turned a nasty yellowish color and was very tender to touch. The gig fairly skipped across the anchorage toward the flagship, with four strong hands pulling hard and a bosun at the tiller while Charles fidgeted nervously in the sternsheets. Sir John Jervis had a fearsome reputation among the junior officers of the fleet. Charles had been briefly introduced to him months ago at a reception on board Victory, but he doubted the admiral would remember him. He remembered Jervis as a stocky, white-haired man who walked with a limp and talked in a growl. The weathered face and hard eyes bespoke a penchant for blunt speech and a sense of strict discipline that he exercised on himself as well as the officers and men who served him.
“ Argonaut, ” the bosun yelled as the gig hooked into Victory’ s mainchains, indicating that a ship’s captain was about to come on board. Charles jumped for the side steps and climbed as best he could to the entry port on the ship’s side. He was piped aboard by three smartly dressed, white-gloved sideboys and immediately welcomed by the flag lieutenant, the same person who had delivered the admiral’s letter to him the day of the battle.
“You look awful,” the lieutenant said, shaking Charles’s hand. “How’s the head?”
“I’ll probably survive the injury,” Charles answered. “I don’t know if I’ll survive Jervis, though.”
“Don’t worry. He’s in a good mood this morning, and he’ll stay that way if we don’t keep him waiting. Come along.” The lieutenant led Charles past the twin marine sentries to Jervis’s office, knocked once, and opened the door. He gestured Charles inside and closed the door behind him.
Admiral Sir John Jervis sat in his shirtsleeves behind a large, ornate, and hopelessly cluttered desk, scribbling something on a sheet of paper. Without looking up he gestured for Charles to sit on a small wooden chair opposite him. After a moment he laid his pen down and lifted his eyes. “Lieutenant Edgemont, isn’t it? How’s your head?”
“Yes, sir. Fine, sir,” Charles answered, stammering slightly on both sirs. Then for something to do he presented his report and laid it on the desk. “You requested this, sir.”
Jervis nodded, picked up the paper, and read it through, glancing at the attached list of killed and wounded with raised eyebrows. “Tell me what happened. Not the whole thing, just your part in it,” he said, laying the report on top of a pile of papers on the corner of his desk.
“Sir, my station at quarters is the main gundeck,” Charles began hesitantly, “where I remained throughout the battle until I was informed that the captain and the first had been killed.” Once begun, his speech came more easily. “I then turned the guns over to Midshipman Winchester and called for Lieutenant Bevan, the only other remaining officer, to meet me on the quarterdeck. At that time we were
THE VICTORIOUS BRITISH fleet sailed grandly between Lage Point and Calha Point, past the now single-turreted Belim Castle (the other turret had been shot off by a British frigate during another war, when the two countries had been adversaries, two decades earlier) and up the Tagus estuary into Lisbon harbor, prizes and Argonaut in tow. There was much celebration, flying of flags, and firing of salutes to and from the forts overlooking the harbor entrance. No sooner had Victory let go her anchor than signals ran up her halyards with Argonaut ’s number and the command “Captain report on board.”
Charles was ready. He had arranged to borrow the Niger ’s gig—all Argonaut ’s boats had been beaten to scrap in the battle. He wore his best full-dress uniform and had his report and hat tucked under his arm; he had to carry the hat because it wouldn’t fit over the heavy bandage wrapped around his head. He’d also noticed while shaving that the side of his face below the wrapping had turned a nasty yellowish color and was very tender to touch. The gig fairly skipped across the anchorage toward the flagship, with four strong hands pulling hard and a bosun at the tiller while Charles fidgeted nervously in the sternsheets. Sir John Jervis had a fearsome reputation among the junior officers of the fleet. Charles had been briefly introduced to him months ago at a reception on board Victory, but he doubted the admiral would remember him. He remembered Jervis as a stocky, white-haired man who walked with a limp and talked in a growl. The weathered face and hard eyes bespoke a penchant for blunt speech and a sense of strict discipline that he exercised on himself as well as the officers and men who served him.
“ Argonaut, ” the bosun yelled as the gig hooked into Victory’ s mainchains, indicating that a ship’s captain was about to come on board. Charles jumped for the side steps and climbed as best he could to the entry port on the ship’s side. He was piped aboard by three smartly dressed, white-gloved sideboys and immediately welcomed by the flag lieutenant, the same person who had delivered the admiral’s letter to him the day of the battle.
“You look awful,” the lieutenant said, shaking Charles’s hand. “How’s the head?”
“I’ll probably survive the injury,” Charles answered. “I don’t know if I’ll survive Jervis, though.”
“Don’t worry. He’s in a good mood this morning, and he’ll stay that way if we don’t keep him waiting. Come along.” The lieutenant led Charles past the twin marine sentries to Jervis’s office, knocked once, and opened the door. He gestured Charles inside and closed the door behind him.
Admiral Sir John Jervis sat in his shirtsleeves behind a large, ornate, and hopelessly cluttered desk, scribbling something on a sheet of paper. Without looking up he gestured for Charles to sit on a small wooden chair opposite him. After a moment he laid his pen down and lifted his eyes. “Lieutenant Edgemont, isn’t it? How’s your head?”
“Yes, sir. Fine, sir,” Charles answered, stammering slightly on both sirs. Then for something to do he presented his report and laid it on the desk. “You requested this, sir.”
Jervis nodded, picked up the paper, and read it through, glancing at the attached list of killed and wounded with raised eyebrows. “Tell me what happened. Not the whole thing, just your part in it,” he said, laying the report on top of a pile of papers on the corner of his desk.
“Sir, my station at quarters is the main gundeck,” Charles began hesitantly, “where I remained throughout the battle until I was informed that the captain and the first had been killed.” Once begun, his speech came more easily. “I then turned the guns over to Midshipman Winchester and called for Lieutenant Bevan, the only other remaining officer, to meet me on the quarterdeck. At that time we were
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