The Price of War - Chapter Twenty-Three

[morethanhonour]

More Than Honour
Book One: The Price of War
Chapter Twenty-Three

The days spent sailing from Gibraltar to Alexandria might as well have been years. While the general crew did not know their destination, they caught the energy of their officers. Every man could sense the battles looming just over the horizon. The captain appeared more frequently on deck, and his first lieutenant’s eyes became sharper. A glance was all it took to quell any hint of disorder on his watch or any time he came on deck. Carson grew more volatile, and most of the men sought to avoid him or flatter him into taking his temper out on anyone but them. The third grew increasingly quiet. Doyle was prone to standing silently on deck, watching everything and everyone at once. Edward felt himself get restless. He had seen action before. Every man on board Alexander had. This action, though, filled him with excitement and dread unlike any he had ever known. They were at the head of Admiral Nelson’s fleet, hunting the bulk of the fleet Napoleon commanded.

Every night, the officers dined with their captain. They drank, toasting the traditional daily toasts, England, the King, and Admiral Nelson. They ate richly, and Edward tried to ignore the ever-present thought that their meals were something like those enjoyed by condemned men the night before they faced the gallows at dawn. They all knew they might be eating their last meal or sitting together at a table for the final time. The thought seemed to permeate the atmosphere, no matter how loud or warm the conversation tried to be. There was no love lost between Doyle and Carson, any fool could see that, but neither of them was keen to pick a fight while under the supervision of Captain Ball and Lieutenant Smith. They ignored each other with due civility and kept to different parts of the ship when on watch. Edward found himself hoping the two senior officers were right in thinking action together against the French would avert a duel between the two.

“Sail ho!” The shout left a man in the fighting top of the foremast, not twenty minutes after three bells in the afternoon watch. The cry echoed throughout the ship within seconds, rendering Mister Carson’s orders as lieutenant of the watch for a nearby midshipman to fetch Captain Ball and Mister Smith useless. They were upon him before the order had fully left his lips.

“Where away?” the captain demanded, shouting up at the man even as he drew out his glass and turned it toward the bow, raking the skyline for the tell-tale flutter of white that were the ships of a French ship to signal the tail of the enemy fleet.

“She’s running fast,” Smith said as the ship came into sight. He lowered his spyglass. “French schooner, sir.” As the Alexander sped forward, other sails appeared. It took only a moment for their purpose to be realised. “Supply convoy, sir.”

Captain Ball grinned. “We’re close, then.” Edward and every man aboard could follow his thinking. Where there were supplies, there was a destination. This was not the French fleet, but these merchants knew where it was. “Signal Swiftsure.” Signals passed between the two ships before each raised their Union flags and orders were called to fire warning shots into the heart of the convoy.

Edward hurried forward to where men in the division under a midshipman, Mason, waited. Mason, seventeen and tanned deep enough to look like a Spaniard, saluted him. The chaser was aimed at the schooner first sighted by the Alexander. Mason smiled, and his zeal made Edward feel inexplicably older. “Make sure you aim for her rigging, Mister Mason,” Edward told him, conveying the words his captain had sent him with. “Otherwise, fire as you bear.”

One shot broke the yardarm of the schooner’s mainmast. The French tri-colour came down, and her captain was brought aboard. He spoke in furious swears, which only served to amuse most of the crew. Edward conveyed the man to Captain Ball on the quarterdeck. None of the officers there spoke French, but the merchant captain refused to answer Edward when the English officer spoke to him in his native language. Finally, Edward conjured a threat. He could not provide a translation, had no idea what it was he was threatening, but Martineau had used it twice to convince unwilling crew to work on Nymphe. It produced the desired result.

The merchant ships were bound for Aboukir Bay, where the French fleet was at anchor. Captain Ball ordered Mason and a party of six men to take the schooner and convey the message to the British fleet before taking his prize into an English port. Once Mason was seen off, Alexander set sail to cripple what it could of the convoy without wasting time or men better spent against the French at Aboukir.

Eight bells rang out to mark the end of the afternoon watch. Though far behind, Alexander and Swiftsure were within sight of the other twelve British ships. He saw at least ten French ships at anchor. Observation through a glass, which Carson offered him and held his hand for again after Edward looked, showed that some of the enemy ships had tied lines from their sterns to the bow of the ship behind. At a call from a midshipman, Doyle turned the glass toward Vanguard as she signalled.

“Not for us,” Carson said. Edward strained his eyes but could not clearly make out the flags. “He’s slowing the front of the line.”

“A morning attack?” suggested a nearby midshipman. Dusk was settling, and the possibility seemed likely enough to Edward, though he kept his expression entirely neutral.

Carson, though, committed himself. “No way in Hell.”

Together, the officers watched as the flags rose again, spelled out orders in the British code. The midshipman took a fraction of a second longer to decipher the message, long enough for Carson to laugh as the captain, who stood near the helm, called orders based on those of the flagship. “Lights on the mizzen and an illuminated White Ensign. We’ll be engaging them in the dark.” It was an exciting, dangerous prospect. To take on so many enemies with so many on their side ran a risk, even with the lights and Ensign, of mistaking friend for foe.

“Gentlemen,” Captain Bell said, his officers gathered in his cabin for dinner as Alexander sped along to catch the fleet and join the coming action. “At this moment, our admiral is speaking to his officers, no doubt telling them what I am telling you.” No man looked anywhere but at their captain, and the silence was reverent to the utmost. Captain Ball raised his glass and looked around the table. “You are, to the man, fine officers. Now, more than ever, I know I may not say it again to all present. It has been an honour to serve with every one of you. You,” he paused, looking at Carson then Doyle, “may not agree at every turn, may even dislike one another. Tonight, however, let us drink to victory and brotherhood, for in this fight, you are all brothers.”

Every man raised his glass and drank. The meal was eaten in silence. Food and wine were consumed for nourishment, not out of any enjoyment. When the meal finished, the officers returned to their places among the crew. Edward took his post near the larboard bow chaser and stared through his spyglass against the dying light of the setting sun.

As the first dog watch ran its glass low, the roar of cannons broke the still evening air. Edward saw the distant flashes. The French had fired the first rounds. When the first bell of the second dog watch was struck, Edward’s eyes were fixed upon Goliath, the ship at the head of the British line. She curved around the first French ship, and Edward held his breath. He tried not to doubt Goliath’s captain, but the French had anchored their fleet so that their larboard side, which Goliath was attempting to access, was protected by shoals. The water was deep enough, he realised with a breath of relief, as Goliath continued to sail and then opened fire on the French ship. The crack of musket fire in the air spoke to the nearness of the ships and the readiness of the Royal Marines on board Goliath.

A second ship followed. Her name board, barely visible, read Zealous. She anchored just to larboard of the first French ship, and Goliath had stopped to that side between the second and third ships, angling herself to fire on the second for now but reserving her spring coil on her bow anchor so she might, at any moment, shift to fire on the third. Cries of triumph echoed on every British ship as the first French ship lost its foremast. Edward looked up at the sails of Alexander, willing her to go faster so her crew could join the effort.

Orion joined the fray, following those before her between the shoals and the French line. Edward could just see a French frigate open fire, and he wondered over her captain’s sanity. In a battle of this nature, it would have been dishonourable for Orion, a ship of the line, to attack a frigate while enemy ships its own size remained to be challenged. However, Orion had been fired upon. She could return the favour with no mark against her captain’s reputation. Orion waited, drew up right beside the frigate, and delivered one united broadside. The battered French ship fled, but it found only the unforgiving shoals.

Two other ships joined the assault to the French larboard, but Edward had not seen their boards, and he could not make them out from this distance. He only knew Orion joined them and, one by one, the British ships anchored to fire on the French.

Edward knew Vanguard when he saw the flagship. Two of her fellows sailed just behind her. The three flew down the starboard side of the French fleet and anchored beyond the rest to engage ships further down. Two other British ships sailed further down. One found itself at the mercy of the French flagship while the other became somehow entangled with another ship flying the French tri-colour. One more disaster befell the British line. Edward watched as the last ship, save his and Swiftsure speeding to take part ran aground and the fifty-gun Leander and brig Mutine struggled to assist her regain the water.

The lanterns on the British mizzenmasts were lit as two bells were struck for the second dog watch. In the last gleam of sunlight, Edward was able to see the striking of the first French flag. The second ship of the French line was surrendering.

“They’ll be done with it all before we get our say.” Doyle stood beside him, though Edward could not say when he had arrived. The Irishman was pale; his green eyes stared at the hanging lights and flashes the cannons made without, it seemed, seeing any of it. He had never seemed a coward to Edward before, and he told himself it would be unkind to think too poorly of a man afraid in this situation.

“Do you think so?”

The laugh he received in reply worried Edward. He looked at Doyle, but his eyes, which looked black in the darkness and reflected broadsides, remained fixed on the only guide they had to find their prey. “No.” Doyle’s voice was little more than a murmur as he went on, “We don’t know each other well, but I like you, Burr.”

Edward turned to face him. When Doyle remained him, Edward seized his shoulder and forced him to change directions. Even so, he felt as if Doyle were staring beyond him, even as their eyes met. “What the Devil is wrong with you?”

“A dream.” The solemnity in his tone killed whatever laugh Edward almost gave. “I had a dream last night. About death. I’ve never dreamed about dying before.” Edward recoiled almost at once. He looked at Doyle. That was the look the man had. He looked like a wandering spirit, dressed as an officer for the Royal Navy. Edward wanted no part of talk like that, lest it prove catching. Yet, he could not cast the man loose.

“None of that, Doyle. The men will hear you.” If nothing else, he could appeal to the nature of the officer he knew Doyle could be. “So you had a dream. Lots of men dream. That doesn’t mean there’s a damn thing to it.” He clapped a hand onto Doyle’s arm. “Come on, man. You’re made of sterner stuff than that.”

“Only flesh and blood, Burr.” Some of the distance had left his eyes, but the same quiet horror was ever present. Edward wanted to shout at him, shake Doyle until he was himself again, but he refrained. Doing or saying anything now would draw the attention of the men. If they saw how disturbed Doyle was, his certainty of death might spread. If too many men believed they were sure to die, every man aboard the Alexander might find his grave. Edward would not be held responsible for that, even in so indirect a way as calling attention to the queer disposition of the third lieutenant.

He released Doyle’s arm. “Don’t let the men hear you talk like that.” Edward paused, filled with sudden contempt. Fear was to be expected. Even he was afraid. Shyness, though, was intolerable. He looked at Doyle and remembered, days ago, inwardly likening him to Martineau. Now he wished he could apologise to the Frenchman. There was nothing of him in this coward. Faced with fierce battle and the threat of death, Martineau transformed into a fiend. He knew he had to fight or die or live a life not worth living. To fight and lose was one thing. A man’s pride might suffer, but his conscience could apply some balm to the wound, and he could recover. Perhaps he would even grow stronger. To surrender to death, as Doyle seemed so willing to do, before the enemy was even upon him, though, was a thought Edward was sure no true man could abide. Edward remembered his rank and that men might be watching them, so he straightened himself and touched his hat in a partial salute, a hollow display of respect. “Sir.”

He went to the quarterdeck with as few long strides as he could manage without appearing to rush. Captain Ball and Lieutenant Smith were there, ever attentive to the nearing battles as Alexander continued her race to join her brethren. It was Smith who looked at Edward, glanced toward where Doyle still stood, settled his eyes back on Edward, and spoke, “Something wrong, Mister Burr?”

“No, sir.”