Free Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars by Jay Worrall Page A

surely cost in excess of a thousand pounds and was well beyond anyone’s serious consideration. He didn’t know where the local farmers had their grist milled, and he wasn’t worried about it. He chuckled out loud as he envisioned his brother’s astonishment at any such suggestion.
    There was a part of the letter just before the end that he didn’t fully comprehend. Penny alluded to some papers, saying that she would “converse on this with him” when she next visited. He guessed that “visited” was another of her quaint Quaker expressions—like “labor with” for argue, or “First Month” for “January”—that referred to her letters and that at worst she planned to write, enlisting his aid in her negotiations with his brother. That would present no difficulties, he decided.
Louisa
would not expect to receive any mail so long as she was deep in the Mediterranean, and even if they did, it would be months before he could be expected to respond. He was sure that the issue would have blown over by then.
    The letter ended with slightly abbreviated expressions of her tenderness and affection. He uncorked his ink bottle, laid out a clean sheet of paper, nibbled at the end of his quill, and that night penned four paragraphs on how much he missed her.
    CHARLES WOKE WITH a sense of anticipation on the morning of their third day, the last day, according to Bedford’s thinking, that they were to remain waiting at the rendezvous. As it did every morning when they were at sea, dawn broke with the cannon run out and the men at their battle quarters, on the chance that an enemy ship might have stumbled into their midst during the night. The horizons were clear, however, and the guns were immediately housed and secured.
Louisa
began her daily routine.
    Charles washed and, as he had three days of stubble, allowed himself to be shaved by Attwater. After a quick breakfast, he called for his signals midshipman, Isaac Beechum, and sent him across in the gig to inquire of Captain Bedford whether he still intended to take the three British ships to Toulon in search of Nelson, and if so, at what time. Beechum, eighteen, rail-thin, gangly, and in Charles’s opinion the more promising of the two young gentlemen on board, returned a half hour later with the message that, pending unforeseen events, they would sail at noon.
    Charles considered what he should do with the time. He thought he had no pressing business to attend to, when it occurred to him that he had not kept up with his entries in his captain’s logbook. It was an irksome task, and one in which he frequently found himself in arrears. His was not even the ship’s official log. That was the responsibility of the master, and Eliot, he knew, kept a meticulous daily record. Charles did what he always did—called for Eliot to bring his log and then sit in Charles’s cabin while the captain copied the missing entries in his own hand. He discovered that his most recent entry (or the last time he had reproduced Eliot’s recordings) had been a full week before the storm struck. Charles made his entries, promised himself to be more diligent in his log keeping, and passed the master’s original back across the table.
    “Thank you kindly, Mr. Eliot,” he said sincerely.
    “Humph.” Eliot, who did not approve of this practice, took up his book and started for the door.
    “Mr. Eliot,” Charles said sternly, which caused the master to stop, turning to face him. “That would be ‘Humph,
sir.
’ I trust I won’t have to remind you again,” he said, then laughed out loud. Eliot himself burst out in guffaws, and the two were only just regaining control when they heard a call from the tops: “Deck there, sail fine on the starboard bow.”
    Charles snatched up his hat and was climbing the ladderway to the quarterdeck when he heard Winchester ask, “How many sail?”
    “Just the one, sir,” the lookout reported. “There’s something strange.”
    Charles searched the