Any Approaching Enemy: A Novel of the Napoleonic Wars Read Online Free

struggling with the ship’s wheel heard him or not he couldn’t tell, but the vessel slowed her turn and began to claw back into the wind. She had just begun to right herself when a white-topped swell crested against the starboard quarter, sending an avalanche of green water across the waist and quarterdeck. The railing wrenched itself from his grip as the mass cascaded over him. He lost his footing and felt himself being swept across the deck to come up with a breathtaking jolt against the opposite rail between two tethered nine-pounder cannon.
    Torrents of rain and scud, blown sideways on the wind, pelted against Charles as he tried to cough up the seawater that seemed to have filled his lungs. He noticed that his hat was gone. He struggled to stand, clutching the rail for support. The driving rain was too thick for him to see to the tops of the masts or much beyond the waist of the ship. The two quartermasters were still at the helm, although where Eliot had gone, he couldn’t tell. A blinding stroke of lightning broke almost directly overhead, flashing down like the talons of some unearthly demon.
    Winchester appeared on the aft ladderway, his uniform sodden. “Are you all right, sir?” he yelled through cupped hands.
    Charles nodded rather than attempting a vocal response, fruitlessly trying to wipe the water away from his eyes. “The ship,” he managed, “did anything carry away?”
    “I don’t think so,” Winchester answered. “All our masts are standing. We took on a fair quantity of water through the gratings. Not more than the pumps can handle.”
    “Did the topmen make it down in time?”
    “Most of ’em were still in the shrouds when it hit,” the lieutenant answered. “They were probably safer there than on deck. I don’t know yet if we lost anyone.”
    Eliot reappeared in an oilskin hat and coat, which, except for his eyes, covered him down to the toes of his boots.
    “How are we riding?” Charles shouted.
    “Too much canvas for’ard, sir.” Eliot’s voice was muffled by the sou’wester. “She wants to gripe something fierce.” Talmage appeared on the ladderway.
    “We will reef directly,” Charles shouted. “See to it, if you please, Mr. Talmage, to the last reef points.”
    Talmage turned away and called out, “All hands to reef sails; waisters to the braces.”
    “Stephen.” Charles spoke in a more normal tone to his second, bending close in order to be heard. “Did you see
Pylades
before the storm struck? Do you know how she fared?” A small ship like Bevan’s brig easily could have been swamped in the first surge of heavy sea.
    “I saw her for just a moment before the weather closed,” Winchester answered carefully. “I don’t know. She’d gotten at least some of her sails in. I can’t say about afterward.”
    “Thank you,” Charles said. “Daniel’s a good seaman. He’ll have made out all right.” He knew he was expressing more hope than certainty.
    Charles watched as the topmen swarmed up the gangway and back into the shrouds. Some had donned oilskin jackets. He smiled inwardly at the way they jumped to the ratlines and hurried up toward the wildly swaying topsail yards with a certain fearlessness, even enthusiasm. Charles knew that he wouldn’t relish climbing to those heights to work his way along the uncertain footropes to the end of a spar under these conditions—well, under any conditions, but especially not in a rising wind, driving rain, and plunging seas—to fight with the stiff, billowing canvas that could rip off fingernails or break fingers. One careless misstep or a sudden unanticipated shift in the wind could mean sudden death if one were lucky and fell directly onto the deck, or, if he missed, a lingering drowning in conditions that absolutely prohibited any chance of rescue.
    Good topmen were both rare and exceedingly valuable, the cream of any ship’s crew. They tended to be young, broad-shouldered, cocky, and courageous to a fault, all