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

qualities required for the tasks they performed. As a result, they also tended to present more minor disciplinary problems than their proportion among the crew would suggest. Charles had long since decided that this was fair trade and cut them some leeway, although he’d gotten an argument from his new first lieutenant every time he did.
    “Down the helm,” Charles yelled through cupped hands at the quartermaster as soon as he saw that at least one of the outermost topmen had nearly reached his position at the end of the spar.
    “Ease the clews,” he heard Winchester call to the hands on the lines. “Haul the reef cringle.” As
Louisa
came up into the wind, the sails shivered, then flogged, losing their tension. “Haul the buntlines”—this to force the canvas to spill its wind. The men balanced on the yardarms furiously fisted in the head of the sail to tie off the reef points.
    “Haul the clew lines and belay,” Winchester shouted, to retighten the foot of the sail and secure the lines.
    “Up helm and catch her,” Charles called to the quartermaster, signaling by making circles in the air in case he couldn’t be heard. The bow quickly fell off the wind; the shortened sails volleyed loudly and began to draw.
Louisa
lay over under the renewed pressure and resumed her struggle to hold her place against the howling wind and surging sea.
    Charles cautiously left his relatively secure perch by the lee rail and climbed the deck toward Eliot and the ship’s wheel, bent almost double against the pressure of the elements. He could feel the ship riding somewhat easier under the reduced pressure of sail, but still pounding through each oncoming crest.
    “What do you think, Mr. Eliot?” he asked, shouting each word separately to be certain he was understood.
    “Aye,” the master’s disembodied voice intoned. Eliot, in his glistening rain gear, stood in the center of the deck with one hand resting casually on the binnacle. “She’ll do for the present, and we’ve plenty of sea room. But the wind’s only just starting, unless I miss my mark. It’ll be worse before it gets better.” Almost as he spoke, a stronger gust shrieked through the shrouds, raising their timbre to a higher pitch.
    Out of the corner of his eye, Charles noticed his elderly steward, Timothy Attwater, struggling up the ladderway and clutching a bundle that Charles took to be his own wet-weather covering. He became conscious that he was soaked to his skin from the rain and spray and the dunking he had taken.
    Charles spoke loudly: “I am going below, Mr. Eliot.”
    “What?” Eliot shouted back, bending closer and with a hand cocked beside the hat where his ear should be.
    “I’m going below,” Charles yelled into the cupped hand. “Call—if— change—sail.”
    “Aye,” the master said, and turned his attention to the men at the wheel.
    Charles took a last look at the newly reefed topsails and saw that they were already taut to the point of straining under the force of the wind.
They’ll do for now,
he thought.
    “I’ve brought yer boat cloak, sir,” Attwater shouted from close beside him as he shook out the heavy tarpaulin garment. The wind instantly caught the cloth, standing it out sideways, then effortlessly snatched it from his grasp and sent it sailing out over the sea like a misshapen bird. There was such surprise and then disappointment on his steward’s face that Charles laughed. “Come, we shall go below,” he said.
    Once in the relative calm of his cabin, Charles gratefully allowed Attwater to help pull off his dripping uniform. He toweled himself dry and put on fresh clothing all the while holding on to a bulkhead to balance himself against the wild movements of the ship. Then he took down his chart for the Mediterranean below Toulon, unrolled it on the dining table, and began to study their position relative to the nearest bodies of land.
    A loud knock came at the cabin door. “Yes,” Charles shouted.
    A marine