HMS Valiant - 7. Chapter 7

August, 1799

Cape Finisterre, Spain

“What is this contraption?” St. Vincent growled, gesturing at Granger’s stove. He said this while Doctor Baird and Grey assisted him as he moved across the cabin and took his seat at the large dining table.

“It is a stove, sir.”

“What kind of madness is this, Granger? You trying to incinerate your ship?”

“No, sir,” Granger said patiently. That virtue was quite in demand when dealing with St. Vincent. “It is especially built for shipboard use, and its fire chamber is sealed so embers cannot escape.”

“Seems like a risky thing to have, just to have a more luxurious cabin,” he grumbled.

“Yes, sir,” Granger said. “It is also practical, in that it can be used for light cooking, and thus eases the strain on the galley stove. It was a gift from Lord Frederick Cavendish.”

“Portland’s son?”

“Yes, sir,” Granger said. The Duke of Portland was one of the most powerful men in England. That had mollified St. Vincent’s attitude a bit.

“Well what do you do with it when you clear for action?”

“We leave it here, sir,” Granger said. “It is secured to the deck, and I suspect it will make a nice shield for the larboard gunners should we ever be raked. It is quite sturdy.”

“Humph,” St. Vincent grumbled, and then they began to eat their dinner. “I forgot how good your chef is.”

“I will let him know that you said that, sir,” Granger said, longing for this meal to be over. St. Vincent seemed, if anything, to get more crotchety with age. It was obvious that he was physically quite frail, but that had not impacted his quick mind, nor his sharp tongue. Granger shared a knowing look with Grey, whose job it was to put up with St. Vincent’s unpleasant moods. Granger decided the man should be made a saint as a reward for his travails.

There was a knock on the cabin door, and then Travers came in, looking quite intimidated to be in front of his captain, and the toughest admiral in the fleet, all at the same time. He seemed to have adapted to life on board quite well; Granger attributed that to Kingsdale’s leadership in the Midshipman’s berth, and to Eastwyck, who had gently guided the young man along. Granger smiled internally as he thought about how much Eastwyck had treated Travers like Travers’ uncle had treated Granger when he’d first gone to sea. He shook off those thoughts, lest he begin to wonder how deep their relationship really was. “Mr. Eastwyck’s respects, my lord, and we have sighted sails astern.”

“Do we know what kind of sails?” St. Vincent demanded.

“No, my lord,” Travers said. Granger was impressed that he did so without stammering.

“With your permission, sir, I will go on deck and investigate,” Granger said. St. Vincent merely nodded at him, while Granger strode deliberately from his cabin, quite happy to be freed from the tedious dinner. “What do we have, Mr. Eastwyck?”

“Looks to be at least two ships astern, my lord. We can’t be sure, but the lookout thinks they may be frigates,” Eastwyck said.

“Get the topgallants in,” Granger ordered. That would slow Valiant, and allow these other ships to come into view. “I am going aloft.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” Eastwyck said. The whistles blew as the watch was called, but Granger was focused on climbing up the mizzenmast. He reached the tops and pulled out his glass, even as men swarmed around him to take in Valiant’s mizzen sail.

It was one of those summer days in the Atlantic, where the winds were light, but there was a lot of humidity in the air. That created a haze that enveloped them, reducing their visibility to less than a few miles. It made spotting other ships, and land formations, quite difficult. Granger studied the ships, noting the cut of their topsails, and it took little time to convince himself that these two ships were indeed frigates. They were too obscured by the haze to determine which nation they hailed from, but Valiant had now slowed considerably, so they should catch up to her soon enough. Granger scanned the horizon to the east, where Cape Finisterre would be, even though it wasn’t in sight. Granger had given that rocky shore a wide berth.

“Have they altered course at all?” he asked the lookout.

“No, my lord. Surely they must have seen us, but they just kept on coming,” he said. That made it more likely that they would be British frigates. Valiant had the rigging of a ship of the line, so if those frigates sighted her, they must think that she was a battleship. Spanish or French frigates would be unlikely to sail so boldly toward a more powerful adversary.

Valiant plodded along, while the two frigates slowly gained on her. The haze that permeated the sea hid them from direct view, but as they got closer, there was no mistaking the cut of that rigging. Armed with his information, a very surprised Granger descended back to the deck, landing spryly in front of Weston and his other officers. “We appear to have encountered two Spanish frigates,” Granger told him. “While I can’t be sure, the leader appears to be one of their 40-gun ships, while her consort is most likely a 32.”

Weston smiled. Those were good odds. Taking on two Spanish frigates was no easy task, but no Royal Navy captain worth his salt would run from that challenge. In addition, Valiant’s much larger armament should more than even the odds. “It appears to be our lucky day, my lord.”

“Indeed it does,” Granger agreed. “Maintain this course, and alert me if anything changes.”

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. He was excited about this action, but felt some doubts in his mind. Why would two Spanish frigates so boldly approach a ship that was more powerful than they were? Perhaps they had deduced that Valiant was indeed a frigate, and decided odds of two against one were in their favor? Granger hoped that was indeed the case. He went aft, back into his cabin, where St. Vincent and Grey were still calmly eating their dinner.

“Well Granger, what did you find?”

“It appears there are two Spanish frigates closing on us, sir,” Granger said. “While my orders are to convey you to Portsmouth, I would be most obliged if you would allow me to engage the Dons.”

St. Vincent grinned, and then actually smiled. He was game enough for some action, but then again, he always had been. “I will meet you on deck shortly. You may engage the Dons as you see fit.”

“My lord, surely you’re not going to fight a battle,” Baird objected. “You are much too weak.”

St. Vincent turned a truly evil eye onto his doctor. “I am not so weak that I cannot watch Granger dish up a couple of Dons, Doctor.”

“Of course, my lord,” Baird said, considerably subdued. Baird basked in the approval and support of St. Vincent, who cast a protective arm around him, and was arrogant and cocky as a result. The only person who could seemingly bring the doctor to heel was St. Vincent himself.

Granger took his leave and went back up on deck. He looked aft, over the taffrail, and could see the Spanish ships gaining on them. It was hard to get a feel for them, since it was so hazy. They were so blurry; it was as if they were phantoms. “Mr. Weston, clear for action,” Granger said.

“Aye aye, my lord,” he said. In no time at all, the marine drummers were beating out “Hearts of Oak,” and the men began to strike below all those things that needed to be safeguarded in action, or which could be transformed into flying splinters.

They were all absorbed with the internal operations of their ship, on getting her ready for action, so there was considerable surprise when a gust of wind hit Valiant unexpectedly, forcing her over a bit. “Trim those braces!” Weston ordered. They pulled at the braces and fought with the helm to bring Valiant back on course. Meurice was standing near the binnacle, consulting with a few of his mates. He nodded, and then strode over to Granger.

“My lord,” Meurice said. “I think we are seeing the beginning of a gale.” Another gust, and then a steadier, stronger wind, seemed to validate Meurice’s assertion.

“Deck there!” cried the lookout. “Enemy in sight. Two frigates and two sail of the line!”

Granger had been distracted by the wind, and the changing weather, but the same gust that had captured his attention had cleared away the haze, or most of it. He trained his glass aft and saw the same thing the lookout had reported. The haze had allowed them to see the two nearest ships, now slightly over a mile away from them, but it had obscured their larger consorts. Granger studied the ships carefully. He had been correct in evaluating the frigates. The closest ship was one of their large frigates, a ship of 40 guns, with 18-pounders on her main deck. The second frigate was a 32, a ship Granger had seen before. She was the Perla, a good sailer, although he didn’t recall whether she carried 12- or 18-pounders on her main deck.

Granger was confident that Valiant could have handled the two Spanish frigates, but the two Spanish ships of the line that were half a mile astern of them were an entirely different matter. The two ships looked like typical Spanish battleships, with bright flags and bunting in their rigging, and large wooden crosses atop their masts. Granger had encountered both of them as well. The Neptuno was the larger of the two, and was rated for 80 guns. She wore a rear admiral’s flag. Lieutenant Roberts had sailed aboard her when he was being returned to Gibraltar as a prisoner, and had found her to be a tub of a ship, one that sailed poorly, and slowly. That would not matter: the Spaniards had only to slow Valiant enough to let one of those ships enter the battle, and it would be over. The second ship, the San Justo, was a bigger threat. She was a 74, the standard battleship that formed the backbone of most of the world’s fleets, and had a reputation for being a swift and weatherly ship. There was no way Valiant could engage those ships. If she fell afoul of them, she would be destroyed. With a simple gust of wind, Valiant had gone from the hunter, to the hunted.

“Let’s get the topgallants back on her, Mr. Weston,” Granger ordered.

“I’m not sure she can handle them if this wind increases, my lord,” Meurice said.

“We’ll reduce sail if we have to,” Granger said.

“Now what, Granger?” St. Vincent asked, as he strode onto the quarterdeck. He was wearing his full-dress uniform, and looked quite resplendent. Even more impressive was how confidently and strongly he walked. They had all but had to carry him to the dinner table, but the promise of action had seemingly brought out some extra energy in the wizened old admiral.

“Sir, the haze was shielding two Spanish ships of the line from our view,” Granger said. “We are endeavoring to escape from them.”

St. Vincent trained his glass on the approaching vessels, studying them carefully, then put his glass down and looked at Valiant, where the crew stood patiently by their guns. Treadway’s marines were on the quarterdeck and in the tops, while some were designated to assist with the guns. Their red coats added a bright dash of color to the ship. “Damn shame it wasn’t just the two frigates.”

“I agree, sir,” Granger said.

“What do you intend?”

Granger avoided a grimace. “The Spanish frigates will be faster than we are, sir. I intend to try to escape for as long as we can. It will force them to increase sail, and it may allow us to separate them further from the ships of the line.” It was too early in the day, and the summer days were too long, for Granger to hope they could escape during the night.

“And then you plan to engage them?” St. Vincent asked, thinking that was suicide.

“I am hoping, sir, that we can give up a little forward progress and give either one of them, or both of them, a bloody nose. If that doesn’t deter them, I am hoping we can shoot away a spar,” Granger said. That was a very optimistic plan, and St. Vincent knew the odds were not good that they would be successful.

St. Vincent nodded. “I think that is the best alternative.”

“Mr. Kingsdale, run up our colors!” Granger ordered.

“Aye aye sir,” he said. He and his party soon raised the Union flag on the flagstaff. St. Vincent’s flag occupied the main mast.

“Take a bearing on that lead frigate,” Granger ordered. She appeared to be closer now, but Granger wanted to make sure it was not just an optical illusion. They did as he commanded, and came to the same conclusion that Granger had discerned using only his eyes. The frigates were gaining on them.

“Can we handle more sail, my lord?” Eastwyck asked.

“I would advise against it, my lord,” Meurice said.

“And why is that?” St. Vincent demanded.

“This wind hit us with a gust, my lord. I think we will have more of those, and I think if we have more sail, we expose ourselves to losing at least a topmast,” Meurice said.

Granger paused and felt the wind on his cheek, as if he were tuning himself into the weather. His instincts told him Meurice was right, and that this was no simple breeze. “I think Mr. Meurice is correct, sir,” Granger concurred. “I think it may very well veer as well.”

Meurice and one of his mates, a man who was a weather sage, paused to consider Granger’s words, and then nodded in agreement.

“I’d rather engage the Dons than lose a spar and fall to them,” St. Vincent agreed.

They heard the sound of cannon, and turned back to see smoke blowing away from the closer frigate’s bow. A shot fell half a cable astern of them, just out of range.

“Mr. Clifton. You may try to make our friend a little more uncomfortable with our stern chasers,” Granger said. “We are still out of range, but you should ready them for action.”

“Aye aye, sir,” he said with a grin, and went to attend to Valiant’s guns that would bear. The seas were already getting rougher, so hitting something from that range was going to become increasingly difficult. Granger had given Clifton that order in the hopes that he’d get in a lucky shot, and because it would help the morale of the men. It was never fun to be shot at, while being unable to return fire.

“My lord, a squall is approaching!” Meurice said. They looked across the sea and could see the dark clouds approaching, being led by what appeared to be a wall of water that was rain.

“Get in the topgallants!” Granger ordered. “Two reefs in the topsails and course!” Men went up the masts quickly, hurrying to get in these sails that, but for the royals, were Valiant’s highest. He watched the men on the topgallant yards, willing them to go faster, as they pulled the canvas up and secured it with the rungs.

The Spaniards surged on happily, using the extra speed from not reducing sail to close on Valiant. Granger studied them and smiled as he saw them suddenly panic as they saw this visible weather front approaching. The lubberly Spanish seamen hurried aloft, trying desperately to reduce sail before it got to them.

Then the squall hit. The force of the wind pushed Valiant over, causing a few of the marines to lose their balance and go flying across the deck into the scuppers. Granger felt the wind veering. It had been weak from the west, but now it was blowing strongly, and seemed to be coming from a more northerly direction. “Let her fall off two points to the starboard,” Granger growled to the helmsman. “Here, you, give him a hand,” he called to one of the nearby seamen, giving the helmsman some help. Together they held Valiant’s wheel, holding her on her new course.

The squall passed them, and now the full force of this weather front could be felt. In no time, the seas had gone from calm to moderate, and would probably get worse. The wind was now strong from the north, dead foul for Valiant’s destination. “My lord!” one of the men at the stern chasers called. “Look at the Dons!”

The squall had caught the Spanish completely unprepared. Granger thought that even if the Spaniards had seen it at the same time he had, it would have made no difference, since Spanish crews were not nearly as disciplined and as efficient as Valiant’s. He looked and saw that the Neptuno had lost both her fore and main topmasts. She was floundering around, trying to clear the wreckage and get herself back on course. The Perla had retained her spars, but had been thrown all aback. She wavered as her crew tried to get her to move out of the eye of the wind. Granger pulled out his glass and trained it on her, and could see the Spanish officers frantically trying to get their ship back on course. Yet even as Perla was doing that, the San Justo surged confidently past her, seemingly unharmed by the sudden change of weather. “That reduced the odds a bit, Granger,” St. Vincent said.

“Yes, sir, but I am reluctant to risk your distinguished person by engaging a large frigate and a ship of the line,” Granger said with a smile.

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” he grumbled. It was interesting to see how St. Vincent had become quite animated. That he was spry and lively for a battle, but beaten down and frail after years as a commander in chief, was a testament as to how wearing a fleet command could be.

“My lord, begging your pardon,” Eastwyck said to get his attention. “This man says he knows that ship.” He was referring to the Spanish frigate.

“Well Edwards?” Granger asked.

“She’s the Santa Catalina, my lord,” he said nervously. “A 40-gun frigate.”

“Thank you Edwards,” Granger said, and gave the man a guinea for his information. He looked over at the Santa Catalina, which had made it through the squall unharmed and continued to hurry forward, trying to catch Valiant. It was very tempting to bring her to battle, but while the Perla had fallen hopelessly behind, the San Justo was close enough to make capturing Santa Catalina an impossibility. Santa Catalina looked quite similar to Sabina, a ship Granger had captured with Belvidera. That made sense, since the Spanish tended to follow the French lead in ship building. They developed a standard class of ship, and then built new ships to that design. The French were more innovative with frigates, but their ships of the line were all similar. British design was much more diverse, as the Royal Navy tried, through trial and error, to find that optimum blend of performance, durability, stowage capacity, and armament. And cost.

“Land ho!” cried the lookout. “Off the starboard bow!” That would be the Spanish coast, most likely Cape Finisterre. That added a new dilemma to their situation. Valiant was sailing east-northeast, with the wind from the north. Granger knew that Valiant would not be as quick in stays as Santa Catalina, so he was reluctant to change course. He quickly climbed up the shrouds far enough to see the land for himself, and hiding his frown, he returned back to the deck. If Valiant were to keep on sailing on her current path, she would run right into Spain. To avoid the shore, she would have to change course to west-northwest. Granger looked at the shore, which was now visible in the distance, and then back at the Santa Catalina, which was still gaining on them. Changing course was going to allow her to close on them, and she was already close enough. As if to accentuate that, one of Valiant’s stern chasers roared out. They hadn’t been hit by the Spanish bowchasers, and it was unlikely they’d hit Santa Catalina with their stern chasers, but it was worth the cost of some powder and shot to try.

“Looks like you’ll have to tack,” St. Vincent observed.

“Yes, sir,” Granger agreed. Then he had an idea, a plan that may work to extricate them from at least their immediate threat.

“Mr. Clifton!” Granger called. Clifton was below with the main guns, so Granger’s summons brought him up to the deck.

“Sir?” he asked, reporting in.

Granger gathered his officers around him. “We must change course. Instead of tacking, I intend to do that by wearing ship.” Tacking was a much more direct way of changing direction. It involved conning the ship directly past the eye of the wind, which entailed some relatively dangerous risks. If the ship didn’t make it through her tack, she would be all aback and helpless, just like Perla. In this weather, it was also possible she could carry away a sail or a spar, due to the increased pressure of the wind on the sails. Wearing ship was a simpler maneuver. Instead of sailing into the wind, the ship would make a full turn first away from the wind, then settle on her new course. Looking at a clock, with the wind blowing from the 12 o’clock position, tacking was like going from 2 o’clock to 10 o’clock in a counter-clockwise fashion. Wearing the ship was going from 2 o’clock to 10 o’clock in a clockwise fashion.

“That will put us much closer to the Santa Catalina,” St. Vincent said.

“That is exactly my intention, sir,” Granger said. “We will wear ship, and as we come around, we will cross her bows and rake her. I’m banking on us slowing her down a bit.”

“If you don’t, she may rake you after you pass,” St. Vincent observed.

“I think the maneuver will surprise her, sir,” Granger said. In any event, if Santa Catalina tried to sail into the wind long enough to rake him, he would merely give up a little more ground and sail further south, exchanging broadsides.

“Proceed,” St. Vincent said, letting Granger flesh out his plans. Granger noted with interest the difference between Nelson and St. Vincent. When he’d fought Sabina, Nelson had all but dictated his plans. St. Vincent was content to let Granger fight his ship with a minimum of supervision. Granger wondered if Nelson would act differently now that he had experienced the joys and burdens of fleet command, and decided that he probably would not.

“I want the larboard 24-pounders loaded with chain shot,” Granger said. That shot was used to destroy rigging. “I’ll have the carronades loaded with round shot. Instruct the main deck gunners to aim high, and the carronades will aim for the hull.”

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton said.

“After that first broadside, reload with round shot and aim for her hull,” Granger ordered. He would take a gamble with that first broadside and aim it at Santa Catalina’s rigging. After that, he would adopt normal British tactics and aim for the hull.

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton repeated. Granger heard the gun trucks rumbling below as the guns were pulled back and reloaded with chain shot. It was cumbersome to use, but could make all the difference in this situation. Granger stood there, waiting for Clifton to inform him they had completed their task. A few minutes later, he reappeared on the quarterdeck. “Larboard battery loaded with chain shot, sir. Carronades are ready.”

“Excellent,” Granger said. “Mr. Weston, stand by to wear ship.”

“Hands to the braces,” Weston called, and began preparing the ship for this maneuver, which would also put a great strain on Valiant’s rigging, but not as much as tacking. Granger was not worried about that, since her rigging was new.

“Wear ship!” Granger ordered. “Man the braces!” The wheel went over, and Valiant swung away from the wind, turning first to the east, then south, and then west, before she steadied on that course. Now she was barreling toward the Santa Catalina; Granger could see her surprised officers on her deck, gesturing wildly to change course. “Run out, Mr. Clifton.”

The decks rumbled again as the 24-pounders were run out, and the carronades pushed forward on their slides. Santa Catalina was in a tough situation. She could either stay on her existing course, in which case Valiant would cross her bows, or she could attempt to mimic Valiant’s maneuver, which would expose her vulnerable stern. Not only that, but if she wore ship, she would lose as much distance as Valiant, and thus give Granger back the ground he had just surrendered.

They saw Santa Catalina’s sails quiver as she began to steady on an easterly course. She was going to ape Valiant’s maneuver, but engage her broadside to broadside before she wore around. “Mr. Clifton, we will exchange broadsides with Santa Catalina, and then we will cross her stern. Have your guns reloaded with double-shot after they fire!”

“Aye aye sir,” Clifton acknowledged. He watched as the Spanish frigate, now on an opposite course to them, closed quickly. He saw the Spanish officers arrayed on her quarterdeck, and her seamen standing to their guns. His eyes paused on the barrels of those 18-pounder cannon that were about to discharge their contents into his ship. Granger bided his time, waiting until she was exactly opposite him.

“Fire!” he ordered. The carronades went off first, followed almost immediately by the 24-pounders. He heard the roar of Valiant’s guns, then a more distant roar as Santa Catalina’s guns fired, and then saw them impact Valiant. Like most Spaniards, she aimed high. Granger’s eyes looked aloft, where lines parted, but nothing more important was damaged. One shot blazed through a forward gunport and wounded one of the gunners, but other than that, they had escaped from this first broadside. They had been lucky.

Granger looked over at the Spaniard and saw that she had not been so fortunate. Her foretopmast had been shot away, and was dangling over her starboard side. She had already begun to wear ship, and her stern came into view, with her name emblazoned in elaborate gold leaf. “Fire as your guns bear,” Granger ordered.

And then, as Valiant passed by the unfortunate Spaniard’s stern, she delivered another full broadside, firing her guns as they bore. Granger watched as her stern galleries were literally blasted apart, and fancied he could hear the screams as those balls traversed the length of her decks like messengers from hell.

“Helm, two points to starboard,” Granger ordered. Valiant turned away from the crippled Spaniard, and began to claw back upwind, toward Portsmouth. He looked back at the San Justo, the only ship that wasn’t injured, and expected her to heave to, but she did not. Her battered colleagues followed after her like ducklings chasing their mother, some distance back, but their presence didn’t matter. If San Justo ranged alongside Valiant, she would seal the victory for the Spaniards.

“What’s that Don doing?” St. Vincent demanded, echoing Granger’s thoughts.

“My lords, I would suggest that as the seas are getting rougher, she is gambling that she is more weatherly than us,” Meurice offered. Granger looked back at her, and could see Meurice’s point. In rough weather, larger ships generally had an advantage, especially when clawing upwind, where the waves would have less of an impact when they hit the bigger vessel.

“Let’s shake out a reef in the courses,” Granger ordered. “One in the topsails as well.”

Whistles blew and men raced into the rigging once again, letting out a reef in each of Valiant’s largest sails. He felt the ship heel over in protest, even as she surged forward. Meurice looked at him, an almost confused expression on his face. “She seems to handle the strain well, my lord.”

“Indeed,” Granger said. “Shake out another reef!”

St. Vincent gave him an odd look, and Granger thought for a moment the admiral was going to interfere, but he did not. Valiant picked up still more speed, and began to outpace the San Justo at a very fast rate. Granger broke away from the party of officers and looked first at Valiant’s rigging, then at San Justo. He could not believe the ship was gaining distance from San Justo this quickly.

“That Don must be a slow sailer,” St. Vincent said, but had a question in his voice.

“She performed quite well, my lord, when we have encountered her before,” Grey noted.

“Begging your pardon, my lord, but notice how she is much more stable than we would expect,” Meurice observed as Valiant sped along.

“That is an astute observation,” Granger said. He could not repress a broad grin from breaking out on his face; this news was too good for him to remain stoic. He had been learning about his new ship, and had hidden his disappointment that she was slower than most frigates and less maneuverable than they were, but he had just found her biggest strength. Valiant was a ship that was made to fight in rough weather. “It appears that she excels during high seas and strong winds.”

“She does indeed, my lord,” Weston said, grinning much more broadly even than Granger.

“My lord, that Don has hauled his wind!” the lookout shouted. They turned their eyes back to the San Justo, and saw that she had hove to. She had given up the chase, and had stopped to help her squadron out, presumably to return to port.

“Take in a reef in the sails,” Granger ordered. With the risk of capture removed, there was no reason to jeopardize Valiant’s rigging without good reason. The ship slowed a bit, but maintained her steady course, despite being pounded by waves, and howling winds.

“That was well done, Granger,” St. Vincent said with a broad grin.

“Thank you, sir,” Granger said, unable to avoid smiling with pride at that compliment from a man who wasn’t all that free with them. “Mr. Weston, you may secure the guns, and dismiss the men from quarters.”

“Aye aye, my lord.”