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

business. If you men attend to your instruction and give your full effort in practice,
Louisa
will be the most proficient twenty-eight-gun frigate in His Majesty’s Navy, and a menace to any Frenchman unlucky enough to come within range.” He paused for a long moment to lend weight to his words. Then he smiled and raised his arms. “A cheer for the winning guns!”
    When the noise died down, he turned toward the lieutenants. “You may dismiss the hands, Stephen,” he said. “Mr. Talmage, if you would be so kind as to indulge me, I would appreciate a word with you in my cabin.”
    “Yes, sir,” Talmage answered, and the two men went below.
    “How do we do it better?” Charles asked as he hung his hat and sword on their pegs along the bulkhead. He removed his coat and flung it on the settee under the stern windows. Talmage sat ramrod straight at Charles’s table, his jacket neatly buttoned and his hat placed precisely on the tabletop by his elbow.
    “Sir?” Talmage asked. “Do what better?”
    Charles dropped heavily into a chair across from his lieutenant and glanced at the clock on the wall above his desk. It was a little after eleven in the morning. “Tea or coffee?” he asked.
    “Tea would be fine.”
    “Attwater,” Charles called out. “One tea for Lieutenant Talmage and a coffee for myself, please.”
    “Aye-aye,” said a voice from his sleeping cabin. Charles guessed that his steward had been taking a nap.
    “The gunnery,” Charles said, turning back to Talmage. “You watched today’s exercise. Ten men each on twelve-pounder guns, and most of them took near a minute between firings, and that without the slightest wink at actually aiming them.”
    Talmage looked puzzled. “Is that bad? I thought a broadside a minute was acceptable.”
    “Acceptable? Well, yes, it’s acceptable, I suppose,” Charles said. “But they won’t be firing their guns once a minute in actual combat, not with any accuracy. We can do better. I’ve heard
Marion Castle
kept up a sustained fire of three broadsides in just over two and a half minutes at the Battle of the Saints. That is the rate of gunwork I’m looking for. If
Marion Castle
could do it, so can we.”
    “If I recall, sir,” Talmage said rather primly, “
Marion Castle
carries thirty-two-pounders on her lower deck, and they have larger gun crews.
And,
” he emphasized, “she was an experienced ship and had been at sea for several years with the same crew. Captain Wilkerson was also known to be something of a fanatic about gunnery. It wasn’t like she was a normal ship.”
    This was not what Charles had wanted to hear. There was something about Talmage’s manner that pricked at him. He was a good first lieutenant in most respects: an excellent administrator and a gentleman to his toes. He was said to be an exceptional swordsman. But there was a certain distance, an unrelenting formality, an assumption of superiority toward subordinate officers that made Charles uncomfortable. There was the time when an ordinary seaman had tripped and fallen heavily against Talmage’s leg. The lieutenant had demanded the man be flogged. Charles refused and had had to smooth ruffled feathers.
    Winchester, he knew from experience, would pick up a line and haul with the rest of the men. He could not imagine Talmage doing any such thing, even if his life depended on it. And there was a certain lack of imagination when it came to things like experimenting with gunnery evolutions. There was all that and also Talmage’s want of seamanship. Charles thought the man would probably become one of those captains who loved a smart and perfectly run ship but would never willingly take her into danger.
    Attwater padded back from the galley with a cup of tea and a mug of coffee on a tray. “If there weren’t nothing more, sir?” he offered.
    Charles looked at Talmage, who sat motionless, then thanked and dismissed his steward. As he carefully sipped the hot liquid, he thought of