Chapter 185: Our Sea (1)
Chapter 185: Our Sea (1)
“‘France expects that every man will do his duty’? Ha. What terrible taste, Nelson.”
Just look at him. Old habits die hard. Acting like that all the time—no wonder the former naval police officer got on everyone’s nerves and was shoved into the reserves.
The captain of the lead ship, HMS Trowbridge, Colloden, shook his head as if the situation were beyond help.
“Still chasing promotion, I see. The same smooth talk he used when flattering that frivolous prince hasn’t gone anywhere.”
“Careful with your words, Lieutenant. He’s still our fleet commander.”
“So you’re not denying that he flattered the prince for promotion.”
“Ahem.”
“Captain, laughing while saying that undermines your credibility.”
“Ahem. Really now.”
Colloden forced the corner of his mouth down and returned to the stern expression befitting a captain.
“Our fleet commander has given us such a courageous encouragement. We ought to send a reply from our side as well.”
“What message shall we send?”
“Vive la Révolution.”
“…Hmm.”
Just moments ago he had been complaining that Nelson had terrible taste.
But when the captain gives an order, it must be obeyed. The adjutant nodded and sent a sailor up the mast to raise the signal flags.
As colorful flags climbed the mast of the lead ship, laughter soon spread across all twelve warships.
It seemed the humor of both Colloden and Nelson had landed perfectly.
A foreign prime minister of high standing.
…Or perhaps not. Well, whether a minister or a prime minister, the work is roughly the same anyway.
In any case, during peacetime he would have been the sort of dignitary one might flatter endlessly. But in battle he would only be a burden.
Nelson had conveniently pawned such a person off onto a foolish-looking French naval captain.
Now he sat alone in the captain’s cabin, slowly sipping whiskey.
Each time the ship tilted under the rough sea wind and waves, the lamp swayed, and the flame flickered over the glass in his hand.
Nelson watched silently as the amber whiskey and golden flame mingled into a beautiful sight.
Then he leaned forward and studied the sea chart before him.
“Horatio, Horatio. Where might the enemy be?”
Muttering to himself, Nelson pressed his finger against the vast Mediterranean Sea on the map.
The enemy had departed from Genoa.
That meant their fleet was drifting somewhere across this sea.
Would they try to seize the windward position?
Or the leeward?
Because sailing ships depended entirely on the wind, holding the windward position—where the wind blew from—allowed a fleet to maneuver freely and strike aggressively.
Leeward, by contrast, meant less freedom of movement. But it allowed a fleet to catch the wind quickly in case of retreat, making it suitable for defense.
In truth, if one asked a hundred sailing commanders whether they preferred windward or leeward, every one of them would choose windward.
In the age of sailing ships, before engines existed, the ability to maximize maneuverability by controlling the wind was an advantage greater than any other.
“Then if I were the Russian commander…”
Nelson drained the rest of his whiskey.
“Thankfully, the information available to the Russian Imperial Navy is limited.”
They would believe they were facing the French Navy.
And the French Navy traditionally favored defensive tactics.
Because France sat in the center of Europe, it could never afford to neglect its army in order to build a powerful navy.
Naturally its naval power lagged behind Britain’s.
Thus French naval doctrine evolved into something defensive—similar to the modern “hedgehog strategy.”
You may be stronger, but if you attack us, you’ll be crippled as well.
Which meant the French doctrine favored taking the leeward position.
Once that thought reached its conclusion, Nelson murmured quietly.
“Then the enemy will try to take windward.”
—Against a French fleet holding leeward, seize the windward position and press the attack.
That was likely the conclusion the Russian navy would reach.
Nelson’s eyes moved across the sea chart.
If he were the French commander—if he were the defensive French—where would he position his fleet?
Likely close to the coast, minimizing movement while maximizing firepower.
If one wished to intercept such a fleet, from which windward direction would the approach be best?
From Genoa, sailing straight south overnight would allow one to seize the northern windward position and hammer a French fleet hugging the coast.
And if the goal was not only to defeat the French but also to secure control of Corsican waters—
“The north, where the wind blows toward Corsica.”
The enemy would try to seize the northern windward position.
In that case, there was only one thing Nelson needed to do.
“Lieutenant Allison! Are you outside?”
“Yes, Admiral. Did you call?”
“At dawn, inform the fleet. Full speed northwest. We must seize the northern windward position before the enemy.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Through the open doorway came the smell of the sea.
The night sea of the battlefield—something Nelson had not smelled in ten years—was as fragrant as the whiskey in his hand and as warm as the embrace of his beloved wife.
As if it had been waiting for him all this time.
Flagship of the French Mediterranean Fleet.
Guillaume Tell.
The day after I transferred from the Agamemnon to the Guillaume Tell—
“What does that signal mean?”
“Northwest. Full speed. Advance.”
“I see.”
As soon as dawn broke, our ship received maneuver orders from the Agamemnon. The French officers and I were now sailing across the sea without even knowing where we were headed.
How bitter.
Not even knowing where we were going.
“Your Excellency? What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking this situation is damned irritating.”
“…I see.”
Major Jean Jacques Étienne Lucas, the adjutant to Captain Villeneuve, trailed off awkwardly.
Poor Major Lucas.
If it were me, the moment I saw my workplace burning down in real time I would have said, This isn’t the career for me, quit, and gone into business.
But Lucas was a family man with a household to support. Even watching his workplace collapse around him, he still couldn’t walk away.
Ah, why wasn’t I speaking with Captain Villeneuve instead?
Because I was irritated with him. Every other sentence was something like “strategic withdrawal” or “temporary disengagement,” so I left.
I pulled out a cigarette from my pocket and tried to light it.
But the fierce sea wind kept snuffing out my matches.
Eventually I shoved it back into my pocket.
“Major. Doesn’t this irritate you?”
“Pardon?”
“This situation.”
“Well…”
“Speak honestly. I’m not the sort to go around repeating it.”
“Do you mean the condition of the navy… or the fact that we’re under British command?”
“Ah. I see.”
Lucas sighed heavily.
“Well… compared to three years ago when Admiral Tréville fought bravely and the fleet was completely destroyed, things have improved somewhat. As a mere major I can’t speak too harshly about the navy itself.
But serving under British command like this… it feels quite humiliating.”
“I understand. What about the sailors?”
“Most of them have grown attached to the French Navy. Some even fought in the American War of Independence. If anything, they’re probably more upset than I am.
And sailors are rough men by nature. Pride matters to them.”
“Yes. Pride is something we French have in abundance.”
“Indeed, Your Excellency.”
After listening silently for a while, I said:
“The sailors must resent Captain Villeneuve quite a bit.”
“…Well.”
The unfortunate naval major of what one could hardly call a fleet anymore hesitated again.
“…I cannot honestly deny it. There are rumors that the captain fears battle. The officers are trying to control such talk, of course…”
“I see.”
At that moment a sailor shouted down from the mast.
“Signal from the Agamemnon! Signal from the Agamemnon!”
“Enemy fleet sighted! Enemy fleet sighted! Maintain single-line formation!”
“…Strange. Didn’t they say the enemy was the French fleet?”
“Yes, Admiral Ushakov!”
“Then why—”
Ushakov slowly lowered the telescope from his eyes.
“Why is the enemy holding the northern windward position?”
“Shall we alter course northeast to regain windward?”
“…Hold position for now. Form line abreast. All ships prepare to concentrate fire on the enemy lead ship.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
If they turned northeast now, they would expose their broadside to enemy attack.
It was unexpected that the French had seized windward.
But windward was not always an advantage.
Holding windward meant the fleet would face a headwind if it needed to retreat.
If they absorbed the enemy attack once and then counterattacked, Ushakov might still seize the advantage.
“Open the gunport covers! Prepare the matches!”
“Open the portside gunports!”
Gunports along the Russian ships of the line swung open in unison.
Mediterranean Squadron flagship, HMS Agamemnon.
“Enemy masts sighted! Eleven total! Eleven ships of the line!”
“So we have a one-ship advantage.”
“Pardon? Wouldn’t it be two if we count the French ship?”
Nelson waved dismissively.
“We have a distinguished passenger aboard that one. And I don’t trust the captain much either. Put them at the rear.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“Signal HMS Trowbridge and Culloden. Maintain single-line formation and lead the charge. Break through between the enemy’s third and fourth ships.”
If they split the enemy formation at the center, they could divide it instantly.
Then they could envelop both wings.
Of course the lead ship would take some punishment.
“Signal from Trowbridge.”
“What does it say?”
“They say they’re confident about getting shot at—but not confident you’ll award them medals afterward.”
“Hahaha! Tell them to write such complaints on paper and send them to the Prime Minister’s residence at Number 10 Downing Street! Their hulls are the thickest—yet they’re whining already.”
“Yes, Admiral!”
“Gentlemen. This ship will remain second in line. If the lead ship becomes disabled, we move forward while repairs are made. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral Nelson!”
“Stop them! They’re trying to split our formation! Silence the French lead ship at all costs!”
As the signal flag rose on the Russian flagship St. Paul, the Russian ships opened fire simultaneously.
Boom! Boom!
“Damn! Those Tartars are pouring it on!”
“Signal from the lead ship Trowbridge! They say they’re pushing further in!”
“Good. We move as well! Open gunports on both sides!”
The sea was fickle. The wind could change at any moment.
With the wind favorable now, they had to tear the enemy formation apart.
At last Nelson’s flagship Agamemnon began moving, followed by nine massive warships.
“Enemy lead ship at two hundred yards! Still advancing!”
“Signal ships two and three—turn to port immediately and fire on the center of the enemy column! Ships eight and nine open starboard gunports and prepare to turn to port! We won’t let them split us as they please!”
“Hurrah!”
The enemy attack was fierce—
No.
That was not the French Navy.
There was only one navy in the world capable of maneuvering like flowing water at that speed.
Damn British pirates.
Commander of the Black Sea Fleet, Ushakov bit his lip.
“We circle Corsica with the wind and withdraw to Genoa! If we give up maneuverability as well as numbers, we cannot win!”
“But the enemy is the weak French navy!”
“Idiot! If you know nothing, then keep quiet!”
“My apologies, Admiral!”
At Ushakov’s outburst, the adjutant bowed his head.
“Admiral! Signal from ship five! The first flag indicates enemy ship number two! Believed to be the flagship!”
“…The flagship? Good! I don’t know which pirate commands them, but we’ll send him to the bottom with his ship! Signal ships two and three—if the port turn is complete, concentrate all fire on the enemy’s second ship! Ships eight and nine do the same!”
“Hurrah!”
Thirty battles, thirty victories.
The undefeated admiral of the Russian navy.
Fyodor Ushakov raised his telescope and fixed the approaching enemy flagship within its lens.