THE STAGE was set for battle on 12 September. In the morning a fleet was seen approaching from the westward. There were doubts at first whether the men-of-war were French or British but they were soon recognised as the combined fleets of France and Spain; 38 sail of the line including three-decked ships and accompanied by smaller craft. Joined to the nine already there, the fleet numbered 47, added to which were the ten floating batteries and a swarm of landing craft. That afternoon began the destruction of the palisades, the essential preliminary to an infantry assault from the land. That evening Captain Curtis called his officers together in the wardroom tent and told them to expect the main attack that night.
“This afternoon, gentlemen, I was in conference with His Excellency and the other senior officers. Our conclusion was that the enemy will assault soon after midnight. Their first object will be to place their floating batteries in position opposite the King’s Bastion. If we have correctly interpreted their attempts to take soundings we may expect them to choose a range of a thousand yards. They will hope to reach their chosen anchorage under cover of darkness. It will be their intention to assault the Land-port at the same time and perhaps Europa Point as well. From all our intelligence sources we learn that the enemy have put their trust in their floating batteries. It is said that they will commit no other ships during the first phase of the battle. Should that be their plan and should our batteries here be left without a target, I may be able to bring our gunboats into action. In the meanwhile, our batteries will be manned as from the sounding of the last post but with permission for the men to sleep beside the guns. Those acting as infantry can sleep in camp but must be ready to march in five minutes after the alarm is sounded. That is all, gentlemen. Take some rest while you can.”
There was no attack that night and Richard won a small bet on it. The French, he argued, would never assault in darkness, not with the Comte d’Artois and the Duc de Bourbon there to witness the action. Daybreak would be the time and so it proved to be. The whole garrison stood to their posts and the morning light showed the battering ships under way, heading for Gibraltar, leaving the combined fleet at its moorings and out of range. The defending batteries held their fire until the battering ships were in position but as from the moment the first enemy ship dropped anchor all hell broke loose on land and sea. With about four hundred guns in action, the noise was indescribable.
“Damnation!” shouted Captain Curtis, above the uproar. “They are not coming near us. We are mere bystanders, dammit.”
This was the sad truth, for the ten floating batteries were far to the north, the nearest of them engaging the King’s Bastion and the furthest in action against the Old Mole. The staff of the Naval Brigade were gathered at a point from which they could see but that was all they could do. The scene before them, however, was stupendous. It was a sunny day with excellent visibility and they were awestruck by the sheer immensity of the forces collected for the assault. The Spanish tents seemed to cover the mainland, the allied shipping filled the bay with a forest of masts and rigging, troops in thousands were ready to embark in hundreds of landing craft and tens of thousands more were grouped beyond the enemy parallels, formed up to assault when the defending batteries had been silenced. The display of strength seemed incredible and none who gazed had any illusions about the allied leadership. The Duc de Crillon was a distinguished general, the Chevalier D’Arçon a leading engineer, Don Moreau a flag officer of great experience and courage. That the attack would be pressed home was certain. As for the floating batteries, now half hidden in smoke, they might seem clumsy, each with a jury rig poking through its Noah’s Ark roof, but they could yet prove to be as invulnerable as they were meant to be. It was the fact, nevertheless, that they were fighting at a disadvantage. The defending artillerymen had a ship to fire at, its position marked by its top-masts. The gunners in the floating batteries had to fire at embrasures in the solid stonework; embrasures which would be invisible after the first broadside. And, apart from that, how were they to aim? A gun firing through a ten-foot tunnel could hardly traverse. Elevate they could—it looked, indeed, as if they were firing too high—but no embrasure would be hit without the merest fluke. With firing on the present scale the garrison would suffer casualties, no doubt, but not as a result of aimed shots. The British batteries, Richard told himself, could never be silenced by a merely random fire. Was he, however, confusing hope with belief? He would know, and so would everyone else, by the time night fell.
The bombardment continued as the day wore on, neither side seeming to have the advantage. But stalemate, in this instance, meant defeat for the allies. If they could not overpower the defending artillery their infantry dared not attack and Gibraltar would never fall. So the bombardment continued, the defenders presently loading with red-hot shot after observing that cold shot made no impression on the battering ships. It was not until the afternoon that the enemy’s fire began to slacken. In the meanwhile Captain Curtis was all but dying of frustration, his guns silent and his men at ease. Before midday he sent the governor a message offering to relieve the artillerymen who had been most hotly engaged. A rather curt reply told him to watch his own front, which the enemy might still choose to attack. In the early afternoon Curtis had another idea, to attack the floating batteries with gunboats. He was about to put this proposal into writing but changed his mind and told Richard to deliver a verbal message.
“You will find His Excellency at the King’s Bastion. Give him my compliments and my submission that the southernmost battering ships might be raked from the bows. We can still man the Europa batteries after making this detachment. You are familiar with the gunboats and can answer any question he may ask about their capabilities.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Take your servant with you, as orderly, Mr Delancey, and report back to me here.”
Richard collected his orderly, a youngster called Bob Hewitt, and set off to walk a distance of over two miles. He followed the path which led behind the South Barracks, leaving the main infantry camp on his right, passing Rosia Bay and heading for the New Mole. He had decided to make certain that the gun-boats were unharmed before he delivered his message. Had they been destroyed—which was unlikely but just possible—Curtis would be made to look a fool with his proposal for deploying resources which did not exist. Richard ran up to the rampart and saw that the gunboats were unharmed. The guns here were in action but those further on, opposite the Princess of Wales’s Lines, were mostly silent, unable to bear on the target. Then he hurried on, the noise of the bombardment intensifying as he came near the Ragged Staff. At this point he entered the town of Gibraltar by the South Port. There were storehouses, little damaged, on his right, the governor’s residence on his left, the Spanish Church ahead of him. The area he was entering was very much under fire, with buildings already destroyed and shot passing overhead. Turning left beyond the Spanish Church, he headed for the King’s Bastion, beyond which the whole town lay in ruins. He slowed down at this moment, resolved to avoid being out of breath when he delivered his message. As momentarily representing the Royal Navy he must seem calm and collected. A damaged building on his left was hit by another shot and mostly collapsed in a cloud of brick-dust.
“Strewth, sir,” yelled Hewitt, “it’s like the end of the world!”
Approaching the rear of the King’s Bastion was more like a descent into hell. There were here a row of furnaces kept redhot by the bellows and served by sweating and dirt-caked men, stripped to the waist and gasping for breath. The cannon balls were being shovelled out and placed on iron gratings or wheel-barrows half-filled with sand. Parties of weary men were hurrying the projectiles towards the cannon. Keeping to windward of these, Richard entered the King’s Bastion as the cannon fired. It was not a volley at word of command but a scattered series followed by a pause of a minute or two while the guns were reloaded. At first Richard could see nothing at all for the smoke had blown back through the embrasures. Then the smoke cleared and Richard realised that the south-westerly breeze had stiffened. A glance at the sea told him that the waves were flecked with white. Overhead the union flag was fluttering and straining towards the Rock, a proof that the wind direction was unchanged. In frantic motion round the guns were the artillerymen, their faces and arms blackened with powder, the sweat pouring off them and fatigue already obvious. The subalterns and non-commissioned officers were striving to keep up the rapidity of fire without loss of accuracy and danger of mishap. In rear of the cannon, with their backs to Richard, were grouped some senior officers, with orderlies and buglers still further to the rear. “That is where the governor will be,” Richard told himself. The cannon thundered again and blotted out the entire scene. As the smoke cleared Richard stepped forward and reported to a junior staff officer on the near fringe of the group. “A message for His Excellency from Brigadier-General Curtis.” The junior officer reported in turn to one more senior, who finally spoke to the chief of staff. At a gesture from the latter officer, Richard stepped forward on the governor’s left and removed his hat with a flourish. “Lieutenant Delancey, Your Excellency, aide-de-camp to Brigadier-General Curtis.” At that instant the cannon volleyed again, hiding the whole Bastion in smoke. Richard felt rather foolish, making his best bow towards someone he couldn’t even see, but he stayed in position until the smoke cleared. The central figure then returned his salute casually and said “Well?” Having rehearsed his lines over the last half hour, Richard spoke without hesitation:
“Brigadier-General Curtis sends his compliments and begs to submit that his gunboats might do good service on the enemy’s right flank, enfilading their line at a fairly close range.”
The general, an impressive figure in scarlet, black and gold, did not even look at Delancey. He first looked through his telescope at the enemy men-of-war, to see whether they were still at anchor. Seeing that they were, he glanced at the sea and upwards at the flag, looking finally towards the New Mole. When he spoke it was very deliberately:
“Have the gunboats sustained any damage?”
“No, sir.”
“Has the wind freshened since you left the Europa Lines?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you agree that the sea is now too rough?”
“Yes, sir. But it may moderate before nightfall.”
“Or so you hope. What is your name?—I failed to catch it.”
“Delancey, sir.”
“Delancey … Are you the young officer who reconnoitred these battering ships?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I thought I remembered … What do you think of them?”
“They can aim a broadside, sir, but they cannot aim a gun.”
“As you reported, and I think correctly. Very well, then. My compliments to Brigadier-General Curtis and he is ordered to bring the gunboats into action if and when the weather moderates. He will be responsible—” The guns fired again, the smoke blowing back over the platform. When it cleared General Eliott continued calmly:
“He will be responsible for preventing his gunboats masking the fire from the batteries. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Richard looked for a moment into the general’s face, austere, sad and desperately tired. The expression changed suddenly. With a brief smile the general ended the interview on a note of curt dismissal.
“Give them hell when you have the chance! Off with you!” Richard stepped back, doffed his hat again, turned and hurried off. So far from giving the enemy hell he seemed at that moment to have entered hell himself. He was to leeward of a hot-shot grating, the heat from which swept over him with deadly effect. He stumbled on, sweating and trembling, and then the guns roared again and he was lost once more in the smoke. He somehow found himself back at the Spanish Church with Hewitt still at his heels. He made for the South Port, feeling vaguely that the situation had changed for the worse. For some unexplained reason the enemy fire was extending further south. A shot passed overhead as he crossed the Red Sands, ploughing into the hillside above him. Remembering that the floating batteries were anchored bow and stern, he guessed that one of them, perhaps the southernmost or leading ship, had lost her forward cable, hit by a chance shot. She would have swung on her stern anchor, head to wind, her guns on a south-easterly bearing. It went to prove his contention that the enemy could aim a broadside but could not traverse a gun. He felt oddly pleased about this, aware as he was of the fire now coming in his direction.
His route back was slightly different from the way he had come; further from the New Mole, which he had no occasion to visit again, and nearer to the Naval Hospital. Shots were still coming his way and he saw some of them crash into the hospital itself. Passing the entrance, he saw an orderly run out, probably to ask for help, and called to him “Anyone hurt?” The orderly paused just long enough to reply “Captain Bradshaw has fallen, sir,” and went on towards the infantry lines. So the old officer had been killed in his bed after all, the victim of an unintentional shot from some smoke-blinded gunner. He had survived just long enough for Richard’s purpose … Putting that thought on one side, Richard hurried on and reached Europa Camp at a quarter past two. Making his report to Captain Curtis, he ended with the governor’s words, “Give them hell when you have the chance!”
Glancing seawards, Curtis decided that his chance had come.
“The wind is more moderate now. All gunboat crews to the New Mole! Collect your men, gunboat commanders, and be ready to sail at half past three. Pass the word for the gunboat officers! At the double—move!”
By a forced march the gunboat crews were on board and ready to cast off at the time laid down. Near where they were stationed Captain Curtis had his telescope to his eye and was examining the enemy ships with close attention. He came to the conclusion that the flagship was on fire, as was also the ship next astern. Others had lost their masts and rigging and nearly all had been considerably damaged. It remained to finish them off, and Curtis promptly decided to lead the gunboats in person, making one of them (not in Richard’s division) the “flagship,” distinguished by an ensign. There were three divisions, each of five boats, Lieutenant Wallis commanding the first, Lieutenant Tibbenham commanding the second and Delancey commanding the third. Hoisting their lugsails, they sailed in that order, each division in line abreast, Curtis himself being with Tibbenham. The cannonade still continued but the fire from the floating batteries was plainly slackening. Signals were being made, evidently asking for assistance, and boats were seen approaching from the allied fleet, presumably to rescue the crews of ships that were on fire. As the floating batteries had not surrendered, Wallis’s immediate task was to drop his sails and open fire on these boats, which were also under fire from the shore. Tibbenham’s division was directed by Curtis to open fire on the leading enemy ship, keeping directly ahead of her, and Delancey’s division was held in reserve, ready to exploit any opportunity that might offer. The situation was one in which gunboats had an almost unique chance of proving useful.
The gunboats slowly closed the range, bows-on to the enemy ships, Wallis’s guns firing at the rescue boats which were soon forced to withdraw. To have ordered the other boats into action, widening the line abreast, would have brought the flanking boats into the enemy’s arc of fire. Smoke was pouring from the ships in the centre of the enemy line but those nearest were still firing and each had at least two guns which could almost be brought to bear.
“A pity, sir, that we can’t let them do their own rescue work,” said Delancey’s coxswain.
“It is a pity, I must confess,” said Richard, “but we don’t know that their boats wouldn’t bring more men to put the fire out. And those they rescue can fight again tomorrow.”
“If there’s any fight left in ‘em!”
The coxswain assumed that the battle had been won but Richard was not as sure. Having seen the shore batteries in action at the King’s Bastion, he found it almost unbelievable that their fire could be sustained. They were still firing steadily hours after the gunners might have been expected to collapse in utter exhaustion. What they were doing did not seem humanly possible. As for the floating batteries, their fire had slackened but there was nothing (save the gunboats) to prevent the enemy from replacing their gun-crews after dark. Granted that several of them were now doomed to destruction, the others could, in theory, resume the battle at daybreak. If they ever had this intention it broke down over the central fact that the British cannonade went on. The only very minor respite was caused by Wallis’s gunboats exhausting their ammunition. Their place was taken by Tibbenham’s division and Curtis sent Wallis’s gunboats back to the New Mole to replenish their powder and shot. By the time Delancey’s division was signalled into action Richard found to his surprise that it was already half past four. The boats rowed forward in line, passing through Tibbenham’s boats as they withdrew. As they did so, Captain Curtis waved him to come alongside. A minute later Curtis was on board Richard’s gunboat, bringing with him a midshipman and his orderly, the last carrying a flagstaff and ensign. As soon as the ensign was hoisted Curtis said to Richard “You are flag captain now! Order your other boats to close in on us.” When they were collected, Curtis addressed them briefly, shouting to make himself heard above the gunfire:
“Listen, men. You can’t be in action long because our ammunition is limited. So every shot must take effect. We have nothing to throw away. We can’t sink these floating timber yards but we can do two things. We can prevent the enemy from putting more men aboard them and we can hinder them in their efforts to put out each fire. Use round shot against any boat you see. Use grapeshot against the roofs or wherever you see smoke. The governor’s orders are to give them hell. So do just that!”
Richard restored his formation, line abreast, and signalled them to open fire in turn from the right. The “flagship” was then the third to fire, its twenty-four-pounder jarring the whole boat along the line of the keel. The smoke drifted forward concealing what effect, if any, had been gained. Glancing to starboard, Richard received a signal from his Number Two boat indicating a reduced elevation. When Number Four boat fired in turn, Richard watched the result and signalled a correction in his turn.
“Is this your system, Mr Delancey?” Curtis asked.
“Yes, sir. I hope you approve, sir. It’s impossible, in practice, to observe the fall of your own shot but we can observe for each other as long as we fire in order.”
“I can see that. But aren’t you slowing down the rate of fire?” “We should do that, sir, if there were more than five boats in line. With this number we reckon to improve the rate a little. Each boat must reload before its turn comes again. If any boat’s crew is slow the others notice it and make game of them afterwards. They hate the derision of their shipmates more than any reproof from me.”
“You have something there, Mr Delancey. Now show me how you cease fire.”
The cannon thundered once more, jarring the boat, and the coxswain, at a nod from Richard, held an oar upright with a black and white rag attached. The guns fired from boats Number Four and Five and then the firing stopped.
“A new target, Mr Delancey, on the port bow!” Richard cursed under his breath for there, sure enough, were two launches nearing the second of the floating batteries. If he had not been explaining his drill, he would have seen them a few seconds sooner. Grabbing the oar from the coxswain he swung it twice to his left and pointed. Then he held it vertically for a moment. As he brought it down again the gun boomed from Number One gunboat. The first three shots missed but Number Four scored a hit and so did Number Three at the second try. Both launches showed the white flag of surrender and Curtis ordered the division to advance. Within a few minutes the captured launches were on their way to Ragged Staff under escort of Number One.
Having learnt from the prisoners that there were some men still aboard one of the burning ships, Curtis sent Number Five to rescue them. As this was being done there came a deafening explosion from the far end of the enemy line. The fire had spread to the magazine of one of the battering ships. This suggested a new danger to Richard, quite apart from the fire of their own friends ashore, but Curtis was working off his earlier frustration. He was longing to capture one of the enemy ships by boarding and pushed on with that object in view. When he was nearly opposite the centre of the enemy line, however, there was another tremendous explosion. One of the centre ships had blown up with a noise like the crack of doom. The noise was so shattering that the gunboat officers did not immediately realise their danger. With the roof blown sky-high, the broken timbers, some of them burning, began to rain down over the vicinity of the disaster. Avoiding action was impossible for the fragments appeared from nowhere through the smoke to plunge, hissing, into the sea. These deadly missiles were falling everywhere in quick succession. Everyone waited and watched for what seemed an eternity. Then, with dreadful suddenness, a blazing beam fell like a meteorite, lanced through the bottom of gunboat Number Four and sank the vessel in a matter of seconds. Most of her crew were rescued by Number Two and Curtis directed Richard to steer for the same spot. A minute later the “flagship” (Number Three) was hit by another thunderbolt which crashed through the sternsheets. It so happened that Curtis and Richard had both moved to the bows, looking out for survivors from Number Four, but for which circumstance they would have perished. As it was, the coxswain was killed outright and the man at the stroke oar was badly wounded. The gunboat itself would have sunk but two seamen stuffed their jackets into the hole. With only two undamaged gunboats under command, Curtis signalled his flotilla out of action. They began a limping withdrawal towards the New Mole.
It was evening now, the smoke hastening the approach of darkness. The Spanish admiral might have hoped to withdraw at least some of his ships but they were all now alight, those least damaged having received the burning debris from those that had blown up. No one vessel had the means of making sail and few had so much as a mast standing. Worst of all, the light from those actually ablaze was illuminating the rest, making them perfect targets, brightly outlined against the darkness of the sea. Surprisingly enough, they were still under heavy fire from the shore batteries, which apparently had a new lease of life. It would seem that these astounding gunners were ready to continue the action indefinitely. They had been told to give the enemy hell and it was to hell that many of the Spanish were now consigned, left to choose whether they would burn or drown. Looking about him, Richard thought of battle paintings he had seen, pictures of men-of-war in strict formation under a blue sky with white smoke from their broadsides and cloud shadows on the green-grey sea. Real war, he realised, is not like that. This was the real thing: the glare and crackle of the flames, the debris in the sea, the screams of agony, the wrecked ships lit by those ablaze, the whole scene of chaos which no artist could ever record. One thing clear was that the victory had been won. There was no fight left in the floating batteries, no possibility that the attack would be renewed. They passed three ships in slow succession, each in flames and apparently abandoned. Coming near the fourth, Captain Curtis became aware that it was on fire but with part of the crew still on board. He led his surviving gunboats in that direction, telling his men to rescue as many survivors as they could.
At this stage of his career Richard was a young man of merely average courage, braver on some days than others. He had so far done what he had to do and sometimes more than was strictly necessary. It cannot be said, however, that he would run into danger for the fun of it. And by this last order he was frankly appalled. These enemy ships were going to explode, one by one, just as soon as the flames reached their magazines. Any gunboat near them when this happened would be inevitably destroyed. His own leaking gunboat had been within an ace of destruction and could only be kept afloat by continual baling. All common sense suggested a prudent withdrawal but his luck was out. His commanding officer was a hero assigned for most of the day to an unheroic role. Given half a chance he had plunged into battle after the victory had been won. Still dissatisfied he had now to prove himself another Galahad. The trouble with Curtis, Richard told himself, was that the man wanted his knighthood before the war ended. He assumed that there would be no other war in his lifetime. What was the loss of three gunboats as compared with this last chance of distinction? Forgetting for the moment that his own confirmation as lieutenant might depend on this same throw of the dice, he raged inwardly at the risk he was having to take. It was, after all, the duty of a brigadier-general to command his brigade, not to play knight errant at the head of a mere detachment. Then he remembered his own priggish answer to Captain Gibson … Perhaps Curtis was right after all. He had certainly been the first to see those enemy launches. Damn and blast the whole situation! Why couldn’t he have been left to command his own division in his own way?
Curtis actually visited two enemy ships, the foremost of their line; and saved as many men as his gunboats could embark. A far greater number were unavoidably left to their fate. At this stage Curtis was hoping to save more when his other gun-boats returned. They did not reappear, however, and there was nothing more he could do. The overladen boats made a slow passage back to the New Mole. On the way Captain Curtis was suddenly communicative.
“Some people would say that I was wrong to go with the gunboats, that I should have sent Gibson instead. For a whole lot of reasons that would have been a mistake. Some people again—and I think you might be among them—would question whether I should have stayed to rescue these wretched Spaniards. You won’t see it until you are older but that had to be done. Some other officer in my place would have thought it too great a risk but he would, I know, have been in error. It was, you see, a calculated risk—” (There was at that moment another tremendous explosion but the gunboats were clear by now of the danger area.) “Yes, we had time enough—not too much time, I grant you—but time enough. Our garrison will be here, you see, after the war is over. The Spanish are folk we shall have to live with. So their wounded are going to receive the best possible care. The Spaniards should find that we are good friends and neighbours but that we are the last people in the world to have as enemies.”
When Captain Curtis landed at the New Mole, with Delancey at his side, he was met on the quayside by Captain Gibson.
“In your absence, sir, I received a message from His Excellency directing that a hundred of our men should relieve the artillerymen on the batteries principally engaged. I sent them off under the command of Mr Trentham. When the gunboats returned with Mr Wallis and Mr Tibbenham I ordered them on the same service. I hope you will approve, sir. I have manned alternate guns in the Europa batteries and propose to relieve Mr Trentham’s detachment at midnight.”
“Your arrangements are approved, Captain Gibson. Mr Delancey, march your detachment back to camp. They can rest now but will be on duty again at midnight. The prisoners and wounded will remain here with Captain Gibson, who will dispose of them. You will be responsible, Mr Delancey, for sending all carpenters from the camp to repair the gunboats, which should be serviceable by daybreak. Boatswain, check the stores here and let me know what we shall need to replace damaged oars, sails and cordage. Gunner, see that the gunboats’ ammunition is replaced before daybreak. Surgeon, I shall want a report on the wounded as soon as they are in hospital. Master-at-Arms …”
Richard went off with his detachment, leaving the captain with a night’s work ahead of him. He had envied senior officers in the past but he was beginning to see that Curtis had to earn far more than he was ever likely to be paid. He had still to think and plan and organise even when completely exhausted. Perhaps he deserved that knighthood after all.
Richard was on duty again at midnight, as ordered, his detachment of seamen manning guns at Europa Point while those previously posted there were marched down to the King’s Bastion.
The firing of the shore batteries continued all night, punctuated at intervals by the explosion of the floating batteries. There were only two left at first light, both abandoned and neither worth repairing. It was only gradually, however, that the garrison came to realise that the siege was over, the battle won. The allied army remained in position and the blockade was to continue for months with a daily cannonade as if to preface some new assault. But the heart had gone out of the siege. What finally ended the Spanish dream of taking Gibraltar was the arrival of a convoy on 14 October. The garrison saw little of the masterly seamanship by which Lord Howe manoeuvred the allied fleet out of the way. They learnt about that afterwards. What concerned them at the time was the landing of provisions, powder and shot together with two more regiments of infantry under the command of Lord Mulgrave. As from that day the Duc de Crillon’s last chance had gone. Firing continued but many of the French tents were struck on the 20th. The combined fleet under Admiral Cordova never reappeared after its brush with Lord Howe and more supply ships entered without hindrance, bringing mail for the garrison and two letters for Richard Delancey.
The one with the Admiralty seal conveyed the news that his promotion had been confirmed. The mere superscription conveyed the essential fact, reading “Richard A. Delancey, Esquire.” He had officially become a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, something far above his early expectations. He was at the same time posted to the Brilliant, under the command of Sir Roger Curtis. The frigate had been refloated by this time but Richard had no illusions about his future. There were rumours of peace and he knew that the Brilliant would be paid off and that he would never be offered another berth until another war began. He was lucky to have his commission. He would not have had that after the preliminaries of peace had been signed. He would now have his half-pay but would nevertheless have his living to seek.
The other letter came from Gabriel Andros, a cousin he could barely remember, and was dated from Guernsey on 18 July 1782:
Dear Richard,
It is with the greatest regret that I have to acquaint you with the death of your mother who dyed last month of a fever. She had been ailing ever since your father’s death last year and her neighbours thought that she had no great inclination to survive after the loss of two sons and after hearing the rumour, mercifully false, that you too had perished in America. As you know, she saw little of her relatives from the time of her marriage which some thought ill-advised but several of them attended her funeral with every sign of respect and grief. She left no will and testament but there is no doubt that you are her only male heir standing to inherit half of what property she left, the remainder going to yr sister, Rachel. Her fortune was inconsiderable, as you can well understand, but there is a summ left for you with her advocate amounting to rather less than a hundred pounds sterling (I spare you the livres tournois which you have most likely forgotten the value of ). I have also to inform you that I have heard from my cousin, Edmund. You will recall that the outbreak of war came when you were going to join his father’s counting-house in Liverpool. The trade prospects were then poor indeed for a firm dealing largely in America and the Mediterranean but the comming of peace should renew the prosperity of Messrs Preston, Steere & Andros. It would not appear from his letter that Edmund is himself very active in the business but he tells me of another partner, Mr Carslake, who has great plans for the Barbarie trade. Wishing to see the family still represented in the firm’s transactions, Edmund would consider bringing you into the business as clerk or agent and begs that you write to him at the firm’s address in Dale Street, Liverpool. I trust you will see this as an opening which it would be foolish to ignore. I must not end this letter without assuring you of the continued prosperity and health of your sister, Mrs Sedley, who now resides in a verie respectable part of Bristol where she is bringing up several of your nephews and nieces. I remain with great truth your sincere friend and cousin,
Richard had not even heard of his father’s death so that this letter came as a double shock. He wondered whether he had written as often as he should and whether it was for want of a letter that his mother had died. Hers had been a sad life, though, and his father’s perhaps still more so except for that brief period of prosperity which had just sufficed to place his one remaining son on the quarterdeck. Their little tragedy was over now, nothing left but two nameless graves in a churchyard. As for his own career, it seemed that the closing of one door had led to the opening of another. Without deciding anything now, he would certainly write to his cousin when the time came. Why not? He knew that there were possibilities in the Barbary trade and the coast of Barbary was fairly in sight from Gibraltar itself. He could see it, indeed, from where he stood, much as Sark can be seen from St Peter Port. He might even return to Gibraltar in time of peace … Such possibilities would have to wait, however, for there was work to do and the gunboats were still active, rowing guard, and were sometimes even in action.
There were a few casualties in one skirmish and Richard was careful to visit the hospital afterwards. He said what he could to cheer his men up and was leaving by the main entrance when an orderly ran after him, begging him to return. The chief clerk of the hospital asked the favour of a word with him. Somewhat mystified, Richard walked back to the entrance hall where the chief clerk, Mr Garston, was waiting.
“I beg pardon, Mr Delancey,” said that official, “but I am glad you chanced to call. It’s about old Captain Bradshaw …”
“Yes, I heard that he had been killed. What a shame it was that the hospital should be accidentally hit. I suppose he might have recovered?”
“No, sir. He was dying and he knew it. That is why he told me how to dispose of his few belongings. He had drawn up a will years ago which covered his property in Hampshire. He had only his sea-chest here, with his uniform and suchlike, and he directed that all should be sold and the money given to the hospital staff who had looked after him. That has been done but the sale was not to include his sword. He said before me and two other witnesses that his sword was to go to the young man in whose examination he had assisted. We said ‘Yes, yes’ the way we do with men who are very ill but we had no idea what he meant. I have inquired around for weeks past and then I had the wit to ask the senior surgeon, Mr Forbes, who has been here throughout the siege. He was none too certain—he has had work enough since, as you can imagine, with all those poor Spaniards—but he remembered that Captain Curtis, Sir Roger as he is now, had asked permission to visit the old captain with two other officers. He had agreed, none too readily I should guess. He told me, however, that Sir Roger had gone back to London with despatches but that one of the other officers might still be there. This led me to Captain Gibson who told me the whole story.”
“I wonder that Captain Bradshaw was well enough to make this disposition. He was far gone, it seemed, on the day when I took my examination.”
“He had his ups and downs, his good days and his bad days. He was sitting up on the day he sent for me. Yes, he knew his mind that day. I think you must once have done him a kindness.”
“And I suppose the sword was at his bedside and so destroyed by the shot or the falling masonry?”
“No, sir, the sword was in my office and is still there, as good as ever. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll fetch it. It’s not a fancy sword, mind you, not a presentation sword from the town of Plymouth. Nothing the like of that. But it’s a good useful weapon and he wanted you to have it. Wait here, sir, while I fetch it.”
The chief clerk was gone for a few minutes and Richard had time to look about him. The entrance hall was undamaged but looked rather bleak and shabby. There were oblong patches on the walls, showing where the pictures had hung before they were removed to a place of safety. From the north end of the building came the sound of hammering—repairs had already begun. Then Mr Garston returned, carrying the sword.
“Here it is, sir, and I brought the sword belt as well. The hilt is gold-plated, not brass, and it is little the worse for wear. I kept it wrapped up, you see, in a piece of cloth, and the blade is well greased, without so much as a spot of rust.”
“Thank you, Mr Garston.” Richard took the sword and examined it carefully. It had certainly been well looked after, needing only some polish and leather cream. He drew the blade far enough from the sheath to read the maker’s name: Wilkinson Sword Company. He sheathed it gently again, put on the sword belt and hung the sword in position.
“Funny thing,” said Mr Garston, “the old gentleman was more aware of things that day than the other officers imagined. Anyway, he remembered your examination afterwards and laughed about it. You were asked nothing, he said, about seamanship or navigation. They had decided beforehand that you were to pass.”
“That I am not to know, Mr Garston. But it’s quite true that I was examined in military engineering and siege warfare. Sir Roger was every inch a soldier at that time. He is a seaman again now.”
“The old captain chuckled over that. He had no doubts about your seamanship, having talked with you one time, but the examination, he said, merely proved that you were a soldier. In his day, he said—begging your pardon, sir—they would have failed you for not sticking to your own trade.”
“I’ve no doubt of it, Mr Garston, and what you say serves to remind me that I must return to duty. Thank you for all the trouble you have taken. I am proud to have this sword and will take good care of it.”
Richard took his leave and strode out of the hospital, the sword at his side. He was faintly self-conscious, aware though he was that nobody in the fortress would give him a second glance. More alone in the world than ever, and totally lacking any fortune or interest, he knew himself to be a commissioned officer, a seaman and a gentleman.