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Cape Corse

by Paul Weston 2 Jun 2024 00:31 UTC
The port and anchorage of Calvi are defended by the huge citadel. This seemingly impregnable fortress was successfully besieged by Nelson, who dragged ships' guns up steep mountain paths. It is also where he lost an eye © Paul Weston

In Cape Corse, the third book of Paul Weston’s historical naval series, Royal Navy Lieutenant Snowden takes his newly commissioned schooner, HMS Oleander, from Bermuda to England, and then to Corsica, the island of Napoleon’s birth. The ship is to undertake a dangerous and complex mission on Corsica which will seriously damage the Emperor’s prestige. Snowden and his crew, with Corsican rebels led by the charismatic Julia Paoli, must use every resource available to them to play their part in Bonaparte’s eventual downfall.

With Napoleon’s overarching ambition recently highlighted on the big screen, Paul Weston’s third historical novel, Cape Corse, keeps the Emperor centre stage, set as it is, on the island of Bonaparte’s birth. It will also please the international fan base the author has already acquired, which account for half of existing sales, as readers new to his work, but with a passion for historical maritime fiction.

Informed by the author’s seafaring background (as well as his knowledge of Bermuda and the other locations in the book),and his ability to weave a compelling narrative, Cape Corse offers a great and plausible literary rendering of daily life at sea in the early nineteenth century, the adventure and hard labour that accompanied it, as well as the organisation and science that lay behind the vast undertaking that was the Royal Navy.

Historically accurate, this latest novel puts Paul Weston on par with Alexander Kent, Patrick O'Brien, CS Forester and Dudley Pope, and leaves fans hoping he has plenty more seafaring adventures percolating away.

My latest novel, Cape Corse, was inspired by our 2022 trip to Corsica in Kadash, our 40’ aluminium lift keeler. Calvi’s citadel, where Nelson lost his eye, emerging from the darkness as we made our landfall was unforgettable.

To the sailor, Corsica is slightly forbidding, but it is a wonderful place with a complex history. It was owned by the Genoese for several centuries, as evidenced by the round towers they built on every headland to deter Barbary corsairs. Although the action in my book, such as the Battle of Macinhagiu, is entirely fictional, the geography of the place is accurately described.

The storylines of my books come from thinking of myself in historical situations, imagining how I would have fought historical wars. How would a smuggler who had a nasty run in with the Revenue try to get his son away from the trade? How could a brilliant Frenchman strike a blow for France with limited resources?

Synopsis:

Britain is at war with Napoleonic France, and Lieutenant Snowden RN is sent to Bermuda to commission a fast cedar built schooner, Oleander. In the Mediterranean, the short lived Corsican Republic has been defeated by the French, and Pasquale Paoli, the Republic’s leader, is in exile in London. Snowden and Oleander are sent to Corsica to support a delicate and dangerous operation which could be of considerable assistance in defeating Bonaparte, with Corsican partisans led by Julia Paoli, daughter of a family whose rivalry with the Bonapartes spans generations.

In this fast moving, historically accurate and complex novel, the author evokes the era of the Napoleonic wars, set as they were against the background of scientific progress and the nascent Industrial Revolution.

Extract - Chapter 3 - “Escape”

1804. In Bermuda, Lieutenant Snowden RN has commissioned HMS Oleander, a new cedar built schooner, and sets out for England. In the Atlantic, Oleander encounters the large French privateer, Blonde.

“So that is the plan, gentlemen. Oleander can get away from the Frenchman if he has to chase us to windward, but we cannot put our ship hard on the wind while he has the weather gauge. The trick will be to get Oleander past the Frog when he has lost most of his weather advantage. We cannot expect the scheme to work exactly, but I have no doubt you will be able to improvise as necessary. Are there any questions?”

Snowden looked at the men seated round the table. They murmured their assent, stood up as far as the limited headroom allowed, and made their way from the cabin. Good men, he thought, and their confidence in him and the ship would increase if they were successful in the next few hours. He did not dwell on the consequences of failure. He wished he knew his ship better.

Back on deck, Snowden could see the larger French ship was gaining on them, though it would be several hours before she came up with Oleander. He called to the Master, “Kennedy, please send one division below, we may as well have a rested crew when we come to action.”

“Very well, Sir.”

The men at the wheel changed, the outgoing pair giving a muttered explanation of the course and set of the sails to the men who were relieving them, and the ship sailed on as before.

The sun was in the west when the Frenchman opened fire with his bow chasers. The shot fell some distance astern, but it was a foretaste of things to come.

Snowden called for the Gunner, Trott, a young but energetic Bermudian who had been very effective when they had been commissioning the ship in Bermuda. “Trott, could you get one of the long nines on the quarterdeck so the Frenchman won’t have things all his own way?”

“I believe I could, Sir.”

“Then do it, quick as you like. Tell the armourer to get the forge up as well.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

In another half hour, the enemy’s shots had become more accurate, but the cannon hastily moved to Oleander’s quarterdeck had started to reply, firing red-hot shot heated in the forge.

A ball smashed into Oleander’s stern. “Felt that, I did,” said the helmsman, “through the wheel”, and there were an anxious few minutes before the carpenter reported the rudder was undamaged.

The gunner tugged at Snowden’s sleeve and pointed to the enemy ship. “Look at that, Sir.” Snowden turned and saw a thin column of smoke was rising from somewhere in the forepart of the French ship. He felt a surge of elation. That was more like it! “Dropped down a hatch, I reckon,” said the gunner with a grin. “Devil of a job to put it out.”

“Sail room perhaps. Guns, well done, see if you can get the next one into the powder locker.”

“I’ll certainly try, Sir. Come on lads, is there another one cooked and ready to serve to our French guests?”

The men, including the ones nominally resting below but who had made their way back on deck, cheered as the gun fired again. Now’s the time, thought Snowden, and turned to the Master, he hoped betraying none of the excitement he felt. “Hands to quarters, Mr Kennedy.”

To the beating of the drum, the men went to their quarters. Slowly, over the next fifteen minutes, Oleander edged round to starboard, closer to the wind, the French ship, very near, shadowing them astern and to windward as the British ship turned. The wind, now blowing vigorously across the French ship’s deck, seemed to increase the quantity of smoke coming from her. One or two of the most forward of the French ship’s port battery could now be brought to bear, and she fired, accurately and quickly. Snowden felt several balls strike his ship, and a carpenter’s mate approached him.

“Begging your pardon, Your Honour. Carpenter sent me to tell you she’s holed just below the waterline, smashed a frame as well, quite bad. Making water she is. Carpenter says can we have more men for the pumps, Sir?”

“Compliments to Mr Trimingham. Please tell him to do what he can, but presently we need the men to fight the ship.”

The man moved away, to be replaced by Butterfield, the Surgeon’s Mate, who Snowden knew would not be bearing good news. Two men were injured, one with a smashed leg which would have to be amputated. Snowden knew the punishment would only increase as the French ship overhauled Oleander. It was now or never.

“Put her hard on the wind, Mr Kennedy,” he said, and Oleander heeled as the wind came forward and the sheets on the great booms were tightened, the wake hissing and surging along the lee gunwales. “Ready, Guns,” he shouted, all pretence of calmness gone, overcome by the lust of battle, the pitting of his wits against the enemy. “As you bear, starboard battery … Luff her, Mr Kennedy, NOW.”

Oleander came upright as she headed into the wind, her great sails roaring as they shook in the wind. He saw the Frenchman turning to answer Oleander’s manoeuvre, but she was less handy than the British ship, and she was heeled so much that her port battery was on the waterline, almost useless. Oleander’s starboard battery fired together, sending an aimed cloud of canister shot into the French ship. Snowden saw men fall. He gripped the taffrail and turned to the Master. “Take her round, Mr Kennedy, if she’ll answer.”

“Aye aye, Sir, don’t you worry, she will.”

The staysails were backed, and the ship tacked, agonisingly slowly, but surely, through the eye of the wind, the breeze now quite strong, coming round onto the port side. The staysails were sheeted home, and suddenly Oleander was sliding past the stern of the French ship. He saw her name, Blonde, picked out in gold, as the port battery fired its chainshot at her rigging, each gun aimed unhurriedly by Trott, who sighted along the barrels, giving instructions to the gun crew who moved the guns with handspikes and wedges.

He watched, spellbound, as the French ship’s mizzen mast, with tricolour and St Malo flags flying, crashed slowly into her deck. Oleander clawed her way into the wind, overcanvassed, water sluicing along her lee deck, but Snowden knew, as he watched men working with axes on Blonde’s deck to cut away the wreckage, that they had escaped. He supported himself on the binnacle railing, suddenly drained of energy, surprised by Kennedy’s voice. “Shall I reef her down, Sir?”

“Indeed you shall, Mr Kennedy, and well done, pass my thanks to all hands. When she’s reefed send the starboard division down, and splice the mainbrace.”

He walked to the ladder. There were wounded to visit and damage to inspect.

Where to buy Cape Corse:

Author's website

On Amazon

On Apple, Kobo and so forth

About the author:

Paul Weston is the author of three books - Weymouth Bound, Not by Sea and Cape Corse.

The plots and locations are the culmination of Paul’s wide reading, experience as a merchant seaman, as an engineer and of extensive yacht cruising. The storylines of the books come from Paul thinking himself into historical situations, imagining how he would fight the wars and how he would handle the ships.

Paul spent eleven years as a merchant seaman, on tankers, offshore, and on ferries. After graduating with a mechanical engineering degree, Paul worked for the Bermuda Electric Light Company and Lloyd’s Register Technical Investigation Department. He started Weston Antennas Ltd, designing, manufacturing and installing large satellite earth station antennas worldwide and more recently works as a mechanical engineer with Siemens in Poole. A prolific inventor, he has several patents to his name.

Paul has been sailing since childhood, initially on his family’s converted fishing boat True Vine. In his teens, he sailed across the Atlantic in Cicely 2, a home designed and built 26 footer, and in his twenties to the Azores and back in another 26 footer, Pegasus. In 2021, he and his wife Sally I completed an intermittent four year voyage to the Mediterranean and back by sea, river and canal in Mitch, a 31 foot Mitchell Sea Angler. Feeling that they had pushed the boundaries of what could be done in a small workboat, they sold Mitch after twenty two years of ownership.

Their new boat, Kadash, is a 42 foot aluminium lift keel sailing yacht equipped, unlike Mitch, with a sleeping cabin. In 2022 they took Kadash on a shakedown cruise from Port Napoleon at the mouth of the Rhone to Corsica and Elba and back, and in 2023 they cruised westwards from Port Napoleon. Kadash is presently in Almerimar, Southern Spain, ready for more extensive cruising.

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