HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  “She is in good order, sir,” he replied. “And we have been lucky with replacement hands; Prometheus is near to her wartime complement.”

  Hardy closed his eyes and nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “And it was a bold action, Sir Richard,” Nelson continued. “I have already said as much to John Conn, though he was right and honourable to attribute credit where it were most deserved.”

  At this, Banks almost choked. For an admiral to heap praise publicly was rare in itself, but hearing the captain of Canopus, the ship that accompanied them in their last battle, had done likewise was a surprise indeed. Conn was junior to him, and it would surely have been better if he had praised his own actions, rather than those of a superior.

  But Banks had spoken with others, and understood that Nelson employed a novel method of command, his captains being expected to praise and encourage each other. They received respect in return and were trusted to act with an unusual degree of initiative. It was a policy Banks used with his own officers to some extent and thought himself not alone in doing so. But a single ship must be a very different matter to a fleet and he had never encountered the approach on a grand scale before.

  And instinctively he could not ignore the feeling that, when dealing with such a large and diverse command, the practice might even be dangerous. In circumstances where ship's captains were not forever under observation, the good may become lazy and the incompetent, vain. There was no doubting it had worked for Nelson in the past however. One only need look at his two famous victories – Foley leading a column to take the anchored French on the landward side at Aboukir Bay and Nelson himself ignoring the permission of a superior admiral to discontinue the action at Copenhagen. There was also no mistaking the atmosphere in Victory’s dining cabin; the place was unusually alive and everyone seemed extremely positive.

  “T-thank you, my Lord,” Banks, stumbled awkwardly before adding, in a flash of inspiration. “I was well supported by my officers,” which drew a nod of appreciation from the admiral.

  “Perhaps Captain Hardy may be persuaded to update you on our current situation,” Nelson suggested although, as the tall, serious officer prepared to speak once more, Banks noted his gaze did not leave him, and he felt under intense observation.

  “The station has obvious disadvantages,” Hardy began. “There is no safe anchorage; Barcelona, as you are doubtless aware, remains closed to us by government order, even though the French are pleased to take their captures there, and Genoa is as much French as Italian. Tuscany grows more hostile by the day while, even if it currently claims neutrality, we fear Sardinia shall go the same way. The only base within striking distance is Naples, and trouble lies there which I am certain my Lord Nelson will acquaint you with, should it become necessary.”

  Banks' expression did not alter, although the news concerned him greatly. He knew the Mediterranean Fleet to be poorly supported, but had failed to appreciate the extent. Maintaining any force of warships on blockade required an almost constant supply of food, water and materials, to say nothing of communication with nearby bases. Nelson must be surviving on little more than goodwill, and this from countries that might change their allegiance at any moment. The majority of his ships were due for refit, and Otway, the naval commissioner, had already hinted there was a shortage of manpower, yet the nearest British port lay over six hundred miles away at Malta, with Gibraltar, the only viable link to London, a week or more off.

  “Meanwhile the coast hereabouts offers little in the way of protection,” Hardy was continuing, “while we remain under constant observation from the heights, which give enemy coasters and small craft opportunity to avoid our attentions.”

  “Their fleet occasionally carry out exercises in the outer harbour,” Nelson interrupted. “And have apparently made preparations to sail on more than one occasion – though sadly, all have come to nought.”

  Banks noticed Hardy nodding almost imperceivably while the admiral spoke, before taking up the thread once more.

  “Their force has officially been recorded as seven of-the-line, with three more in the inner harbour fitting out. In addition, further large ships of war are believed to be on the stocks in the shipyard – one was launched very recently, while intelligence suggests two more may follow, although our sources are not seamen and we cannot be certain.”

  There was a general acceptance of these statements from all at the table, several made small, additional remarks, and the atmosphere was oddly autonomous. Banks would not have been surprised if a more junior officer had added to the conversation, or even one of the stewards.

  “We are currently keeping watch with the ships you see here,” Hardy rumbled on. “Belleisle, Renown, Superb, Kent and Triumph. Canopus and Monmouth being on independent deployment that need not concern us at present. Sir Richard Bickerton has the remainder of our force further at sea and beyond sight of the French. It was hoped such tactics would tempt the enemy out to fight, although they seem uncommonly reluctant to do so.” Polite laughter rippled about the table. “But soon it will be fall, and then we intend to entice them further.”

  “Indeed,” Nelson again, and Banks wondered whether he could ever stay quiet for very long. “If such a paltry force is to be ignored, we must continue to reduce until a size they find irresistible is discovered.”

  Banks looked doubtfully at the two. A loose blockade was one thing, but Nelson seemed to be advocating abandoning the station entirely.

  “We intend to withdraw to Agincourt Sound within the next month,” Hardy explained. “It is a safe haven in the Maddalena Islands, off Sardinia. Captain Ryves charted it during the peace. The fleet may water there and, with luck, replenish other supplies, leaving a pair of frigates with watch over the French.”

  Still Banks kept his expression set, even though the words disconcerted him further. As blockading tactics went, Nelson's seemed to be verging on the careless. He was yet to study the chart himself, of course, and had no real idea of the distances involved, but Sardinia was surely not a convenient place to house a battle fleet.

  “First we have to leave them with something to think of,” Nelson continued, “and Mr Fife, Belleisle's premier, has come up with a splendid suggestion. Captain Hardy mentioned the brand new seventy-four recently launched. She has been named Fraternité, and currently sits in the outer harbour, awaiting a time when she may be coppered: it is his intention to disrupt their plans. We can give more detail in due course, but I hope that you, and your fine ship will be involved, Sir Richard.”

  “I shall be delighted, my Lord,” Banks replied, with total honesty.

  “If we are successful, it should leave them itching to come out and fight,” Hardy continued, in a level tone. “And if not, our subsequent withdrawal may lull them into believing our main force has given up and gone for good.” The senior captain's right eyebrow rose, giving a mildly ironic look to his usually serious face. “And either outcome may eventually be regarded as a victory.”

  Now that was a mode of thought Banks was totally unfamiliar with. To plan for success, while being able to bear a loss could be considered prudent, but anticipating a somewhat callous benefit from both fell well beyond anything he had previously encountered.

  “You must understand, Sir Richard,” Nelson's voice again, and Banks had the uncomfortable feeling the admiral had been reading his mind. “Above all else, we wish the French to sail, and would risk much to encourage them to do so. Nothing can be achieved until they are brought to battle, and any similar ideas you, or your officers, may have to that end would be very acceptable.”

  * * *

  “You were correct in consulting me, Flint,” the surgeon told him. “Indeed, I wish you had done so sooner. Six months, you say?”

  “About that, sir,” Flint agreed. “I noticed the first signs before we left Tor Bay and hoped a spell at sea would put matters to rights.”

  “Ah, fresh air and salt water,” Manning rolled his eyes. “The sailor's cure for a
ll ailments.”

  “Something like that, sir,” Flint was rising stiffly from the examination table.

  “Well, I fear they will not do on this occasion,” the surgeon continued more seriously as he washed his hands in a pewter bowl. This was not the usual daily surgery that he or Prior, the official surgeon's mate, held of a morning by the forecastle. They were in the dispensary: Flint had requested to speak more privately and now Manning understood the reason.

  “I believe you to have a tumour of the large intestine,” he continued. “It would explain many of the symptoms, though is less usual in one of your age.”

  “Will I need to be cut apart?” the seaman's tone was dispassionate, although he could not hide the concern upon his face.

  “I think not,” Manning replied. “Surgical procedures for such cases have become more common of late, though I would caution against them as the science is very much in its infancy. I shall of course read up on the subject, but suspect it may be better to leave well alone.”

  “So it might leave of its own accord?” Flint asked, his expression lifting.

  “Sadly not,” Manning stated firmly. “And you must dismiss all such thoughts. The condition is as serious as can be imagined: I would not give you false hope.”

  “Will it grow worse?”

  “I am afraid so.”

  “And how long might that take?”

  Manning could see beyond the man's apparent casualness and knew Flint's true state.

  “I could not say.” he replied in as gentle a manner as was possible. “Allow me to undertake my research, though I can arrange for you to leave the ship at the earliest opportunity, if that is your wish.”

  Such an offer might have appealed to the majority of lower deck hands and possibly a few junior officers, but Flint's eyes said otherwise.

  “No, sir. Not for now, if you would be so kind,” his tone was strangely formal. “And I would prefer it if the others remain unaware.”

  “I shall have to tell your divisional lieutenant,” Manning warned. “And he will certainly inform the captain.”

  “I understand that but, with respect, you don't rightly know yet. And I would rather it kept between ourselves until you do – until you are certain, like.”

  “Very well, it can be kept as our secret for now,” Manning agreed, even though he already knew enough to inform the entire crew.

  Flint thanked the surgeon and collected his jacket, before departing in a thoughtful silence, leaving Manning momentarily alone in the dispensary. He would, as promised, read up on the condition, but suspected there was little that could be done. Unless his books told him something surprising, Flint was almost certain to find himself in the next transport home. And when he reached England he could not expect much.

  Flint had not been wounded in action, in fact it was an ailment that lacked any kudos of injury in service, so there would be no benefit. The man may have given his working life to his country, yet the best he might hope for was a lonely death in some workhouse or charity hospital. And Manning privately suspected such an end was not so very far away.

  A knock at the door roused him from his melancholy and he looked up to see the beaming face of Lieutenant King as he entered. He smiled cautiously in return; if anything was to erase the memory of his previous patient it would be this particular visitor.

  “How goes it, Tom?” he asked. “Settling into the wardroom, so I hear; your wound is not giving trouble?”

  “None whatsoever,” King replied.

  “And you are finding it easy to dress yourself, and eating reasonably?”

  “Keats manages me adequately, and I am now considered old enough to feed myself, though I do miss your good lady's daily sermons. I was actually here to ask if I may take up regular duties once more.”

  “I see,” Manning answered cautiously, indicating the stool which had so recently supported him. For King to feel well enough for active service was good indeed, although the surgeon was still concerned. Ignoring the loss of an arm, there had been serious trauma to his chest and upper body that would remain tender for some while. And he knew King of old; should any of his injuries require subsequent attention, he would be the last to seek it: neither would he return to the sick berth, unless forced to do so.

  King had slipped off his tunic, and was unbuttoning his shirt with one hand. Manning's instinct was to help but he thought better of it, waiting instead until the lieutenant was finished before bringing the lanthorn closer and inspecting the heavily scarred chest.

  There was nothing of concern; the flesh had melded admirably. And that was despite the dreadful mauling handed out by a splinter of wood, or his own hands in closing the wound, then ridding it of suspected infection. That he had been wrong, and the warning scent of corruption actually stemmed from King's injured arm, still haunted him, although the subject had never been directly addressed by either man.

  He turned his attention to the arm next. Again, the stump was healthy, and healing well. It was simply a pity more care had not been paid to the injury before; if so, his friend might yet possess two functioning limbs.

  “That is all highly satisfactory,” he said at last, and King grinned again.

  “So I may return to duty?” he asked.

  “You may, though the wound should not be allowed to become damp, or exposed to any cold.”

  There was scant chance of avoiding either as they both knew. The popular conception of a sea officer's business was to fire, and be fired upon, but getting wet and experiencing extremes of weather also figured prominently on the list of requirements.

  “And there is no infection in the stump?” King confirmed.

  “None that I can find, and I would say that any should have made itself known by now.”

  “So no further operations?”

  “I think not,” the surgeon replied. “Such things should all be behind us.”

  “Then that is fine news, indeed, Bob,” King grinned, as he wriggled back into the shirt with commendable ease. “I shall tell the premier, and can become accustomed to standing a watch truly single handed.”

  “Tom,” Manning began hesitantly. “I did wish to speak with you about the wound.”

  His friend was looking at him with interest now but no real concern, and it would have been so easy to go no further. But something drew Manning on, be it friendship, guilt, or simply his own need for order in all matters.

  “I fear I may have let you down,” he said, examining his own fingers as if they were entirely novel. “The infection certainly began in the arm, yet I was sure it to be elsewhere, which is why I had to cauterise so.” He sensed King was about to speak, and carried on before he could. “Had I spent less time worrying over the chest, and more monitoring the arm you may not have had cause to lose it. I cannot say how sorry I am, Tom, and will understand fully if you take against me.”

  King was his oldest friend and they had been through much together, so Manning expected at least a modicum of comfort now there were no secrets between them. But confession brought no relief, while his last statement had probably signalled the end of any future affection. He glanced across to the lieutenant who was easing himself back into his tunic.

  “I ain't dead, Robert,” he said lightly, and Manning was momentarily taken aback. “I ain't dead, and I ain't likely to be, not unless something else comes along to take me. And that might so easily have been the case,” King continued. “I spoke with Judy, and that robber Prior. They both said what a mess I were in when brought down to the cockpit, and that it was nothing short of a miracle I made it through at all.”

  “The surgery was a miracle indeed,” Manning agreed and was about to say more but King was fixing him with an intense stare.

  “Well I for one do not believe in such things,” he replied seriously. “You saved me with your skill, and I will always be grateful. That I came to lose my arm later is unfortunate, but at worst it were an oversight, and I cannot blame any man for making such an error.
” And then the smile returned. “Not when he saved me to begin with.”

  * * *

  Poppy had claimed a headache and asked to be excused at the beginning of the first watch but, rather than folding down the bunk which took up most of the free space in her tiny cabin, she settled herself down on the brown leather portmanteau to wait. The Mannings were creatures of habit; both being abed by four bells at the latest and Poppy hoped her retiring early might encourage them to do the same.

  And so it proved; hardly more than an hour passed before she heard the last of their talking through the thin wooden wall and guessed them to have gone down. The door to her cabin opened directly onto the corridor but was inclined to make a noise so she decided to give them a little while longer to fall properly asleep. And while she waited, her thoughts naturally turned to what she intended to do.

  Poppy was in no way concerned; the very reverse in fact. There was nothing that would shortly take place that she had not experienced many times before. The day she bumped into Mrs Manning had been one of the luckiest in her life, although later securing the position of lady's maid ran it a close second. Since then she had travelled much and learned a good deal. And she was grateful, although Mrs Manning kept such a watch on her that no girl could feel anything other than safe – whether she wanted to or not. Poppy was yet to earn any real money however, and experience had taught her cash provided the greatest security of all. Which was why she had tried to go back to her old trade when aboard the post office packet and why she was doing so again now. Mrs Manning would not be pleased if she found out, but had forgiven her in the past, and would doubtless do so again. Besides, she had not been there to protect her on that particular afternoon with the boys.

  Four bells rang out and was followed by the customary shouts from sentries at each guard point. Poppy wriggled uncomfortably on her improvised seat. There were, in theory, another thirty minutes to wait, but she was already of a mind to leave. Actually her arrival time did not seem so very important; that night's customer was only Prior, the other surgeon's mate who berthed down the corridor a mere fifteen feet away from where she currently sat. The cove had hardly given her a moment's peace since she came on board, with a wandering hand that made fine play whenever Mrs Manning or her husband wasn't aware. Well he could have a proper feel that night, she had decided. And would pay handsomely for the privilege.