by Alaric Bond
“Very well,” Banks continued. “We all have preparations to make. Mr Reynolds, your men are in order?”
“Yes, sir.” The marine answered instantly.
“Mr Caulfield, there are no concerns with the ship?”
“None, sir. We are ready.”
“Good. Then, if there is nothing else?”
“You have not decided who should command the prize, sir,” the first lieutenant reminded him.
Banks was caught temporarily aback; Caulfield was right, the subject had completely slipped his mind, so intent had he been on confirming the capture would indeed be suitable.
Of course King was the obvious choice. It had been his plan that called for the use of a coaster in the first place and, now they had secured one, there was little to stop it being implemented. If successful, the chance of all Prometheus' marines returning safely was greatly increased, although he must balance that against the ten or so hands needed to man the captured brig. They should be prime seamen and the likelihood of all coming back was far smaller.
He glanced about the table; both acting lieutenants appeared as eager for the chance to captain the brig as he would have predicted. Despite the risk, such an active part in an attack on a French line-of battleship must look well at their forthcoming boards. Then Lewis was an option; he held a full commission as lieutenant although, to Banks' mind at least, remained a lower deck man at heart and may well lack the leadership qualities necessary on such a complex mission. Corbett also appeared keen, but had yet to prove himself in action, and Banks was loath to risk him in such an important role. And then there was King, only recently returned to duty, yet obviously as keen as any to put his plan to the test. This was not a decision to be taken lightly and, as Banks grimly realised, it may also be one he lived to regret.
* * *
Flint was the only one of his mess to have been present on the raid. Indeed, he had volunteered as boat's crew every time they laid in wait for a coaster, and was usually chosen by officers grateful to have such a skilled and willing recruit. And it had been a cracking night, one made more so by the disappointment of those preceding it. Flint had actually got to grips with the enemy: felt their flesh, breathed their breath – even spilled their blood, so he was well pleased.
Though it was also strange that he should relish action so: in the past, Flint had never been much of a firebrand. On many occasions fighting was the last thing on his mind, and there had been a time, best forgotten, when he all but turned chicken hearted. But a great many changes had come over Flint of late: one of the lesser being he now craved any form of danger. Yearned for it, in fact, and with the same sense of insatiable longing a miser felt for gold.
Flint had not worked aloft for many years but suddenly sky-larking, the practice of gambolling amidst the tophamper and usually the preserve of topmen along with other young fools, had become almost an obsession, while live firing exercises with the great guns, or small arms drill, were eagerly anticipated and carried out with bestial enthusiasm. But, again like the miser, however much of his own particular wealth he might accumulate, it was never quite enough and he seldom felt totally sated. There was always a bit more needed, a further opportunity to lose himself in the moment's exhilaration; to risk what life remained on personal skill in grabbing a shroud, balancing atop a spar, or firing off an agreeably hot cannon. And the fact that he was undeniably ill, that the surgeon intended sending him back to England to await a death that would be neither dramatic nor glorious, had nothing to do with the matter whatsoever.
“Been in a ruck, then, 'as you?” Cranston asked, when he joined the rest of his mess about the well known table, and felt the warmth of their unspoken welcome. “Least now we taken one Frenchie the cap'n might be satisfied, and there'll be no more small boat work for a week or two.”
Jameson passed across a filled tankard with a chunk of cheese which would have been left over from supper. And that was another thing Flint would miss: he had been head of a mess for as long as he could remember. It was an honorary position; one appointed by his fellows and retained only for as long as it remained merited. It was also the only form of promotion he had ever sought. But soon Flint must say goodbye to that as well; he would be ashore: just another disabled shellback, one with no responsibilities, no charges, and no mates.
“From what I hears, satisfaction is the last thing we should be expectin' of the cap'n,” Greg, who was a gun room steward, informed them. “Word is they're gonna use that Frenchie tub for more devilment. Young King is back in harness, and he has plans – or so the tattle-tale goes.”
Flint had appreciated Jameson's gesture with the cheese, but collected a dry biscuit from the bread barge instead. Food had not seemed so attractive for some while. It was a situation that would doubtless pass but, for now, hard tack was about the only thing he could stomach. News of King sparked his interest, however. He knew the officer of old, as well as his plans, having been involved in many. They usually contained both excitement and danger, elements Flint had been prepared to enjoy in small measures as part of the lot of any lower deck hand. But now such things represented a good deal more. Another bout of exhilaration; another burst of energy: another chance to forget.
And, if he were totally honest, another chance to die an honourable death – on a deck – in battle. Belonging to a ship, rather than wither away in dismal isolation ashore.
“Ask me, that young fellow 'as too many ideas,” Bleeden was grumbling. “Ain't properly set from losing 'is arm and darn near 'is life, now 'es a planning to give the Frogs another seeing to.”
“Aye,” Jameson agreed. “He should 'ave taken his smart money and be done with it.”
“Officers don't get no smart money,” Greg informed them loftily. “There's a pension instead. It's only the likes of us what has to beg for charity.”
“And if you loses a leg for the king, they makes you prove it every year,” Bleeden agreed. “Just in case somethin' grows back.”
“So what's the plan?” Flint asked, his mouth still half filled with biscuit.
“Sounds like a land action,” Greg grunted. “Though if Toulon's the target, it's one I'd rather steer clear of. The Frogs seem to be adding batteries by the day – you'd think our takin' it at the start of the last war has made 'em jumpy or somethin'.”
“If that's the case, I'll give it a wide berth an' all,” Bleeden agreed. “There's more than enough excitement on this particular trick, and it's only just begun.”
Flint looked about the faces of his mates, and sensed similar feelings on each. Then he placed the remains of his biscuit down, uneaten.
“Well you can count me in,” he told them with a grin.
* * *
Mr Midshipman Brown made his way from the illustrious surroundings of the captain's quarters, and headed for the aft companionway. It had been his first time in action and, although little had been called for from him other than to assist Hunt, he felt unusually elated. Down the steps he went, and past the entrance to the wardroom. There was a crowd collected at the bottom of the staircase and he pushed through it, briefly acknowledging the fatherly congratulations from a couple of the older hands. Word had got round about the night's success: only a coaster had been taken, but Prometheus was a happy ship, and all were eager to share in the minor victory.
It was less busy when he reached the orlop. Hero or not, Brown was due to stand watch in less than two hours, and hoped to get a brief caulk in before then. But his friends Carley and Cross were just leaving the berth, and caught him as he was about to enter.
“Hail, the conquering hero comes!” Cross greeted, with just the right amount of affable contempt. “Seized a blazing powder hulk single handed, or so I hears.”
“And didn't manage to blow himself sky high into the bargain,” Carley added. “That must be cause for celebration in itself!”
“It were a brig, and armed – eight six pounders!” Brown told him defiantly. “But we took it nonetheless. And in forc
e!”
“So let's see the blood on your dirk, then!” Carley scoffed, although it was clear both were impressed.
“And did you fight?” Cross asked more seriously, but Brown shook his head.
“I was prepared to,” he said, as Briars, the youngest of the midshipmen, emerged from the berth to join them. “But there were so many prime Jacks about, it didn't seem worth the effort.”
The other three understood. However proud they might be of their rank, each were little more than lads, and hand-to-hand combat was undoubtedly a man's game.
“I steered the capture away, though,” he added. “And kept the wheel 'till it were taken over by the prize crew.”
“And Adams has her now,” Cross reflected. “I suppose that is fitting, he is older than any of us, and likely to rate an acting commission afore long. But it might as easily have been you,” he said looking to his friend once more.
Then a change seemed to come over Brown's friends; all three suddenly altered their focus, and began staring over his shoulder with mixed expressions of surprise and what might have been fear.
Brown turned, expecting to see a senior officer with evil in mind, but his eyes settled instead on the slight young girl with auburn hair who had appeared from her cabin next to the surgeon's dispensary.
It was Poppy and, by the light from a nearby lantern, they could see an entirely neutral expression on her face. She began to walk purposefully in their direction and was surely looking straight at them. The boys were momentarily hypnotised by her gaze and watched in horror as she grew closer, while the delicate mouth they had all so rudely kissed started to open. But they didn't stop to hear what she might say; without a word to the others, each made straight for the narrow door of their berth, even to the extent of fighting to find safety and anonymity inside.
And so they were unaware that Poppy harboured no intention of speaking with any them, but had a far more important destination in mind.
Chapter Seven
“I still consider it harsh that the captain did not give you command of the prize,” Hunt told King with transparent honesty.
He gave a stoic shrug in reply; King actually felt it was rather worse than harsh: this particular section of the scheme was his idea and he had so wanted to lead it. “I've been given my chances in the past,” he added, more philosophically. “And Sir Richard assures me there will be more to come.”
The last part was true enough, although he held little faith in the captain's words. His wounds were still tender but, even when fully healed, the loss of an arm would remain of no advantage on an active mission. King had served with Banks for many years, and knew the cove well. He may as well resign himself to the fact he was to be ruled out of anything other than the more mundane duties of a lieutenant in future.
And Hunt was right, he had been the obvious choice: but from now on King was an ideas man only; never again to be sent out with a landing party, given command of a prize, or called to lead a team of boarders. He considered it fortunate indeed to be allowed this small part in the proceedings, but held little hope of any greater responsibility coming his way, and certainly not while he remained under Sir Richard Banks' command.
“I have no doubt you shall cope famously,” King continued, careful to hide any trace of resentment. “And a further successful action will speak well for your board.”
Now that was certainly true, and a pleasure to say. Hunt must be five years younger than King – probably more, and had only been part of the wardroom a short time. But he had taken to the fellow instantly and sensed him to have all the attributes of a first rate lieutenant. King was prepared to do much if it aided his promotion, but the fact remained he would have liked to have led the attack himself, if only to prove he really was healed of his wounds. And that a one armed officer could still be effective.
“Besides, I shall be seeing you to the brig,” King added. “So will not be a total parson's mate.”
Prometheus was barely in sight of land, while their coaster seized the previous evening lay considerably further out and well beyond the watchful eyes of those on Mount Faron, the momentous peak that overlooked all of Toulon. Banks had relented enough to allow King to deliver the small number of volunteers Hunt would be leading in the attack. Then he was to collect the current prize crew and return them to the ship. Later, and if all went to plan, Hunt's men would be picked up along with Prometheus' marines that were to be used. And King was confident the captain would include him in the debriefing, although that hardly compensated for being excluded from the actual action.
“Blue cutter's a ready, Mr King,” Ashley, the coxswain, reported, and both officers began to make for the small boat that was currently filling with men. Flint was once more amongst the crew, King noted, and in his usual place, pulling stroke. The man had become a permanent fixture in the blue cutter, although that was no bad thing: King, for one, felt reassured by the powerful seaman's presence.
But, now that he thought about it, Flint always seemed to be volunteering for duty of late. And it was doubly strange, as Robert Manning had hinted something about his health giving concern.
Further thoughts were banished from King's mind, however: Hunt's men were embarked and it was time to go. Dusk was drawing in, darkness itself would follow in half an hour, and it seemed unlikely that anyone on shore would spot one small boat as it headed out towards the open sea. And there was Cross, the young midshipman, who was to go in with the brig. King considered him and the part he would play with mild jealousy. Cross was hardly more than a boy and King could not help but wonder if he were strong enough for such a mission. Perhaps a full set of limbs made a difference?
“I wish you luck, Mr Hunt.” Both men turned to see Banks standing behind them, his hand outstretched. “And expect to see you shortly, Mr King,” he added more firmly. Then they were clambering down Prometheus' steep tumblehome, and King was taking hold of the tiller as their boat was released from the reassuring bulk of the battleship. There was the hint of cloud to the south, which would doubtless be brought in by the strong, onshore wind. It looked like being perfect conditions for the attack, but the fact gave King no pleasure whatsoever. Actually he felt totally, and quite unreasonably, out of humour.
* * *
They resisted stepping the masts for a good while but, when darkness finally fell and enveloped Prometheus, along with the far distant shore, in its anonymous embrace, there seemed no reason not to. King relaxed in the sternsheets of the boat, allowing the strong and constant wind to carry them, close-hauled, over the leaden waters. Now they were underway his mood was improving. It was good to be off the ship and he actually felt wonderfully free. His task might only be to see Hunt and his force safely to the brig, but it was one he had been given total charge of, and the return to command, albeit minor and decidedly temporary, was welcome. King supposed such supporting roles would become acceptable in time, and valiantly ignored the foolish notion he would always crave the thrill that leading men into battle brought.
They sighted the brig after an hour; Adams had been told to await their arrival, and was showing the smallest of lanterns at her main, although the midshipman would have no idea if the plan was accepted, or what his part in it would be. King gratefully steered for the light, all too conscious that missing the rendezvous would have meant the whole episode ending in ludicrous failure: something that may even have cured him of any future desire for responsibility.
The cutter drew alongside and her crew clambered up and into the coaster.
“What news is there?” Adams asked earnestly as Hunt and then, more awkwardly, King, followed.
“Belay that,” King said gruffly. Flint, had been about to help him over the top rail and really should have known better. “I can manage well enough,” he continued, shaking the man's grip from his shoulder. “And were you not to stay in the cutter?” he added, glaring at the seaman.
“I thought I'd come along as well, sir,” Flint told him cheerfully. “Volunt
eers were called for, after all, an' there are plenty from the prize crew who can see the cutter home.”
“Volunteers were also selected,” King replied crisply. “You cannot just appoint yourself to a mission such as this.”
“Will someone tell me what is planned?” Adams asked plaintively, and Hunt took pity on him.
“We're cleared for Toulon,” he said. “And it is as we thought, the brig is to go in and lay alongside the Frenchman.”
“I had hoped to see her to Gib.,” the midshipman replied, brightly. “But a shore attack sounds the more entertaining.”
“You will not be required,” King snapped. Now that everything was about to start, his previous ill temper was returning and he found himself growing increasingly fractious. In five minutes Hunt and the rest would be heading into action, whereas a trip back to Prometheus was the best he could look forward to. And all the time there was an idea forming in his mind. It had been instilled by something so recently said and too incredible to deserve further consideration, although the frustration it evoked was more than enough to make him grumpy.
“Mr King's plan calls for volunteers,” Hunt informed Adams. “You had taken command of the brig and were gone before anyone could enquire. And as you know, no man is ever assumed to have offered their services, especially for duty in a fire-ship.”
The rules of war stated that those captured while serving aboard such vessels would not be granted rights of a normal prisoner. In effect they could be treated as spies – and hanged or otherwise executed at their captor's discretion. And with the callousness the French regime had displayed of late, such an outcome was strong.
“But to burn so fine a brig as this...” the youngster responded in disgust and it was clear the idea of his first command being destroyed appalled him.
“Never fear, there will be others,” King said with a complete absence of sympathy. “Now assemble your men; they may take passage back to Prometheus. We shall continue from here.”
