by Alaric Bond
Belleisle was under a mile out to sea and now passing them; should the battery fire on her, the shots must pass overhead, and may even damage the brig's tophamper. A third rate was substantial enough to take at least one close range barrage from shore based guns, and obviously Hargood, her captain, was prepared to do so, or he would not have risked his ship in such a manner. But were the prize chosen instead, there would be little warning. The coast was less than three hundred yards off their larboard beam; such a distance could be covered by cannon fire in less than a second and, with her cargo containing gunpowder, it would not take much longer to account for the brig and everyone aboard.
Yet Hunt was right; all they could do was wait and wonder.
Chapter Eight
“Hargood is playing a close hand,” Banks grumbled from the quarterdeck of Prometheus. They had put out to sea, tacked, and now were heading back for their designated station, well to the west of the causeway where the main landing party was to be despatched. The ship seemed unnaturally crowded, although most of the officers who thronged the bulwarks, their eyes straining out into the night to catch what action they could, had every right to be there. And even below in the waist, the marines, splendid in red and white with their pipe-clayed leather almost glowing in the dark, were waiting to board the boats. A mile to the east, Belleisle was easy to see by the light of cannon fire directed against her. She was far closer in than Banks had risked and Caulfield, who stood next to his captain, nodded in the darkness.
“He were ever the impulsive type,” he murmured. “Though that last barrage must be dampening his ire somewhat.”
“What of the coaster?” Banks bellowed, although it was the masthead that he addressed.
“She's just weathering the cape, sir.”
They had done well to come so far in the time; King and Hunt must be getting quite a bit of speed out of the capture, something that would not surprise the enemy, considering she had apparently been under fire from two British liners. But with Belleisle now beyond range and his own ship considerably out of the running, she was no longer being chased and was likely to receive rather more attention from the shore.
“Belleisle's turning a point or two to larboard,” Caulfield said, looking forward again at the far off third rate. Indeed, the heavy fire seemed to have finally worn her captain down, and the ship was standing off.
“But where is Victory?” Banks asked. Both men instinctively looked out where the flagship was due to appear. Once the three decker came into sight, Prometheus and Belleisle would be at liberty to close and properly engage the gun emplacements; first with their own cannon and then later, when the boats reached the shore, in hand to hand combat. But until then they could only wait, and even Belleisle was taking the sensible path, and claiming sea room.
“Masthead, any sight of the flag?” Caulfield bellowed.
“Nothing to be seen to the south,” the lookout replied. “Though it is precious dark, and there is mist coming in with the wind.”
That was logical enough. They had expected the breeze to back, indeed, it had been as essential to the plan as any state of the weather could be. But still it came stubbornly from astern, and the addition of cloud, surely an indication that a Mediterranean storm was brewing, would give cover just where it were not needed.
“We could embark the marines,” Caulfield suggested. “They might run in under sail easy enough, leaving us more able to take on the batteries...”
That was certainly an option, and Banks felt obliged to consider it. Releasing their shore party early would also mean Prometheus could manoeuvre when attacking the batteries; that or withdraw if need be. But the possibility was soon discounted; it went directly against plans so carefully drawn up and, without support from the ship, their marines would find storming the gun emplacements that much harder. No, he would have to wait. Wait for Victory to appear, and the chance to take his ship into action. And waiting, as always, was the hardest part.
* * *
The brig had escaped fire from the shore batteries and rounded the promontory without hindrance of any kind so King was feeling a little more easy. In his plan he had emphasised the fact that a mildly unorthodox approach by an apparently friendly, and harassed, coaster might be ignored, especially if there were sufficient distraction elsewhere. That was exactly what the British liners were providing, so why was he concerned? But again it was one thing to make cosy assumptions when safe in the security of a man-of-war, quite another to stand on the heeling deck of a captured brig as it edged closer to an enemy harbour.
There was less than two miles to cover before they reached their eventual target; at their current speed this would barely take fifteen minutes. If the brig had been a conventional fire-ship, it would not be long before they would have to light the fuses, so she was properly ablaze when coming alongside. However, such an action would be obvious, and bound to confirm doubt in the minds of the enemy. For the moment they were being left in peace and he hoped might remain so; besides, the coaster could in no way be considered a conventional fire-ship.
Their change of course had brought the wind more onto the quarter; the brig was fairly skimming through the water, and so close to the land that a group of figures carrying lanterns were seen quite clearly as they sped past.
“Chart shows another battery hereabouts,” Hunt murmured, as they peered into the dark. “Though no one has reported anything in the past, and I'm blowed if I can see it now.”
King said nothing. As was so often the case, worries were returning to haunt him. Try as he might he could not ignore the feeling that, if there was a further fortress nearby, they would discover it soon enough, and the revelation would not be pleasant. There may be some on shore who still thought the brig to be a friendly vessel; one that had been due the night before and was now making a late arrival. But three direct signals had been ignored, and the French gunners would surely be within their rights to open fire at any time.
“Starboard the helm,” he ordered to the unseen helmsman. “Bring her as close as she will go.” The brig turned, as if obedient to his instructions, while those at the sheets trimmed her sails. King looked across to Hunt.
“I figured we should maintain our speed,” he said, almost apologetically.
“Indeed so,” Hunt agreed readily. “The quicker and nearer we pass, the easier it will be for the Frogs to miss us.”
But there was another matter to consider as well; travelling so fast meant that, were they to touch bottom, the brig would be firmly aground, and possibly dismasted into the bargain. Their captured charts showed a reasonable depth; despite being near to the shore: there should be a good fifteen feet of water beneath the keel. But charts were known to be wrong and, even if not, there remained the chance of a rock that had been missed, or some debris subsequently abandoned.
“Stand by to alter course!” King bellowed. No further emplacements had been spotted and they were now coming to the northern most point of the Sepet peninsula. Soon the brig must enter the massive bay that was the entrance to Toulon's equally huge harbour. He had every intention of staying close to land, so they must shortly turn to larboard. Then the wind, that had proved so disobligingly obstinate, would start to be taken more on their beam, slowing the brig, and placing them in far greater danger. There were no batteries marked for half a mile, but the two which stood on the headland that his chart had as the Pointe de la Piastre would have plenty of notice of their arrival, and that was when their current run of fortune was likely to end.
“Starboard your helm, take us three points to larboard!”
They turned almost as soon as the nearby shore fell away and, although there was an appreciable decrease in speed, the brig still seemed to be travelling excessively fast. And this was land that lay unobserved from the sea; a large and well lit building stood out further up, and there was a collection of fishing boats anchored in the lee of a small mole. But nothing that would apparently endanger them, and both officers breathed out o
nce more.
“And a further point,” King added as they neatly rounded the next headland and the wind, now partially blocked, fell away to less than half its previous force. There was a darkened bay to larboard that would have made an ideal shelter for gunboats, but none came into view. The only danger visible was the outpost of rock that must mark where the next gun emplacements were to be found. Once passed, they should finally meet with their objective and, if the liners had done their duty, a welcoming force of marines. But first they must clear those batteries, then alter course once more, and bring the brig into the bay.
They would have to claw their way in – it was even possible their target, the Fraternité, would lie in the wind's eye, in which case there would be nothing to do but abandon the coaster, and make for the landing party. And before that, they might touch bottom, or take a shot or two from the land – little more would be needed to disable a vessel as frail as theirs.
“Wind's dropping,” Hunt said softly, although all aboard knew well the predicament they were in.
Again King made no reply. Yes, it might all be in vain, but he was not going to be deterred; there was still a chance of making it round the oncoming headland, and while any possibility of success existed, he was determined to see matters through to the very end.
* * *
Meanwhile, to the south of the causeway, things were also progressing. Victory had not disappointed: the flagship came up at exactly the prescribed time and now, with Belleisle on her starboard beam and Prometheus to larboard, the three were approaching the coast in line abreast. Behind them, and hopefully invisible to the shore, the nine small boats that carried a powerful British landing party were keeping pace, and would be ready to burst out between them, before staking their claim on the nearby beaches. But first the batteries had to be engaged, and that would take both gall and cunning. The enemy must be fooled into making the liners their target, and so give the launches and cutters a chance. That would mean exposing wooden ships to a heavy bombardment from land based artillery and, as Banks was all too aware, the opening shots could be expected at any moment.
“There's the first signal!” Midshipman Bentley, one of the signals party, shouted as a red light was momentarily allowed to illuminate Victory's poop.
“We are to turn upon the second, sir,” Brehaut reminded Banks.
“Ready starboard battery!” Caulfield cautioned more loudly, and received a wave from Corbett on the upper gun deck in reply.
“It is the pity King is not present,” the first lieutenant grumbled. “With two senior officers absent, we are stretched; why Lewis has command of the lower battery, and is unsupported.”
“There are three midshipmen and a gunner's mate,” Banks replied soothingly. “And is it not a station that has been commanded by an able seaman in the past?” he added with a smile.
They were less than a mile offshore, and had been expecting to give, and take, fire some while back. The silence was almost as disconcerting as gunfire, then four jets of flame erupted from the stone walls of the westward battery, lighting up the shoreline, and revealing the beach that was their marines' ultimate objective. Further shots were seen from the eastward emplacement, but the three ships sailed steadily on, and no further signal came from the flagship.
“The admiral is biding his time,” Caulfield's words were punctuated by an iron clang as their larboard bower was struck, and two servers dropped to the deck when a studding sail boom, knocked free from the forecourse yard, fell amongst them. But there was no important damage to the ship, and she continued like a boxer simply disregarding minor punches.
“It has always been his nature,” Banks replied stoically. “Though I would wish us to turn, and present our full broadside.”
“Blue lights aloft from flag, sir!” Bentley's voice again and both officers were in time to see Victory's spars bathed in an ethereal glow.
“Then the boats will be going in,” Caulfield commented to no one in particular.
“Be ready, Mr Brehaut,” Banks warned, but the sailing master was watching the flagship with as much attention as any of the signals department. There was a wait of maybe two minutes, then a red light showed for a moment and, as the first drops of rain began to fall, the three ships finally turned.
There was silence from the shore; all their guns had been discharged and the French were obviously not practised in rapid serving. Until they fired again, the British gunners would remain uncertain of their mark while, with the bad weather coming up from the south, they themselves would soon be covered and unable to create the distraction needed. But the cloud would not shield the boats; there was still starlight enough to the north to reveal the tiny flotilla that was purposefully making for the enemy's coast.
All aboard Prometheus wondered if the landing party had been spotted. The French were undoubtedly slow in response, and such a delay may easily be caused by gunners altering their pieces to train on the fragile craft. But there was nothing to be gained in speculation: they would simply have to wait for the enemy to fire, then see which target had been chosen.
The night was eventually split by the second offering from the batteries, and it came almost as a relief to note the three British warships remained their objective. Those commanding the land based artillery had allowed too much for the decreasing range, and the waters beside erupted in a series of dramatic, but impotent, splashes. The battleships' gun captains had been given their mark though and, barely seconds later, and with the combined power of three full decks, Victory opened up on the westward battery. It was still moderately long range, but over fifty guns must make some impact and, when Prometheus' broadside added to the number, followed by Belleisle with the first shots to the eastern emplacements, Banks guessed where further retaliation, if it were indeed possible, would be directed.
And so it proved; the range gradually decreased further and soon ship and shore were exchanging deadly salvoes that lit up the dark night. The French guns, firmly based and set amid stone embrasures, were fewer but better protected, while their target was undoubtedly the easier to sight. But the British made up for any deficiencies by sheer number of cannon and, in the glare of almost constant gunfire, it was hoped the boats were approaching the beach unnoticed and unharmed.
“Well that should give Reynolds and his men a fair start,” Banks shouted to Caulfield after the din of yet another broadside. “With luck the same can be said for the brig.”
* * *
Actually it was far bleaker on the northern side of the causeway. All could hear the fire from the British battleships who were waging what appeared to be a separate war to the south, but none paid it any attention; they had other, more immediate, problems to consider. The wind had dropped still further, and rain was starting to fall.
“I should have liked to take her farther off shore,” King shouted to Hunt “Though the chart is singularly vague about depth in this area and I cannot anticipate the currents. With the wind as it is, it will be hard enough to beat south, and I would prefer not to make matters easier for the land based guns.”
Hunt nodded in complete understanding. They only had a rough idea where the Fraternité was moored; she might be relatively deep into the bay, which would make their own escape more simple. The wind was still to shift, though, and may yet save her. Nevertheless, there was good news as well: the batteries they had been dreading did not seem to be quite so threatening. Cloud was rapidly thickening, although those aboard the brig had already seen enough to give reassurance. Both emplacements were set high; perfect for sweeping across the strait that divided outer and inner harbours, but a small craft like theirs should be able to creep beneath without encountering heavy gunfire at all.
They were still depending upon the fickle wind though; even if it did not back, it must certainly continue, and that was by no means certain. In fact there was little they could rely on and, as if to emphasise the point, the rain then changed from the occasional spots, to an absolute deluge.
&nb
sp; * * *
“Damned weather,” Caulfield cursed softly. “Can't make out the hand in front of my face!”
Banks sympathised, although he was not sorry. When last seen, the landing party had almost been at the shore. It was a sandy beach, with no apparent installations, and such a force would be able to overpower all but major resistance. And once they were safely ashore, the rain was there to shield them, as it had the British ships. All three liners continued to exchange fire with the land batteries, but in the main their shots went unsighted, and simply served to distract the enemy gunners. The French were no more accurate and, if the marines were in anything like the order expected of them, would soon cease completely.
At that moment a rocket was seen to the east. It was not spectacular, and could hardly have climbed a hundred feet into the heavy night sky, but its message remained clear. The first of their troops were going in and Belleisle, who was engaging the eastern battery, immediately held her fire. A similar, but stronger flare then shot up from the west: Caulfield blew on his silver whistle and all Prometheus' guns fell silent.
The peace felt strange and vaguely disconcerting after such a din. Three more cannon erupted from the west, and the eastern battery, that had never resorted to individual fire, let off one last barrage, before thundering rain, interspersed by the distant snap of small arms, became the only sound heard.
“Well, we have done all we can,” Caulfield sighed. “Now it depends on the Royals.”
* * *
The coaster made it past the second battery as easily as King predicted and, as they turned to larboard, the inner bay finally opened up to them. To the south, on the all important causeway, an unseen battle was being fought and, by the flickering glow of musket shot, cannon fire, and a strange blue light that must come from strategically tossed flares, much of the bay could be made out. But even if it were not for that, and despite the rain which now fell in a continuous sheet, their objective would still have been plain. To the west, and surrounded by small craft apparently so placed to emphasise her bulk, the outline of a warship's hull was obvious, and the brig made for it without delay.
