HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  “That's our prize,” Flint told his friend. His eyes were unusually alive and he appeared far happier than Jameson had known him for some while.

  “And no opposition, or so it seems,” the younger man agreed.

  The wind was now almost non existent; but still they moved. They must be travelling on some form of current; not strong enough to be a tide, yet seemingly predictable, although that was not the only factor in their favour.

  As the two men peered forward into the night, it soon became obvious the rain was dying almost as quickly as it had been born; going from a torrent, to something that actually allowed them to breathe, in hardly more than a minute. Then it dwindled further to individual drops, and it was at that point the wind took charge once more.

  No words were necessary; Flint grinned at Jameson as a faint burble came from the brig's stem. They were properly underway again and, with less than half a cable to cover, would soon be alongside the Frenchman. There came a chorus of shouting from astern, with both King and Hunt apparently vying to give the most orders in the shortest time, but the seamen were not particularly bothered. Jameson had the cheerful air of most of his type, and could foresee nothing but success. They would board the Frenchman, set their charges, then meet up with the land forces; within half an hour every man should be safe in the boats and being rowed back to the barky. And Flint's thoughts were every bit as optimistic: not so detailed, perhaps, but he too could see a glorious end to the night's activities.

  * * *

  “Port your helm,” King roared, “Lay her over!”

  “Braces, there – the wind's rising!” Hunt added.

  “Mr Cross!” In the half light, King saw the midshipman spin round at the call of his name. “Prepare the fuses, if you please!” The lad touched his hat, and made aft, while there was a creaking from the yards and the flap of canvas.

  “Boat-keepers, ready the gig!” Hunt again; they were underway once more, but must leave the brig within minutes, and time was becoming increasingly important.

  A pair of seamen pushed past to attend to the small boat that swung from davits to the stern, while King studied the bleak sides of the hull they meant to destroy. There were no lights showing as was to be expected; the ship being freshly launched and probably little more than a shell. But neither were there any signs of sentries, not even cursory precautions having been taken to guard what would one day be a powerful liner.

  “Appears we have the ship to ourselves,” Hunt commented dryly.

  “Indeed so,” King agreed. “Within a defended dockyard, I would chance they may have grown complacent.”

  Certainly the British had been allowed to approach unchallenged, but then the intense battle that was still in full flow to the southern side of the causeway could have some influence on the matter.

  Cross was examining the twin lengths of fuses that lay amidships. Previously Hurle, the gunner, had sewn a short length of slow match to each. They only need light the ends to allow fifteen minutes before the joint was reached. Then a deadly flame would flash down into the depths of the hold where it was safely secured within an opened cask of powder. Having two fuses halved the chance of a fault in the quick match, although King was hardly relying on such a crude means of ignition. The brig was tinder dry, and could be expected to take fire as fast as any vessel of her age. Simply being beside the Frenchman's freshly payed and painted timbers should do the business; the flames would spread, and probably find the powder of their own accord long before either fuse did their work.

  “Braces there!” Hunt again. “And prepare to clap on!” They were now in the lee of the moored hull and, with momentum enough to carry the brig to her final resting place, it was important they were secured tightly to one another.

  There was a groaning and splintering of wood as the two ground together, then a flurry of activity fore and aft. Each of the British seamen knew their task well enough; lines were secured to any convenient point, while the banging of hammers told where fresh purchases were being made, and soon both vessels had effectively become one.

  “Very well, we must go,” King cried. The journey until then had not been without incident, yet this final action which had actually caused him the most concern, seemed to have been achieved with worrying ease.

  “Go to the boat, Thomas,” Hunt said. “You will take longer: I can light the fuses with Cross.”

  King went to object, although the sense in what had been said was indisputable. He turned away, just as three dark lanterns were opened and the oily rags that lay bundled by the bulwarks, released. Sanders, who was one of the boat keepers, stood by the brig's tiny entry port. King made for him, and would actually have been the first into the gig but, as he twisted awkwardly to clamber down the short freeboard, he saw something that made him freeze.

  “Guard boat approaching,” he called, turning back to those on deck. “Coming up to starboard and preparing to board!”

  Chapter Nine

  Those aboard the brig immediately abandoned the task in hand, and turned to meet the first of the enemy. So engrossed had they been in setting fire to the prize, only a few were armed: it took valuable seconds for the rest to grab at their cutlasses, and the French were allowed to establish themselves just aft of the forecastle. But the British were not slow in countering and soon there was the oddly agricultural sound of blade upon blade, punctuated by an occasional curse or scream, while all was lit by the bright and ever growing light of the coaster's blazing larboard bulwark.

  King regained the deck and tore his hanger from its scabbard, striking mightily at the nearest Frenchman. But his aim was poor, and the effort, coupled with the lack of his left arm, made him overbalance. He stumbled clumsily and fell sideways, aware that his opponent’s sword could be expected to hack down upon him at any moment. He was actually bracing himself for the cut when, instead, the clatter of a parry was heard from above. King rolled over and looked up to see Hunt silhouetted against the growing flames as he took on the Frenchman, and was clambering to his feet by the time the intruder had been knocked back over the bulwark.

  Jameson and Flint were also in action: the former had been wearing his cutlass, and was one of the few able to lay into the boarders as they came over the starboard side. His first opponent went down relatively easily, but the second, who appeared to be an officer, was more practised in sword play. The young seaman found himself fending off a succession of wicked blows as he backed steadily towards the wall of flame that was growing up on the brig's larboard side. Fortunately Flint noticed his predicament, and cut in, almost literally, with his own blade. Then the two of them set upon the Frenchman in a decidedly unjust manner until he was eventually forced to the deck.

  Jameson flashed a smile at his friend, but there was no time for more; the enemy still had possession of a sizeable part of the brig's deck, while the flames were spreading and now raced up the battleship's hull.

  After accounting for his first victim, Hunt had moved on and found himself between Harding and Beeney, two seamen who seemed particularly adept at rough-house fighting. Together they carved a deep inroad into the tight knot of Frenchmen, two of whom were actually in the act of returning to their boat when they were taken down from behind. And soon it was all but over; the boarders had either fallen, or run, leaving the decreasing area of deck not aflame in the hands of the British.

  “Cold shot!” Hunt yelled, as he and his two accomplices grabbed at the ready use iron balls that lay in garlands next to the brig's guns, and began flinging them through the bottom of the guard boat. “Now back to the gig,” he said, glancing briefly down at the turmoil of struggling bodies beneath. “And claim it before the Frogs do!”

  Further aft, King was shouting for the midshipman. That brief exposure to hand-to-hand combat had convinced him his fighting days were done. He had withdrawn, and was now clutching at the two lengths of slow match that snaked down to the powder below. Both were unlit, and there was no sign of the boy who was supposed to have
charge of them. Hunt was hurrying the rest of the British to the starboard entry port. Two were wounded, and needed to be helped to the waiting boat below, while there were at least three bodies they would be forced to leave behind. King paused for a moment as he realised one belonged to the midshipman, Cross, then dismissed further thought. This was hardly the time for sentiment; he must leave also, but first there remained one important task to attend.

  “The lantern, Flint, hurry!” he called to the last of the retreating British. The seaman turned, and seemed surprised to see King crouched on the deck over lengths of slow match. “Give me that light!” King dropped the fuses and pointed at the closed dark lantern that Cross had been carrying. Flint picked it up and was in the process of bringing it over when King snatched it from his grip. He tried to hold it, while forcing the warm metal door open with one hand but the catch needed two.

  “Go to the boat,” he shouted, fumbling with the thing. “And watch for more French.”

  The fire was now painfully hot: its light would be noticed from the shore, no matter how great a distraction the marines might be making.

  “Come on, Flint!” King looked up to see Jameson, the young topman, had returned and was attempting to drag the seaman away.

  But Flint did not appear to hear, and shrugged the grip from his arm quite roughly.

  “The flames have her,” Jameson pleaded, while King struggled gracelessly to his feet and assessed the situation once more.

  “He's right, we may as well leave her,” King agreed as he and Jameson made for the entry port. “Come, or the boat will go without us; the fire shall light the powder!”

  “It will blow at any moment, man – leave it!” Jameson yelled, but still Flint did not go.

  Instead he calmly collected the lantern from where King had left it and flipped open the metal door. King and Jameson watched for no more than a second, before clambering through the small gap. Flames had reached the centre of the brig's deck, most of her forecastle was ablaze and the heat, along with an apparent lack of air, was making it hard to breathe. It was extremely doubtful if the fuses would even be needed; should the seven tons of gunpowder in her hold fail to explode, fire from the brig must now destroy the enemy hull. But whatever happened, the intense heat was making it impossible for King and Jameson to remain, and they reluctantly lowered themselves over the side.

  However, closer to the blaze, and directly above the hold, Flint was not to be rushed. He hardly acknowledged the final pleas to go, but rather concentrated solely on the job in hand, as was his custom. Each length of slow match was carefully bent in half, before being fed into the lantern's own comparatively meek little fire, and only when he was certain both were burning brightly, did he stand up and begin to amble across to the entry port. He looked back at the flames for a moment, then down into the dark waters below, and it was with no surprise that he noted the boat was no longer there.

  * * *

  Prometheus had sent her launch and two cutters to deliver the marines, and Acting Lieutenant Franklin was in command. It wasn't a duty he would have chosen, but so far all had gone smoothly. He had led in the launch, the larger boat creeping up and onto a beach so blessed with white sand that, even when damp and in the dark of night, it seemed to glow. Then the landing party had departed in a blur of red coats, leather and polished metal, leaving him, two midshipmen and twenty-eight seamen to manage what now appeared unusually empty and cumbersome craft. And he did not delay, but ordered them straight to the east. There they were beached for the second time, roughly midway between the two batteries, and the wait for their landing party to return began.

  To one side a rather prim lieutenant had charge of Victory's boats, and beyond them were those belonging to Belleisle. But there was no fraternisation between the three groups. Apart from Franklin's acknowledgement of his neighbour, which was returned with a derisory wave, each kept to themselves. To that point everything had been meticulously planned and timed to the second, but now they could do no more than allow matters to run their course. That, and be ready to take the troops off as soon as they appeared.

  A small lantern hung before each boat, the light being shielded by the rise of the beach, and considered essential if they were to collect men in a hurry. The blue and black cutters were under the charge of midshipmen Brown and Briars respectively, while Franklin perched himself nonchalantly against the bow of the launch and the seamen sat upon the sand, delighting in the audacity of relaxing so while on enemy soil. Some had wanted to accompany the marines and Franklin had been forced to use all his authority to keep them back. But now they waited patiently enough, and he was confident his party would be ready, capable and most importantly, complete when the time came to evacuate.

  The land rose steadily and no one was able to see further up the shore. But they could certainly hear, and were aware a considerable battle was in process. If the British emerged as victors and took control of the nearby shore batteries, the marines would remain in position for the briefest of times; possibly no longer than to allow the spiking of cannon. That simple act alone would guarantee a more peaceable departure, although Franklin was familiar with the enthusiasm of fighting men, and suspected they would attempt to destroy the magazines as well.

  But he hoped not. He hoped – actually he prayed – they would all leave shortly. As it was, men would die, and were doing so quite close by, even as he apparently lounged against the boat. Any delay would inevitably mean more must follow, and the blowing up of a few tons of gunpowder was surely not worth anything as precious as a human life.

  And if the marines were not victorious: if the French drove them off, the survivors could be expected back at any time. That would be a far harder problem to solve, as they must have wounded with them and were bound to be closely pursued. Then, with the shore batteries still in use, it would be a difficult departure indeed. Whatever threat the British battleships might make, his small force was likely to become the focus of the enemy's fire.

  But the sound was steadily decreasing and soon there was relative silence. Far off shouting could still be heard, and some was in French, but as to who had been successful, no one was certain.

  “Want that I take a look, sir?” Brown called hesitantly from his cutter. He was older than Briars, the other midshipman, and Franklin had noticed his apparent eagerness in the past. In fact he wondered if it were done to enforce his superiority over the younger boys, but on this occasion there was no question of independent action.

  “Stay as you are, son,” the older man told him gently, with the sobriquet being used quite unconsciously. He peered across to where the other boats were drawn up. “I believe Victory sent a youngster up a while back,” he added. “And he has not returned.”

  Briars grinned at his friend in the next boat and was clearly about to pass comment when a bright light suddenly appeared above them. All looked up to see the low cloud illuminated in an orange glow and, even as they watched, a rumble emanated from the very ground beneath them.

  “Would that be one of the batteries?” Briars asked in innocence, and Brown immediately took the chance to scoff.

  “How so, when one is to the east and the other, the west?”

  The hands also began discuss in urgent tones and Franklin knew he must take control.

  “No, I'd say that were our brig,” he said more steadily over the excited chatter. “And with luck, she will have taken the Frenchman with her.”

  “Aye,” Brown agreed, importantly. “Along with anyone else who happened to be nearby.”

  * * *

  King, Hunt, and the others were not exactly nearby, but still the explosion had been close enough to shock all aboard the tiny boat, and caused momentary confusion amongst the rowers. The sheet of flame was spectacular, forcing most to rub at their eyes and, even when gone, leaving the remains of Fraternité to blaze merrily in the bay, they felt horribly exposed. But King could also see the shore more clearly now, and knew them less than fifty yards off.


  And, more importantly, he could make out the red and white of Royal Marine uniforms. There were many, and seemed to dominate the low quay their boat was heading for.

  “Stand to, there,” he ordered. There would be areas close by that were not in British hands and might shelter snipers. To lose further men when rescue and success were almost within their grasp would be dreadful. The rowers recovered their oars and set them in the rowlocks once more, then looked to him and Sanders, who was pulling stroke, expectantly. King drew breath to give the order and instantly felt a stab of pain that ran from one shoulder to the other. His tumble into the boat had been quite ungainly and since then there was an uncomfortable sensation in his wound. He may have torn at the lesion; doubtless Manning would put things right, but for now he must concentrate on other matters. The thought of his friend made him feel guilty, however: it was yet one more person he would have upset that evening.

  “Ready, sir,” Sanders prompted, but before King could speak there was another sound, and one none of them were expecting.

  “Hold hard, there, hold hard!” It came from the water and was a familiar voice, although hearing it gave several inside the boat an uneasy feeling.

  “We've a swimmer, sir,” someone shouted from starboard and, sure enough, a man was heading for them in an artless paddle that barely kept him afloat.

  “And it sounds like Flint,” another added. “Though it can't be, not when he were...”

  “Extend an oar, Jackson,” Jameson, who was seated opposite Sanders, ordered, and soon the panting body was dragged nearer to the boat, before being heaved, spluttering and breathless, over the stern.

  “I'd thought you a goner,” Jameson told his friend.

  “No lad,” Flint replied, smiling through the gasps. “Belike you're stuck with me a while longer.”