HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  * * *

  Any remaining ill feelings seemed to have been forgotten as King presented himself on the half deck the following day. The captain greeted him genially; he was resplendent in full dress uniform, with polished bullion epaulettes and the finest silk stockings which caused King, in brass buckled shoes and a threadbare broadcloth tunic, to feel decidedly shabby. But at least they could share the splendour of Banks' decorated barge, as well as its dedicated crew. The latter were all prime seamen made even more presentable in the matching cream and dark blue uniforms Sir Richard provided for them. The day was bright and hardly a cloud spoiled a deep blue sky, although summer was little more than a memory now. Indeed an easterly wind brought quite a chill, along with white caps to the waves as they headed over to Victory, lying hove to and drifting gently with the current.

  The appointment was a general one, with all commanders attending, and most carried at least one junior officer with them. Banks was reasonably well up on the captains' list, but they still had to wait their turn alongside the flagship's starboard entry port, and then King was forced to submit to the indignity of being the only one making use of a boatswain's chair. But they were on the quarterdeck soon enough and a little later found themselves being presented to a slightly built, pigeon-breasted man who seemed almost swamped in rather gaudy decorations.

  “Ah, Mr King; the fellow who caused so much trouble the other night,” the admiral informed him blithely while extending his left hand. It was a moment of acute awkwardness for King; both Nelson's words and manner had made him cautious and, as he could only offer his right in return, for several seconds he had the strange sensation of apparently holding hands with his commander-in-chief. But there were others awaiting the great man's attention, and he was quickly edged away by an officious lieutenant before being able to reply.

  A rather tinny gong then sounded and officers who were better versed in the arrangements began to gather by the large doors that led to the admiral's quarters. King and Banks followed the throng through to the coach, and on to a vast room that seemed far too palatial to be found aboard a man-of-war. The deckhead was considerably higher than most, and a set of truly substantial stern windows brought the light in wonderfully. A large table spanned the beam and, despite strong afternoon sunshine, it held at least three dozen lighted candles, all set in ornate silver candelabras. Other silverware was in evidence, as was a good selection of glasses; there being four in front of each place setting, as well as a positive mass of precisely placed cutlery. In obedience to naval protocol, King joined the junior men in making for the far end. But the table was wide, as well as long and, on taking his place, he found all officers on the opposite side, as well as the admiral who sat at the head, to be in clear view. Wardroom servants started to walk slowly down the line, reaching over each shoulder in turn to fill one style of glass and King, after ensuring others had done so before him, cautiously sipped at his. It was strong and surprisingly cold; probably some form of sherry, he decided, placing the elegant glass down. That one taste had been enough: his head was already beginning to swim. Even before his wound he had not drunk alcohol for several months, and nothing would persuade him to take more that afternoon.

  A brief but serious grace was followed by the arrival of three large tureens that were placed on the already crowded table. That they contained soup became obvious when a warmed and deep china bowl was set in front of every diner, before some very superior stewards began to dip ladles into the now open dishes, and served every man at the table in a remarkably short time. When he looked back on it, King decided the food was of a higher standard than that expected from a ship on blockade duty although, when compared to what had been available in Gibraltar, not so very remarkable. The service aboard Victory excelled in other ways, however, as he was soon to find out.

  After the thin but pleasant broth, the senior officers were given chicken, although only beef was on offer at King's end of the table.

  “You may usually expect fowl,” one of his neighbours grumbled to no one in particular, “and occasionally mutton at an admiral's table. But this looks to have come from the most miserable ration bullock ever.”

  “We grew used to game with Cornwallis,” the man on King's left remarked with an ill concealed sigh, as he added roasted potatoes to a plate already heaped in steaming meat.

  Then King's turn came; an equally large serving of sliced beef was placed before him and he paused for a moment, as if intimidated, before turning his attention to the vegetables. These were presented in silver tureens with weighted, captured lids that swung back to keep the contents warm, and he was unable to hold the things open while helping himself. Those to either side took no interest in his predicament although a steward noticed and stepped forward to assist in as unobtrusive a manner as possible.

  Prometheus' armourer had made King a special tool that was shaped like a fork, with a cutting edge to one side, and with its help he began to wrestle manfully with his meal. But the meat, though undoubtedly fresh, proved as tough as it was stringy, and even after several minutes' hard work, King had made very little impression. He glanced to his neighbours; neither were known to him, and both seemed totally focussed on their own food. One, he noticed, was a commander only a year or so older than himself, the other an elderly lieutenant who still sported unfashionably powdered hair and, by the look of his gold buttons and silk stock, was well connected. From across the table all he could see were the lowered heads of fellow eaters, and King was temporarily at a loss. Then, remembering the vegetables, he was about to ask a steward for assistance when his plate was magically whisked away from in front of him.

  He looked round in surprise, only to find it instantly replaced by another, filled with a generous portion of roasted chicken and a selection of vegetables, neatly topped with gravy. King stared at the meal, quickly noticing that all the meat, as well as the more substantial potatoes, had been subtly attended to. Their shape was in no way altered, but a series of almost surgical slices in each would allow him to take convenient portions using a fork alone.

  The sullen silence that fell to either side told him this had not been missed, and King flushed as he bent down to the meal. But his senses were still primed and he found himself looking up, then along the table, to where the more senior officers were seated.

  And there, at the head, sat the admiral. His clear blue eyes, both apparently perfect from such a distance, set upon his own, and with a slight smile he inclined his head in King's direction, before raising his own adapted fork in silent acknowledgement.

  * * *

  “I am sorry to be late,” Franklin informed them as he entered the small room. “Sir Richard has only just departed for the flag,” he continued, looking about him curiously. “And, even though I am off watch, there was a deal to attend to.”

  Quite why he gave such an explanation was beyond him. Of the ten men present, not one was above junior warrant rank, and there were several able and ordinary seamen.

  “It is good of you to come, sir,” Kennedy informed him formally and Franklin was quick to notice that, although he was no longer dressed as a senior steward, the man still carried a natural authority about him. “Here, make a space for our new brother,” he continued, and Franklin was seated between a long standing member of the afterguard and his old friend, Maxwell.

  Franklin glanced cautiously at the quartermaster, and received an ironic wink in return. It seemed a friendly enough assembly, but still he wondered quite what he had let himself in for.

  * * *

  “Gentlemen, we are to leave for Agincourt Sound forthwith.”

  They had dined well and were now relaxing over coffee so the announcement took Banks, seated nearer the head of the table, by surprise. Nelson had touched upon the possibility of withdrawal when Prometheus first arrived, and Agincourt Sound, the recently charted shelter off Sardinia was also mentioned. But at the time the concept of apparently abandoning a blockade appeared too extreme, even for a com
mander known for unconventional tactics. Nothing further was said in the subsequent weeks and, with their recent attack on the port which had been followed by a particularly bad Mediterranean storm, Banks assumed he had either misheard, or the intention was forgotten. Perhaps one or two ships may be sent in rotation; a chance to wood and water, maybe take on some green stuff, and attend a few minor repairs, but certainly no more.

  As soon as the words were spoken, though, he sensed a general withdrawal was in mind. Nelson had never hidden his desire for the French to sail and such a move was bound to encourage it. If so, they may also be lost, and allowing even a chance for such a powerful fleet to go undetected was surely madness. Banks glanced around the table anxiously, although everyone seemed to be taking the news in their stride, and he quickly suppressed his own astonishment. Which was fortunate, as the admiral had further shocks in store and one was more personal.

  “Prometheus, with two frigates will remain. She has water more than all of us and is freshly set up. You needn’t worry, Sir Richard,” Nelson bowed his head towards Banks briefly. “I do not propose to be away long, and you shall be sent for replenishment directly upon our return.”

  But Banks was in no way reassured. He was to be left guarding a major French port, and one currently holding a sizeable fleet which could be expected to set sail at any moment. Agincourt Sound was considerably more than a day's sailing away, and with only a couple of fifth rates as support, the French could snap up his single liner in a matter of hours.

  “I will be no more than two hundred miles off,” Nelson continued, clearly intending the statement to be reassuring. “And, with the prevailing north westerlies, news of any departure shall reach me swiftly enough.”

  Banks' mind was now in a whirl. Two hundred miles to the east. All very well if the French meant to flee in that direction; the British would be able to virtually ambush them. But should the wind blow foul, and the enemy make for the Atlantic, it could prove difficult. And were such a likely series of events to occur, would it be up to Prometheus and two frigates, to stop them?

  “I shall provide written orders that you are not expected to engage should they make a move,” the admiral concluded. “Despatch one frigate to bring me word, and retain the other to assist yourself; between the two, you should be able to keep a wary eye on the enemy until I can bring them to battle.”

  Nelson was quite correct, Banks supposed; he should manage that. There had been several occasions in the past when he had carried out similar duties. But that was while in command of a lithe and handy little frigate; something with the heels of the fleet he shadowed. He was inordinately fond of Prometheus, already she had proved herself both reliable and tough. But still the prospect of scouting in a thirty year old battle-wagon scarcely appealed.

  “Have you any observations, Sir Richard?” Nelson was asking, and Banks knew the eyes of every officer were upon him, and him alone. Ostensibly this was his chance to object; to say he felt daunted by the task and that it was surely one most, if not all, those present must equally wish to avoid. He might cite numbers; point out the French were vastly superior in ships, men and guns. That their fleet consisted of up to nine liners, any one of which would be a worthy opponent for Prometheus, as well as at least thirteen frigates, that may include the new forty-gun, eighteen pounder monsters. A brace or so of those could outsail his old barge in most winds, and take their time in knocking her to pieces. And even accepting the main force was alerted, how would they know where to head? The Med. was a fickle sea in more ways than one; Nelson himself had taken months to catch Brueys before Aboukir Bay: Banks may have to spend just as long clinging to their apron strings.

  But a single glance at his commander-in-chief told him that no objection was possible. There was no look of doubt or uncertainty; Nelson was offering an opportunity that he would have gratefully accepted in Banks' position, and it would be useless to reason with one so set.

  “You must understand, Sir Richard: I wish them to sail more than anything,” the admiral stated softly and Banks wondered, yet again, if Nelson was privy to his thoughts. “It will be a risk, none can doubt that, but one I think you more than capable of,” he added.

  Lesser men may have gone on to explain that Prometheus, having seen a dockyard most recently, was likely to be the swiftest sailer of all their liners, although Banks was growing accustomed to his commander's manner of thinking. He already gathered that Nelson preferred to judge men rather than materials, and Prometheus was his choice solely because he considered him, her captain, capable.

  It was both an honour, and a responsibility; should the French sail, the fate of the war – of the world, for that matter – would rest upon his shoulders. Yet to reject the task; to publicly decline selection, would be the act of a fool, as well as professional suicide. Besides, Nelson had already cast his spell upon him. The frail little man with the pigeon chest was a leader no officer could fail to follow and, though he might not share the admiral's confidence, Banks had no intention of questioning his judgement.

  * * *

  The afternoon in the stewards' room was passing quickly, and Franklin felt more relaxed and encouraged than at any time since joining the ship. At first it had been gratifying to find himself the senior officer present although despite, or maybe because of, the disparate range of ranks, scant attention was paid to status. Apart from Kennedy's initial greeting, no one addressed him as sir, and there had been a heated discussion between an ordinary seaman and Clement, a boatswain's mate: someone who was usually given a measure of respect. But though they may hold differing ideas, there was no doubting every man present was of a similar ethos, and Franklin was amazed that such a group should exist within a fighting ship.

  “Did you hear the captain this Sunday?” Wells, one of the loblolly boys, was asking. “If he reads one of Maclaine's sermons many more times we'll all be able to join in, word for word.”

  A murmur of agreement could be heard from most present, although none carried any threat, and this was by no means a mutinous gathering.

  “Sir Richard does his best, but it is a poor one,” Maxwell agreed sadly.

  “Though I've listened to enough truly bad parsons in my time,” Kennedy added with a smile. “And we do usually have worship.”

  “Had it once a day and three times Sunday when I sailed with Dismal Jimmie,” an ordinary seaman, who Franklin thought might be called Gardner, muttered. “But would rather Sir Richard to most blue light captains; at least we is allowed to think what we likes, and no man must attend unless he wishes.”

  “That's as maybe, and one day perhaps we shall be given a proper parson.” Kennedy said as he removed his watch. “But for now we must to make do with ourselves, and there is reading to be done. You have a Bible, Mr Franklin?”

  “I always carry a New Testament,” he replied doubtfully, producing a small, leather-bound book from his pocket.

  “That is fine,” Kennedy told him. “We're reading Paul at present; Romans, Chapter Seventeen; perhaps you would care to start?”

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as Prometheus had returned to sea, the midshipmen's berth became home to those officers who had been quartered ashore, and quickly reverted to the cramped and crowded place they all knew so well. At most hours of the day there was a constant buzz of conversation, the kettle seemed perpetually about to boil, journals were written, books read and advice sought, while everyone was aware that either shared laughter or a full blown argument could break out at any moment.

  Meals were not confined to set times, with those coming on or off duty frequently consuming food served out during the previous watch, while other liberties were also taken. These ranged from tending to their pets – the berth now boasted three cats, a tortoise and a rabbit – to smoking illicit pipes that added an extra cast to air already thick with the stink of burning tallow, boot blacking and unwashed bodies. And never was there the chance to speak in confidence.

  Even when the slung hammo
cks outnumbered those left awake, no one could be sure which contained sleepers or those merely taking a light doze; the place was constantly in a state of flux and, despite being the closest any got to personal space, offered little in the way of comfort or peace.

  And so it was that the more junior members of the mess were denied any chance of serious conversation. They may pass comment, or the time of day; ask favours, advice or riddles, and call each other names or for duty. But, apart from immediately after the event, none had been able say what was really in their hearts, or speak in any detail of that terrible afternoon they had spent with young Poppy.

  They all had their private thoughts, though; the inner arguments, justifications and regrets that no amount of distraction could erase. But if not remove, the berth's inharmonious atmosphere certainly distorted such thinking until each was haunted by a shared demon that teased and taunted their very souls.

  And then, as if in retribution, the four had become three, with Cross being taken from them without warning or even a formal funeral, leaving those that remained even more paranoid and guilt ridden than before.

  Carley and Briars were the youngest; this was their first experience of life away from home and living as a supposed adult. Both came from close families, where the father protected with a stiff rule and instant justice. In the past, when guilty of a minor crime, an appeal to him would bring sudden and severe punishment, which was always followed by an effectual end to the situation. Something more major might involve resorting to the law; although in such instances the same stern, strong hand would be turned to their defence. But in either case they would not have been so totally alone.

  And Brown, though the oldest, was no more used to being responsible for his own actions. Despite attempting to portray a worldly persona, his life before the Navy had been unusually sheltered and he remained every bit as unsure of the correct course of action as the other two.