by Alaric Bond
“Ready starboard battery!” Caulfield's voice rang out, and immediately the gun crews stood to. The ship's routine was running like clockwork, Banks noted, despite the efforts he had apparently made to wreck it. Prometheus was turning faster than he had a right to expect; the leading enemy liner was coming up, and they may as well launch a broadside as they went.
“Fire!”
The flash of gunfire cut into the night and its thunder echoed about them as the ponderous ship continued to turn. The weather had cleared, although it remained too dark to see any detail of their shots. But the enemy appeared to have been bracketed, and they could not ask for more.
“Shake out them reefs and be ready to set t'gallants,” Brehaut again and he spoke with a solid authority that Banks secretly envied. The procedure was sufficiently advanced for men to be sent aloft, and he was certain all on the quarterdeck breathed a sigh of relief, as the ship settled on to her new course and began to pick up speed. Any damage caused to the leading Frenchman had not slowed her; she was less than a mile off their starboard quarter and coming up fast. Prometheus' bows dipped slightly as her canvas caught the growing wind, and there was a muttering from her stem that had been all too absent for some while. But still the French ship was forereaching on them, and at any moment they would come within her arc of fire.
“She has the measure of us, I fear,” Caulfield murmured apologetically and as Banks went to reply there was a blaze of light, and the Frenchman's broadside was released. For several seconds the ship lay in silence while all awaited what was to come, and then the barrage descended.
It came like rain caught on a gust of wind; a sudden hammering that died away completely when the breeze apparently dropped. Heavy shocks running through her timbers told how Prometheus' hull was hit in several places, and a solid whack to the lower mizzen brought forth a cloud of splinters and dust that covered the quarterdeck like sugar sprinkled over a cake. Three men were knocked down beside an upper deck eighteen pounder with two shouting out in pain and shock, while the third lay suspiciously quiet, and the neat row of marines that had lined the starboard bulwark was left momentarily broken, until a few stiff words from an adjacent NCO made everything tidy once more.
“Starboard battery ready!” Corbett reported.
“Fire!” Caulfield roared above the confusion, and the order was reinforced by the shrill note of whistles, a sound that was almost instantly wiped away by a deep-throated bellow from the battleship's main armament.
The ship heeled with the recoil, but their luck was in and the wind felt to be increasing; soon they were moving with true purpose.
“Caught her soundly,” Caulfield reported with satisfaction, although Banks found he could not have cared less. Two broadsides against a body of such a force would not see them out of trouble. There were still the emplacements at Cape Carqueivanne to negotiate, and the second liner was steering to add her fire to that of the first, with the three behind clearly equally eager to contribute.
A carpenter's mate was inspecting the lower mizzen mast; the shot had actually sliced its side, taking a sizeable chunk out of the of spar but, as he stepped away and grudgingly nodded his head, it seemed most of the integral strength was retained. And it was at that point that Banks noticed the change that had come over himself.
“Set the t'gallants,” he snapped, breaking the self imposed silence that had already lasted for far too long. Brehaut and Caulfield were looking at him oddly; with the end of the rain, the wind was still rising. It may well grow further, and Prometheus was making good progress. There was almost a chance she might save herself from the grasp of the following ships, whereas the loss of even one important piece of tophamper, as the captain would be risking, must surely make them a gift to the French. But Banks had been in action more times than any of them and, on most occasions, in command. He may have made an unpardonable mistake that evening, but the poise necessary to captain any vessel was quickly restoring itself, certainly to the extent that he once more wanted control. And the ingrained confidence, a self assurance that some might call arrogance and others misplaced, told him he remained the best man for the job.
The shouting of orders, screams from the wounded and the whistle of boatswain's calls competed with a rumble of carriage trucks, as the guns were heaved up to face the enemy once more. Servers on the upper deck were depleted by those needed to attend the sails, but still the work was done in good time, and Prometheus could send a third broadside hurtling towards the enemy, before any further shots were received.
And then the ship's added speed began to tell. Even before the extra canvas was given chance to fill, her bows were digging deeper, and Prometheus started to heel slightly as the ever growing wind powered her on.
“Take her two points to starboard,” Banks ordered, and the ship responded almost immediately. With the increase in speed, the enemy were becoming less distinct, and the new heading would bring the wind more firmly onto the quarter.
There came further light from astern; the first ship had yawed and was firing again, and Banks noted her position now lay considerably behind their own. In the seconds while the spheres of hot iron were flying towards them, Prometheus' gun teams strained to haul their pieces back into action, while the afterguard and waisters set her yards to meet the change of course. And when the broadside arrived it fell mainly aft and barely reached their poop. Banks glanced across to Caulfield, whose eyes seemed unusually alight in the gloom of night.
“The extra sail caught them napping,” the first lieutenant told him with the familiarity of many years' service. “And what a stroke of luck, finding a wind so.”
“We have the batteries to clear yet,” the captain reminded him grimly, although he too was feeling oddly elated by the swift turnabout of fortune. “And they will be in range at any moment.”
“Ready larboard battery,” Caulfield shouted. The nearest Frenchman was now considerably to the stern of their arc of fire; Banks might even order the ship further across, but then there were likely to be more guns mounted on Cape Sepet to the west, than the eastern headland.
As the breeze rose further, Prometheus cut deep into the heavy waters and her taut lines began to scream. The eastern battery was now hard on their larboard bow, although they would pass at long range and, with luck, may avoid damage altogether. The gun crews had moved to the opposite side of the deck and stood ready beside their unused pieces. Banks glanced back; the French were decidedly in their wake and it was no surprise that a British ship should outsail them so. Prometheus had been on active service for several months; any group of men took time to shake down and become accustomed to sailing as a crew: he was only glad not to be in the enemy's position of having to train while avoiding what might be immediate action.
And then there came the first ranging shots from the eastward emplacements. The slender moon was just starting to rise and in its light, faint splashes were seen off their larboard bow. Banks measured the distance to land; there was range in hand for most of the ship's guns to reach with a good chance of accuracy, so they could definitely expect attention from the monsters the enemy would be mounting. And serious damage may yet leave them in danger; Prometheus might lose a mast, or be severely holed; either would disable her sufficiently to provide easy pickings for the oncoming French.
“We might make for the west?” Caulfield muttered, conscious he was putting a suggestion to his captain. Banks rarely objected to his second in command offering advice although, when he followed his gaze, both saw the bright cannon fire that told them the gunners on that side were equally awake. And, as a shot skipped saucily across their bows shortly afterwards, it was clear they were to benefit from both battery's attention.
“No, we shall stay as we are,” Banks told Caulfield gently. “It is hard to know which is the greater danger, but you may reply to either when you so wish.”
The first lieutenant snapped out an order that was relayed to Corbett, and the lieutenants on the lower deck. The weat
her had cleared further leaving Prometheus in plain view, so little would be lost in returning the fire. They could not hope to hit well emplaced artillery at such a distance with any degree of accuracy, but a broadside from a line-of-battleship, even one a mile or so off, would be disconcerting at the very least.
And when the first full enemy barrage came, it did so from the direction of Cape Carqueivanne. The shots bracketed them, causing damage to tophamper, deck and upper hull, but Prometheus continued with no noticeable decrease in speed, and Banks was even hopeful they may be passing out of danger by the time the same battery was able to fire again.
There remained the guns to the west, however. Whether by accident or design, the commander of that battery waited until the last shot landed from his eastern equivalent and, though marginally further off, that fire proved even more deadly. Prometheus received two low body blows that made members of the carpenter's team wince in almost physical pain, and another smashed into the launch, shredding it into kindling, and drenching those unlucky enough to be standing beneath, in the water the boat had been carrying. But nothing landed that would slow the ship significantly and, with her sheets tight and canvas stiff, Prometheus tore on through the night, safety now firmly in her sights.
Another long range broadside came from the east but did less damage and may even have been despatched in defiance. And then it slowly began to dawn on them all that they truly were to escape from what had appeared certain doom.
Some of the gunners even felt cheated: to have been so close to a powerful enemy, and then expected to settle for no more than a few long range barrages might almost be classed as disappointing. But the majority accepted the evening had been made lively enough, and more than compensated for the last few weeks' relative monotony. And most officers were unashamedly relieved. Even King and Lewis, isolated on the lower gun deck, had been uncomfortable while sailing, alone and completely unsupported in enemy territory, while Caulfield secretly wondered if Sir Richard had not taken the ship over that fine line that divided spirit from foolhardiness.
The doubts were soon put to one side, however. Their captain had come through yet again and, yet again, Prometheus was safe, after dealing damage to the enemy. They may have to remain on blockade a further few weeks, but that small taste of excitement would sate even the wildest spirits amongst her crew, whereas the French, who were declining to follow, would probably remain for a spell in the outer road. Then, when the main fleet did finally return, it would be Prometheus' chance to re-victual, with the additional benefit that their current wounds would force them for yet another spell of refitting in Gibraltar.
But of them all, there was none that felt quite the mixture of emotions as Sir Richard Banks. His ship had escaped and, even if the enemy still to put to sea, remained able and in a position to follow them. And, possibly more importantly, he could now relay news of exactly what had been left behind, so a more accurate assessment of the opposition's strength and sailing ability was available. But of all aboard Prometheus, he was the most aware of how far the bounds of daring had been stretched and, as he grudgingly accepted, it was well beyond their normal limit. Those terrible minutes when he realised the fact would remain with him for some time, and it was a lesson he was determined never to forget.
Chapter Thirteen
Independent command, that soul sustaining breath of fresh air so often denied anything larger than a frigate, had blessed them yet again and no one aboard Prometheus was sorry. The ship was even heading back to Gibraltar, a place that was fast becoming their second home, where they would be safe and sheltered for at least the start of the winter months. And a stay in harbour usually meant shore leave, something that never came amiss at any time of the year, although every man was equally aware that, if a holiday really was in the offing, it had been thoroughly earned during a month of relentless tension.
The morning after the French fleet moved out of harbour, Prometheus returned to find them still in Toulon's outer road. That was the first day of an extended game of cat and mouse which was to last almost three weeks, and robbed Banks, as well as most of his officers, of a good deal of sleep.
In the captain's case the watch was particularly tiring. Thoughts of how easily he could have lost his ship hung about him like an unwelcome smell, and he became remote and fractious. What free time he allowed himself was spent alone and in his quarters while even the most favoured officers were not invited to dine. This was noted and occasionally commented upon, although the change mattered little to those who knew him well. Caulfield and King had served with Sir Richard for many years, and even Manning and Lewis, who were less affected, accepted their captain was inclined to be moody. And few in Prometheus' wardroom were especially bored, not with active French shipping to keep track of. The enemy may have been merely intending to exercise their harbour-bound fleet, but every signal, change of canvas, or alteration in sailing order, had to be reported and logged, while the three British ships sent to watch over them maintained a relentless vigil and an equally respectful distance. The latter was on account of the troublesome shore batteries as well as, perversely, to allow the French every opportunity to escape should they so wish.
For the battleship's senior officers especially, the latter would have been a dubious blessing. Nelson might hope for nothing less than the entire French fleet to be at sea, but that was from the security of a force very nearly as strong. If the enemy were to venture out with only Prometheus and a couple of lightweights on hand, it was an entirely different prospect. One, or eventually both, frigates could be sent to raise the rest of the Mediterranean Squadron, and at least Banks, Caulfield and King were no strangers to shadowing a superior enemy. But on previous occasions they had been in fifth or sixth rates; ships specifically designed for such work. Prometheus might be far more powerful, but she lacked speed and agility. If the French set a fast pace, as would seem likely, they would struggle to keep up, though might just as easily find themselves running aboard the hostile ships if weather, visibility, or the ingenuity of the opposing admiral took them by surprise. And then, though they would undoubtedly put up a fight, it would be against such odds that the outcome could only be bloody and final.
But despite sleepless nights and doubt-ridden days, the French ventured no further south than Cape Sepet and, when Victory and the reassuring bulk of the British force were once more spotted, were still sailing apparently aimlessly about their own private enclave of Toulon's outer road.
Banks had been called aboard the flagship of course, but there was no formal dinner or meeting with officers from other vessels. After many weeks of carrying out minor repairs, as well as taking on water and wood, those of the main force were far too keen to return to the serious business of bearding the French. And with their recalcitrant enemy having left the inner harbour while they were away, all were even more determined to draw them out further, and to battle.
Nelson had listened with quiet approval while Banks gave a brief verbal summary of his written report, and hardly showed any emotion when the delicate subject of Prometheus almost being caught inside the enemy's den was touched upon. And there had been no censure. More cautious commanders may have taken the opportunity to berate a junior man; explain at length the value of every vessel, and warn against running further risks, but Nelson needed no such strategies to bolster his image or stature. Instead he trusted the men beneath him to make their own decisions without guidance. The fact that Prometheus had been able to escape with only mild damage, while bringing intelligence and dealing a blow to a vastly superior enemy in return, had been justification in itself. And that Banks was willing to take such risks actually raised Sir Richard higher in the great man's estimation; cementing him more solidly amongst the other trusted captains, that helped make an apparently inferior force worthy to stand up to the best the French could offer.
But although much of her damage was light, there was still the matter of that weakened mizzen mast, which could not be addressed while blockad
ing Toulon, and neither were the more sheltered waters off Sardinia any more accommodating. Prometheus would simply have to retire to the dockyard at Gibraltar, and was despatched with instructions to refit, water, and take on any other essential supplies as quickly as possible. With luck all would be accomplished within a month, then she might return for the remainder of the dark winter months; a time that Nelson seemed convinced his enemy would choose to finally fly the coop.
So it was that they found themselves once more steering southerly with the ship, though undoubtedly battered, still able to meet any single enemy likely to be encountered on the inland sea. And there was always the chance of something less taxing. Prometheus was a powerful beast, if inclined to be slow when compared to other vessels. But dawn gave them a daily advantage; the rising sun so often revealed a tasty morsel, one that might be snapped up before it was fully light. And although all aboard were already due to benefit from head and prize money, there was little guaranteed to raise the general morale of a crew better, than the possibility of more.
But that morning, the fourth since leaving the waters off Toulon, turned out as disappointing as those preceding it and, with Gibraltar now becoming less of a vague destination, Caulfield was starting to think they might not be so lucky on that particular leg of the voyage. He stretched stiffly in the lee of the larboard bulwark and breathed in the moist early morning air. It carried just the hint of storm, but whether that was from the tempest they had endured during the night, or some fresh excitement to be borne on the current north easterly, he could not tell.
The bell rang seven times and King, who would be relieving Hunt at the change of watch, appeared shortly afterwards. There was a few minutes' conversation between the young men, then Caulfield was pleased to see the second lieutenant stroll across to join him.
