HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  Franklin sipped again at his drink as he considered the lad. His chest was bare, and bore the bright red welt of a graze, but it was the arm that lay limp and apparently unattached that drew his attention. A tourniquet strapped close to the shoulder was evidently carrying out its task as there was a remarkable absence of blood. But the boy's skin appeared pale to the point of being almost transparent, and the surgeon did not attend him with the haste usually expected on such occasions.

  “There is little I can do,” Manning told his wife and Franklin sadly. “He must have lost a deal of blood while in the water and is in shock. I might remove the arm easily enough, but sense the act will be sufficient to claim him completely.”

  Franklin nodded. It was desperately sad; Carley had come to several Bible studies and obviously held a strong faith. He had also introduced two other midshipmen, Briars and Brown; boys that Franklin would never have considered having an interest in the Lord, yet both were taking to the teaching readily. He did not doubt the surgeon's words, but felt instinctively that something should be done. And, more surprisingly, that he was the one to do it.

  The woman passed a small silver mirror in front of Carley's face, and examined it sadly. “There is no breath,” she said.

  “And I do not feel a heart,” the surgeon agreed, removing his hand from the patient.

  “We have no parson aboard,” Franklin said, feeling foolish. “Someone should pray, or read a passage.”

  “You may if you wish,” the surgeon's mate replied sternly, while her husband drew the edges of a canvas sheet over the raw wound. “Such things are not the sole province of churchmen, and you would not be the first to do so in these circumstances.”

  Franklin inclined his head more slowly this time, before placing his mug on the deck and drawing closer. The lad had undoubtedly ceased to breathe and he noticed his pallid skin was growing ever whiter. But still he sensed an element of life remained.

  There was no text to hand, his New Testament having been lost with his tunic, but that would be no obstacle. He began with the grace, spoken softly and almost to himself, as he reached forward and placed a hand upon the lad's forehead. The surgeon withdrew, and no one else spoke while Franklin, with an unusual lack of embarrassment, continued. The verses that had been denied him before now came rushing back; he recited a psalm, then from John's Gospel, and finally some words written by a tent maker to a Thessalonian church nearly eighteen hundred years before. And all the time the two medics watched in respectful silence. The lad's head was cool – cold even, and there was no movement, but the impression that an element of life persisted remained. Then Franklin felt it leave; the group that had contained four people now only held three, and he knew his job was over.

  The surgeon and his wife appeared to know it too; they both stepped forward at the same moment and Kate, who was closest to him, placed her palm on Franklin's shoulder.

  “That was well done,” she said, her voice unusually soft. “He could not have wished for better.”

  * * *

  Banks was seated in the empty space that usually represented his day cabin. The back of his arm chair, the one that Sarah had so thoughtfully provided at the start of the commission, was turned firmly away from the carpenter's team who were busily tapping bulkheads back into place. He found he could ignore them surprisingly easily, and would be content to let the rest of his cabin be reconstructed about him, if only he were allowed to remain undisturbed with his thoughts.

  The act of capturing the xebec had initially restored some of his confidence, although Banks was aware how much of the success was down to luck. It would look impressive to enter Gibraltar with a prize in tow, and not be made to feel his only contribution to the current war was to use up valuable supplies. But, on what he thought of as mature reflection, if he took any credit for the victory he was even more the fool he currently thought himself.

  For the fact remained, Prometheus would not have been making for home in the first place, had he kept his head when the French fleet sailed. The ship would still have needed to take on wood and water, but might instead have gone to Agincourt Sound, or even to relieve the Kent, currently sheltering at Malta. As it was, Prometheus had been detached from the Mediterranean Fleet; returned to Gibraltar for yet more repairs, and the only reason such a thing had been necessary was his own incompetence.

  He was a seasoned officer, and used to feelings of disappointment following a successful action. He knew that, even if Prometheus had taken a more active part in the xebec's capture, and the main reason his men currently celebrated a victory was down to their captain's exceptional skill, his spirits would have been just as low. But this current mood was so much worse than any of the brown studies experienced in the past. Banks was able to disregard his lack of attention easily enough at the time, but memories of that dark night in Toulon harbour had been returning with increasing regularity ever since. Prometheus had come so perilously close to being handed over to the French that he felt nothing he did in the future would ever truly compensate for it.

  Outside he could hear the excited cries of his men as they secured the pirate ship; all sounded happy, as they had a right to be, and would doubtless be looking forward both to prize money and the chance to spend it in one of Gibraltar's many doubtful haunts. But there was no joy in the great cabin and, for all the good fortune that day had brought, Banks' mind remained firmly set, not on their victory, but what had so nearly been a defeat.

  He told himself that, rather than seated in his comfortable chair, he could now be in a stone cell, and a prisoner of the French. Or his dead body might be rotting in the sludge of Toulon's outer harbour, along with those of others who had been foolish enough to trust his expertise. It was luck and nothing else that had enabled him to escape such a fate, luck that brought about the pirate's capture and, as he dismally allowed himself to review previous successes, luck that was behind the majority of them.

  Countless men relied on little more to see them through their careers but, until then, Banks had never considered himself to be one of them. Besides logic dictated that, if he continued to make mistakes, his measure of fortune would eventually run out. And at that moment it felt as if the time might finally have arrived.

  * * *

  The drink they had given him on the orlop was specifically ordered by the surgeon and not the grog he expected. It encouraged the deepest of sleeps Flint could remember for a long while and, when he awoke, it was to find the ship once more heading south, with much of the chaos caused by clearing for action magically restored. Noting the fact, he felt suitably shamed. A fair proportion of the drug still remained, however, and his guilt was easily balanced and even countered by an inward feeling of tranquillity, as well as the equally rare and welcome absence of pain.

  As soon as he was discharged from the sick bay, Flint made for his proper berth on the deck above, cheerfully acknowledging the greetings of others met upon the way. And as he approached the well remembered benches that sat to either side of his own mess table, was probably in the most congenial mood since the day Mr Manning first identified his complaint.

  Seeing some of his mates heightened the feeling further; there was Cranston, Greg and Bleeden along with Ben, who had been the mess boy but now rated ordinary, and Jameson, the lad he befriended all those years back in Vigilant. Jameson had made it to topman and was as regular a Jack as any, but Flint would always think of him as the wide eyed volunteer from nearly ten years ago. They turned to him as he drew nearer, and all seemed as pleased by his presence as he felt in returning. But there was something else; an excitement in the air that even Flint's dulled mind could not miss. And then, as he slumped down in his usual place at the bench, another face swam into view, and Flint gasped as he recognised it.

  “Butler!”

  There could be no doubt; of all the friends a man may make during his life, shipmates were the closest, with those who shared the same mess, more intimate still. No one could live in the cheek-by-jow
l atmosphere of a gun deck berth without another messmate's features, habits, even their very scent becoming as familiar as those of any family member. But however well remembered Butler might be, the face that stared back at Flint was almost a parody of the healthy young topman who first joined them in Tor Bay.

  “So where did you spring from?” Flint found himself asking, almost rudely.

  “The xebec,” Butler replied in little more than a whisper.

  “He was caught some months back,” Jameson explained to save his weakened friend the trouble.

  “An' been forced to serve as a galley slave since.” Bleeden continued, eager to be the bearer of such news.

  “That's bloody,” Flint grunted, his eyes now switching to the man himself. He was wearing a tattered shirt with both arms bared from the shoulders. The limbs appeared healthy and his muscles were undoubtedly well developed but, in contrast, Butler's face was almost void of flesh and seemed no more than skin over bone. It occurred to Flint as he stared at the skull-like image before him, that he was actually looking at a body in poorer condition than his own, and the realisation was oddly disconcerting.

  “Whatever have the bastards done?” he asked softly.

  “Treated 'im rotten,” Bleeden replied. “Just as bad as the tales you hear.”

  “A good deal worse,” Greg added. “Though 'e got 'is own back.”

  Flint looked enquiringly at his mates, but it was Butler who provided the explanation.

  “We took a hit from the barky,” he said, his voice barely audible amongst the commotion of a ship still settling from action stations. “Landed on our larboard quarter, and weakened a frame that made several rowing positions useless.”

  “It might 'ave wrecked the mountin's, but left all the rowers pretty much untouched.” Cranston boasted proudly. “That's good shootin', I'd say!” Cranston had laid one of the guns so could, conceivably, have been responsible.

  Butler nodded, then continued. “They had a go at rowing against the rudder, but that proved no better, so were forced to cut back on the starboard to balance. But by then we'd smoked there was a British ship in range and, however hard they tried, us Jacks weren't putting in much effort at the sweeps. An' then when we started being raked by the cutter, we didn't want to know. No matter what that bastard overseer did, we weren't having none of it.”

  “Beat some poor bugger half to death, so they did,” Bleeden again. “An' he were an officer, ain't that right?”

  Again Butler nodded.

  “You did well,” Flint told him. The drink was still having an effect and, despite its anaesthetic qualities, he felt able to speak and think more clearly than for ages. “Without your help we would never have taken them pirates,” he continued. “As it is, the barky's got another prize, and we'll be due an handsome payout, 'less I'm mistaken.”

  They waited for Butler to say more, but either the effort so far had been too much, or there was nothing further to tell. His arms still bore the livid marks of regular beatings, and his face the memory of other mistreatments, yet his friends were able to offer little other than compassion and understanding.

  “I've a sup of wine from the gun room's dinner,” Greg said, in an example of generosity that was rare in him. “But the surgeon said to give 'im nothing.”

  “An' it's a shame 'cause there's some cheese left over since Monday what we were going to use to catch millers,” Cranston added. But Butler shook his head. He was beyond any material needs and simply craved rest and security. So it was no surprise to any of them when, shortly after, he placed his arms down on the table, lowered his head, and surrendered to a sleep that was solid and deep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gibraltar was now very much a second home to them, having been their saviour or restorer on previous occasions, and all were looking forward to sighting the rock once more. It was clear that Prometheus' current requirements should not take long however; the sheer hulk would be needed to draw her mizzen mast from its partners, and there would be a degree of work to do on the hull, although none that meant extensive disruption, and certainly not the disembarkation of her lower deck as before.

  Kate and Poppy left with little ceremony, the surgeon having found them clean lodgings ashore, as well as yet another maid who would look after both when the time came, as their projected dates were inconveniently close. He was also able to secure a replacement surgeon's mate from the naval hospital. This was a Londoner named Blake who was slightly younger than Prior, the other assistant, but seemed of a sensible disposition, and the three settled down together quickly enough. Manning's intention on reaching harbour had been to start work on moving the sick berth and dispensary to a forward part of the upper deck. But the sudden influx of patients; men liberated from the pirate xebec who now needed care, rest and monitored feeding, took both longer than expected as well as much of their current space.

  Marine Captain Reynolds had reappeared to a chorus of ironic cheering and good natured banter from his fellow wardroom officers. He, along with all Prometheus' Royal Marine contingent, had spent the last few days guarding the xebec's prisoners aboard their former vessel, while a party of seamen from the liner made temporary repairs and saw her home. Having access to ready made secure accommodation had eased his task no end but, now that his charges were safely handed over to the shore based military, all he wanted was several glasses of an agreeably dry sherry, and a rest.

  But there were no such luxuries for Hunt and Franklin. In addition to normal duties, they had been called to stand their examination board. This would either confirm their acting rank and grant a precious commission, or see them returned to the cockpit as midshipmen. Prometheus carried above her allocation of lieutenants, and both accepted that one of them might be failed for no other reason. Consequently, their every free hour was spent re-reading personal copies of the basic instructional books, and borrowing what others they could from their colleagues in the wardroom.

  Of the two, Franklin was undoubtedly the least enthusiastic. He had sat enough boards to grow cynical of their appointments and knew that, even if he were to pass, an older lieutenant would never be as welcome as one who could bring youth and vigour to a post. And that was not all Franklin lacked; he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that much of his interest in the Navy in general was now missing.

  He was not sure where the blame for this lay; whether it could be put down to the regular meetings with his fellow Christians in the stewards' room, or those brief but significant moments spent in improvised prayer as his cutter moved in to attack the xebec. The last had undoubtedly been meaningful – actually more so than he realised at the time, and the memory remained with him ever since. It was as if a hidden and ethereal door had been opened and he was invited through, assuring his faith and changing him from hopeful seeker to assured believer as he went. But whatever the cause, Franklin now felt more at peace, both with himself and his maker, than at any time in his life.

  So it was that, as he ploughed through his old copy of The Elements of Navigation as well as a more modern guide to rigging, seamanship and naval tactics that a sporting Hunt had lent him, Franklin felt the added pressure of studying a subject that was becoming increasingly less important to him. He had no wish to return to the midshipmen's berth; to resume his previous unofficial duties as surrogate father to a bunch of ignorant and often spoiled young boys, but equally acknowledged his talents were probably better used in that direction. And there was one thing that worried him above all; since experiencing his last taste of action, Franklin was far less certain if he would ever be truly suited to the life of a sea officer.

  Being at Gibraltar once more also affected the lower deck, although in diverse ways. One of the major differences between this and their previous visits was that all regular hands were required to work. And work hard: a strangely energised Captain Banks had decreed that Prometheus' stay should be as short as possible, so every able man was set to assisting the dockyard force and took an active part in
the repairs. But even if most were fully occupied, there was little asked of Flint. He was now universally acknowledged as ill and expected to be transferred to the naval hospital at any time. Somehow he simply did not go, however; Manning spoke with him on several occasions, and once went so far as to threaten his removal by force. But they were in harbour, and it would have been an act of extreme cruelty to rob an experienced and well liked seaman of his last days aboard a warship.

  And so he stayed, keeping his position as head of the mess by unspoken agreement, even if most of his day was spent yarning with his mates or taking increasingly longer breaks. Time when he would rest, but not sleep, in the lee of the gangways or huddled up next to a knee with his hat pulled firmly down upon his head.

  Butler was a different matter. He was a deserter and, by rights, should have been placed on the punishment deck, or transferred ashore for court martial. But like most of the xebec's prisoners, his body was far too undernourished for anything other than the tenderest of treatment. The surgeon had taken charge of all former slaves but, in Butler's case, allowed the lower deck to look after what was indisputably one of their own. And it had actually taken only a few days of his familiar diet to start putting flesh on bones and colour back into his skin. Butler remained incredibly weak, of course, but still made himself useful picking oakum or splicing line, and all secretly hoped it might be conveniently forgotten that he had ever strayed. There was no doubting he, and the other captured British seamen, had been instrumental in the final taking of the xebec so an element of natural justice would appear to have come into play.