by Alaric Bond
“The frigates, do you mean?” King asked.
“Not necessarily,” Caulfield pulled at his chin in thought. “Sir Richard has been consistently victorious during his career, both in this ship and those previous. He may well take on the frigates, and is likely to prove successful. Or, if the opportunity presented, I can equally see him making straight for the liners.”
“And take on all three?” King was incredulous, while Brehaut seemed appalled and disgusted in equal measure.
Caulfield shrugged. “Such a thing is not unknown.”
“But that would be madness,” King protested.
“Maybe so, but I have seen it before in other men.”
For a moment no one said a word, then Caulfield began to speak softly, and with extreme care.
“When a man becomes captain he takes on a very special role.” The first lieutenant pushed himself back from the table, and started rocking slightly on his chair. “Suddenly he is in total control, and there are many who cannot adapt to such power. Those that do are usually blessed with the lighter commands at first. The crews are small, with fewer officers to carry out their wishes. And, of course, far less chance of major victories.”
“But when he progresses?” King prompted after there had been further silence.
“When he progresses it can indeed change,” Caulfield continued. “Not perhaps with sloops or frigates: the nature of such vessels being that a bold heart and dashing moves are almost expected, while there is usually a close enough relationship between captain and officers to see that nothing too outlandish is attempted. But when given a liner, or maybe the command of a small force of shipping, a captain can do most whatever he likes.”
“You are thinking about our taking on the three French battleships in the summer?” Brehaut asked, but Caulfield shook his head.
“No, that was totally legitimate, in my view. The enemy was more powerful undoubtedly, but we had stronger crews and retained the upper hand, even if it were only in our minds.”
“The incident in Toulon harbour then?” it was King this time and his voice was especially low.
“I fear so,” Caulfield agreed equally quietly. “In truth I do not know why Sir Richard exposed us as he did; the information we obtained was not vitally important, and may have been acquired by a frigate the following morning.”
“You think he enjoyed taking the risk?” King again.
“Not enjoyed, but perhaps has become over confident.”
“He would not be alone,” Brehaut added, after a moment's consideration. “Why we need only look at Admiral Nelson's history to see a likeness. All remember victories such as Copenhagen and The Nile, but who talks of his defeats: San Juan, the Turks, Santa Cruz, or Boulogne?”
“No one accompanied Sir Richard to the flag when Nelson returned,” King pointed out. “And I do not suppose his journal gave much mention to how close we came to being captured.”
“And if it had, what of it?” Caulfield snorted. “We were not, so it would be judged a chance worth taking. And as the report would have been to Lord Nelson, a man not unknown for taking risks himself...”
“So you don't believe we will be allowing the enemy past?” King asked in a slightly louder voice.
“No, I do not.” the first lieutenant replied sadly. “To my mind it is more probable Prometheus shall be called upon to intervene in some way. And frankly I cannot see any good coming of it.”
* * *
“Hands to witness punishment.” The pipe reached members of Flint's mess just as they were looking forward to the end of the forenoon watch, and normally would almost have been welcomed. Sir Richard Banks was not known as a flogging captain; there had been remarkably few times when the entire crew were so assembled since the start of the commission. And most Jacks could tolerate the usual allocation of twelve, or an occasional twenty-four lashes, neither of which took particularly long to administer. But, seeing that the traditional time for such a ceremony was eleven thirty, barely minutes before they would be served their first tot of rum for the day, those on watch usually considered their work period ended.
That morning would be different, though. If Butler were to receive even half his allocation, it must take considerably longer than quarter of an hour. Additional boatswain's mates would be called to relieve those handling the cat, while Butler was likely to collapse and need time to recover. And it wasn't as if this was an ordinary day. Most had heard the captain's conversation with the brig's master, and were fully aware a powerful enemy was on their tail; one that might close on them at any moment.
So it was that Flint and his mess formed a grim and morose little group, as they assembled on the upper deck, and waited beside the grating that was already upturned and rigged against the gangway.
“Bloody disgrace,” Bleeden said, when they met up. “Two hundred lashes, an' after what 'e did to secure that pirate.”
“An' Butler ain't fit,” Cranston agreed. “No matter what the sawbones might say, a man in his condition should never be treated so: it could do for him.”
But Flint said nothing. He had seen enough good men abused by bad officers in the past, and sincerely thought Sir Richard to have been made of better stuff. Two hundred lashes was indeed a dreadful punishment; one expected from a bunch of stuffed shirts sitting at court martial perhaps, but not of a captain with any regard for the morale of his crew. Cranston was wrong, however; Butler might be undernourished but remained inherently strong. The punishment would not end his life although, so angry had the sentence made him, Flint felt it could shorten his own.
The idlers were assembling now, as well as Mrs Roberts, the carpenter's wife, and all personal servants. Only the minimum number needed to actually sail the ship were excused attendance, and even the majority of those would have a prime view of the proceedings. The wind had yet to increase; Prometheus was still straining to find every last ounce of its power, and it seemed foolish in the extreme to divert attention from that, to carry out a punishment which would only lower the spirit of every man on board.
Then, with a simultaneous click of metal, a marine guard formed up on the break of the quarterdeck. They carried loaded muskets, and there were flashes of light from their highly polished bayonets. A further file stood forward of the main hatch, and more lined the gangways. Prometheus boasted over one hundred of these elite sea soldiers. All were volunteers, and suitably proud of their recently bestowed Royal codification, but Flint doubted if their authority could hold over the combined strength of five hundred incensed seamen. There could easily be a bloodbath, yet by that evening they might all need to fight the French; it was a ludicrous situation.
And then Butler was brought up. Walking between the oldster Midshipman Franklin, who seemed to have taken on the part of chaplain for that morning, and Mr Manning, he looked pale, and remained incredibly thin, despite several weeks of the surgeon's special diet. His appearance brought forth a rumble of discontent from Flint's mess, as well as many of the others assembled. With communication on the lower deck being as good as it was, news of Butler's treatment had spread like flames in a fire ship, and every man present felt the same righteous indignation. A lot would depend on how the sentence was administered, Flint decided. Were the punishment broken into two, three, or even more sessions, there might be no trouble. But if the captain opted for all two hundred to be delivered that morning, there was a good chance it would end in riot.
Officers were now appearing. Flint noticed that all looked unusually smart; full uniform rarely being worn when the ship was at sea and, he had to admit, were suitably grim faced. He had no idea how Butler's sentence had been taken by the senior men, but was sure a few were bound to have objected. Not that Sir Richard Banks would take any notice, of course; aboard any vessel, be it merchant or Royal, a captain's word was law, and every man's life in lay his power. Admittedly he might not be able to order a hanging, but there were numerous instances when men had been so ill treated by their commander that death be
came a refuge, and one they all too often claimed.
Then, finally, there was the captain. His arrival was greeted by a similar rumble of disapproval and, to his credit, Sir Richard appeared momentarily astonished. But his expression soon became set and, as the first lieutenant began to read from the Articles of War, the tension mounted further.
“Every person in or belonging to the fleet, who shall desert or entice others so to do, shall suffer death, or such other punishment as the circumstances of the offence shall deserve...”
Lieutenant Caulfield's voice rambled on to no apparent regard from the others. All had heard the rules a hundred times before, yet here was the end result in front of them. One of their own, who was about to receive a punishment that had become nothing more than a matter of rote.
Once Caulfield had finished, the captain himself stepped forward to speak.
“Butler, you have pleaded guilty of the charge of desertion, and agreed to accept my judgement and sentence, rather than that of a court martial.” Again, a disgruntled murmur, and again, the captain seemed surprised by it. “In coming to the sentence I have taken into consideration your previously good record, and that you, and your fellow captives did much to aid the capture of the Barbary xebec. And it is with these facts in mind that I have decided upon an exceptional penalty.” Now the rumble died, and men began looking to each other in confusion.
“But let me say this,” Banks was continuing, apparently oblivious to the reaction his words had brought. “If any man present expects to be treated as leniently in future, he may be disappointed. Desertion is potentially a capital crime; men have been hanged for what our shipmate has done, and will doubtless be so again. So let us get this matter over with, and place our attention where it is truly needed. You all know there is an enemy close behind – our energies are better spent fighting them, and not each other. Mr Clement, twelve lashes, if you please.”
Twelve lashes: a muttering went about the assembled seamen and some even looked accusingly at Butler's messmates. But those standing with Flint were every bit as bemused, and whispered urgently to each other, in spite of several calls for silence.
There was no doubting the sentence was to be served, however. Butler was strapped to the grating, and a leather apron tied backwards about his waist. Then, with the faintest of whistles, the first blow was struck, and nine separated strands from a length of log line landed squarely upon his bare back.
It was over within two minutes; by then Butler's torso had become a bloody mess although, as was noted by many, the stripes had not cut as deeply as usual. But punishment had been delivered and, as Butler was turned over to the care of Mr Manning, he would now be regarded as innocent as any present.
“What goes, Charlie?” Flint found himself asking one of his mates as the call to disperse came.
“Blowed if I knows,” Bleeden admitted. “Matt heard it as two hundred. Pr'aps the cap'n had a change of heart?”
“Or maybe it never were to begin with,” Jameson said in a more considered tone. “It was the bootneck, Wainwright what told me the sentence,” he mused. “The one what we tied in an hammock and carried up the barrack tower. You don't think he might have been getting even, do you?”
Chapter Twenty
They spotted the topmasts of the first French ship two hours later. It was the smallest, reportedly a sloop, and probably sent as a scout for the rest of the squadron. Corbett had the watch and immediately alerted his captain, although other officers got wind of what was about and soon the quarterdeck was positively crowded.
“I'd say she were a corvette,” Caulfield declared when the sighting was finally visible from the deck. “Likely to be carrying less than a sixth rate within a hull even lighter, though much good that'll do us.”
“Aye,” King agreed laconically. “She'll have the legs on anything heavier than a frigate, that's for certain.”
“And she's making absolutely sure of who we are,” the first lieutenant continued, lowering his glass.
Certainly the Frenchman was not afraid to close on them. Since first coming into sight off the battleship's larboard quarter, the smaller vessel had steadily crept up to windward and now stood less than two miles off their starboard beam. But though she might come tantalisingly close, while there was space between her and the reach of Prometheus' long guns, she would be safe. Banks could order them about, and even attempt to give chase, but it would be as if a cow were pursuing a greyhound; the lithe craft would turn in an instant, and be heading away at more than twice the liner's speed in not much more.
“Mr Hunt, a signal, if you please!” The captain's shout was unexpected and made several jump, none more so than their new official fifth officer. “Make, 'Prometheus to flag – enemy in sight to windward'.”
Hunt glanced at Bentley, one of his midshipmen, and soon the hoist was breaking out from their mizzen.
“And acknowledge,” Banks added after a suitable pause. Signalling to non existent companions was now common to the point of almost becoming a tradition but, if the enemy had been sent to take a look, they may as well instil as much doubt as possible. This particular Frenchman was clearly unconcerned, however. The corvette remained on station a further half hour before turning neatly to starboard, tacking, then heading off in a flurry of spray. Soon she was nothing more than a blur of white to those on deck, and then disappeared entirely.
“Doubtless the others will know about us before long,” Caulfield muttered to King. “Yet I cannot see French liners making any more speed than us.”
“Though they may send their frigates separately,” King replied with more caution. It was considered poor form to speak despondently to a superior officer, although any ill feeling between him and Caulfield was long forgotten. And it soon became obvious the first lieutenant had not contemplated such a possibility.
“You mean they might be sent in to soften us up?” he asked. “We would deal with them harshly if so.”
“In daylight, yes,” King agreed. “But cleverly handled and under the cover of night, it would be a different story.”
“Two French frigates could never account for Prometheus,” Caulfield replied with certainty.
“They need not,” the younger man persisted. “Minor damage should suffice – maybe knock away a spar; slow us sufficiently and...”
“Leave the rest for the liners to finish off?” Caulfield finished grimly.
“It is a possibility.”
“Like picadors, readying a bull so their torero might make short work?” the first lieutenant sighed.
“Probably on those lines,” King, who knew little about bullfighting, agreed.
“Well, there are still several hours of daylight remaining,” Caulfield continued after a pause. “And personally I would doubt the French will relish a night action, although it might be prudent to alter course in case they do. But much will depend on what the captain has in mind.”
King said nothing. The bounds of seniority had already been stretched; it wasn't for him to make further suggestions, and certainly not to the captain. Prometheus was steering to raise Toulon in the least possible time. If Banks were intending to run – to stake everything on reaching the British fleet, a significant alteration in course would not even be considered. Yet his theory remained, and he felt it plausible. There were many imponderables, of course, no one could tell the state of the enemy's shipping, nor how well they were crewed. Or the skill of their officers for that matter. But this was a powerful squadron, and had already been taken past one of Britain's main overseas bases, so whoever led it did not lack spirit or determination. The most logical course was for Prometheus to make a bid for safety; head for Toulon at all costs and raise the British fleet. But if Banks was determined to follow it, King sensed they would see action long before morning.
* * *
However, when darkness fell with no further sighting of any French vessel, King was having second thoughts. He had dined with Brehaut and Corbett, both of whom were rema
rkably cheery and, when the time came for him to take the first watch, he did so with fewer doubts.
Christmas was only a few days off; there would be no moon until early morning and conditions could be best described as patchy, with thick banks of low lying cloud rolling in with the breeze. But at least the threatened rain had not appeared, so King settled down to what was likely to be four hours of monotony. Prometheus was sailing well; if the French squadron had been just beyond the horizon when the sun went down, they would have to gain over sixteen miles before reaching her, which must take even the sleekest frigate a fair while. And notwithstanding the poor visibility, an enemy should surely be spotted long before it came within range of their thirty-two pounders.
The wind, which was almost directly opposed to the prevalent north westerly, remained unusually constant. Hardly a sheet or brace had been touched for some hours, so it was reasonable to expect the French to be experiencing similar conditions. And with every strike of her bell, Prometheus was steadily drawing nearer to the might of the Mediterranean Fleet, where she would ultimately find safety.
The brig that had warned them would also be nearing Toulon shortly. She may even have been fortunate in meeting up with the offshore squadron already, and a considerable force could be beating south to their rescue at that very moment. In the quiet of the night King told himself that was bound to be the case, and wriggled his right hand inside its glove to encourage circulation. Having but one arm held few advantages, he decided, but there was one less limb to grow cold, while mittens should last twice as long. And he was still enjoying the private joke when Bleeden, bellowing from Prometheus' main top, brought him back to stark reality.
“Send for the captain,” he snapped, as soon as the brief message ended. A sail had been spotted; there was no knowing what class of ship it belonged to, but she was steering off their starboard quarter, which gave more than enough reason to wake Sir Richard. King took an anxious pace or two along the deck as he waited for Banks to appear. Prometheus was making her maximum speed in the present conditions, even to the extent of carrying stunsails at night when there was storm in the air, a rare and risky act in itself. His mind ran back over his predictions of the previous afternoon; despite Corbett and Brehaut's confident words, his original theory returned and now seemed far more likely. He supposed Banks could still alter their heading, still seek safety to eastward, in the wastes of the Mediterranean; that or turn to the west and take shelter behind the north east corner of Spain. But both courses of action would have less impact after so much time had been wasted.
