by Alaric Bond
“She's closing with us fast,” the masthead added, just as Captain Banks made his appearance. “I reckons her to be a frigate. And it looks as if there may be another on her tail.”
* * *
“Who is at the masthead?” Banks demanded.
“Bleeden, sir.” The captain was wearing a watch coat over his nightshirt and apparently not in a mood to be trifled with. “Sound enough man – a former smuggler, I believe,” King added.
“Then he ought to be able to see straight,” Banks grunted. “But better send a middie up, just the same.”
A glance at Bentley, who had called Sir Richard, was sufficient and soon the lad was clambering the starboard main shrouds with a night glass strapped over his shoulder.
“And she's hull down?”
“She was, sir,” King confirmed. “Though coming up fast, by all accounts.”
The captain made an odd guttural sound that King was uncertain if he should reply to, but fortunately Bentley's voice was then heard from the maintop.
“I have her,” he said, with reassuring certainty. “She's a frigate sure enough, and not more than two mile off.”
So much for hull down, King thought, but held his silence.
“Clear for action,” Banks snapped, although Bentley had more to add.
“I'd say she were a fifth rate,” he persisted, over the scream of pipes and the bellowing of orders. “And there's definitely a further following, though I cannot make her well enough. Carrying quite a tophamper – she may be larger.”
The first ship sounded like the lighter frigate, or the corvette; either would be an inconvenience as another vessel of any size must limit their options. But the second would appear to be something bigger. She was conceivably a third rate, similar to Prometheus, although a heavy frigate would be almost as bad. The French had a number of forty gun ships built to carry eighteen pounders. They were fast, as well as considerably more powerful than a normal single decker, and it would be just their luck to have run into one of them.
“Very good, Mr King,” Banks said, turning back for his quarters. “I shall dress while there is still something of a cabin remaining. But you may send the men to quarters, and have that man Bleeden replaced at the maintop. If he cannot spot a Frenchman 'till she is two mile from our stern, it's hardly surprising he failed as a smuggler.”
* * *
“Ahoy, there, Charlie boy,” Jameson greeted as he clambered up the main topmast shrouds. “You're for a warm; I'm relievin' you.”
“Trick don't end 'till two bells,” Bleeden replied, suspiciously.
“Then you should have kept your eyes open,” the midshipman, Bentley, who was sharing his tenuous perch, told him.
“How can anyone be certain in weather like this?” the seaman grumbled as Jameson began to shin up the topgallant mast. The other two glanced about; Bleeden had a point; with no moon, the banks of cloud were only really distinguishable by a slight deepening in texture. And they were being carried in with the wind; their movement constantly distracting the eye, and making a misery out of any lookout's hour long spell of duty. The Frenchmen could easily have been hidden, and indeed were currently nowhere to be seen, having presumably slunk back into one of many patches of cover.
“If you two think you can keep a better watch, then I'm a squarehead,” Bleeden continued, as he and Jameson delicately changed places on the yard. “This is much worse than a true fog, an' you're welcome to it.”
* * *
Within an hour the situation had altered dramatically. Prometheus was transformed from sleeping ship to a potent man-of-war, with guns run out and alert hands standing ready at every station. King had disappeared to manage his cherished heavy cannon, while Caulfield stood relaxed and primed next to an equally composed Brehaut. Only Banks seemed filled with nervous energy, and paced the deck compulsively while considering the various options. Dressed in seaman's trousers and leather waistcoat buttoned tight over a cotton shirt, he was probably cold and would doubtless have noticed had not thoughts of the enemy gained complete control of his mind.
One Frenchman, the smaller frigate, could occasionally be made out off the starboard beam, where she was keeping pace with them beyond the reach of their cannon. She had the wind marginally forward of the quarter, as did Prometheus, but was sailing without the aid of studding sails, which would make her more manoeuvrable. Of the other ship, though, the one that had only been properly sighted twice, they knew far less. She was also judged to be a frigate, but appeared of larger proportions and, when last seen, had apparently been making to leeward. But after twenty minutes of waiting, all on the quarterdeck were starting to have doubts. And it was one thing to face a visible foe, admittedly lighter than them, although still able to pack a sizeable punch, but the concealed forty gunner was felt to be much more of a threat.
Mercifully there was still no rain, but the cloud remained patchy and, sailing as they were, the hidden frigate could close at any time. And if she did, it would be hit and run; Prometheus' gunners may not have the chance to get a decent broadside in before they were soundly raked, or received a telling sidelong barrage that left their tophamper in tatters and the ship at the mercy of the heavyweights that lay close behind.
Banks stopped pacing abruptly and turned towards Brehaut. “How far off is the coast, Master?”
“No more than ten miles, sir, and would be in sight, were it day.”
Ten miles; that did not give them much in the way of sea room if forced to fight. Should the second ship truly be there, Prometheus would be going into battle on the edge of a lee shore. But another, and more clearly defined, frigate was definitely sailing to windward. He could make towards that and chase her away, while freeing himself from any threat of land, and the temptation to do so was growing stronger with every passing minute. But such a move might also have been anticipated and even planned for by the enemy: he was just as likely to be playing directly into their hands.
If what they all suspected was correct, the second may close on him to larboard, trapping his ship between two enemies and raking her bow and stern. Even if both were nothing more than fifth rates, the British would be lucky not to be partially disabled, while their own fire was likely to be ineffective. And then the frigates would simply depart with the ease and speed of their class, leaving his ship as easy meat for the oncoming liners.
“Ten miles is not so very much,” Banks mused, while his mind continued to wrestle with the problem.
“Indeed not, sir,” Brehaut agreed. “Although the coast falls away shortly afterwards, and that would give us more leeway.”
“How far?” Banks asked
“I should recommend a further fifteen miles.”
Banks waited expectantly.
“As I said, the coast falls away,” the sailing master repeated, conscious that he now had his captain's entire attention. “There is a bay, the Gulf of Roses, were we to turn any earlier we may become trapped there. I can show you on a chart, if it makes matters easier, sir?”
“Please continue,” Banks replied.
“Delaying for fifteen miles would allow us to pass by Cape Creus. Once that is rounded, more sea room will be gained. The wind is currently against that prevalent in this area; it must inevitably change and, when it does, we might follow the coast all the way to Toulon.”
The captain nodded but said nothing. He knew the waters reasonably well, and understood Brehaut's suggestion. It would, as the sailing master said, give them a measure of safety. Passing by Cape Creus should also deny the invisible heavy frigate any opportunity of closing to leeward. She would effectively be scraped off their larboard beam by the outpost of rock. But there would be far less chance of meeting with any alerted ships from Nelson's fleet and, if the wind did not change and the enemy followed, there remained the possibility they may yet be trapped on a lee shore. And it would be one made from French soil, rather than Spanish.
* * *
The intricacies of the situation were l
ost on Lieutenant Corbett, although that was not to be surprised at. From his station on the upper gun deck he could see much, and hear most of what was about, but lacked the more comprehensive understanding of those on the quarterdeck. Still he knew enough to accept that his eighteen pounders would soon be in action, and was confident that their servers, who he had personally drilled and exercised, were prepared. As was he; in truth, Corbett had never felt so ready in his life.
At present their opposition were nothing other than a pair of frigates. They might give Prometheus a run for her money, but little else – it would be poor form if a British third rate did not see off two single-deckers, especially as they were bound to be poorly provisioned and manned by untrained crews. The fact that the smaller ships could still cause significant damage had missed him completely; Corbett's mind being firmly set on the trio of liners that, he hoped, they would eventually engage.
At St Vincent, Nelson had captured two such battle-wagons with a ship no larger than Prometheus. And one of those was a three decker, seized when the first struck, and was subsequently used as a stepping stone to board the bigger vessel. Corbett did not pretend to be a second Nelson, even if in private he considered himself to have many of the Admiral's attributes. But an example had been set and, should the opportunity come his way, he was determined to follow it.
He took a turn up the darkened deck, acknowledging the gun crews, currently divided and resting between their guns, as he went. The men returned his nods or occasional words of encouragement respectfully, and Corbett told himself he had a good understanding of the common seaman. He sensed all were positively spoiling for a fight, while recognising a fellow spirit in the officer that led them. And that, he was certain, was half the battle.
“No sign of a moon,” he muttered to Adams, the midshipman who was stationed forward, and under the open spar deck.
“Not for another hour or so, sir,” the younger man agreed. “Though I reckons we are better off without it.”
Corbett was not sure of the last point. They had been blessed with only patchy cloud, and the promised rain had yet to appear, but he would have liked more visibility if they were to engage faster craft. The upper batteries currently lay in near darkness; light was needed when the guns went into action, and the ticking of closed lanterns told him it would be available. But once those traps were opened, the men's night vision must be all but lost, and it would be a shame if the enemy were able to get in a lucky strike when they were so disabled.
“Well, we should have a bright enough moon by the time the liners appear,” he replied.
Adams looked doubtfully at his superior.
“The Frog frigates will detain us, you can be sure of that,” Corbett explained, clasping his hands comfortably behind his back. “But I cannot see even a forty gunner making much of an impression on this old barge.” He released his grip and patted a timber affectionately. “And if it means we get the chance to fall in with a proper enemy, they shall have served their purpose admirably.”
A murmur of approval was heard from the nearest gun crew: Corbett turned to them and acknowledged it with a cheery smile.
“Yes, sir,” the midshipman replied in apparent agreement, although inside he was not quite so sure.
* * *
“Very well, we make for Cape Creus,” Banks said, breaking the silence, and stirring up the group of officers who had gravitated towards the faint glow of the binnacle lamp.
“But first perhaps play a little game with the enemy?” the captain continued. “Mr Brehaut, take us to starboard, if you please; I intend to run down on that Frenchman and see him move!”
“We shall have to take in the stuns'ls, sir,” the sailing master replied, as he collected the speaking trumpet.
“So be it,” Banks agreed. “Strike them, they will not be wanted again this session. Any victory we achieve tonight shall be won by cunning, rather than speed.”
* * *
Prometheus' gun crews were divided into two teams, each serving weapons on opposite batteries, with a third, and separate, group attending whichever cannon was in action, and reinforcing the servers on that side. Such a system enabled the unused battery to be available at any time, while on the rare occasions when both sides of the ship were engaging an enemy simultaneously, the floating team could be equally split between them.
“Ready starboard battery,” Briars called out after the message had been passed down from the upper gun deck, and the transient servers trooped across to join the starboard guns. A few hours ago, Briars had been under close arrest in a Royal Marine storeroom, and was only released on clearing for action, according to the custom. But his confession and subsequent public disgrace, along with a brief spell in custody, had knocked any remaining confidence from the lad, and it was with surprise that he noticed men were actually responding to his order.
“We're changing course,” Lieutenant King informed him, from a few feet away.
“Yes, sir,” Briars agreed hesitantly, and the ship crept round and began to take the wind more fully on her beam.
“Looks like we're trying to chase the Frogs away,” King continued, taking a few steps towards the boy. “Though I'd be surprised if we had the speed to do so with the starboard guns.”
King had reached the midshipman and noticed his face appeared filled with doubt.
“If the enemy maintains their station, we won't have the pace to close with her to starboard,” he explained. “It is far more likely the old tub rounds on her stern; then we may chance a raking broadside, but that will be from the larboard battery.”
Briars nodded silently in the near darkness and King had a moment of insight.
“Look, I cannot tell how you are feeling,” he said more softly, “Though a guess would probably not fall short of the mark. My advice is to put whatever did or did not happen to one side. You remain a warrant officer, and right now that is what the Navy needs and expects. There will be plenty of time to discuss crimes and punishments later: for now, do your duty and leave problems of the future where they belong.”
“Yes, sir,” Briars repeated, although his expression was more positive.
“Hey, Joe!” the voice came down from above and belonged to Adams, one of the midshipmen on the upper deck. “First luff's changed his mind; its ready larboard battery now.”
“Belay that,” Briars called out instantly. “Ready larboard battery.”
The men paused in preparing the starboard cannon for use and, only grumbling mildly, began to move across to the opposite battery.
“Mr Caulfield's mistake,” Briars assured them, although none seemed particularly bothered.
* * *
“Need the Jakes, Mr Corbett,” Bleeden informed the third lieutenant. Despite being in Flint's mess, he did not serve in his gun crew, having been switched to one of the upper deck's eighteen pounders to make up for previous casualties.
“Use the pissdale,” Corbett told him curtly. “Or a gun port, the Dear knows it's dark enough, and you can't be seen by the quarterdeck.”
The last part was certainly true. Bleeden's gun was directly beneath, in what usually constituted the wardroom.
“It ain't a piss I'm wantin', sir,” Bleeden replied with rude honesty and to the amusement of others. The lieutenant sighed. It was a lengthy walk forward to the heads, and Bleeden was not a man to be trusted to go quite that far when the ship was cleared for action.
“Oh, very well, you may use the commissioned officers' quarter gallery,” he grunted. The first lieutenant's facility was actually closer, but one of the few concessions to Caulfield's rank was a private head, and it would be wrong of Corbett to offer it to a common seaman. “But mind you don't take forever,” he added.
Bleeden knuckled his forehead politely, and made off aft, where he slipped open the sliding door of the starboard quarter gallery. Inside it was dark and stuffy, and there was an odd feeling of insecurity about the place, being a lighter structure, and only tenuously attached to the
ship's outer hull. A closed lantern was burning from the deckhead, and Bleeden opened it, before glancing about in its light.
Everything was provided for him to take his ease in both comfort and privacy; rare commodities aboard any warship. But Bleeden's mind was ever alert to the main chance, and began to explore further possibilities.
There was a small cabinet set below the ornate window. Within, he found an almost full bottle of lavender water, together with four sets of razors and three unused bars of soap. Of these the soap and cologne was by far the more saleable, and he placed both on one side, intending to pocket them later. He then went to close the lantern, but changed his mind at the last moment. The quarter gallery did indeed offer exceptional comfort, and it had not been a particularly pleasant night that far; he may as well enjoy the light for a little longer.
But when he was finally summoned back to duty by an irate midshipman banging on the door, Bleeden left in such a hurry that he completely forgot about his booty. And the lantern, that continued to burn brightly next to the quarter gallery window.
Chapter Twenty-One
The weather wasn't improving any; low lying areas of cloud were turning to a proper fog which rolled in with the wind, while the scent of rain was also far stronger. But Prometheus made good progress as she clawed towards the last reported sighting of the lighter frigate. The enemy might have moved significantly since of course, and was bound to have forereached on her previous position. But with the third rate's mastheads being higher, Banks still hoped she might be taken by surprise. And if the other ship to leeward chose to follow, they were welcome: he would be expecting it. The mist they were sailing into was definitely stronger and Banks knew his ship to be hidden. With luck he should be able to land a devastating broadside on the first, then turn back and be in a perfect position to tackle the second as well.
