HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)
Page 30
And if they did not meet, he would simply order the ship back, heading apparently to take up her old course, although he had a far more subtle twist in mind. And one that was inspired, in part at least, by his sailing master.
By that time they should be able to turn to the north west, and just scrape past the coast of Spain. There might not even be a change of heading to slow them, while any enemy to larboard would be forced to pull back, unless they wished to come into close contact with Prometheus' heavy artillery. The British would continue, hopefully staying ahead of the increasing fog, and sight Cape Creus by the light of the moon that would be due to rise about then. That landmass would also be clipped as tightly as he dared, allowing Prometheus to carry on into more open water, with all their enemies behind and to starboard.
But much was being taken for granted. Prometheus may well be damaged in the forthcoming encounter; she might even receive without giving in return: in only a couple of hours he could be facing the entire enemy squadron in a ship unable to manoeuvre. It would be overwhelming odds, with the addition of a wide and encompassing lee shore that also happened to be French territory. But Banks was not particularly downhearted; he sensed his plan would work. There remained a chance of their becoming trapped, but this strange wind must surely change eventually, and the more usual north westerly return. And even if it remained, the south east coast of France was surely a large enough area to hide a single ship while, if they were found, he might at least stretch any action out long enough to enable the British to come to his rescue.
For that was still very much on his mind. The brig was bound to meet up with Nelson's fleet before long, and help would be despatched immediately, of that he was confident. And it would be a sizeable force; one large enough to deal with the French without risking too much damage in return. When the enemy were not in their expected position, Banks was sure any intelligent officer would make the obvious assumption, and turn some of his force to seek them out to the west.
But that was so much conjecture, and some while in the future. Right now he had to fight the immediate action. And, if he were not very much mistaken, one of the French frigates should be discovered shortly, perhaps behind the very next layer of cloud.
“Lookouts have been relieved, sir,” the first lieutenant told him.
“Very good, Michael,” Banks' response was automatic, and he did not feel the need to say more.
“The weather's worsening, though,” Caulfield added. “I've a mind it will be rain afore long.”
He was probably right, Banks decided, though rain should not alter his plans; if anything, it might benefit them. But even that was too far ahead, he was waiting, straining almost, for the first sign that they had run down on the enemy.
And it was possible they would not meet at all, he realised. That would put a very different slant on things. If no French frigate materialised, Prometheus would be free to seek sanctuary in the wider waters to the east. The idea was actually appealing, and he cursed himself for not considering it before. Then, just as he was starting to plan further, a call that was almost a parody of the customary lookout's bellow, was heard from the main masthead.
“Enemy in sight. The light frigate; we must 'ave passed 'er – she's less'n half a mile off the larboard quarter; I jus' caught a glimpse.”
“How is she steering?” Caulfield enquired in what was best described as a whispered shout.
“Seemed as if it were same as before, sir,” the lookout replied.
Banks felt his heart begin to race. His opponent was proving anything but intelligent. Prometheus had been allowed to change course and effectively creep up while they continued on the same heading, apparently oblivious to any British movement.
“Take us to larboard,” he muttered to Brehaut. “Mr Caulfield, I fear it will be the starboard guns after all. We shall run down on her tail.”
Yes, that should certainly be the case, Prometheus was already a good few hundred yards to windward, and more would be gained while they were turning. With the breeze in their favour they must close at speed, and should still deliver a sound raking even if they were spotted at the last moment.
Brehaut began ordering the manoeuvre as Banks allowed all on the quarterdeck a brief smile; this was going to be easier than he expected, and there would be no call to endanger his ship on a lee shore. If fortune were still on his side, he should shortly disable one of the frigates. The other Frenchman, however powerful she may be, would then have to pull back, leaving Prometheus free to continue to Toulon, and the safely of Nelson's fleet. The ship's head was turning, they would soon be round and could then pick up speed. Caulfield caught his eye, and Banks actually saw him open his mouth to speak. But he never heard what his friend had to say, as it was then that the broadside struck them.
* * *
It came across their stern and starboard quarter, and proved as devastating as it was unexpected. For all their thoughts about being elsewhere, the larger French ship must have been following her companion, on the same course but to windward, and was completely missed by Prometheus' lookouts. Consequently she had come out of nowhere, and there was no doubt she carried a heavy armament.
Banks went to pull himself up from the deck where he had fallen. He had a sharp pain to the left side of his skull, and he needed to grit his teeth to make his brain think clearly. When the enemy fell upon them, Prometheus had been in the process of recovering from her turn. Even now her canvas flapped wildly; the ship was without control, yet remained trapped between two enemies.
He tried to rise further, but something was stopping him and the effort caused the pain in his head to increase until he was forced to let out a pitiful moan. He brought a hand up to discover his scalp was torn and bleeding. All about the deck was scattered with debris, both human and otherwise. There were several blocks and other pieces of tophamper amongst the detritus, and Banks guessed one of those must have struck him.
Then vague but troubling thoughts that they were about to be targeted again took precedence. “Starboard the helm,” he yelled, despite the pain doing so caused. It was important – vital – that the ship was brought back to the wind and then hidden: there was a convenient bank of fog to larboard that should suffice for the time being. He levered himself up to his knees although was unable to progress further, and there was a ringing in his ears that he normally associated with the sound of his own ship's gunfire. “Starboard, I say!”
But no acknowledgement came from the wheel and, even in his disorientated state, Banks could gauge the ship's motion. The rudder must either be unmanned, or was no longer functioning.
A lantern was uncovered from the area under the poop that usually accommodated his quarters and, by its light, Banks was able to make out a little more of his surroundings. Of Brehaut and Caulfield he could see nothing; there was a midshipman, clearly wounded and making an odd primeval crying sound as he nursed his belly. And the crew of the nearest carronade would appear to have been entirely wiped out, partly by French shot, and partly by their own, upturned, weapon. Several marines lay on the deck in attitudes of peculiar abandon, and there were seamen staggering, dazed and confused, at almost every quarter.
The captain blinked and drew breath. “Quartermaster, take her to larboard,” he repeated in desperation while trying, yet again, to stand. But still there came no reply, and he was about to begin crawling forward when he saw the reassuring form of Brehaut, the sailing master, approach.
“We are back under rudder, sir,” he said, the Jerseyman's voice sounded wonderfully matter-of-fact as he squatted down to his captain's level. “Wheel was hit, but I have stationed men, and we are using the auxiliary tackle in the gun room; they are putting the helm across now.” He glanced up, seeming to ignore Banks for a moment. “Braces there – meet her as she comes. Mr Knolls, set your men to attend that mizzen stay!”
“Where's Michael Caulfield?” the captain found himself asking, but there were more important things for Brehaut to do.
Banks waited while the sailing master brought the ship back under proper control, then tried to rise yet again as they entered a bank of dense fog.
“You should be taken down to the surgeon, sir,” Brehaut told him in his usual, unaffected manner, although Banks would have no such thing. He gave himself another heave, and was finally able to stand, by gripping onto the sailing master's watch coat.
“You must have been knocked cold,” Brehaut said, one hand cautiously supporting his captain. “I had thought you dead, and considered it best to attend the steering.”
“You did right,” Banks murmured, adding, “what of the enemy?”
Brehaut looked out into the cloud filled darkness. “Not seen sight nor sound,” he said. “And it must be a good five minutes since they first struck. I'd say it were a true hit and run; her captain probably didn't relish returning to the wasp nest he'd disturbed.”
Despite Banks' dazed state, that made sense. The heavy frigate would have no way of knowing the damage they had caused and even a partial broadside from a two decker could do them serious harm.
“We must secure the ship,” Brehaut continued, conscious that he was the only one capable of reasoned thought. “Mr Hunt is unhurt and attending our damage. I should like your permission to summon Mr King from the lower deck.”
Yes, King would take the situation in hand, Banks supposed. But there was something nagging at the back of his mind. Something that was at once important, yet also indefinable.
“Do that,” he said, and noticed an immediate return of strength. “Take me to the binnacle,” he added. “I can rest there and support myself.”
Brehaut duly dragged his captain the few paces to where the wooden structure stood, mercifully untouched, even though the remains of the ship's double wheel, as well as those who had attended it, were strewn about the deck in an unspeakable mess. Banks gripped the cabinet and took consciously deep breaths; his head still ached but he was definitely growing stronger and felt able to assess himself properly.
Apart from the head, there was a universal ache that encompassed his entire body, almost as if he were suffering from a fever. That and the darned ringing in his ears which seemed to be putting a block on all constructive thought. But about him men were working. He could hear the crack of axes on wood, shouts of orders or complaints and the occasional sob. Someone was attempting to brace up the mizzen mast, but it was impossible to tell if they were being successful.
“I'm going to have to leave you now, sir,” Brehaut's apologetic voice came from nowhere, indeed Banks had already thought him gone.
“Very good,” he replied automatically. Then what he had been searching for was suddenly found; he looked towards the departing sailing master and asked the question yet again.
“Where's Michael?”
* * *
King had been taken by surprise as much as anyone, although the damage to his gun deck was not significant. The frigate's broadside struck them at an angle, most of her shots were high and none penetrated the heavy timbers of the lower wales. But the unexpected attack had unsettled his men, and he was still calling for order when a white faced midshipman appeared at the aft companionway.
“Captain's callin' you to the quarterdeck, Mr King,” he told him. It was Brown, the other lad implicated in the assault on Prometheus' passenger. “They've been hit bad,” he spluttered. “Our wheel's taken and first luff's split in two by a round shot.”
“Shut up,” King snapped in a mixture of anger and horror. To speak so in front of two hundred men trapped on a gun deck was foolishness of the highest order, and he was so enraged that the loss of his friend hardly registered. But as he clambered awkwardly up the companionway, King found he was breathing hard, and there was a pain in his chest as if something far too large was being contained within. He did not doubt Caulfield was dead, but already knew he would take a while to totally accept the fact.
Conditions were much the same on the upper gun deck; King decided it must have been the quarterdeck and above that had taken the brunt of the damage. Corbett raised a hand and made to step in his direction, but there was no time for delay and King turned for the next companionway. And when he emerged into the cold night air, it was just as he feared.
Necessity had caused lanterns to be lit, which showed the true devastation. Rain was now falling, and bodies lay at every station, but King was experienced enough to look beyond these. Their wheel being out of action mattered far more; that and the work some of Knoll's men were carrying out to the starboard mizzen chains.
“We've lost five shrouds and the starboard backstays,” the boatswain reported without being asked. “I'm rigging preventers, but don't expect the mast to hold if you're thinkin' of any fancy sailing.”
King had no plans for anything of the sort; his only intention was to secure the ship, and fully assess her damage.
“Tom!” It was the captain's voice, and he turned to see him standing unsteadily next to the binnacle. His face was oddly distorted, and there was a stream of blood flowing freely through his hair and down the side of his face.
“How is it with you, sir?” he asked, although the words seemed to have been spoken in the midst of some terrible dream.
“The wheel is taken,” Banks replied, foolishly pointing in the direction of the nearby wreckage. “And I cannot find Michael.”
“How are we set?” King asked, turning to Brehaut who had appeared from out of the gloom.
“All plain to the t'gallants,” the sailing master reported promptly. “Steering nor-nor east. The Spanish coast is just off our larboard bow, but we should clear that for sure, and Cape Creus lies twenty five miles beyond.”
“Will we round that?” King asked, as Hunt lumbered up to join them, his face badly bruised.
“I believe so,” Brehaut chanced. “Though the moon shall be risen by then, so we should know for certain.”
“And the enemy?” For all King knew, one or more of the liners might easily be hiding in the mist.
“Two frigates,” Hunt informed him. “The heavier is probably still to windward, the other was in our lee, but has not been sighted for some time.”
“Very well,” King drew breath; this had all happened so quickly his mind was reeling, although there remained something strangely comforting about being on the quarterdeck. And the fact that he apparently had control did not concern him in any way.
“You have made arrangements for the wheel?” he demanded.
“Yes, the auxiliary tiller is manned and in position on the rudder head.” Brehaut replied. “There is a midshipman and a master's mate stationed to pass directions. A quartermaster's mate is in the wardroom and will supervise steering.”
King glanced round and noticed Adams had been brought up from the deck below, and now stood under the lee of the poop. Despite his relatively sheltered position, the midshipman's watch coat was billowing softly in the breeze. King looked further and saw three massive holes in the bulwarks, presumably made by shot that had caused such carnage on the quarterdeck.
“The lookouts are manned?” King grunted.
“Both mastheads have reported,” Hunt told him, “and the forecastle. All guns are loaded.”
“So tell me exactly, when was the last proper sighting of the enemy?”
There were several seconds' delay, as if neither officer wished to speak.
“Not for a fair while,” Brehaut finally confessed. “And we saw nothing of the ship that caused the damage,” he elaborated.
“Didn't even see her when she did,” Hunt confirmed, gloomily. “Just the flash of guns. But she were powerful – for a frigate, I am meaning.”
“And where was she steering – what course?” King snapped; really this was frustrating in the extreme.
“She struck as we were turning,” Hunt again. “So assume her to have been on the starboard tack.”
King took this in; the situation was not quite as bad as he at first thought. Prometheus had been hit some while before; if either of the French had a mind to close, they should have done so by now. And no tell-tale fire had been started to give their position away. There were lanterns in use for sure but most hung below the level of the bulwarks and hammock stuffed side netting, while he could trust the reflected light to be lost in the ever increasing fog.
“Ask Mr Roberts to report, if you please,” he ordered, but the carpenter was already approaching from the break of the quarterdeck.
“No significant damage to the hull, sir,” the man told him. “Though the starboard mizzen channels is weakened. Mr Knoll is attemptin' to rig preventer stays, an' it's a new lower mast, but I should not like to trust it at present.”
King nodded impatiently. He supposed they had been lucky, but he would so much rather Prometheus to have been badly holed, than suffer the effective loss of her captain and first lieutenant.
“See to that, as soon as you are able, Mr Roberts,” he said, pointing at the savage holes in their starboard side. “Stretch a bolt of canvas across, if nothing more permanent can be achieved.” The damage was high above the waterline, but he did not wish for the glint of lanterns to betray their position. It remained vital the ship stayed as invisible as possible. As it was, the enemy had found them, even though they were completely darkened; he could not afford for that to happen a second time.