HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  King glanced back to where his opponent, now stationary and very much ablaze, was effectively acting as a beacon to her fellows. He had won a minor victory, although there had been no merit in it – for a two decker to silence a frigate carried limited kudos. But soon the area would be swarming with Frenchmen; he could expect attention from the liners, all three of which were untouched, while any one would make a worthy adversary on its own.

  “But we'll be clearing the Cape nicely,” Brehaut continued, and King supposed he should be pleased. There was no chance of slipping silently to the west, however; their course was now advertised to the enemy who must surely follow. Prometheus was also wounded; her mizzen may not take repair, so she would be limited for speed and manoeuvrability. The wind was remaining stubbornly against them, and suddenly being trapped in waters bounded by the French coast, did not seem such a good idea after all.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Banks rose unsteadily from the chart room deck where he had been laid, and tried to think. He remembered Prometheus being struck by an unexpected broadside, and his own injury, sustained from the lump of falling tophamper, but little more. Certainly not falling asleep, and having to be helped into the chart room, nor specific details of the danger his ship was in. And there was an additional and undeniable feeling of emptiness deep within which warned that something of incredible sadness had occurred, although he knew not what.

  He raised a hand to the tight bandage about his head and felt at the wound. It was tender, and hurt when pressed, but the pain was not unbearable, and there was no fresh blood. And he could stand; he needed to grip tightly to the chart room table, but the initial spinning sensation slowly eased, then he was able to take a step unassisted.

  The door to the quarterdeck opened easily and outside the moon was high and gave reasonable light. He looked about. There were some remains left of their ruined wheel, but the bodies were gone – knowledge that it had been hit, as well as his sailing master's arrangements to see the ship remained under helm were slowly returning. There was Brehaut now, he was standing next to the binnacle, along with someone he could not identify who was dressed as a lieutenant. And it was then that he remembered about Michael Caulfield.

  Something must have alerted the sailing master, for he turned and noticed him.

  “Sir Richard,” Brehaut called out, as he approached. “Are you all right, sir; should you be up?”

  For a moment Banks gave no response, his mind seemingly elsewhere, and all on the quarterdeck were sure the concussion still affected him. Then he seemed to shake himself free of his thoughts, almost as if he were coming back to life, and Brehaut at least sensed he was returning to normality.

  “Thank you, Master; I am much improved,” he replied, and it turned out to be true; Banks was actually feeling a good deal better. He made for the binnacle to check their course and automatically took in the damage to his ship, while casting a critical eye at those about him.

  “What of the mizzen stays?” he demanded, indicating Roberts and his men who were at work nearby. “Are they lost?”

  “Not lost, sir,” Brehaut told him. King had appeared from the darkness of the main deck, and the young fifth lieutenant – Banks could not recall his name – joined the others in staring as if he were an exhibit in some travelling fair.

  “But will they serve?” He was in danger of losing his temper.

  “In due course, sir,” King said with his usual assurance. “Mr Roberts thinks there a chance all will be sound by mid-morning, and the boatswain has rigged auxiliary preventers to the starboard rabbets until then.”

  Banks nodded and was relieved when there was no answering pain. “And the rest of the ship,” he snapped. “How is she set?”

  “We are steering from the wardroom,” King told him. “And have taken minor damage as well as some casualties, though only three guns are not in use.”

  “From that one broadside?”

  “No, sir; we were in action since,” King's voice now carried a measure of awkwardness.

  “We fought the heavier frigate, sir,” Hunt chimed in more boisterously. “And Mr King set her to rights. Took down her topmasts, then laid us across her bows and dished out the finest raking I have ever yet seen.”

  “She is taken?” Banks again, while he privately remembered Hunt's name.

  “Not taken, sir” King confessed. “There was no time, and we still had the second frigate in the area.”

  “And three more liners thereabouts,” Brehaut pointed out.

  “Of course,” the captain agreed, remembering the situation; then adding, “and you did well, Tom, I am confident.”

  “At present we are off the Spanish coast,” Brehaut continued, indicating to larboard, although nothing could be seen beyond the bulwark. “Nearest land lies fifteen miles to the west, though we will soon be rounding Cape Creus. Then we may choose to shelter in its lee, or turn and continue across the Gulf of Lyon, as you wish, sir.”

  “What of the enemy?” the captain demanded.

  “No sight for some two hours,” Brehaut answered calmly. “And the moon's been up nearly three. The last we saw of them was the damaged frigate, and she were afire. Not seen the smaller ship at all, and never properly did, if the truth be known. Nor anything of the liners or that corvette.”

  But they had done well, Banks decided. Prometheus had been handled competently in his absence; she may have taken damage, but no man could be blamed for that. The important point was they were relatively safe and, once clear of the Cape, would be able to shelter. Come daylight, Prometheus was bound to be in sight of French territory, but it would take an age for any message to reach the searching ships, and by the time one arrived, the British should be with them also.

  “Very good,” he said after considering a little longer. “How long until dawn?”

  “Three hours,” Brehaut replied. “By then we should be past Cape Creus, sir.”

  “Then so be it,” Banks grunted. “Gentlemen, you must take some rest. Have the watch below stand down, and make arrangement to turn in yourselves.”

  “There is the matter of the first lieutenant, sir.” King began, but Banks interrupted.

  “That he is dead?” he asked. “Yes, I do recall, and indeed am sorry.” There was a pause and all three appeared mildly uncomfortable until the captain added, “Mr Caulfield was a fine officer and will doubtless be missed,” almost harshly.

  * * *

  The following morning did indeed see them safe, with the hard and rugged outline of Cape Creus behind, while the blue waters of the Gulf of Lyon stretched out north and east. There was no trace of enemy shipping, and a gentle sun had chosen to bless them. But no one aboard Prometheus was fooled and seemed to sense this to be nothing more than the calm before the storm.

  A French frigate had been severely damaged, and the powerful squadron it belonged to would doubtless be searching for them. Confined, as they were, to the western section of an inland sea, it could not be long before they were found; the only question lay in who would do so first, the French or the British.

  Prometheus' watch system had been re-established, but the ship remained cleared for action so, taking advantage of the unseasonably warm weather, Banks called a meeting of senior officers on the ship's poop. They were seated about a mess table covered with one of the captain's best damask cloths. David had served them coffee and hot rolls – still acceptably fresh – while the carpenter's team were putting the final touches to their starboard mizzen channels, and working especially quietly to enable them to overhear.

  “Mr Brehaut informs me we are slightly over one hundred and twenty miles off Toulon,” Banks told them, although all present bar Marine Captain Reynolds would have been expected to know as much. “The wind is currently in the east and contrary. It would seem likely to change, but we cannot rely on that. If not, the best we can make is north by nor-east.”

  This was also well known, but still evoked a rumble of comment.

  �
��Were we to steer so, I feel it likely the French would find us,” the captain continued, his tone intentionally flat. “And, though Mr Roberts and his team are doubtless doing all they can, I understand the mizzen channels and their settings will require extensive repair, and cannot be fully relied upon until we make a dockyard.”

  At the mention of their name, the carpenter's men paused and gave self-conscious smiles, only to hurriedly continue as it was realised they were giving themselves away.

  “So, we may stay where we are, in the hope the French shall not find us. Or head north, and further into the Gulf, in search of a more favourable wind.”

  This time the captain's statement brought no comment. Even Reynolds was sufficiently aware that to do so meant sailing into a dead end. And it would be a dead end with the wind effectively blocking them in.

  “So what are your thoughts, gentlemen?” Banks asked.

  * * *

  But before the meeting finished, fresh news made the decision for them and, once more it was carried by a call from the masthead.

  “Deck there, I can see topmasts beyond the Cape!”

  King, who had been in the midst of suggesting they stayed put, closed his mouth mid-sentence, and all about the table held their breath.

  “There are two ships at least,” Jameson, who was on lookout duty, continued. “Though I thinks there a third about to round the headland.”

  The main landmass of Cape Creus was ten miles to the south, which meant the sighting would be little further away. And, as the wind had been steadily veering, the enemy were gradually gaining the windward gauge.

  “Send a middie aloft with a glass,” Banks ordered, and King caught the eye of Adams. Prometheus was currently hove to under top and stay sails; it would take no time at all to add top gallants and courses and possibly stunsails, at which point they should be able to match the speed of any French liner. But he was forgetting that Roberts, the carpenter, had yet to pronounce their mizzen safe, while he could only truly travel north for considerably less than a hundred miles before the southern coast of France rose up to meet them. And then, if the wind was determined to stay contrary, they would be firmly wedged against a lee shore.

  “The first is clearing the land,” Adams reported to a silent but intense audience. “I'd say she was a frigate.” All at the table let out a sigh; frigates were in short supply in the Mediterranean Fleet; the sight of one must surely mean the squadron was French. “And at least three ships lie beyond.”

  Really the news could not have been worse, and Banks allowed himself a brief moment of anger, before rising up and addressing his officers.

  “Very well, gentlemen, it seems the French are closer than we had thought. Mr Brehaut, we will be making sail as soon as I have spoken with the carpenter. And then I think we should prepare for battle once more.”

  * * *

  Half an hour later Prometheus was under topsails, topgallants and staysails, with the bulk of the French ships now identified beyond doubt and in clear sight off their tail. King had the watch, as the captain intended delaying sending the hands to quarters, and was becoming accustomed to the slight delay and lack of sensitivity in the steering. Once more Brehaut stood by him, and the sun was still shining. Indeed it had turned into a very pleasant morning: doubly welcome this close to Christmas. King could not help glancing back at the enemy, their sails seemed unusually white in the fresh, clean air, and under bright, though impotent sunshine, they might have been nothing more than a massive yachting expedition, rather than a battle squadron intent on their own death and destruction.

  “We should sight what is marked as Cape Béar at any time,” Brehaut stated calmly. “Once that is rounded it will be up to the captain. There are two or three miles to claim to the west, but only that, and the coast begins to curve steadily eastwards from then on.”

  “I can see no benefit in allowing ourselves to become cornered,” King added. “Though the Gulf itself is as much of a trap, if on a larger scale.”

  “It is fortunate the wind has changed, however,” Brehaut mused. “At least we can make some semblance of an easterly, though not enough to raise Toulon.”

  “Nowhere near,” King agreed. “And with three prime liners to windward...” He was too tired to finish his sentence; there could not be many aboard Prometheus unaware of the situation, and that it was hopeless.

  The ship's bell rang and both men knew they had only an hour of duty left until claiming what comfort there would be in a ship cleared for action. To starboard, Roberts and two of his mates were still annoying the damaged mizzen channels, even though the carpenter had declared that nothing more could be done on more than one occasion. The mast should hold in anything up to a steady breeze – above that little could be guaranteed, so it was doubly irritating that any future change of course must be to starboard while, in normal circumstances, they would have been praying for a decent storm.

  “So what are the options?” King asked finally, his voice now low.

  “Remarkably few, I fear,” Brehaut replied, equally softly. “We can make as much as we can for the east, but that will only bring the enemy about our necks the sooner, while to continue steering north must end on a lee shore, and somewhere near a town named Narbonne, if I'm any judge.”

  “We might yet be rescued by the Med. Fleet,” King reminded him, but the sailing master gave a dismissive shrug.

  “It is something to be borne in mind, Tom, and may well cheer the people, if the captain feels the need,” he spoke in barely a whisper. “But do you seriously think it an option?”

  King said nothing. Brehaut was right, to be rescued so would entail such a series of unlikely coincidences that he really should discount the prospect. No, far better to take a mature view: they faced impossible odds, and were slowly, but steadily running out of sea room. That there would be a battle was as inevitable as the fact they must surely lose.

  But much depended on how they did so. Captain Banks could take what many would see as the sensible option: fire a couple of token broadsides, before striking his flag and surrendering the ship in an effort to save life on both sides. That was probably the most civilised ending, although one that King at least did not expect to see, as it would mean handing over a prime line-of-battleship to the enemy. Some would consider such an act a minor defeat, but to those aware of the current situation, it spelt disaster on a far larger scale.

  Were the enemy then able to avoid the scaled down blockading squadron off Toulon they could bring their capture home in triumph, where Prometheus would be refitted for French service. Then she might sail in company with a revitalised fleet, one large enough to take on all of Nelson's ships and crush them by sheer numbers. With the Mediterranean Squadron so destroyed, the French would be free to head south for the Atlantic where they would cause total havoc with each blockading force in turn, until a fleet capable of holding the English Channel was assembled. Three days was all Bonaparte claimed necessary to see an invading army across that narrow strip of water: with such combined power, the enemy might hold it for three months.

  Or Prometheus could be scuttled; that would be preferable to seeing her serve under an enemy flag, and there should still be a general saving of lives. But King was equally sceptical about Sir Richard Banks ordering such an action, and doubted whether many of his officers or men would obey him if he did. Ignoring the political implications, and an imaginative French press would make much from the meek self destruction of a British line-of-battleship, it would also burst the illusion of invulnerability the Royal Navy had established over this, and the previous war.

  No, the only option seemed to be a full scale action; one where Prometheus was effectively sacrificed in exchange for as much damage as could be caused to her tormentors. If they were lucky, the French may be wounded enough to make their own destruction inevitable. And if not, if the battleship was destroyed without leaving a suitable mark on the enemy, she would still have gone down fighting. It might be considered a wastef
ul gesture, certainly when the loss of life that must surely follow was assessed, and the war would not be brought to an earlier close. But neither would the battle have been given up entirely in France's favour. And, when judging the options Sir Richard Banks faced, King was reasonably certain which would be chosen.

  * * *

  “I don't care what private arrangement you have with Mr Manning,” the surgeon's mate told Flint. “Laudanum ain't a drug we're allowed to dispense on an ongoing basis, an' without anything official written up, I can't give you nothing.”

  Flint snorted in disgust. It wouldn't have been so bad if he'd known about this before declining his grog ration, but one of the stipulations Mr Manning insisted upon when giving the magic elixir, was that he remained stone cold sober. Flint understood rules were being broken, or at least bent, although was now at the stage when the twice daily dose, one taken at midday, and the other at the end of the second dog, was all that kept him going. It gave rest – sleep even – and, most of all, a temporary reprieve from the pain that otherwise ran rife about his entire body. With those few hours of peace to look forward to, Flint could continue: without them, he may as well end it all now. And then a jumped up loblolly boy from the Smoke says there is nothing written down...

  “I want to see the surgeon,” he muttered.

  “You can, eventually,” Blake told him. “But will have to wait in line. We've been up to our armpits in wounded since last night, and there's still a good few what needs further lookin' at.” The young man was about to turn away but, seeing the pain in Flint's face, relented slightly. “Look, Mr Manning's asleep right now, and I ain't the one to wake him. But he's expected back by six bells, arf-noon watch. Why not try then, and I'll see if I can't get you in?”

  Flint gave a grudging thanks, and stumbled off along the orlop. There were indeed a lot of men lying wounded; all seemed to have been attended to, but some might still be in more pain than he was. And his own ailment had been around for quite some time now, so really he should be getting used to it.