by Alaric Bond
* * *
“Gentlemen, I think we should beat to quarters,” Banks addressed his officers with some formality. No one knew what the next few hours would bring, but it was likely to be the last time he gave such an order, certainly to those about him, and on that particular quarterdeck. In twenty-four hours some were likely to be dead, with Prometheus herself nothing more than a wreck. A few may make it into captivity, and even find themselves exchanged, although such civilised arrangements had been scarce so far in the current war. But the French squadron was gaining on them and, now that the southern coast of France was not only in sight, but steadily spreading until it stretched across their starboard bow, all knew the time for their final action was close.
But at least the wind was being compliant to some extent. Since mid morning it had veered slightly, and Banks would be able to take the ship further to the east. Not much, and nowhere near enough to place Toulon in their sights. But it might allow them time to force a night engagement.
All that was in the future, though; for now Banks stood motionless while three Royal Marine drummers beat out a stirring rhythm, and the ship's bell sounded. The hands swarmed to their battle stations eagerly enough. They had hot food inside them – he had ordered the oven lit especially, while the noon grog issue would still be having some effect. And most, he was quite convinced, were actually looking forward to the action. They might not regard themselves as potential victors – only a fool would be so misguided when the enemy's strength was there for all to see. But they had a good ship, with sound officers, and the slaughter of one frigate remained fresh in their minds. Whatever the afternoon brought, it was not going to be boring.
“Do you wish for me to remain on the quarterdeck?” King asked. With Caulfield gone, he was officially the first lieutenant, and had every reason to leave the command of the lower deck to Lewis.
“No, Tom. Much as I would appreciate your presence, we shall need our guns working at maximum efficiency; you are better placed below.”
“Very good, sir.” King replied, before adding, less formally: “and are you quite well in yourself?”
The captain gave a brief smile. “I am splendid, thank you.” In fact his head was hurting once more, but Banks felt he could at least think straight, and was fit to command – which was probably what the young man had meant. “And have yet to thank you personally for what was accomplished yesterday.”
“She were only a frigate,” King replied, mildly abashed.
“But we were damaged, and both Michael Caulfield and I were not at hand.” At the mention of the first lieutenant's name, both men gave a slight start, as if having briefly forgotten.
“I heard from Brehaut that you spoke to the people: that was exactly the right course,” the captain continued. He noted that King was actually blushing now, despite his tan, and guessed him keen to get to his post on the lower battery. But although the two had served together a good while, Banks suddenly realised there was much that had never been said.
“Some men must be trained, and others contained,” his voice was unusually soft. “You tend towards the latter, Tom, and that can only be for the good. And you were born to be a sea officer; it has been a pleasure having such a man under my command.”
It was too much; King was acutely embarrassed, but Banks would not have taken back a word. Then they shook hands in the early afternoon sunshine, and both were fully aware that they did so for the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Four
As soon as Lieutenant King returned to the lower gun deck, Franklin was free to resume his usual duties. In the past, when an acting lieutenant, these had been as signals officer, and he still kept a fatherly eye on that station. But there would be no call for communications in the next few hours, besides Franklin now had new responsibilities, and ones he actually considered more important.
He made his way aft where a companionway led to the orlop and, once down on the deepest, darkest deck, took stock. The place was barely half filled and seemed unusually well ordered, bearing little resemblance to the horror that was his personal vision of hell, and all too common during a lengthy engagement. Two well spaced lines of men lay on canvas sheeting and, in the main, they seemed as content as any in their position could expect to be. At one end, three groups of sea chests waited under the doubtful light of a line of swaying lanthorns, and Franklin knew this to be the surgeons' operating area. It was empty now, but the stained sailcloth coverings showed that had not long been the case, and there were piles of what might as easily have been carpenter's tools on hand for when they were needed once more.
Franklin started forward, stepping carefully past the feet of recumbent patients, to where the surgeons would be found. To most, he was still just another warrant officer – at one time a temporary lieutenant, but since returned to his old duties, and nursemaid to the ship's young gentlemen. Only a few realised his obligations now also covered Prometheus' spiritual welfare, but those that did were pleased to see him.
One was Briars; he lay quiet and motionless between the body of a snoring holder with a bandaged head and Wainwright, a Royal Marine, who was singing softly to himself and might possibly have been drunk.
“What cheer, Joseph?” Franklin asked, seeing the lad.
“Well enough thank you, Mr Franklin.” Briars replied. “Are you stayin' with us now?”
“I'll be here a spell,” he told him, very much in the manner of a returning father. “But how's it with you?”
“Surgeon says I've lost my right leg,” Briars announced in a mixture of surprise and doubt. “One moment I were walking the deck, the next, being carried down here.”
“Well, I'm sure you're being looked after.” Franklin said. “Mr Manning's a fine surgeon – he accounted for Mr King's arm after all, and he is now an active officer and as healthy as can be.”
“It were Mr Prior,” Briars explained. “Least that's what they told me; I can't remember much beyond the pain. Mr Manning has seen me since though and declared it to be a prime wound of the first rank.”
Franklin wondered how such an injury to a young boy could be described so, but let it pass. “I have to check with the surgeons,” he said. “But, if not needed, I might come back and sit with you, should you wish it,” he suggested.
The lad nodded weakly, and Franklin rose up and headed forward once more. There could be as many as thirty bodies on the deck, some would have died without being brought down, with more returned to duty suitably strapped or bandaged, but still it was a fair haul. However, Franklin was aware of the ship's position and knew the number would grow before the day was out. There was no sign of Manning, but his assistants, Prometheus' two surgeon's mates, were seated at the farthest end of the orlop, and Franklin approached them.
“Happy to see you back, Mr Franklin,” the older one, Prior, called out although he also raised an eyebrow at the irony in his greeting. “Nothing for you at present, though there are those who might benefit from a word, and you would be welcome to assist the loblolly boys when we see action once more.”
“I thought I might read a passage or two,” Franklin explained, holding up the brand new volume of the New Testament that Kennedy had kindly provided. “For those who care to listen.”
“That would be fine, Mr Franklin,” Blake, the other surgeon's mate told him. “There's bound to be a few who'll appreciate a decent story.”
* * *
“Take her to starboard – as far as she will go,” Banks ordered, and the sailing master looked up; first to the sails and then the weather vane.
“Port two points,” he said, translating the captain's orders to the correct helm command, before listening while his words were relayed to those manning the tiller below. They would actually be steering north-east by north, which would hardly take them out of danger, but was as near to an easterly heading as Prometheus could make with the current wind. Probably more importantly though, it brought their broadside round; again, not ideally – only one of the Frenchme
n would fall within their arc of gunfire, but at least it gave them a mild advantage.
Prometheus' weakened mizzen had allowed the three French liners to catch her. They now stood off to starboard, and were closing steadily, apparently intent on driving the British ship against the dark shore that blocked her way east, as well as to the north. The enemy were well spaced with the closest, to the north east, placed to deny any chance of their turning, while the most westerly was far enough back to risk a long range barrage. Brehaut guessed they would continue to be squeezed until Prometheus touched bottom or was forced to tack into the hateful wind. And then the French would present their broadsides as an impenetrable wall that spat devastation on the British ship's prow. But even if they turned, and allowed her to slip between any two, Prometheus would never survive the combined fire of a liner to either side. She would be dreadfully wounded, and must shortly die; probably without inflicting any major damage in return: a requirement that, Brehaut guessed, would be very much on his captain's mind.
But while there was sea room to claim, they might as well do so and Prometheus was still turning steadily until her bows pointed at a slightly thinner line of black which was the more distant shore to the north. Brehaut's charts gave scant indication of soundings, but what there were indicated a good depth. He estimated they had three hours before coming into any real danger of striking, and in that time the wind may even have changed.
But that was wishful thinking, he told himself. Little short of a miracle could stop those liners from inching ever closer. And it would not be long before they decided themselves near enough to a lee shore. Then each would turn and present their full broadside towards the stricken British ship, and the final chapter in Prometheus' distinguished story would have begun.
* * *
On the lower gun deck, King was totally up to date with the situation. It was daylight, after all; a delightful afternoon actually, and the enemy were in plain view from the starboard gun ports. Little could be seen of Prometheus' eventual destination, of course, but there was land visible to larboard, and King was sufficiently acquainted with the area to know matters had not eased. And even in his darkened underworld, he was seaman enough to realise the wind was not coming to their aid, and that such a thing was growing less likely. But there still remained the tantalising target of the nearest ship, that lay just within reach of his battery. And it was then that he suspected Flint must have been reading his mind.
“When we going to get a chance to fire on that Frog, then, Mr King?” the man asked, as King was taking his habitual walk behind the line of waiting cannon. The officer stopped and considered him. All were now aware of Flint's illness, but there seemed to be something extra in the pale, weather beaten face that afternoon. His individual muscles were working terribly, and there was an odd, translucent sheen to the skin, although Flint's eyes seemed more alive than usual.
“All in good time,” King said, trying to make his words both consolatory and encouraging. Yet the others at Flint's gun seemed every bit as concerned and, as he looked along the dark, low deck, King realised that every man was standing ready at his station, apparently keen for the work to begin.
As was he: it could not be denied. In most actions a delay in sending off the first shots was customary: guns that had been loaded without haste were considered more potent, and it was generally acknowledged that an opening broadside would wreak the most damage. But King still found the temptation to fire almost irresistible. If they did so it would be at long range; few, if any, shots would tell, and those that did were unlikely to disable the enemy. But this was not the pairing of two roughly equal forces; the French were at a decided advantage and, with the time in which they had to fight being limited by an ever closing coast, King could see no reason to wait. He was even considering sending a request to the quarterdeck but, before he could, they received a welcome order instead.
“From the captain,” the midshipman told him breathlessly. “We are to open fire on his signal.”
“Close up there,” King bellowed. “Target the nearest Frenchman, and set your pieces to maximum range.”
The last instruction was a personal one. Each gun captain knew his weapon and some were bound to compensate for what they regarded as a tendency for it to shoot high. But King was having none of that; even ignoring the fact most gunners failed to allow for the tapering of the barrel, he intended every shot to go as far as possible, and would brook no argument from any with illusions of marksmanship. The men seemed to understand, and slipped their quoins out without a word. And as each captain began squinting over his cascabel, they allowed only for the speed of the ship and that of the target. There was hardly any roll; even if they fired at the very peak, it was unlikely every shot would reach the distant Frenchman. But should a few go high and damage tophamper, it would be for the better, as far as King was concerned.
Then there came the unmistakeable scream of a whistle, sounding shrill and urgent in the still afternoon air. The guns were cleared, each captain held their firing lines taut and, on the final order, the lower deck erupted to the sight and sound of their entire starboard battery being despatched in a simultaneous barrage.
Most immediately turned to serving their smoking charges, and there was the hiss of steam as sodden lambswool mops were plunged into iron that had suddenly grown too hot to touch. Fresh shot was drawn from the garlands, and relays of lads raced along the crowded deck in an effort to keep the hungry giants fed. But a few were spared the time to consider their handiwork, and several seconds later there came a muffled cheer.
“Straddled 'er nicely, sir!” Flint told him with a rare beam, and King noticed much of the colour had returned to his face. The other servers were just as pleased, and a premature sense of victory seemed to flow round the entire lower deck. They might be fighting a doomed battle, but at least their guns were now in action and, for most, that was more important than anything else.
* * *
“I can't see them allowing us another chance like that,” the captain stated flatly as he surveyed the results of his gunners' shooting. They had caused no visible damage to the enemy; all spars appeared intact, and neither was there the tell-tale sign of smoke. But Banks was not downcast; he had been tempered in the furnace of battle and knew well that more subtle harm could have been done by the bombardment.
The French might have been shaken and, if not experienced, panic could easily set in. And some were likely to have been injured or died; the British shots might even have taken out an important member of the enemy's command group although, before that thought could turn into a hope, Banks rejected it. No, he did not wish for that.
But he had meant what he said; the enemy would not continue closing while Prometheus remained capable of hitting them; he should expect a change of tactics and, barely a minute later, was not disappointed.
“They're turning,” Brehaut reported. “Yawing to starboard; I think they are intending a reply.”
“Then we shall have to wear!” Banks ordered, and immediately the sailing master's attention returned to his proper duty.
“Stations for wearing ship!” he called, before glancing up at the sails. It would be a procedure not helped by the remote command of the helm, and the fact they were making such stately progress made it harder still. But the main fear was their mizzen mast. The complex combination of spars and yards was only lightly supported, and would inevitably be placed under strain. Once they were about, the wind would be taken to larboard, and Prometheus should be safer, but in turning they risked losing the entire structure, leaving them at the mercy of the oncoming enemy.
“Main clewgarnets and buntlines!” Brehaut called. “Spanker brails – weather main lee crossjack braces!” The procedure ran smoothly, with the sailing master never having received such attention from Prometheus' hands before, but they were yet to reach the moment of true danger.
“Up mains'l and spanker. Clear away after bowlin's. Brace afterwards.” Then the clincher. “U
p helm!”
The main topsail was full, while the mizzen had begun to shake, and Prometheus started to turn, with her afteryards being guided round as she did. Brehaut held his breath. And then, just as the ship was heading directly away and her vulnerable stern was exposed, there came a general gasp and he knew the enemy had opened fire.
* * *
So immersed was he in watching Brehaut handle the ship that Banks was also caught by surprise. He turned to see the first cascade of water erupt close by, but considerably to starboard of their taffrail. It must have been exactly the right moment to wear; either the French were oblivious to his intention, or had not bothered to delay their fire in order to change aim, but the nett result was the same and most of their shot fell harmlessly into the sea. Only one was taken aboard Prometheus and that, probably poorly cast and a stray, thudded hard against their larboard quarter gallery. The frail structure exploded into a cloud of splintered wood and fittings but the hull was not affected, and Prometheus could sail on, effectively undamaged.
“Overhaul the weather lifts, man weather headbraces – rise fore tack and sheet!” Brehaut was continuing as if nothing had happened, something that came as no surprise to the captain, while Prometheus still steadily changed direction. They were losing sea room, of course, but somehow that did not bother Banks. And he could also listen to the creaking and groaning of the mizzen with no more than mild interest. This action might not end well; the odds were simply too high for such an outcome. Already he was totally discounting the prospect of support from friendly vessels – even if British topsails were spotted, it was probable that Prometheus would be forced to strike before rescue arrived. But despite doubts felt in the past, he now sensed that not all his personal luck was exhausted. There remained a modicum of good fortune left, and it seemed likely to hold out, at least for the next few hours.
