HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  * * *

  The feeling stayed with him long after Prometheus had made her turn and was heading, somewhat faster now, on the larboard tack. She was still close hauled, and rather nearer to the oncoming shore than before, but at least two of the French were being left behind as they clumsily turned in her stead. The third was very much in hand, however, and effectively blocking any chance they may have of ultimate escape, while the light frigate and corvette were standing further out to sea, mute spectators to the British ship's final hours.

  “Ready larboard battery!” Banks ordered grimly. The nearest enemy was now heading for a spot in front of their bows, and it was strange how the afternoon sun made her appear such a thing of beauty. She was still upwards of a mile off, so there was small chance of significant damage, but it would be good to hear the guns in action once more, and he gave the order quite casually.

  The ship rocked gently to the combined recoil and again the target appeared to have been covered. Too much water erupted in front to be totally certain however and, when it cleared, no major damage could be discerned. But two enemy ships had now received long range drubbings, whereas all Prometheus had suffered was a reduction in her officers' sanitary arrangements.

  That situation could not last long, however. The southernmost enemy ship was closing on them fast and Prometheus had been comfortably in her range for some time. So when the Frenchman's starboard side finally began to glow with a fire that rippled down from bow to stern, it was almost a relief.

  And this time Prometheus was hurt, and hurt badly. Her larboard side suffered a series of frame jarring thumps that made the fittings rattle and, in several places actually penetrated her sides. Two quarterdeck cannon alone were put out of action, their carriages and servers smashed into one horrible mess, and her brand new mizzen took a hit eerily similar to that which had accounted for its predecessor. This time the damage was considerably worse though; enough of the fresh pine having been removed to make the carpenter's attendance almost unnecessary.

  “I should not trust it, sir.” Roberts told Banks plainly after the most cursory of inspections. “She might go at any moment; it would be better if we struck all canvas.”

  But the captain would have none of it. To discount their mizzen while it remained standing would be a nonsense; once Prometheus was reduced to a fore and main, she may as well surrender, and he had more mischief in mind before that happened. The two further French liners were creeping up from the east; there would be no avoiding them, but still Banks felt he could stretch things out a little longer.

  “Larboard battery?” he enquired, and Hunt, who was fully involved in sorting the damage to his carronades, broke away to glance down to the upper deck.

  “Not yet, sir,” he replied briskly. “A moment longer.”

  Banks grunted to himself and turned away in apparent disgust, although inwardly felt a little chastised. He might be the captain, and this was almost certainly his last engagement in the present war, but there was no reason why he could not have checked on the state of the eighteen pounders himself.

  Then there came the shout from Corbett, and he did take a step or two towards the fife rail to hear what he had to say.

  “We are loaded with round, sir,” the third lieutenant told him frankly. “Can you name a target?”

  Banks looked up at the oncoming ships. “Middle of the three,” he shouted, pointing out to larboard before adding, “and see Mr King is informed.”

  Corbett touched his hat in response, and Banks turned to the sailing master. “Mr Brehaut, I believe she will stand a point or two further to larboard, if you please.”

  The liner they had fired upon last was now steering to ensure they remained totally trapped to the south, and the northernmost remained well beyond their arc of fire. As was the middle ship, although she should be within range by the time they turned.

  “Ready upper...” Corbett began, as the ship's head came round, but Banks interrupted him with the order to fire. The larboard eighteen pounders and carronades were despatched almost simultaneously, with King's battery following a second later. And this time there was visible damage.

  The enemy's mizzen topmast was struck and fell, and some degree of confusion must have been caused further forward, as the jib began to fly, apparently freed of all support from the bowsprit. Banks looked on with satisfaction; he could see no significant changes to the hull, but it would be strange if at least a few shots had not told there. And now the game was truly in play he gave no thought as to the number of killed or injured. They were trying to kill the ship; nothing more.

  “I should normally suggest turning once again,” Brehaut began hesitantly, and Banks immediately switched his attention to other matters. The sailing master was right, they were making better progress on that tack than he realised: the shore would soon be dangerously close.

  He might simply call it a day, fire off another couple of broadsides at the southernmost ship, then run Prometheus aground as gently as possible, but Banks thought not. No, they would wear once more, he decided in a surge of exuberance. It might cost them their mizzen, but his command would remain a floating fortress; one able to do damage to anything foolish enough to approach. And he still had the overwhelming urge to make this last as long as he could.

  * * *

  On the lower gun deck, things were moving so quickly and giving him such satisfaction that Flint almost forgot about his ailment. He had fired his own gun at the enemy and pretty much seen the shot strike home. Then after they turned, Cranston, the official captain of the larboard piece, had very gallantly handed over the firing line. So two more shots were let off with that gun as well, one of which he was certain had hit.

  And there was no chance of Flint sharing any of Captain Banks' finer feelings. He had lost mates in the past, and was no stranger to the emptiness of bereavement. But in his case the memories only deepened his resolve, and he wanted above anything else to kill Frenchmen.

  There was no shame in his desire; he would be dead himself soon, if not that very day. And the French, being the traditional enemy for so much of his seafaring life, were a natural target for his anger. With luck Prometheus could even close, as he had long ago decided. The barky might be boarded, or send boarders herself. If so he was determined to be involved. Get to grips with the devils, and show them that, though he may be ill and weak, there was still plenty of fight left in him, and all would be used against them.

  * * *

  Brehaut took the order to wear once more in good heart. It went against his natural inclinations as a seaman but, since joining Prometheus, he had become accustomed to ignoring all but the most basic instincts. Besides, should Sir Richard have pushed matters too far and the mizzen fell, they would have to surrender; that part was obvious.

  Prometheus would then be taken; she may still be of use to the enemy, although the French must first find a replacement spar, which would not be easy when every major port was under blockade. And he was professional enough not to wish for such a thing of course, even if it would save lives and bring an end to the action. Brehaut was not against killing or fighting in general but, when in such a hopeless situation, he could see little purpose in continuing. In fact he wished more than anything that it might all end shortly.

  And his next command might achieve exactly that. The wind was steadily growing: he would be turning the ship through its eye, and exposing the now doubly weakened mizzen in the process. And then they must take up the starboard tack once more, and so return to having their sternmost mast left barely supported. He was no carpenter, but could see the damage; the spar was a new one, and might be expected to hold out longer than most. But it would not do so indefinitely; perhaps time enough to see them aground off that slight prominence he had already noted, or it might as easily fail in the next few minutes. But whatever happened, it should be over before nightfall; of that he was certain.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Banks had other ideas, however. To him it
was important – vital even – they maintain the engagement for as long as possible. There were numerous reasons for this, and all perfectly valid. Further damage would be caused, making the eventual destruction of three powerful enemy warships that much more likely. And by prolonging the action he was also detaining them; the British fleet were bound to come looking: when they did, the French would be as neatly trapped as he currently found himself. Then there was the final, indisputable argument, even if it was perhaps a little more sensitive. For as long as Prometheus continued to be fired upon, her value as a prize was also being debased. Even now it would take an English yard several months to set her to rights, and French shipwrights, working with erratic supplies of fittings and materials must surely spend longer.

  But Banks' true reason surpassed all of these, and included an element he would hardly admit to himself. Ever since being caught too far inside Toulon harbour, his recurring dread had been to be found in dereliction of his duty. An early surrender would have brought just such an accusation; there were numerous cases of commanding officers being tried for the very same offence, and Admirals had been shot for less. To that point he felt he had done as much as could be expected, although there would still be gossip amongst fellow officers; men who could fight the most gallant of actions with the aid of pepper-pots, sugar casters and knowing nods from their dining companions. Banks had no intention of being so criticised and, while there remained any risk he might be, was determined to string matters out to their inescapable and bloody conclusion.

  It was six bells in the afternoon watch. The sun was already well on its way to being hidden behind the nearby land, and failing light could only be to his benefit. He had no plan as such, just an instinct that told him darkness would be his friend, something that might not only draw the enemy closer, but also allow his personal luck one final crack.

  And so far he was being blessed; twice Prometheus had changed tack without problems, and this was despite the now decidedly fragile mizzen and Brehaut's obvious reluctance. Reefing the mizzen topsail and striking their aft staysails had made the ship less weatherly, but still she made reasonable progress, and might be able to claw enough to the east to clear the oncoming promontory of black rock that grew steadily closer.

  Not that so much safety lay beyond; even without reference to the sailing master or his chart, Banks knew the coast well enough. From then on the shore continued in a north easterly direction, something which they might feasibly follow for a while with the current wind. But in less than thirty miles it turned savagely east, ending in an unnamed bay set on the northern shore of the Gulf, that must surely become Prometheus' final resting place.

  First though, he needed to gain another point to windward. Banks glanced up at the sails; there was certainly room there; an alert helmsman could have squeezed two, possibly three points without risking a luff. But to do so required sympathetic hands on the wheel, and their current method of steering was far too remote for such sensitivity.

  “We need to clear that headland, Master,” he said, raising his voice slightly to counter the wind.

  Brehaut nodded, and looked forward. “A point now might do it,” he said. “I shall try for more, but may lose her.”

  “Better to do so while we have space,” Banks agreed.

  “And we may try the forecourse, sir,” the sailing master added. “Although there is the enemy to consider.” Banks glanced to starboard, where the second of the French liners was steadily forereaching on them and might be expected to open fire at any moment. It was long range once more; when wearing, Prometheus had lost the sea room gained on the larboard tack, and the French were growing cautious enough not to take up the slack. But forward lay the first ship they had damaged. She was steering slightly to the west, and would be of more danger should Brehaut find that extra speed.

  “I think we should,” Banks said finally. “There is little to lose.”

  * * *

  Once more the starboard battery was being called for, and Flint returned to his favoured gun with relief. The enemy had released a broadside in their general direction, but it lacked range, most of the shot falling short, with only one skimming off the water before bouncing impotently against their starboard upper wale. He had no idea where the French learned their gunnery but each ship seemed in equal want of practice. They must be unused to holding the windward gauge, and were failing to allow for the rising breeze. But Flint was not particularly bothered: as long as the enemy continued to miss, he would be happy. Besides, it looked as though he would soon be given the chance to teach the Frogs a proper lesson.

  “Keep your aim high, lads,” Lieutenant King cautioned. “In a race like this, knocking away a spar or two can account for an entire ship.”

  King was unconsciously working the stump of his left arm under his tunic, and Flint wondered if the strain of being in action was starting to affect the young officer. There was no shame in the reaction; he had noticed all manner of men be touched by the stress of battle in the past, although never had the symptoms been exhibited in such a way. But there was no doubting King knew his stuff. Flint, like all of Prometheus' gunners, would have much preferred to aim for the enemy's hull, such a target appealing to him as being somehow more British. But he duly pulled the quoin a little further out, and set his piece firmly on the French liner's foremast.

  “Ready on the roll,” King warned, and then there was a pause before the entire battery was released in yet another savage broadside.

  * * *

  “We shall make it with ease,” Brehaut confirmed a while later, as he leaned over the larboard top rail and stared out towards the oncoming promontory. “Though I cannot speak for our depth.”

  Banks said nothing as the sailing master returned to the conn. Their captured charts were being annoyingly vague when it came to soundings. A hand, stationed at the larboard chains, was dolefully calling out no bottom with his line but, when so close to a headland, all knew the likelihood of grounding on a single pinnacle of rock, and it was probably significant that the French were staying comfortably offshore. But at least they were in the Med. – there was little to worry about as far as tides were concerned, and the only other current actually appeared to be working in their favour, as they would surely pass the Cape with almost a cable to spare.

  The ship vibrated to the sound of another broadside, and once more the second of the enemy liners was neatly bracketed. Each French ship was releasing two barrages for every three fired from Prometheus, so were winning, if only on account of their superior numbers. But most of the enemy's shot continued to fall short. This could only be due to the angle of the enemy's decks as their ships heeled in what was now a sizeable wind. Such a situation could not continue, however; Prometheus would soon be clear of the headland and then benefit from a measure of sea room. But that would be eaten up in less than an hour, and then they must once more try to claw an extra point or two back. And this time it might not be possible; this time they could find themselves in the shallows, then aground – a sitting duck for enemy gunboats to finish off at their leisure. And even if they did not: even if fortune shined once more, and they were allowed to continue, the coast itself soon turned sharply for the east. Banks knew that must be the end of their game; the shore would form a solid barrier and only an extraordinary change of wind could save them from an ignominious end.

  But darkness would be upon them before then, he reminded himself, and was more determined than ever not to become downhearted. In the past twenty-four hours he had benefitted from more good fortune than he had a right to expect, yet still remained convinced there was a little extra remaining. If only he knew where, and how it should be used.

  * * *

  Two hours later much was changed. The wind had continued to rise, forcing them to strike their forecourse, and rain now came in tiny drops that were liable to increase in both size and number. And they were in darkness, or as near as could be found that close to sunset. For the sky was still light enough t
o show the three enemy ships to windward, with the pair leading having moved eastwards slightly, making further fire from Prometheus' starboard battery impossible. And soon they would pull back further: that was as predictable as the oncoming rain, for the British ship was about to be forced into a small bay, and they could already make out a glow of phosphorescence that was the lapping of waves against a cruel and deadly beach.

  Banks sensed that time was running out, and knew his duty lay in securing the wounded. The injury to his head was hurting once more, and he pressed at the bandage in an effort to think. There must be a way to secure his people, while destroying the ship, and causing as much annoyance to the enemy in the process. And then it all suddenly ceased to matter.

  He turned to Brehaut, who was standing as straight as ever, and noticed for the first time how devilishly tired the man appeared.

  “Take her about once more, Master,” he said, almost gently. “I intend to run her aground.”

  Brehaut blinked several times, before following his captain's gaze to larboard. They were close to the shore and there was hardly room enough to wear, but there were less signs of breakers in that direction and, on the few occasions when the lead had struck, the bottom had been revealed as sandy.

  “Once round we can make the final provisions for abandoning ship,” Banks added, enunciating the words slowly and with care. It was the worst speech any captain could make and, in doing so he actually felt to be betraying his calling. He turned to Hunt.“Have the wounded brought up from the cockpit, and clear away all boats.”

  “Fire!” Corbett's command, shouted up from the main deck, conflicted so dramatically with his thoughts that it took Banks by surprise. For a moment he found himself watching bemused as their shots flew towards the enemy. There was still one Frenchman in range, and she was briefly masked by the water that erupted about her. But the feeling that all fighting must now cease was growing within him, and he muttered a gruff order to belay which almost went unheard amidst the fifth lieutenant's shouted orders and Brehaut's preparations for bringing them about.