HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  He continued to view his enemy dispassionately. The ship that had received their last broadside was already badly battered, with a foreshortened bowsprit that lacked a jib boom, and it seemed that, for no obvious reason, the forward half of her lower deck guns were out of action. Her sisters were in no better condition: one was missing a mizzen with a small fire being fought aboard the third. Watching, Banks decided he must surely have done enough, and was content to let who cared to say otherwise. Prometheus had fared worse than any; being the leeward ship, she had taken far more shots to her hull and, even ignoring the carpenter's repeated warnings about the level in the well, Banks knew from her feel that she was starting to settle.

  Brehaut was still bringing them round, and Banks stood in silence while his ship finally declined battle. It would be her last turn, and one that inevitably lead to her death on the nearby shore.

  He reached into his pocket where his hand found one of Sarah's letters. It must have been written in their home near Portsmouth while she was still deciding when their child might be born. If all had gone well, he would probably be a father for the second time by now and, at that very moment yet so many miles away, his young family would be preparing for Christmas day.

  The present war could continue for another five, ten, maybe fifteen years; Britain would be victorious eventually, but he should not expect exchange until then – such civilities being rejected by the new French regime. In that time his children would grow up with little concept of him as a father; he would be nothing more than a target for reluctant letters while, if he were to return, it would be as a muttering old man. One who only wished to talk about his exploits in wars that would doubtless have been forgotten and speak of the men he had known, and knew no longer.

  Banks didn't relish the prospect of confinement, even though he knew it would be tolerated in the same way as other hardships had been during his career as a sea officer. But it was a shame that Michael would not be there to share the time with him.

  * * *

  Flint received the order to secure his cannon with disgust. His piece was gloriously hot, while he breathed in the acrid smoke that clouded the darkened reaches of the lower gun deck as if it were an exotic perfume.

  “Ditch all ready-use charges and prepare to abandon.” Mr King was still walking down the deck and giving the dreadful orders, but Flint made no move to obey. The gun was being heaved up one final time and, rather than presenting through the port in the usual manner, his men now secured the muzzle above it, before locking the train tackle as if for heavy weather. There would be the wounded to attend to; they being the special responsibility of those on the lower deck, and Flint supposed he should at least make an effort.

  Despite missing out on his midday dose of Mr Manning's magic elixir, and with the evening's allowance almost being due, Flint actually felt better than he had for some while. All muscles and limbs seemed to be moving freely, and the intense physical exercise of the last few hours had reduced his chronic and nearly universal pain, to a bearable numbness. There was no change in his attitude, though; the ship might be about to surrender, with all preparing to meet an inglorious end, but Flint had a mind to continue fighting.

  He moved away from the gun and started towards the aft companionway that lead to the orlop. There were no convenient weapons he could carry that would also allow him to deal with a wounded man, but his eyes soon picked up on something discarded on the deck that would do just as well. It was a pusser's dirk, the standard hand knife carried by every competent seaman. Flint was accustomed to wearing his on a lanyard, but always removed it when they cleared for action. Someone had not been so thoughtful and must have lost theirs in the heat of battle. He bent down and picked it up. It held a fine edge and, contrary to protocol, the point had not been rounded off. A perfect fighting tool in fact and, as he placed the line about his neck, one that Flint was determined to put to good use.

  * * *

  Fortune was staying with them; the ship completed her turn within a cable of the land, and was on the larboard tack once more. But it would not be for long. The wind whistled through the rigging, and all on the quarterdeck knew they must surely be swept aground at any time.

  Hunt drew a deep breath, then raised his eyes aloft, calling for the tops and mastheads to be cleared in the same tone he would have used for a change of helm or canvas. Then the captain himself bellowed the final order that must see them wrecked.

  “Strike the weather shrouds!”

  Prometheus would be travelling in excess of five knots. When she did touch, it was important her masts and tophamper carried away. Many of the spars would probably be snapped or sprung, making them of less use to the enemy, yet the wreckage might provide support for those forced to take to the water.

  The deck was unusually well lit, there no longer being any need for secrecy, and everything was being done with commendable efficiency. All boats, including Banks' brand new and freshly painted barge, now trailed to larboard, while the upper deck and forecastle already appeared crowded with bodies, both fit and injured, who were only waiting for the order to abandon. And on the nearby beach, dozens of lanterns showed where groups were assembling in expectation of the inevitable disaster.

  “I see no reason to prolong,” Banks said quietly to the two officers by his side. “Mr Hunt, you will oblige me by striking our colours; Mr Brehaut, call in the hand with the lead. And then you may take us to starboard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Prometheus grounded less than two minutes later and the shock, though expected, was enough to send even the most sure footed seaman staggering. It may have been an outcrop of rock, or perhaps the sea bed was even shallower than anticipated, but the nett result was as if they had suddenly been sent sternwards, while the abrupt and odd solidity of the decks was almost as disconcerting. The masts groaned and cracked: to no one's surprise, the mizzen went first and in its entirety. Toppling sideways, and straining at the main with its stays and brace pendants, the whole affair crashed onto the dark waters to starboard, and was soon joined by its taller associate. The fore topmast followed, and Prometheus actually righted herself slightly, even though there was now a considerable tangle of tophamper that effectively tied her to the land.

  From his position on the upper deck, Corbett glanced about; the captain was on the quarterdeck, and there was King coming up from below, amidst a mass of scrambling gunners from the lower deck. The ship's bell was ringing continually, but no one needed further persuading; their battle was over, all they could do was make the best of it – and friends with former enemies.

  Corbett pressed his way to starboard through a mob of moving men. He peered through an open port and down at the dark water below. Some had already jumped and were keeping alive by swimming or gripping on to whatever piece of wreckage lay close by, but others were very definitely struggling. A few splashed ineffectively while screams from the rest were regularly cut short as the crowded sea closed over them. He looked up; the shore was still a fair way off but there were lamps ablaze and signs of rescue parties forming up, while three small fishing smacks were in the process of being launched. But Prometheus carried several hundred people and, unless something more practical was arranged, a good proportion were about to die.

  Corbett supposed he might clamber through the port and join those in the water below. He was able to swim relatively well, and should keep one, or maybe two afloat, providing they did not all sink together. And then it struck him that this was probably the opportunity he had longed for. Order was required, and he was an officer; there must be a better way to organise a rescue, he only needed to discover it.

  It would not take much to direct men into groups and set one or two swimmers with each. Make sure they had hammocks, or the like, and enough line to see they did not become separated, then send them off towards the shore. Or perhaps take charge of the ship's boats, all were launched, but would be unable to approach those struggling due to the tangle of lines and spars that
littered the water to starboard. He might get himself aboard one, and have it rowed to the edge of the debris, then cut their way through and bring whoever they could to the shore. There was Adams; the midshipman stood by the remains of the sprung mizzen and seemed to be examining it with interest. Corbett was about to call for his assistance when someone else attracted his attention.

  “That's your answer, sir,” the voice might have come from the heavens, but in fact belonged to Charlie Bleeden, one of the gunners. Corbett turned to him.

  “The main'll make an escape route,” the former smuggler continued. “Get the lads down that an' they'll end up a darn sight nearer the shore, and in clear water, where the boats can reach 'em.”

  Bleeden was right; Corbett could see that instantly, and made straight for the forecastle ladder, yelling for others to follow. He was soon on the gangway and heading aft where he encountered the stump of the fallen main. It actually hung down below the level of the top rail but was far longer than the mizzen, and would be so much more suited to the task. The spar was wedged quite solidly; a number of lines being attached to the foremast, while still more draped down its length and would doubtless be of use.

  “That's the ticket,” Bleeden agreed, joining him. “You can be sure the lads will be more comfortable walking down a spar than swimming; get them to the end, an' the boats can carry 'em the rest of the way.”

  Corbett nodded, conscious that a crowd of men were already gathering and looking to him, as an officer, to set an example. “Follow me,” he ordered, then swung himself over the side and began feeling with his feet for the mast beneath.

  He was almost certainly the least able, but there were some things a commissioned man must do. And do successfully, he reminded himself. Were he to slip and plunge straight into the crowded depths below it would be the end of all thoughts of using the mast as a means of escape. At first his boots slipped on the weathered surface, but soon he was balancing upright, and starting to totter down the sloping trunk.

  Then there were men behind him; their weight made the mast wobble, but Corbett kept his sights fixed on the nearby fighting top that would at least give him the chance to rest. One boot slipped, but he immediately felt support from the man behind and was able to recover. Then he was only a matter of feet away, and even broke into a slight run as he made for the top.

  “That was well done, sir,” Bleeden, who had been following, told him. Corbett nodded, even though his breath now came in gasps, and there was an odd giddy feeling that would not go. But the lower mast was already filled with more capable climbers, and he was holding things up.

  “Come on,” he said, heaving himself past the heavy structure of the top, and finding the main topmast beyond. This was thinner, but they were also closer to the water, so any slip need not be so devastating. And Corbett felt he had already set a sufficient example; he walked down the spar with far more confidence, and actually slid the last few feet as he reached out for the smooth timbers of the crosstrees.

  “Grand work, sir,” Bleeden told him with rare bonhomie, but Corbett was breathing too hard to reply. He hung on for slightly longer than before and, only after being totally certain of his safety, did he glance back.

  The entire main mast was filled with escaping men, their bare feet being far better suited to balancing on the wide, but slippery, spar. And the first group were already past the top and would be with them shortly. Encouraged, Corbett nodded once to Bleeden, then pulled himself around the crosstrees, and onto the topgallant mast.

  Now the sea was close and lapping beneath his feet while spray splashed against him as he tottered on, hands stretched wide to aid balance. The mast might end in the sea, but was clearly touching bottom, and there were only fifty or sixty feet of black water beyond before the first of the waves crashed against the shore. The mast bowed; Bleeden was behind and another followed, with more than twenty or so after. Men who would have panicked had they taken straight to the water, but felt comfortable enough walking along a yard at any height.

  The sea met him half way up the mast. Corbett lowered himself in but could not touch the bottom which he guessed to be several feet below his boots. He felt about the spar as Bleeden joined him.

  “Are you a swimmer?” Corbett demanded, but the seaman shook his head with a grin.

  “Very well,” he told him, “I have a line – probably a brace pendant.” Corbett gasped, holding it up for Bleeden to see. “And will try for the shore. Do not let anyone go until I am safe, and it is secured – do you understand?”

  Bleeden, who was clinging onto the spar, nodded in agreement, and Corbett began to reel in the sodden Manila. He could not judge its length, but guessed it to be sufficient. Then he slipped his tunic jacket off and tied the brace securely about his waist, before pushing off and making for the shore in an improvised and ungainly doggy paddle.

  After no more than fifteen seconds, Corbett knew it had been a mistake. He was no swimmer and, despite the lee of the ship, the waves were high and made him splutter and cough. And there was a current; the beach was apparently moving sideways as he struggled, while all the time more water ran up his nose and into his throat. Then, just as hope was about to be extinguished, he felt the glorious touch of land beneath his feet. It disappeared almost as soon as it came, but gave encouragement, and Corbett pressed on until his breathless body was finally rolling in a rising surf.

  A strong hand lifted him up and clear of the water. There were two men who had come out to meet him and both began to babble in French. Corbett pulled at the line to show them; they seemed to understand and the brace was released from about his waist, then passed back to an unseen group further up the beach.

  He coughed and choked some more, but allowed himself to be gently guided up the dark sand. Someone wrapped a rough blanket about him and he nodded in appreciation, before sinking down onto the welcome solidity of dry ground. He was exhausted and had nearly died, but the inner glow of satisfaction was undeniable. Out to sea the shattered husk of his former ship was hardly recognisable with her foreshortened masts and distorted hull. But there was already a constant stream of seamen coming off her down the main mast, and more would be rescued afterwards. And this was down to him; it might have been someone else's idea, but his example that had been being followed. Corbett pulled the blanket closer about him and knew an ambition had finally been realised.

  * * *

  Meanwhile Flint was lowering himself through a starboard gun port and into the darkness below. He had already helped carry one wounded man on deck before, on returning for a second, discovering the orlop to have been cleared. In fact the barky was almost empty, with a heel to starboard from which she would never recover that made movement about her decks difficult. And so he had chosen that gun port, it being nearest to the companionway, with the water barely inches below.

  But once he was fully immersed a change seemed to come over him. The pain that had been blunted by exertion was awakened as cold water enveloped his body and Flint gasped in surprise. But he knew the beach to be close, a matter of a few hundred yards away in fact, and there were boats, their own, and those of the French, nearby. Flint pressed himself from the hull, and made to swim. There were lines tangled all about, and getting through took time and energy, but eventually he was in open water. Then he struck out, although after only two strokes his arms became unaccountably heavy. For several seconds Flint struggled, the water lapping against and into his mouth, before he turned back in desperation for the ship, only to find her well beyond his reach. Still he fought, crying out as the water closed above and feeling the darkness draw in about him. And it was then that an iron grip found his shoulder.

  It was a boat hook, and had actually bitten into the flesh of Flint's upper arm, but the seaman could feel nothing but relief. He was steadily being pulled backwards through the water until his body was caught by professional hands, before being half lifted, half dragged over the stern of a small boat.

  The craft tipped under
his weight and that of its crew as they struggled to bring him aboard. Then he looked up and into the faces of unknown men.

  “Êtes-vous blessé?” one of them asked, and Flint's eyes opened wider as he instinctively fingered the pusser's dirk that still hung about his neck.

  “He is asking if you are wounded,” another voice explained, although the accent was strong and hard to understand. “Jacques is the apothecary, and will care for you,” the man continued.

  “No, not wounded,” Flint told them softly, and released his hold on the knife. “Not wounded at all. Though I am so very grateful.”

  Epilogue

  “I have received a message,” Kate announced importantly as she entered Poppy's room. “It is from Mr Franklin, he served aboard Prometheus, as you may recall.”

  The girl shook her head; the name meant nothing to her, but then she had long ago taught herself not to remember such things. And faces.

  “He was writing from Marseilles but expects to be moved to Briançon shortly,” Kate continued, holding up the papers for Poppy to see. “The French have him prisoner, and the letter took only a fortnight to arrive,” she added in wonder.

  “What news is there?” the girl asked from the comfort of her bed. It was gone ten in the morning but, since Mrs Manning put an end to her private enterprises, Poppy had become accustomed to rising late.

  “Well some good and some not so,” Kate replied, considering. “None of Mr Manning, I fear, though there are many still unaccounted for; indeed this is the first true information we have received.” She moved on quickly. “But the captain is captured also,” she said, glancing at the letter again. “Oh dear, poor Sir Richard shall not enjoy that. As is Mr Corbett, he was a lieutenant, and turned out to be something of a hero, it would seem. Mr Dawson the purser, Mr and Mrs Roberts and Mr Kennedy are safe as well. He lists a lot of other officers and seamen, which is kind, and there will doubtless be more to add.”