Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  G.S. BEARD

  LIEUTENANT

  FURY

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Also available by G.S. Beard

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Author’s Note

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407088907

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  Published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books in 2008

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © G. S. Beard, 2007

  G. S. Beard has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Century

  Arrow Books Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

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  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 9780099499572

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  Typeset in Palatino by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Grangemouth, Stirlingshire Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Cox & Wyman, Reading RG1 8EX

  LIEUTENANT

  FURY

  Lieutenant Fury is G.S. Beard’s second novel in a series of John Fury stories. He lives in Lincolnshire.

  Also available by G.S. Beard

  Mr Midshipman Fury

  Chapter One

  May 1793, twelve leagues west of

  Cape St Vincent

  ‘Sail ho!’

  The hail from the masthead lookout reached Acting Lieutenant Fury as he paced the quarterdeck of His Britannic Majesty’s thirty-two-gun frigate Amazon, bowling along northwards with a brisk westerly wind. He looked up at the man perched high above at the mainmast head, squinting his eyes from the sun’s glare as he did so.

  ‘Where away?’ he bellowed back, cupping his hands round his mouth in an attempt to make his voice carry farther.

  ‘Four points off the larboard bow and standing southwards sir!’ the man yelled back.

  Fury could already sense an air of excitement surrounding the men on deck. The strange sail would pass within speaking distance, and would be the first ship they had seen since leaving Bombay in late December, a little over four months ago. Fury had been expecting the hail for weeks now, ever since they had beat their way round the Cape of Good Hope and turned northwards, following the south-easterly trades up the west coast of Africa towards the Mediterranean. Now, with Cape St Vincent and the coast of Portugal somewhere over to the east, it had finally arrived.

  It would be a good opportunity to learn the latest news from Europe. Certainly when they left England over a year ago, events across the Channel had been dominating the newspapers. Many of the French aristocracy who fled when the peasant uprisings began were now living in England. Reports emanating from France in the summer of 1791 stated that King Louis XVI himself had attempted to flee into exile, only to be stopped at the border and sent back to Paris. He had subsequently been merely a puppet controlled by the new French National Assembly.

  ‘What d’you make of her?’ he shouted to the lookout.

  There was a pause before the reply came back.

  ‘Hard to say sir. I can only see her t’gallants at the moment, but she’s ship-rigged for sure. Possibly a frigate sir!’

  Fury automatically started pacing again as a number of calculations rushed through his head. In this visibility, with the lookout about one hundred feet above sea level, his observable horizon would be approximately twelve miles. If he could only see her topgallants over the curvature of the earth, the strange sail was liable to be a little farther than that. Still, with both ships heading towards each other, it would not take long to come up with her.

  ‘Well Mr Fury, what have we here?’

  The voice startled him, dragging him away from his thoughts as he spun round to see Captain Barber striding across the quarterdeck towards him. The original hail from the lookout had probably drifted through the skylight in the roof of the captain’s day cabin, sending him hurrying on deck to investigate. If he had heard the initial shout from the lookout it was logical to assume that he had heard the subsequent hails as well, but regulations demanded that Fury formally make his report.

  ‘A sail to the north sir, four points off the larboard bow and heading south. The lookout can only see her t’gallants at the moment but thinks she may be a frigate sir.’

  ‘Very well,’ Barber replied, ‘up you go Mr Fury and tell me what you make of her.’

  ‘Aye aye sir!’

  Fury was slightly surprised that Barber should choose him to go aloft now he was no longer one of the Amazon’s midshipmen. Nevertheless he was grateful for the activity.

  He quickly snatched a telescope from the binnacle box drawer and made his way over to the larboard main chains, swinging his legs over the bulwark and perching himself in the channels with the shrouds stretching up above him. Placing his feet on the first of the ratlines and grabbing the vertical shrouds, he began to haul himself up. The fact that the wind was coming from the west and so was pushing Fury on to the shrouds made things easier, but even so he was surprised by how much his heart was thumping as he reached the futtock shrouds leading up and out to the main top.

  After he had been made acting lieutenant, discipline demanded that he no longer skylark in the rigging with the rest of the ‘young gentlemen’, and, thinking back, he was almost certain that this was his first journey aloft since then. The most exercise his duty as lieutenant had demanded of him so far was to walk the quarterdeck during his watches. He had grown out of shape, and as he
finally made it to the masthead alongside the lookout, his chest heaving as he sucked in lungfuls of air, he made a mental note to go aloft at least once a day from now on.

  He waited for his breathing to subside before hooking one arm through the rigging to steady himself against the ship’s roll. Extending the telescope and raising it to his eye, he scanned the horizon with practised ease. The strange sail leapt into focus immediately, already hull up as the two vessels approached each other, probably about eight miles away now.

  She was a frigate, and quite a heavy one by the look of her. On their current course, they would probably pass within a couple of cables’ lengths of her. Satisfied, he snapped the telescope shut and handed it to the lookout, a painfully thin Welshman named Jones.

  ‘Take this and keep her in sight. Report any changes.’

  ‘Aye aye sir.’ The tone of Jones’ reply suggested he had just been told the obvious.

  Fury started to make his way back down to the deck. As he descended, thankful that it was a lot easier than climbing up, he wondered what nationality the strange sail was. There was every possibility that she was British, but something about her told Fury she wasn’t. He could not quite put his finger on what it was; the look of her hull maybe, or perhaps the cut of her sails. Whatever nationality she was, she would have the weather gauge on Amazon when they passed. Britain had not been at war with anyone when Amazon had left on her journey to India. Had things changed during their long absence? Certainly with events across the Channel escalating, the relationship between Britain and France had been volatile.

  He reached the quarterdeck in a matter of seconds and dismissed the thought from his mind – Barber would no doubt take all the necessary precautions. Walking aft to the wheel he saluted and made his report to the captain, who now had Mr Douglas, the first lieutenant, beside him.

  ‘Mmm,’ mused Barber, ‘so she’ll pass two cables to windward of us on her current course eh? Well, we’ll never be able to beat up to windward in time before she arrives …’

  He was silent for a few moments while he considered the implications, no doubt following Fury’s own train of thought from a couple of moments ago, before finally making his decision.

  ‘Very well, call the watch below. We’ll shorten sail immediately.’

  Lieutenant Douglas quickly turned round and started bellowing the orders which would bring the crew on deck, even those down below off watch.

  ‘All hands! All hands to shorten sail!’

  The ship came alive as the crew responded to the order, the vibrating thump of feet on planking reverberating around the weather deck as they rushed up from below. The bosun and his mates harried the men until they were all at their stations, petty officers and midshipmen checking their own divisions to ensure all were there. Although Fury still had no timepiece, there could have been no more than two or three minutes before the entire crew was ready and waiting for the captain’s orders. Those months of drill had borne fruit.

  ‘We’ll shorten down to topsails only if you please, Mr Douglas,’ the captain ordered.

  ‘Aye aye sir!’ Douglas replied, turning once more to shout his orders to the waiting men.

  Fury looked up. The Amazon was carrying almost everything she could – courses, topsails, topgallants and royals, along with the fore-and-aft staysails and jib. Able seamen were swarming aloft so they would be ready to dash out on to the yards once the sails were ready, while the less skilled seamen on deck were tailing on to ropes harried by the petty officers.

  Slowly the staysails and jib came down as the men on deck hauled on the halliards. More men were hauling at braces to bring the royal and topgallant yards round square, spilling the wind from the sails and making the job of furling much easier for the yardmen high above. Halliards were overhauled, bringing the yards down on to the cap while the clew lines, buntlines and leech lines were hauled on to bring the sail up towards the yards.

  The topmen were out on the yards now, feet braced against stirrups as they began fisting the canvas into manageable folds before fastening the gaskets round to secure the sail to the yard. Gradually the sky became more visible as first the royals were furled, then the topgallants, and finally the courses. The men aloft, tasks now completed, slid down backstays as quickly as prudence allowed to regain the deck in the fastest possible time.

  Fury could already feel a significant change in the movement of the Amazon as her speed through the water gradually slowed, the deck ceasing to cant quite so steeply.

  ‘Sail shortened sir,’ reported Lieutenant Douglas, as though the captain had not been standing next to him and watching every move of the men for the last fifteen minutes or so. If Barber was impressed by the men’s efficiency, he did not show it.

  ‘Very well, beat to quarters if you please, Mr Douglas, and clear the ship for action, but don’t run out the guns just yet.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Douglas replied, walking forward shouting yet more orders.

  A moment later a small boy of a marine came running up to the top of the companion ladder with his drum, and hastily started banging out a tinny raffle.

  Fury made his way to the ladder leading down to the upper deck. Men hurried along in every direction in a highly organised rush, the stamping of hundreds of feet drowning out the sound of his own steps. His new rank of acting lieutenant meant that he was now stationed in command of the larboard-side guns in action, in place of Mr Scott who had been killed almost nine months ago during their fight with two privateers in the Indian Ocean. Not even a year ago! It seemed like another age after everything that had happened since. Cyclones, shipwrecks, cutting-out expeditions and boarding actions – Fury had seen enough fighting in those few months to last a lifetime.

  He reached the upper deck where men were busy knocking down the bulkheads aft making up the captain’s cabin, while his furniture was being carried below. In a moment the deck would be a continuous line of guns from one end to the other. The wash-deck pump had already been rigged and water was beginning to flow over Fury’s boots as he walked further aft, men following with buckets to spread sand along the deck.

  Here was Lieutenant Carlisle hurrying along the deck now, on his way to his station in command of the starboard battery of twelve-pounders.

  ‘Good afternoon Mr Fury,’ he said cheerfully. He was obviously glad, as most of the men were, to have the possibility of action – remote as it was – looming after four months of monotony during their voyage home. Captain Barber was not a rich man, and could not afford to pay for extra powder so that his men could fire live rounds during drills. He did allow the occasional firing of the guns after drill as a reward for the men’s effort, but that was no substitute for real action.

  ‘Good afternoon sir,’ Fury replied, breaking into a grin at the sight of Carlisle’s beaming face.

  ‘What do you make of her, Mr Fury?’

  Carlisle had been down below off watch when the sail was sighted, possibly in his small cabin reading or writing, and so his first indication of action would have been the sound of the bosun and his mates going through the ship rousing out the men below, swiftly followed by the marine drummer hammering on his small drum.

  ‘A frigate sir,’ Fury replied. ‘She should be passing to windward of us soon, heading south. She was too far away to see her flag when I was aloft.’

  ‘She’ll probably turn out to be a Frenchman or a Spaniard,’ Carlisle stated. ‘It would be good to know if we are at war before we meet one of their ships, don’t you think, Mr Fury?’

  ‘Aye sir.’

  Fury turned sharply at the sound of a loud clatter, just in time to see a couple of seamen picking up cutlasses and pistols which had obviously fallen from the arms chest placed by the mainmast.

  ‘Handsomely there!’ he bellowed, trying to stem the men’s excitement.

  He looked round at the deck, where all looked ready. Below, the galley fire would be out by now to minimise the risk of fire, while the surgeon would be laying out his too
ls – all newly sharpened – ready for the first poor victims.

  He walked slowly along the larboard side, lit by the sunlight coming down through the open waist of the ship, studying the men standing around the guns with handkerchiefs tied round their heads to block out the noise and stop the sweat running into their eyes. Many were still in the process of removing the tompions from the muzzles of the guns, while the apron – a thin square piece of sheet lead – was taken from over the touch hole.

  He could see all the necessary equipment laid next to each gun – sponge, rammer, handspikes and cheeses of wads. Between each gun was a half barrel, with grooves cut round the edge into which smouldering slow matches were placed, lighted ends hanging inwards over the water in the barrel to be used in the event of the gunlocks jamming. By the side of these were large scuttlebutts of water, placed there for the men’s refreshment during battle. Small boys – powder monkeys – were standing with cartridges newly brought up from the gunner down in the magazine, alert and ready to dash back down the hatch to fetch more once those had been used.

  As Fury passed the waist, one look above gave him a glimpse of the sky, still a pale blue and dotted with clouds. It looked strange, criss-crossed with the lines of the splinter netting which had been placed over the deck above to prevent falling spars and blocks killing the men stationed below.

  Bringing his attention back to the upper deck, he could see that the marines were already stationed at the hatchways to stop seamen going below without good reason, in the event that any man’s discretion overcame his valour. Satisfied that the men were ready, he started making his way back aft, wishing that the gun ports could be opened so that he could see something of the situation outside.

  Looking over at Carlisle perspiring freely in his full uniform, he was acutely conscious that he was not wearing a sword like the rest of the Amazon’s officers. He had not had time to purchase one in Bombay before they had left, and his old midshipman’s dirk was not really appropriate for an acting lieutenant, so he made a mental note to remember to grab a cutlass from one of the arms chests in the event of a boarding.