Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  ‘His Lordship has informed me of your previous service aboard the Amazon. Most promising.’ He paused, prompting Fury to utter his thanks, before continuing. ‘You will no doubt find my methods slightly different to your last captain. Just ensure that when on watch you are attentive to your duty at all times, as are the officers and men under your command, and there will be no problems. If you go and see the first lieutenant, he will provide you with a full copy of my standing orders. He will also provide you with your general quarter, watch and station bill, as well as assigning you a division of the crew whose welfare will be your responsibility. Remember Mr Fury – never neglect the welfare of your men!’ His eyes were boring into Fury again now, maybe seeking some sign that Fury understood what he was saying. ‘That will be all,’ he finished, apparently satisfied.

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Fury replied, leaving the cabin and going in search of the first lieutenant.

  The following morning, just after dawn, the Fortitude, along with the Victory, Agamemnon, Leviathan and Ajax, weighed anchor and sailed out of Gibraltar Bay. They weathered Europa Point in succession before turning to the north-east to join the rest of the Mediterranean fleet blockading Toulon.

  For nine days the ships, led by Lord Hood in the Victory, battled against contrary winds, sometimes backing or veering as much as twelve points in the space of an hour so that the officer of the watch had to be constantly alert against the threat of being taken aback by a sudden shift.

  For Fury it was a testing time, being in charge of such a monstrous vessel in difficult conditions, not helped by the fact that the admiral was within full view of any errors. By the second day, however, he was confident that he had familiarised himself with the way she handled. He was in fact pleasantly surprised by how well she sailed, having to shorten sail on a number of occasions in order to avoid overhauling the Victory out ahead.

  The weather during this time remained fine, albeit growing gradually cooler as they moved north, so that it was under a baleful sun on the ninth day that the masthead lookout called down that he had sighted a strange sail to the north. The sail then multiplied until the lookout finally reported another sixteen like it, all two-and three-deckers tacking relentlessly back and forth almost as far west as Marseilles, thirty miles away, as they kept a ceaseless watch over the French fleet lying in Toulon harbour.

  Fury found himself silently thankful that he had just come off watch before the first sail was sighted, so that the flurry of signals which broke out aboard the Victory ordering the ships to their different stations within the fleet, were not his responsibility. He was quite happy to stand on the quarterdeck with his telescope and study each of the ships within the fleet that he could see – four of them three-deckers and the rest two-deckers – and by the time they were in their correct station along with the other ships, darkness had begun to fall.

  The next day broke warm and clear – a Sunday. As on every Sunday, the men were piped to breakfast half an hour early, after which they were mustered in divisions on the quarterdeck and focsle, inspected first by their lieutenants and then by the captain. Captain Young then disappeared below to begin his inspection of the entire ship while Fury relaxed on the quarterdeck until his reappearance.

  A full hour passed before the captain returned, Fury spending it idly scanning the fleet with his telescope as they slowly beat back and forth in unison, usually tacking at the end of each watch when all hands would be available, as if an invisible line were holding them all together. It was only their first full day on blockade duty and he could already see that it was going to be a tedious business.

  He looked up to see the church pendant hoisted to the peak, the men being crowded into the waist while the officers stood on the quarterdeck backed up by the marines in full uniform with muskets loaded and ready, a clear signal to any mutinous seamen.

  Fury had fully expected Captain Young to conduct a Sunday service, steeling himself for the boredom while various passages from the Bible were read. To his relief, the captain decided to read the Articles of War instead, which, although Fury had heard them a hundred times before on the Amazon, could at least be listened to, digested and abided by, without the need for too much concentration.

  The thirty-six articles were read by the captain in a steady voice, the crimes mentioned ranging from mutiny to sodomy, from cowardice to sleeping on watch, with eight out of the thirty-six articles requiring a mandatory punishment of death on conviction, eleven others allowing ‘such lesser penalty as the court may decide’.

  Fury scanned the faces of the seamen standing down in the waist looking up, as the captain read aloud. Much could be learned from looking at the faces of the crew at times such as this; smiles, passivity, scowls – all told a different story about the current mood throughout the ship. From what he could see the men were happy enough – somewhat surprisingly, since the majority of them had been hastily snatched from their homes and families by the press gangs, or from inbound merchant ships when the initial possibility and subsequent development of war arose.

  The captain had reached the thirty-sixth article now, and Fury was glad that it was almost over.

  ‘All other crimes, committed by any person or persons in the fleet, which are not mentioned in this act, or for which no punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to the laws and customs in such cases used at sea.’

  That last one had always worried Fury somewhat. It gave the captain the opportunity to try anyone with any trumped-up charge he may think of, giving him absolute and total power over the men. Harsh as it may be, he could still see that it was this harshness which maintained discipline on each of the king’s ships around the world, and which caused a fleet such as the French Mediterranean fleet in Toulon to sit there impotent, afraid to come out.

  The first lieutenant was ordering ‘on hats’ now, and Fury followed the rest of the officers on the quarterdeck by jamming his hat down on his head. The wind was beginning to increase its strength, whipping at his coat tails and blowing his hair about below his hat. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his watch – nearly noon. The wardroom mess had decided to invite the captain for Sunday dinner today, and Fury was quite glad that he had the afternoon watch and therefore would not be able to join them.

  He moved over to where Parker, the second lieutenant, was standing.

  ‘Are you my relief Mr Fury?’ Parker asked as he approached and touched the brim of his hat in salute.

  ‘I am Mr Parker.’

  He still did not feel sufficiently at home on the Fortitude to risk a snub by the use of Christian names.

  ‘Bad luck. I’ll be sure to have a glass of wine for you though,’ Parker cajoled, alluding to the forthcoming dinner.

  ‘I’m much obliged, and I am sure the knowledge will comfort me during the next four hours!’ Fury joked, grinning broadly.

  The first of eight bells rang out from the belfry on the focsle at that moment, signalling the end of the forenoon watch and sending Parker and the other officers and men down below to their meals, to be replaced by the men of the next watch, harried to their stations by the bosun’s mates.

  Here was Mr Francis joining him on the quarterdeck, the midshipman of the watch. Fury took his foot off the slide of the nine-pounder and began his customary walk up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck, bringing forth in his imagination a picture of the wardroom officers down below trying to fight their way through that invisible barrier that existed between captain and crew.

  Men were flooding up to the deck now to resume their watch, Fury surprised that half an hour had already passed. The men on watch who had remained on deck through dinner to operate the ship in an emergency, hurried below to get theirs. He picked up the slate kept in the binnacle and studied the speeds and courses noted down there – little more than four knots on average, the courses alternating between easterly and westerly headings as they beat back and forth. A quick glance at the traverse board confirmed what th
e log told him.

  He scanned around for Francis.

  ‘Mr Francis! Have the men take a pull on the weather fore brace there!’

  ‘Aye aye sir!’ the lad replied, hurrying away.

  There was no particular reason why he had given him the order other than to keep him on his toes. Hoggarth had certainly done the same to him when he had joined the Amazon as a young midshipman, and he prided himself that it had done him good. He could see that Francis had potential, but his shyness or lack of confidence was holding him back. If the boy could overcome that, he would make a fine officer one day.

  Fury could hear the stamping of feet now as more men came up from below to sit around beneath the waist and on the focsle, some with cloth garments and needles in their hands to mend their clothes, others merely to yarn with each other.

  ‘Sir!’

  Francis was demanding his attention once more, although what problems he could have encountered adjusting the weather fore brace Fury was at a loss to know.

  ‘Yes Mr Francis, what is it?’ he asked, almost with a sigh.

  ‘Flagship’s signalling sir!’ Francis replied excitedly.

  ‘Well, what are they signalling?’

  Fury tried to keep his patience – it would do the boy no good if he lost his temper with him. Francis snatched up a telescope to read the flags, then grabbed the signal book and began hurriedly flicking through the pages.

  ‘Captain to repair on board sir,’ he read off, finally.

  ‘Yes – and the number?’

  Another hurried glance from Francis over at the Victory and a quick flick through the pages brought him the answer.

  ‘It’s ours sir!’ he said in surprise.

  ‘So I saw five minutes ago,’ Fury retorted. ‘Very well, hoist the acknowledgement and then go below and inform the captain.’

  Fury turned away, calling to the men on watch.

  ‘Stand by to hoist out the captain’s gig!’

  A flurry of activity erupted as the men manned the yard tackles and rigged the main and foremast pendants, ready to hoist the boat out from the booms. By the time it was in the water alongside being dragged along by its painter, the boat’s crew were ready to tumble down into it.

  Captain Young timed his appearance on deck to perfection, resplendent in full uniform and probably in a foul mood at having his dinner interrupted. The first lieutenant was not far behind to see him off, Young muttering to him as he went down the side.

  Ross was coming over to Fury now.

  ‘Any other numbers hoisted Mr Fury?’

  ‘No sir, just ours.’

  ‘I wonder what the admiral wants with us,’ Ross muttered, more to himself than to Fury.

  ‘No doubt we shall soon find out,’ Fury replied – he had been thinking the same thing himself since the signal had been hoisted with only their number.

  ‘Call me when the captain is on his way back,’ Ross ordered. He obviously wanted to be on hand to hear any news first.

  ‘Aye aye sir.’

  Fury turned away to continue his pacing of the quarterdeck as Ross made his way below.

  Time seemed to drag as Fury walked from the taffrail to the rail overlooking the waist and back, again and again. More than once he paused to look over at the flagship for any sign of activity, but it was a good forty-five minutes before an eagle-eyed Francis reported the captain’s gig pushing off from the Victory’s side, and a further fifteen minutes before the gig was hooking on to the Fortitude, the side boys lined up at the entry port to pipe him back on board. Fury checked his watch. Quarter to four – only fifteen minutes to go before his watch ended.

  Ross was back on deck again, Fury having despatched Francis below to fetch him five minutes ago. The two of them stood side by side on the quarterdeck facing the entry port, waiting for the captain to appear. The pipes twittered suddenly as Young’s head reached the level of the deck and a second later he was standing in front of Fury and Ross, returning their salutes. The look on his face suggested to Fury that the news was good.

  ‘Good news sir?’ Ross asked tentatively – he evidently thought so too.

  ‘Yes indeed!’ Young replied, pausing as if trying to decide whether or not to let his subordinates into the secret. ‘Lord Hood has ordered us on a cruise along the coast to the west, capturing or destroying anything we can before returning to the fleet, taking a good look at Marseilles on the way back.’

  ‘How long has he given us sir?’ Ross asked, his face breaking into a grin at the news.

  ‘Two months – we are to be back by 24 August to rejoin the blockade.’

  Ross and Fury stood there stunned for a couple of seconds, digesting the news and scarcely able to believe that they would shortly be leaving blockade duty, a monotonous and thankless task, if only for a short time.

  Chapter Six

  Fury sat down at the wardroom table, dipped his quill pen in the inkwell, and began to write.

  Fortitude, at sea

  15 August 1793

  Course bearing east, making six knots under all plain sail to the t’gallants, wind steady from the north west. No sail sighted. Ship’s position at noon, latitude forty-three degrees six minutes north, longitude three degrees twenty minutes east, French coast bearing north-west by, distant eight miles.

  He flicked back through the pages of his personal journal, scarcely able to believe that they had been away from the fleet for almost two months now. His journal told the story – pages of succinct facts regarding courses, weather conditions and landfalls, with not one chance of action. They had sighted plenty of coastal craft on their way, all with a draught small enough to enable them to hug the coastline or seek shelter in coves or inlets, well away from the ponderous bulk of the Fortitude. None had been large enough even to warrant a cutting-out raid. Last week they had come across a fishing vessel further off the coast, in the process of hauling in their catch, and the French master had been pleasantly surprised when Captain Young had invited them on board for a drink, before purchasing some fish and sending them on their way. The Royal Navy was not in the habit of waging war on fishermen.

  Along to the westward they had gone, all the way round the Gulf of Lion to Perpignan, just above the Spanish border, looking into every cove and bay on the coast for signs of enemy ships of war. In fact the closest they had come to action during that time was when passing a derelict old stone building further along the coast, about fifty yards back from the sea.

  Captain Young had ordered the Fortitude hove to, and the men had been allowed to have target practice with the guns. First the eighteen-pounders on the upper deck commanded by Lieutenant Parker, then the thirty-two-pounders on the lower gun deck, with Fury and Lieutenant Dullerbury in command. It was the first time Fury had seen those great guns in action, the thunder and recoil eclipsing anything he had experienced with Amazon’s little twelve-pounders. Two rounds for each gun the captain had allowed, a great cheer erupting every time the building was hit. When they had finally secured from quarters and continued their course, the building was little more than a wreck.

  Fury closed his journal with a snap, aware of someone approaching the wardroom table. He looked up to see Lieutenant Dullerbury sitting down opposite him.

  ‘Good afternoon John,’ Dullerbury muttered disconsolately, ‘writing up your journal eh?’

  ‘That’s right Bill,’ Fury replied, ‘not that there is much to write about.’

  Every lieutenant in the navy was required to keep a journal or personal log, which was mostly just a copy from the ship’s official log kept by the master, recording mundane facts about the conditions and courses. That had to be presented to the Admiralty at the end of the commission before they were paid.

  ‘Nearly two months with not a scrap of prize money to our name. Another week and we’ll be back on blockade duty with the fleet for the next two years,’ Dullerbury continued.

  The two of them sat in silence for a while, contemplating what each could do with a coupl
e of hundred pounds in prize money. Fury was eagerly awaiting his, although he did not even know how much it would amount to. There was the Otter sloop captured last year – Bedford had been wrecked of course, while Captain Barber had reluctantly given the Mornington back to the East India Company – and his share of the captured Thetis, which as far as he was aware had still to be purchased into the service. Until he received it he would have to struggle on as he was. Still, there were a lot of officers out there in a far worse position than he.

  ‘Have you got any family John?’ Dullerbury asked suddenly, interrupting Fury’s reverie.

  ‘Only my mother and a younger brother, but I haven’t seen them in over two years. My uncle commanded the Amazon, but he was killed when we took Thetis.’

  ‘So I heard. Quite unfortunate, to be struck down at the moment of your greatest triumph.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fury thought it quite unfortunate to be struck down at any moment, but had no wish to get into a conversation with Dullerbury on death and mortality. ‘What about your family?’ he asked in reply, eager to change the subject.

  Dullerbury began telling him about his parents, and then moved on to his brother and three sisters, leaving Fury wishing he had never asked. Fury’s had never been much of a family and he had often wondered what it was like to be part of a large one. From what he could gather from Dullerbury, he was the lucky one. He was about to make his excuses and leave when a faint hail from one of the masthead lookouts drifted down to them.

  ‘Deck there! Sail fine on the larboard bow!’

  Fury and Dullerbury immediately jumped up from the table, Fury quickly dashing into his cabin to fling his journal on his cot and grab his telescope, before dashing back out and following Dullerbury up on to the quarterdeck.

  The sky was overcast as he made the deck although the wind was still warm. Fury could immediately detect a distinct buzz of excitement along the deck at the possibility of action. He quickly moved over to the larboard side, extending his glass and resting it on the top of the hammock nettings as he scanned forward in the direction the lookout had reported.