Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  Fury stood for a moment and blinked several times to make sure his eyes were not deceiving him, before placing the glass back to his eye. It was no mistake. The strange sail was still coming on towards them, bold as brass, as if they were in a big three-decker instead of a lugger!

  He snatched a glance back at the captain on the quarterdeck, gazing over through his own telescope. It was obviously some trick, but for the life of him Fury could not think what it could possibly be. Ross was saying something to the captain now and pointing over towards her, Fury quickly looking back through his glass to see what the first lieutenant had seen. Nothing. No – wait! A flag was breaking out at her masthead now, Fury having to blink once again to confirm his vision. A white flag – yes, there were definitely no other markings or colours on it – it could only be a flag of truce. What on earth would the French over in Marseilles want to speak to the captain of a British ship of the line for?

  ‘Maybe they want to surrender!’

  Fury looked round at Lieutenant Parker who was standing next to him, unnoticed and obviously following Fury’s own train of thought.

  ‘Probably,’ he replied, grinning broadly at the joke.

  The lugger was much closer now, visible without the aid of a glass, and Fury could just discern a huddle of three men on deck, apparently taking no part in the sailing of the vessel.

  A quick order to the helmsman and the Fortitude was eased off the wind, another string of shouts from Lieutenant Ross sending men to the braces, the foreyards swinging round until the sails were backed. They were hove to now, awaiting the arrival of the lugger.

  Judging by the short length of time it took the lugger to reach them, she was a fine sailor with a quartering wind. Fury had hardly had time to take his glass below and return to the deck before she bumped alongside and hooked on. He hurried over to the side and looked down to where three men were arguing, perhaps as to who would go first. Only one man wore a uniform – the man who was eventually persuaded to climb aboard first. The others wore civilian dress, one with a plain blue coat and one wearing a green coat with a distinctive yellow waistcoat underneath.

  Fury stepped back as the first man appeared on deck, hesitating slightly before catching sight of the captain waiting nearby. A few moments passed before his two companions arrived, all looking thoroughly nervous and unsure of themselves.

  ‘You are the capitaine sir?’ asked the man wearing uniform in what could only loosely be described as English.

  ‘I am sir. Captain Young.’

  Young’s curt reply was accompanied by a sharp nod – he was not going to make life easy for them.

  ‘Parlez-vous français?’ the man continued, having exhausted his English and deciding to resort back to French.

  Captain Young shook his head, turning to Ross.

  ‘Ask him what he wants.’

  Ross turned to the trio and spoke quickly and fluently in French. The man in the uniform replied, Ross turning back to Captain Young and translating.

  ‘This is Captain Dommartin, of the navy sir. Behind him is Monsieur Dupont and Monsieur Baptiste. He says they wish to see the admiral commanding the British fleet sir.’

  ‘They do, do they?’ Young replied dryly. ‘Ask them what business they have with Lord Hood.’

  Ross turned round again and, following another rapid exchange, translated for Young.

  ‘He won’t say what they want. He says they can only discuss it with Lord Hood sir.’

  ‘Do they realise how much work goes into running a fleet? And they expect me to present them to His Lordship with no indication of their business? Tell them if they do not wish to tell me their business they may return to Marseilles. I will honour the flag of truce.’

  Ross translated this and the three Frenchmen began another heated exchange with one another. They were clearly anxious that their mission should not fail. Reaching an agreement at last, their spokesman, Dommartin, turned back to Ross and spoke swiftly for some time.

  Fury could see from where he was standing that Ross’ face now had a look of shock on it.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Young.

  ‘Sir,’ began Ross, clearly trying to translate the last statement accurately. ‘He says that he and his two associates have been elected by the populace of Marseilles as commissioners. They have been given full powers from the sections of the departments of the Mouths of the Rhone to treat for peace. The people of Marseilles are loyal to the king and they,’ indicating the three men, ‘have been charged with negotiating with Lord Hood for the city’s surrender, under His Lordship’s protection, until a monarchical government in France has been re-established.’

  Ross, along with every other man on deck who had heard the report, stood staring at Young waiting for his response.

  ‘Good God!’

  The exclamation from Young was forced from him as he digested the import of the news, and it served to jerk Fury out of his own shock.

  ‘Is it some kind of trick?’ Young asked, at once suspicious of French motives.

  ‘It may be sir, but I don’t see what they can hope to achieve from it if it is,’ Ross replied, turning to Dommartin once again as he started talking.

  ‘He says sir,’ Ross began, turning back to Young, ‘that the people of Toulon feel the same, and they are expecting commissioners from that city, deputed from the sections of the departments of the Var, to meet with Lord Hood for the same purpose.’

  Fury’s jaw dropped open at that. If the city of Toulon were to surrender then Lord Hood would take possession of the entire French Mediterranean fleet anchored within. Quite apart from the naval effect, he could readily see that the surrender of two of France’s main cities to the British, and their subsequent declaration in favour of the monarchy, would be a crushing blow to the new Republic and could well signal the end of the war.

  ‘Mr Ross, kindly order the lugger to sheer off and return to Marseilles – these three gentlemen will be remaining on board as our guests for the time being.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Ross replied, leaning over to the bulwark and shouting down in French to the crew of the lugger.

  Fury could see the relief pass over the three men still standing there as they heard Ross shouting to the lugger.

  ‘Mr Potter!’ Young shouted to the master, ‘kindly square away and lay in a course to rejoin the fleet.’

  ‘Aye aye sir.’

  ‘Mr Ross, kindly inform these gentlemen that I shall endeavour to make their stay as comfortable as possible until we have a chance to transfer them to the flagship.’

  With that, Young turned aft and headed towards his cabin, no doubt eager for a moment’s peace so he could reflect on the implications of recent events.

  Rumours had been flying round the fleet faster than any bird could carry messages ever since Fortitude had arrived back off Toulon and transferred the three commissioners from Marseilles to Lord Hood in HMS Victory.

  Fury was standing on the quarterdeck of HMS Fortitude as she kept watch outside the harbour with the rest of the fleet, just out of range of the shore batteries there.

  Yesterday Lord Hood had called for a meeting on board the flagship with all admirals and captains present, and that had been their first concrete news on the developments since their arrival back with the fleet.

  On his return from the meeting, Captain Young had called the senior officers down to his cabin and had relayed the events of the past few days. Fury had stood for nearly an hour as the captain had carefully explained the current position to his officers.

  In the absence of the Toulon commissioners as promised by Dommartin, Lord Hood had sent an officer – Lieutenant Edward Cooke, chosen because of his fluency in French – ashore under a flag of truce, to treat with the deputies or bring them off safely to the Victory. After two days he returned to the Victory with two of the commissioners deputed for Toulon. On 26 August – last Monday – the deputies of all the sections of Toulon agreed with Lord Hood’s proposals and signed a declaration inves
ting him provisionally with the harbour and forts of Toulon.

  Being satisfied that the people of the city were unanimously for the surrender, Lord Hood then sent Cooke back on shore to find out the position of the French fleet anchored within, a part of which was still loyal to the Republic.

  Every man in the British fleet had heard the gunfire the night before last, but it was not until Cooke had returned that it became apparent that the entire broadside from a French frigate had been directed solely at him as he landed ashore and made his way to the city.

  The commander of the French fleet, Rear Admiral Comte de Trogoff, was a staunch Royalist and so his second in command, Rear Admiral St-Julien, who was known to be loyal to the Republic, had superseded Trogoff and taken over the command of the fleet himself. St-Julien had then, along with the crews of seven line-of-battle ships, taken over and manned the forts on the western side of the harbour.

  In response to this Lord Hood had decided at a council of war that immediate action was needed, and had resolved to land 1,500 men under the command of Captain Elphinstone to occupy Fort La Malgue on the other side of the harbour. Fury had since looked at a chart of Toulon and could see that Fort La Malgue, situated on a spit of land separating the inner and outer roads, was built on high ground and would therefore be able to dominate St-Julien’s much lower forts. Once they were in possession of La Malgue they could demand the surrender of St-Julien and his men or open fire on the French fleet anchored in the bay.

  Fury swung his telescope to starboard for any sign of Elphinstone and his troops. They had been disembarked during the night as close as possible to Fort La Malgue, meaning that nearly every telescope in the ship was being constantly trained on the fort for the first sign of a signal which would confirm the success of the landing.

  It was approaching midday by the time the shout finally came from Midshipman Jessop that the fort was hoisting a flag, Fury immediately whipping his glass to his eye and studying carefully. It was the Union Jack.

  ‘Deck there! Main masthead here!’

  The shout drifted down to the deck and reached Fury as he swung easily with the motion of the Fortitude, pushing her way through the short waves and heeling over slightly to the breeze.

  ‘Deck here!’ yelled back Dullerbury, as officer of the watch.

  ‘Sails in sight to the south-east sir. Plenty of ’em. They look like two-deckers to me sir!’

  ‘Very well, keep an eye on ’em!’ Dullerbury shouted back, despatching Midshipman Jessop to inform the captain.

  Captain Young had told them yesterday that Lord Hood was expecting the Spanish fleet under Admiral de Langara, based at Minorca, to join them any day now and assist them in occupying Toulon. Fury’s first thought at the time had been scepticism at the idea of two traditional enemies – Britain and Spain – combining in a joint operation as allies. He had absolutely no doubt that there would be trouble ahead.

  He stood and watched for hours as the Spanish fleet slowly approached and took up a position to seaward of the blockading British fleet. He could see them clearly through his glass, and grudgingly had to admit that the Spanish could build lovely ships. Twenty-one sails of the line in all, a mixture of two- and three-deckers with the red and gold of Spain streaming in the wind. He was less impressed with their seamanship, however, as he watched their manoeuvres and timed how long it took them to shorten sail.

  He looked at his watch again – nearly four o’clock now. He hurried below to put his telescope in his cabin and retrieve his hat in time for his watch, the first of the day’s two dogwatches. Fury continued his habit of pacing the quarterdeck during his watch, so that it was Midshipman Jessop who brought his attention halfway through the watch to the fact that the flagship was signalling for all captains once again. Fury immediately ordered the gig swung out and sent Jessop below to inform the captain. Soon after, Young hastily went over the side into his gig.

  It was two hours before he returned, the sun already well down on the horizon over to the west as he climbed back on board and signalled Ross to gather the officers together and meet him in his cabin in ten minutes.

  The meeting was a much briefer affair than the previous evening’s, lasting just long enough for Captain Young to inform them all that the fleet would be entering the bay at first light tomorrow. A quick question from Ross about the batteries held by St-Julien on the western side of the harbour revealed that Captain Elphinstone, after sending across a flag of truce to St-Julien demanding that all ships in the outer road retreat into the inner road and land their powder and men without delay, had found that St-Julien had disappeared during the night, taking with him the crews of seven line-of-battle ships who were loyal to the Republic.

  St-Julien had probably decided that in this case discretion was the better part of valour. Not knowing the size of the British blockading fleet, feeling outnumbered by the Royalist support within the city, and happy that his own honour had been satisfied by his token resistance, he had decided to retreat and wait for support to arrive.

  And so, Fury thought, as he made his way down to his cabin to get some sleep, Toulon was now officially under the control of the British.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning broke clear, Fury standing on the quarterdeck watching the watery sun light up the mountains inland and fill them with colour. Every officer on board Fortitude was on deck now, telescopes in hand, eager not to miss the sight as the fleet bore up in response to a signal from the flagship and headed slowly into Toulon harbour, each ship under topsails only.

  HMS Victory led the way of course, with Fortitude towards the rear of the long column so that it seemed an age before the coast grew nearer. Finally they approached the peninsular jutting out from the mainland, covered with mountains and peaks as it ran down towards the sea to end at Cape Cepet – Fury recalled the name from the chart – protecting the outer road from any southerly winds.

  He could see the Croix des Signaux at the northern tip of the peninsula as they began their entrance to the harbour. It stood tall and clear upon one of the many heights dominating the landscape, part of a continuous chain of semaphore stations running up and down the coast to transmit messages or orders faster than any rider could hope to carry them.

  They slowly weathered Cape Cepet, the Fortitude’s bow swinging to port until she was heading northerly, and then more to the north-west to enter the outer road, or as the French called it, Grande Rade.

  Fury could see that the majority of the French fleet had been moved by their crews into the inner road as demanded, leaving – he counted quickly – seven remaining in the outer road, presumably those ships whose crews had left with St-Julien two nights before.

  He turned his attention back to Cape Cepet as it slowly slipped past, continuing his scrutiny of the signal tower, now on the Fortitude’s larboard quarter, before moving his attention to the batteries stationed along the peninsular to protect the outer road from the south. One … two … three. That was it, just the three forts situated on the peninsular. One immediately below the signal tower, another slightly to the west and then another next to what must be the hospital, St-Mandrier.

  The mile-and-a-half-wide gap between Cape Cepet to the west and Cape Brun to the east, which formed the entrance to the outer harbour, was now passing astern as the wide expanse of water in the outer road opened up beyond the Fortitude’s bow.

  Fury, swinging his glass forward, could already see that many of the British fleet had begun to anchor in the outer road. Almost ahead of them as they turned more to the northwest, Fury could see two small spits of land, each having a fort standing at the tip. That must be Fort l’Eguillette on the northernmost spit, directly opposite another spit of land coming to meet it from across the other side of the bay with the old semaphore station at its tip, the two together forming the entrance to the inner road, or Petite Rade, as it was named on the French charts.

  The fort to the south of l’Eguillette was Fort Balaguier, which together with l
’Eguillette completely covered the outer road from the west. Both the forts were on low ground and were well within range of the guns at La Malgue over to the east, which Elphinstone had taken just the day before.

  Fury’s head was spinning from the effort of recalling the French names from the chart he had studied, so much so that the curt orders from Young to the helmsman, as the Fortitude slowly glided in to find a suitable anchorage, largely went unnoticed.

  He swung his glass back south, where he could now clearly see the narrow isthmus which connected the peninsular of Cape Cepet with the mainland. Situated on that narrow strip was another fort, presumably Batterie de Sablettes. That made four forts for the peninsular alone.

  Fury was glad they had not had to come in fighting. With the crossfire from all these batteries they would have been shot to pieces before they even got halfway into the outer road.

  Ross was shouting out the orders which sent the crew to their stations for anchoring, signalling that Young had found a suitable spot among the maze of shipping. The topmen stood ready to go aloft at the signal and furl the topsails, while the men stationed on the focsle unlashed the anchor from the ship’s side, awaiting the order to let go.

  A quick command from Young to the helmsman sent the wheel spinning, the Fortitude’s bow slowly coming up into the wind. A shout from Ross to the men on the focsle sent the bower anchor dropping with an almighty splash into the deep water of the outer road, the anchor sinking quickly and causing the hempen cable to smoke from the friction as it ran out through the hawsehole.