Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  ‘Who’s in charge here?’ he demanded.

  No one spoke.

  ‘Who gave you permission to take that liquor?’

  Still silence.

  ‘By God!’ Fury continued in a rising voice, sensing that he had the upper hand, ‘I could have you all flogged for this! I could have the skin hanging from your backs!’

  He paused to let the image sink in.

  ‘We worn’t doin’ no harm sir, just a little lubricating.’

  Fury recognised the speaker from his own division on the Fortitude, the short stocky foretopman called Gooseman. He felt let down.

  ‘Put those bottles down at once!’

  One of the men at the back of the group was foolish enough to take a sly swig, and Fury saw it. His calmness evaporated in an instant.

  ‘Down, I tell you!’

  The men hesitated and Fury raised his hands, pointing the pistols at them. The sight of those pistols proved a powerful persuader, even if Fury hadn’t yet decided if he had the courage to use them.

  Bottles smashed on the deck planking as reluctant hands released their grip.

  ‘Now up on deck, all of you.’

  The men began to reach for their jackets, but stopped short as Fury thrust the pistols at them again.

  ‘Leave the jackets! Move!’

  He stepped aside to let the men trudge past, each wearing only shirt and trousers. They reached the deck where darkness was beginning to fall, the temperature dropping as the heat of the sun was lost.

  ‘Mr Francis!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘These men will supplement the anchor watch for the next four hours. After that they can retire below for some sleep. Two hours to be precise, then I want them back on duty, in jackets if they wish.’

  Fury could see grins from the men around as they heard his orders, the small huddle of men in front of him looking miserable and already shivering slightly in the wind.

  ‘Take these.’ Fury handed Francis his two pistols. ‘You have my permission to shoot any man who attempts to leave the deck before the four hours are up. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  Fury turned to go below and supervise the securing of the rest of the liquor. It would be unloaded tomorrow if Hood was as good as his word, but Fury wanted to take no more chances until then. He would be hard pushed to come up with a satisfactory explanation to the admiral should half the cargo go missing.

  He stopped at the hatchway leading down to the deck below, remembering a small point and half turning to seek out Francis once again.

  ‘Oh and Mr Francis.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘There will be a boat coming round the fleet in a day or two to collect mail for England. Inform the men they’d better have any letters ready by then.’

  ‘Aye aye sir.’

  Satisfied, he made his way down below to see to the liquor. Half an hour later saw him laid in his cot in the master’s cabin, his weary limbs finally enjoying some rest after a long, hard day.

  Fury was up before dawn the next day, eager to make the preparations for the removal of Renard’s cargo as soon as the lighters arrived.

  Hood was as good as his word, the lighters beetling out to them across the bay in the first light of morning. Fury immediately set the men to work rigging tackles and blocks with which the cargo could be swung up and out of the hold, so that by the time the lighters pulled alongside, they were ready.

  Those men who had got to the liquor the previous day were obviously suffering from the after-effects of their binge, which raised a smile from Fury as he watched them sweating and grumbling.

  It took all morning before the last of the liquor and timber was hauled up and lowered down on to the deck of the last lighter left alongside. It was just after midday, the men sitting about the deck eating hard biscuit and rancid cheese, when the first sounds of gunfire reached them. It came from the shore to the north-west, overlooking the inner road where many of the fleet were now anchored.

  An hour later and the cannonade continued unabated, Fury seeing the sails of the warships in the inner road as they glided slowly to the east to get themselves out of range of the enemy’s guns.

  Fury stood on the deck with his telescope, training it forward past the village of La Seyne and on to the heights covering the horizon, trying to catch a glimpse of where the Republicans had erected their battery. He saw nothing, save for the occasional drift of smoke which may or may not betray the location of the guns.

  His eye was aching by the time the familiar sound of a twelve-pounder reached his ears nearer at hand, swiftly followed by another and then another as the allies finally responded to the new threat. He could see the masts and yards of the ship which was firing, presumably a frigate, stationed to the west of the inner road and bombarding the heights in an attempt to silence the enemy battery. He would recognise the sound of a twelve-pounder anywhere after his service on board the Amazon, and the memories of it came flooding back.

  For over three hours the firing continued, long enough for the ears and mind to become accustomed to it, so that when it finally stopped just after four bells in the afternoon watch, the anchorage was eerily quiet.

  Fury, now perched as near to the truck of the mainmast as he could get, scanned the bay in the fading light. A boat pulled out from the lee of the ninety-eight-gun Royal George, anchored just within the inner road. Fury watched it slowly pull across the current heading for the outer road, presumably to deliver despatches of some sort. His curiosity increased as the boat turned to the west and pulled directly for Renard.

  ‘Boat coming sir!’ shouted Francis from the deck, but Fury was already scrambling down the rigging.

  He reached the deck, half expecting the boat to have changed course by now and be approaching one of the other anchored ships nearby, but she was still pulling for Renard and was not far off now. It was too early for it to be the boat collecting mail, surely.

  Fury began pacing in an effort to calm his racing thoughts, so that he was oblivious to the exchange of shouts as the boat approached and hooked on. He stopped short as a midshipman scurried through the brig’s entry port and addressed himself to Francis, who led him over to where Fury was standing and introduced him.

  ‘Midshipman Gregory sir, from the Royal George.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Gregory. And what may we do for you?’

  For a midshipman he was remarkably old, probably in his late thirties, so that Fury felt slightly uncomfortable addressing him as a subordinate.

  ‘Orders from the admiral sir.’

  Gregory held out a sealed paper.

  ‘Admiral?’ Fury enquired, taking the package. He knew very well that Rear Admiral Gell had his flag hoisted on the Royal George, but it was as well to make sure.

  ‘Rear Admiral Gell sir,’ Gregory confirmed. ‘I am to await your confirmation.’

  Fury nodded and walked over to the larboard side to gain some privacy, quickly tearing the seal as he walked. The first page was brief.

  Lieutenant Fury, HMS Fortitude

  18 September 1793

  The Republicans have opened up two masked batteries to the west of the inner road. We have, this afternoon, prepared two floating batteries with which to counter this threat. In accordance with the recommendation of Lord Hood, I am placing you in command of one of these, the Tempest. She is lying ready to the east of the inner road, with forty men on board, currently under a midshipman, along with a gunnery expert to operate the mortars. You are to make sure you are on board by dawn tomorrow so that you can be towed into a position to engage the enemy. Your official orders are overleaf.

  Your servant,

  Rear Admiral Gell

  Fury turned to the second page where his official orders were written, brief and formal, beginning with the increasingly familiar ‘You are hereby requested and required’. He turned to Gregory, waiting patiently with Francis alongside.

  ‘Very well. You may inform the admiral I shall be in position b
y dawn tomorrow as ordered.’

  Francis looked confused, but Fury didn’t have time to explain. He saw Gregory over the side and hurried down to his cabin, aware that he had a letter to write to his mother before he left. He may be dead tomorrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  Fury sat in the stern sheets of the boat and looked forward through the maze of shipping to his new command, albeit temporary. A brisk wind whipped at the sheltered waters of the inner road, sending the spray in great swathes over those huddled in the boat as they gradually neared their objective.

  He blinked to try and relieve the discomfort caused by the salt in his eyes. His vision cleared somewhat and he studied her closely, registering the distant thuds of cannon over to the left.

  She must once have been an imposing two-decker, built to stand in the line of battle and assert the will of her masters. Through age and use, however, she was now nothing more than a hulk, a floating battery whose only task was to aid in the destruction of the masked batteries of the Republicans over to the west, which were causing havoc to the shipping in the inner road.

  Fury fumbled in his brain for the right term, finally plucking it from his memory as another sheet of spray soaked him through. Razee. The once proud line-of-battle ship had been cut down to facilitate her current use from one of the unseaworthy two-deckers in the French fleet, found in the harbour when the British had entered. Her poop and quarterdeck were long gone, so too her focsle. Her upper deck had been removed and her sides cut down, except for forward and aft where it had seemingly been untouched, probably to provide shelter for the men forward, and a magazine for her powder aft. Her mainmast was missing entirely, while those of the fore and main were cut off at the junction of the topmasts. Each had a scrap of sail loosely hanging from a yard, presumably to aid her in manoeuvring into position. Doubtless there would be sweeps aboard too – a ship of that size, cut down or not, would not make much headway with that measly canvas.

  They were nearly there now, the vast bulk of the ninety-eight-gun Royal George nearby, waiting patiently to take her under tow. Rear Admiral Gell in command of her would probably be fuming at the delay, thought Fury, but he had a clear conscience. He had only received his orders last night, and had set off from Renard this morning before the weak sun was even peering over the eastern horizon.

  If he had been given sufficient men, she would not have needed to be towed. A combination of sail and sweeps would have been sufficient to get her over to the required position in order to help the prize frigate Aurora, the Royal George, and the other gunboat currently engaged with the Republican batteries. But of course Lord Hood was already desperately short of men trying to defend the fifteen-mile perimeter of Toulon and its environs from the enemy, and so Fury had to make do with a little over forty men, hardly enough to man her armament, much less move her ponderous bulk.

  Finally reaching her, Fury put the tiller over to send the boat gliding alongside, the men unshipping their oars while the bowman forward hooked on. Fury stood up and made his way to the battens leading up the short side of his new command. He jumped through the improvised entry port on to what used to be the lower deck.

  Four twenty-four-pounders were ranged at intervals along the starboard side, currently bowsed taut and impotent. At a number of the old gun ports large thole pins had been erected for use with the sweeps. These sweeps were now laid silently along the larboard side, lashed firmly in place until needed. The forward and aft-most sections of the deck, under cover of what used to be the upper deck, were both sectioned off with hanging canvas screens, so that he could not see what lay beyond.

  One glance amidships showed immediately why the mainmast had been removed. Two large brass mortars had been installed in the centre of the hull, where the mainmast used to be. Fury was glad there was a gunnery expert on board to operate them. Using mortars was a specialist business, requiring knowledge of trajectories, fuse lengths and charges. The only thing he knew about them was that they were housed within a solid carriage of timber, called the bed, and bolted securely so that no movement was possible when fired.

  There was a young midshipman shuffling his feet before him now, trying to get his attention.

  ‘Midshipman Vansittart sir, from the Victory. Welcome aboard the Tempest.’

  ‘Thank you Mr Vansittart. Is the tiller manned?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘And is the tow rope ready?’

  ‘Yes sir. It was passed over from the Royal George more than an hour ago. They are waiting for our signal to begin.’

  Fury could almost picture Rear Admiral Gell stomping around the quarterdeck of the Royal George, fuming at the delay.

  ‘Then perhaps you had better hoist it so we can get underway.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Vansittart replied, hurrying over to a man standing near what was left of the foremast.

  Strong arms clapped on to the halliards, and a moment later a flag rose jerkily upwards, breaking out at the top of the foremast and telling the Royal George they were ready to begin.

  ‘Man the capstan!’ Fury yelled.

  The Tempest was riding to her bower anchor, the thick hempen cable coming in at the hawsehole and leading down to the tiers below. Lightened of stores and armament and cut down greatly, they should have sufficient men at the capstan to break the anchor loose of the seabed.

  It took only a moment for the men to assemble at the capstan bars and begin, slowly walking round as the cable slithered aboard. He could tell when the anchor was free of the seabed by the ease with which the men suddenly walked round the capstan barrel. He could also see from the shore that they had begun to drift with the current now that the anchor was atrip, and he made his way over to the side to look forward at the Royal George. She had just sheeted home topsails and was beginning to fill slowly away, the large hempen tow rope connecting the two vessels rising up out of the water as the strain came on it. He could feel the bow swing as the tow rope reached its full length and she started to come round in response to the Royal George.

  ‘Mr Vansittart!’

  ‘Sir?’

  The lad came running across to stand at his side.

  ‘Have that scrap of canvas set on fore and mizzen if you please. We may as well help the admiral as much as we can.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Vansittart piped.

  As large as the Royal George was, and as light as they were, it was no easy task towing a ship through a seaway, so any small scrap of canvas they could set would have a tremendous effect.

  It only took a few of the men hauling on sheets and halliards to send the damp, yellow canvas rising pathetically to the makeshift yards. A little pull on the braces had them trimmed identically to the Royal George, so that the two of them increased speed perceptibly as they moved westward.

  Glad to be underway, and feeling slightly powerless at not being fully in control of her movements, Fury turned inboard once again to continue his scan of the deck.

  His attention was diverted by the approach of a man wearing just shirt and breeches and sweating profusely as he warmly held out his hand to Fury.

  ‘My name’s Watson sir, formerly a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Artillery, now seconded to this old tub.’

  ‘I am Lieutenant Fury, of the Fortitude. You have knowledge of mortars then?’

  ‘Yes sir. All on land of course, but then what’s the difference eh?’

  Fury couldn’t bring himself to dampen the man’s spirit by pointing out that a ship did not provide a steady platform for gunnery, nor was it easy to hide a ship from the enemy. The Republicans had a distinct advantage in this small battle, and Fury knew it.

  ‘Perhaps you could take me quickly through your preparations.’

  Watson nodded his head eagerly, as if glad to have a willing audience to listen to his expertise.

  ‘Of course Mr Fury. If you’ll follow me back here, I’ll show you how it works.’

  He pointed aft to where the canvas screen blocked off Fury’s view. Fury f
ollowed him, Watson staggering occasionally as the Tempest shifted her bulk in deference to wind and wave. Thrusting aside the canvas screen, Fury stepped beyond to see a makeshift magazine, just as he had expected. Buckets of water were everywhere and it was obvious the deck beneath him had recently been sluiced down to avoid any stray grains of powder igniting.

  ‘This is the filling room. As you can see we keep it well watered. The hanging magazine down on the orlop deck is used to make up the cartridges for the propellant powder.’

  Fury nodded his approval. Watson held up a metallic ball for his inspection.

  ‘Your typical thirteen-inch shell.’

  Fury shook it gingerly and realised it was empty.

  ‘Hollow,’ Watson confirmed. ‘We don’t fill ’em with powder until they’re needed. Usually that’s done in the boat appointed to carry ’em but, not having our own tender, we have to run the risk of doing it here.’

  ‘And the fuse?’ Fury asked.

  ‘Inserted by me – fixing, we call it – but first cut to the required length depending on how far the enemy is. Cut it too long and they’ll have time to extinguish it when it lands, too short and it’ll explode harmlessly mid flight.’

  ‘I see.’ Fury was beginning to appreciate the many different complexities of using them accurately. ‘And the loading?’

  ‘That’s simple enough. The fixed shells are taken as needed to the mortars. The powder used to propel the mortar is put into the chamber first, followed by a wad, rammed down. The shell is placed on this wad, fuse hole uppermost, followed by a final wad to keep the shell firmly in position. After that it’s simply a case of lighting the fuse of the shell and then lighting the mortar itself.’

  ‘I see. And what if we cannot see the enemy batteries?’

  ‘We’ll be able to calculate their position by studying the smoke trails from their shells. Then we’ll drop our own shells right on top of them.’

  ‘You have enough men?’

  ‘Not quite, but we’ll make do. It’s not as if His Lordship can spare the men, is it?’