Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  Fury was cut off from responding by Mr Vansittart, vying for his attention.

  ‘Please sir, the Royal George has just signalled to cast off the tow. We’re just about in position now.’

  ‘Very well Mr Vansittart, have the men at the bows cast it loose. We’ll furl those scraps of sail once we find a suitable anchorage.’

  Fury left the magazine in Vansittart’s wake and looked forward to the Royal George. The tow rope had been cast off and lay in the water, trailing astern of the big second rate. He could see the fort of Malbousquet over to starboard, with Missiessi further to the east. They were at the north-western end of the inner road, with the heights of La Petite-Garenne presumably hiding the Republican mortar batteries situated just below the crest on the other side of the heights.

  The landscape looked barren and bleak, course scrub vegetation scattered across the many hills and valleys. Perhaps it would look more appealing during the springtime when the rainfall would provide some more colour, Fury thought magnanimously, giving the place the benefit of the doubt.

  A distant bang followed by a curious whistling sound reached his ears, and he turned with a look of confusion on his face. A second later a small explosion tore at the air, the black smoke billowing out over to larboard close by the French prize frigate Aurora, which was just coming to her anchor.

  It was the first shell of the day, Fury realised, coming from one of the Republican’s hidden batteries, and it had luckily just missed its target.

  ‘Ready away the anchor there!’ he bellowed, anxious to be at the French.

  They were the farthest right of a staggered line of vessels consisting of the Aurora, another floating battery similar to themselves, the Royal George and then the Tempest.

  The first shots were already beginning to erupt from the sides of the Aurora and the Royal George as Fury gave the commands which saw the anchor dropped and the small scrap of sail at fore and mizzen furled.

  A hawser was laid out of the aft-most gun port and attached to the anchor cable forward so that by hauling on it, the Tempest could be shifted round to bring her small battery of twenty-four-pounders to bear. Those twenty-four-pounders, at a signal from Fury, had already been loaded and were now ready to reply.

  He scanned the heights with his telescope but could see no sign of the enemy batteries. The bombardment continued as Fury peered through the glass, making a mental note of where the smoke trails from the shells were originating. He was about to turn away to give his first order, when something caught his eye: a bright glint of light from up on the heights, caused by the sun reflecting off glass, perhaps. Was that the French spotters, up on the heights with telescopes directing the fire of their own shells? Probably, Fury thought, snapping his glass shut and turning inboard.

  ‘Maximum elevation!’

  The gun captains ensured the guns were aiming as high as they could, before standing back, ready for the word. Fury was doubtful whether any of the shot would be able to reach the enemy batteries on the other side of the heights, but their firing might provide nuisance value while Watson’s mortars did the real damage.

  ‘Fire!’

  Fury gave the word and they bellowed out, joining in the cacophony of noise nearby as the four vessels bombarded the estimated positions of the enemy.

  He caught glimpses of Watson going to and from the magazine as he brought out fixed shells, the sharper bark of the mortars adding their weight to the din.

  Fury felt a sudden urge to see these remarkable weapons in action and left the twenty-four-pounders for a few moments. Watson was busy handing the first of the filled shells over to his assistant, while he cut a length of fuse and inserted it into the cylindrical body, lighting it before placing it into the barrel. The same was done with the second. Satisfied, they stood back and his assistant touched the slow match to the touchholes.

  The mortar barked out and the sharp whistling sound as the cylindrical ball soared upwards gradually diminished. The smoke from the protruding fuses marked a helpful trail through the air as the shells arced up and over the hills and dropped beyond, the explosions drifting to them across the water a moment later.

  ‘At least the fuses were the right length,’ Watson observed, apparently happy with his work.

  His curiosity satisfied, Fury grunted and left him to it, preferring to supervise the more familiar twenty-four-pound cannon. Those cannons were crashing out at commendably short intervals, much to Fury’s satisfaction. The smoke generated at each discharge drifted back over the crews, choking and stinging the eyes so that Fury marvelled at their endurance.

  The men reloaded and fired like automata, the noise and smoke invading the senses as Fury kept his telescope trained on the distant heights until his arm ached with the effort. In spite of their fire, the enemy shells rained down unabated, albeit largely ineffectively. Fury lowered his telescope and looked at his watch to see that it was only ten o’clock. They had been going almost three hours and he had not the slightest idea whether they had hit anything.

  More whistling sounds told him of further shells raining down on their positions. He looked across at the Aurora to see an explosion on her focsle, the black smoke hanging thick over her bow. He could see men rushing towards it with water buckets to put out any smouldering fragments of iron. Fury forced his mind to ignore what kind of carnage an exploding shell would do to those around it.

  His attention was diverted by a deeper boom over to his right, not far from Malbousquet. A splash was thrown up in the inner road near the Tempest’s bow and Fury wondered for a moment where it had originated. Malbousquet was not firing at them, was it?

  The sound of another cannon reached his ears, and then another, but he was looking at Malbousquet and none of her guns had fired. A crash nearby told him that at least one of them had struck. The Republicans must have opened up another battery, this one of cannon, and by the sound of it, twenty-four-pounders too. He whipped the telescope back to his eye and studied the landscape to the west of Malbousquet. A minute later they fired again, and Fury saw the smoke from their discharge. He waited until the smoke cleared, and fancied he could distinguish the black muzzles of the enemy cannon looking back at him. The rest of the battery he could not see, evidently camouflaged by the Republicans.

  ‘Take a turn on the spring there!’ he shouted, unwilling to sit and be fired at without the chance of reply.

  Men ran from their guns and hauled on the spring to bring the Tempest’s broadside slowly round until her guns would bear. By the time the crews were back at their pieces and ready to fire, more balls were coming down from the masked battery of enemy cannon, two hitting them near the bow. He had counted four discharges with that salvo. Looking down at the side he could see the holes where the balls had struck.

  ‘Fire!’

  Their own cannon roared out at maximum elevation and the crews flung themselves into the process of reloading without even bothering to look at where their shot had fallen. Fury had his glass to his eye, studying the landscape intently, and even he could not see where they fell.

  More whistling sounds came overhead, Fury shuffling his feet with unease as the sound grew louder. A loud thud sounded from forward and a second later an explosion ripped through the foremast rigging, iron fragments scything in every direction as the shell casing burst apart. He could hear loud screams from at least one man who had been caught in the blast.

  Grabbing the nearest water bucket, he rushed forward and flung it up at the sail to stop the red hot iron fragments smouldering. He put the bucket down on the deck, only then seeing the man writhing on the planking not ten feet away. His body was a bloody mess, fragments of iron protruding everywhere, the smoke still pouring from them as they burned his flesh.

  Still he was alive, in the most agonising pain imaginable, his screams now little more than whimpers as his last grains of strength left him. He was dead by the time Fury reached him, thankfully, so there was nothing left for him to do but drag the body to the side o
f the deck and return to his position. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, and he tried to push the sight of the wretched man from his mind.

  He looked across at the other vessels, each showing visible signs of damage. Even as he watched a cannonball plummeted into the side of the Royal George, smashing timbers and sending up showers of splinters. A moment later another crashed into their own hull near the low bulwark, the splinters being thrown across the deck and slicing open a seaman along the way. Fury saw the blood on the planking gradually spread as the man stood there dumbstruck looking down at his midriff.

  Two of his comrades were quickly at his side, carrying him forward to the screened-off section under the upper deck. The sight of it made Fury realise they had no surgeon on board, and he wondered what they would do with him. Here was Watson coming over to him, that smile of his still on his face. Was the man mad?

  ‘How are we doing Mr Fury?’

  ‘Not too well. I can’t even see their batteries so I have no idea if we’re hitting anything. We can’t take too much of this ourselves.’

  ‘We’ll be hitting them,’ Watson declared confidently, ‘I’ve studied the smoke trails of their shells and I’ve calculated their points of origin. Just a little over 2,000 yards, twenty-two-second flight time with a nine-pound powder charge.’

  Fury was impressed by the man’s expertise and could only hope his confidence was not misplaced. He spared a further glance at his watch, hoping for the day to end quickly. His heart sank when he saw it was barely half-past eleven. He was not sure how much more of this his nerves could take.

  More crashes further forward told him of at least two balls ploughing into their hull from the masked battery over near Malbousquet. A quick glance at the men around the twenty-four-pounders heartened him a little, the speed with which they reloaded reminding him how professional they were. Those guns thundered out once again as he watched, the smoke blowing back on board to wreath the crews in a choking, sulphurous mass.

  Whistling noises betrayed the approach of yet more enemy mortar shells. An explosion over to the left near the Royal George was followed quickly by another, much closer, sending the hull of the Tempest shuddering from the force. Fury rushed to the side and looked down. Part of the hull near the water-line was charred black, jagged splinters protruding from the surface, the smoke still rising from the burning shell fragments. Fury hurriedly grabbed another water bucket and slung it over the side, beckoning a couple of men to do the same.

  ‘Sir!’

  That was Vansittart, rushing towards him.

  ‘What is it Mr Vansittart?’ Fury asked, thinking he had enough on his plate already without more distractions.

  ‘Royal George has just signalled sir. We are to withdraw out of range until further orders.’

  ‘Very well,’ Fury replied, his mind racing too quickly to register any relief. ‘Secure the guns!’ he bellowed.

  Rear Admiral Gell had presumably seen the punishment they had been taking and had come to the correct decision. The sight of their withdrawal would no doubt give the Republicans a huge boost.

  ‘Man the capstan!’

  The guns were all secure now and the men raced to the capstan to begin the process of weighing anchor, obviously eager to get out of range as quickly as possible. The clank, clank of the capstan pawls could soon be heard as the heavy cable was brought in, Fury having the scraps of canvas set on fore and mizzen as soon as the anchor was free.

  He could see the other floating battery withdrawing as well, leaving just the Royal George and the Aurora to continue the fight. They glided slowly to the east – too slowly it seemed to Fury – with cannon splashing around them all the time as they went.

  Eventually the cannonade ceased, the enemy battery judging them to be out of range and turning their attention to the Royal George and the Aurora. It wasn’t until they brought the fort of Missiessi up on the larboard beam that Fury had the Tempest brought to anchor once again, satisfied that they were quite safe.

  He let the men rest for over an hour while chewing on their measly rations. They had worked hard all morning, and there would be much more work still to do before they could rejoin the fight tomorrow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Fury and his small crew spent all afternoon and long into the night effecting repairs to the damaged hull of the Tempest. The inner and outer hull was completely checked to ensure she was not shipping any water, while the battered bulwarks and deck were patched up as well as could be expected.

  While the repair work was underway, the wounded were transferred over to the Royal George so they could be properly tended to by a surgeon, and able-bodied replacements were provided so as not to diminish Fury’s meagre crew.

  The men, Fury included, were exhausted by the time they finally got to sleep, lying on the bare deck beyond the canvas screen forward of the foremast. In a little over four hours they were up again, beckoned by the approach of dawn.

  The whole morning swept by in a blur of exhaustion and fatigue, the shells and cannon continuing to rain down in an almost relentless bombardment. Fury could remember nothing much apart from the need to have the Tempest moved every couple of hours to avoid the masked batteries of the Republicans to the west of Malbousquet getting their range.

  Still, as he lay down that night to catch up on some much needed sleep, he could honestly count the day a success. They had managed to last the whole day in action, along with the other floating batteries, the Aurora and the Royal George.

  Perhaps it was the constant shift of anchorage. Whatever it was, the Tempest had been hit remarkably few times and all by cannonballs into the hull, not a single mortar shell coming close. With any luck, tomorrow would be more of the same, he thought, as he closed his weary eyes and let sleep overtake him.

  It was still dark when Fury awoke the next morning, the 21st. He had slept only fitfully, cold and uncomfortable on deck with the snores of his men a constant distraction. He had become used to sleeping in the privacy of his own cabin, undisturbed by the noise of others.

  He got gingerly to his feet, his limbs stiff and sore and doing nothing to lighten his mood.

  ‘Rouse up men!’ he shouted, jealous of their slumber and deciding they had slept enough.

  The first stirrings sounded in the pre-dawn darkness as the men clung on to the last vestiges of sleep.

  ‘Come on! Shake a leg there!’

  He walked amongst them, prodding his boot into stationary bodies to encourage them. They were all awake now, groans and moans emanating from the darkness telling him what they thought to his early call.

  ‘I want to be in position by first light, so get yourself some hard tack and take your stations.’

  Hard tack was all they had, of course. No chance of lighting a galley fire on a floating battery with makeshift magazines, powder and mortar shells nearby. Fury got himself a piece of biscuit, struggling with its solidity as he made his way aft towards the magazine. Watson loomed up alongside him in the gloom, still irritatingly cheerful in spite of the hour.

  ‘Ready to go again Mr Fury?’

  ‘Of course,’ Fury lied, the tiredness still tugging at him. ‘Have we sufficient shells?’

  ‘We have plenty. As soon as we are in position, I shall have one of my men begin filling them.’

  ‘Excellent. I hope to be in position within an hour or so, so you may begin your preparations.’

  Fury looked at his watch, the first hint of dawn just starting to creep over the eastern horizon providing sufficient light. It would be daylight by half-past six, so they did not have long to get into position.

  ‘Hands to the capstan!’ he bawled, unconcerned by whether the men had finished their measly breakfast yet.

  The sound of stamping feet reverberated along the deck as the men ran to the capstan wheel, slotting home the bars and standing ready. Fury could see that those men whose job it would be to raise the small scrap of sail once they were at the mercy of wind and current, were alread
y at fore and mizzen masts, awaiting the order.

  Satisfied, Fury set the men heaving at the capstan to bring the anchor up from the shallow waters of the inner road. Once free of the bottom, the mildewed sails were set and the Tempest began making slow steerage way through the water. The anchor, now free of the water altogether, was catted temporarily but not fished. It would be dropped again within the next thirty minutes, once they were within range of the masked batteries of the Republicans.

  Fury looked over to starboard, the recent activity of getting underway having stripped him of his tiredness. The fort of Malbousquet overlooking the inner road stood high and proud, slowly slipping astern as they passed.

  The sun was almost up, the dark purple of the sky now a lighter blue with hardly a cloud to be seen. Turning his attention to the task at hand, Fury looked forward to the north-west shore of the inner road, where yesterday the two masked batteries had been. They were well within range of them now.

  ‘Let go the anchor!’ he shouted.

  The bower anchor, still hanging from the cathead, was released, and dropped swiftly into the steely grey water. The sails were quickly furled and at another command from Fury, men got to work passing a hawser out of one of the aft gun ports and leading it forward to attach to the anchor cable for use as a spring.

  The sun was up fully now, already beginning to warm his back and promising a fine day. He could see Aurora, Royal George and the other gun battery slowly gliding to their positions, and he felt a little surge of satisfaction that the Tempest had been the first in position.

  Pulling his telescope from his jacket pocket, his turned his attention back to the shore, studying every inch of terrain for any sign of Republican activity which would betray the presence of a battery. Nothing. Nothing to disturb the monotony of that harsh, grey landscape. Surely it wouldn’t be long now before they began the bombardment.

  ‘Stand to your guns!’ he shouted, wanting to be ready to reply as soon as the first shots came.