Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  The men crowded round their pieces and made sure everything was ready.

  ‘You may load, ready,’ he ordered the men at the twenty-four-pounders. The men at the mortars would have to wait until they had some idea of where the enemy lay, so that the correct powder charge and fuse length could be estimated.

  He continued his scan of the shore, Watson soon joining him with his own telescope.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve given up,’ he suggested, hopefully.

  ‘I doubt it.’

  Nevertheless the sun had been up for nearly an hour now, and there was no sign of any batteries ashore. Had they given up?

  Fury’s slowly rising hope was whipped away from him in a flash as a bang followed by a faint whistling sound reached his ears, gradually getting louder. He looked up quickly to try and catch a glimpse of the shell, the sky seemingly exploding a hundred feet from the ground over to their left, thick black smoke drifting away on the breeze.

  ‘Fuse cut too short,’ Watson commented matter-of-factly.

  Fury nodded. He was staring back at the shore now, trying to detect the first signs of smoke which would give away the position of the masked battery. Was that a faint trace of smoke, up in the hills behind La Petite-Garenne? Watson was pointing to the same position now.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It must be,’ Fury decided.

  As if to confirm their thoughts, the sound of more mortars could be heard whistling through the air, the arc of the burning fuses definitely emanating from where they were looking.

  ‘Two batteries still,’ Watson declared. ‘They could never have reloaded that quickly.’

  Fury was of the same opinion. They still had the two batteries of mortars, just as they had yesterday. The disappointment welled within him. Their slow start to the day had given Fury a glimmer of hope that they had at least forced one battery to retire from the fight.

  Watson studied the position for a few more moments, mentally judging trajectories and distances, before hurrying off to the magazine to have the mortars filled with powder ready for their reply. As he went, a deeper boom rent the air, over to the left of Malbousquet, quickly followed by three more as the enemy resumed their fire. A splash rose up in the sea thirty yards short of their position, and then another nearby. Fury could not see where the other two balls went.

  ‘Man the spring!’ he shouted.

  By hauling on the hawser laid out of the aft gun port and attached to the anchor cable, the Tempest was turned in the water so that she was broadside on to the position Fury judged the latest shots to have come from.

  He was vaguely conscious of loud crashes nearby as Royal George, Aurora, and the other floating battery, opened fire themselves. The men operating the four twenty-four-pounders were standing ready, the guns already loaded some time ago and set to maximum elevation.

  ‘Fire!’ he called, the guns going off in succession to lessen the stress on the hull from the recoils.

  Fury thought he could see the line of the balls going up over the heights, but had no idea how close they fell to the enemy. The men were already reloading as Watson and another man came hurrying amidships, carefully carrying a shell apiece for the mortars.

  The shells and shot continued to pour down on the inner road where the Tempest and her three consorts lay, returning like for like. Fury spent the time standing with telescope to his eye searching the hills in vain for any sign of the enemy. He ordered the Tempest shifted once before lunch to throw off the aim of the enemy gunners, even if it did necessitate Watson and his mortar crews changing their own range and trajectory.

  It had been almost two and a half hours since they had last moved, and he contemplated giving the order again as he stared through his glass. The shells had been getting continuously closer during the past half-hour, and he did not wish to risk staying in their current position much longer.

  He lowered his glass and half turned, sucking the air into his lungs so that he could bellow the necessary orders. The distant bangs of the enemy’s mortar battery reached him, signalling another avalanche. He delayed his shout, preferring to wait until this new bombardment had passed to ensure he had every man’s full attention.

  The whistling of the airborne shells was already evident as they started to descend. Fury could hear the noise gradually get louder, shifting his feet uneasily as he realised at least one of the incoming shells was going to be a lot closer than any of the previous ones. He looked up in a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of it but could see nothing. A second later he heard a thud somewhere behind him and he swung round.

  The men stationed round the two brass mortars housed amidships were looking down at the deck in terror, and it took Fury a moment to see why. The shell had landed amidst the mortar crews, miraculously missing every man but now rolling around the deck with its fuse sputtering menacingly. Fury instinctively threw himself to the deck.

  ‘Throw it overbo—’

  His shout was too late, the explosion cutting off his words and the shell casing scything out in all directions, cutting down the mortar crews who were packed around it. Fury, sprawled head first on the deck planking, could feel the rush of wind over him as the shock of the blast spread outwards. He got to his feet in shock, his ears ringing from the explosion. The ringing sensation was not enough to drown out the sound of men screaming in agony, terrible agony, as Fury looked around. The deck was tilting beneath him, but the smoke was blocking his vision.

  He moved forward towards the blast, picking his way past the badly charred remains of two men as he approached. One of the two brass mortars was sitting sideways, the timber beneath, housing its carriage, having been blown away. Fury could see now that the shell, dropping beneath the mortar’s carriage, had ripped a hole in the keel, fracturing the spine of the Tempest and causing her deck to cant as the water poured in.

  The crews of the two mortars, what was left of them, were all dead, Fury recognising Watson’s artillery uniform on one of the burnt bodies lying on the deck.

  ‘We have to abandon ship!’ he bellowed. ‘Get the wounded overboard!’

  Fury was glad he had not forgotten about the wounded, housed forward behind the canvas screen. Depending on how bad they were, they would not stand much of a chance overboard, but it was a better fate than being left on the Tempest when she finally went under.

  The men at the twenty-four-pounders threw down their tools and men came bursting from the closed off section aft, leaving the magazine in a rush. The deck was canting more steeply by the minute as the hull of the Tempest began to collapse.

  ‘Throw anything that’ll float into the water!’

  It was likely that most of the men could not swim, so they would need to cling on to anything they could until the rescue boats arrived to pick them up. Crowbars and handspikes began hacking into the bulwarks and deck planking as the men set to work finding anything that would float. Fury could see the gun carriages of the twenty-four-pounders slewing round on the canting deck, the breeching ropes straining to keep them. They did not have long, he thought. Once the guns broke loose and plummeted down the deck, the Tempest would sink like a stone.

  The sea nearby was now littered with wreckage as the men flung broken planking, hatch gratings or bulwarks into the water, some jumping in hurriedly after them. Fury spared a glance over at the Royal George, thankful that a boat was already in the water and beginning to pull towards them. It should not be long before they were picked up.

  Men emerged from behind the canvas screen with the five men who were wounded, some being carried, some dragged. The groans of pain and discomfort added to the din. The two mildly wounded men were gently lowered overboard, making sure sufficient wreckage was nearby for them to cling on to. The three more seriously wounded were attached to a line and lowered down on to floating hatch gratings by men standing at the bulwarks, while all the time more shot and shells from the Republican batteries continued to rain down around them. The French spotters must be able to see that they wer
e now defenceless, and yet still they directed the fire of their mortar batteries on to the Tempest. Fury cursed them fiercely under his breath for their lack of common humanity.

  Finally the wounded were all off successfully.

  ‘Everyone over!’ he bellowed, nervously looking at the precarious guns, still making every effort to break through their lashings. He was determined to be the last man to leave.

  The rest of the men climbed over the low bulwark and launched themselves into the sea. Fury hesitated in order to glance around at the broken deck, unwilling to jump until he could be sure he was the last man on board. He could see no one else alive.

  Satisfied, he stood up on top of the bulwark, still wearing boots and with his telescope stuffed firmly into the pocket of his jacket. He hesitated a moment, slightly unsure of himself. Although he could swim fairly well he was fully clothed and it was quite a drop, even though the Tempest was now lying very low in the water. Swallowing hard and steeling himself, he launched himself forward, dropping quickly.

  The coldness of the water thrust the breath from his body so that by the time he had struggled back to the surface, he was gasping for air. His boots and clothes were weighing heavy on him and he looked around for a buoyancy aid.

  There was a thick section of deck planking nearby and four hurried strokes brought him to it, the feel of the wet timber reassuring. He lay half across it amidst the rest of his floating crew, watching as the Tempest slowly crumpled in on herself, the four heavy crashes as the guns broke free and careered down the deck coming not five minutes after he had jumped. The end came quickly after that, the Tempest’s stern being the last visible section as it rose up almost vertical before sliding gracefully beneath the surface.

  The boat from the Royal George was among them by now, picking up the first of the crew. Fury could see another boat not far behind it. It was only five minutes before that boat pulled alongside Fury, two of the oarsmen reaching over and pulling him into the bottom. He lay there among some of his former crew, all dripping and shivering despite the early afternoon sun. The officer sat in the stern sheets holding the tiller spied his uniform and introduced himself.

  ‘Lieutenant Miller, of the Royal George. We’ll be alongside her in a moment and you can get out of those wet clothes.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Fury through chattering teeth, ‘I’m Lieutenant Fury, formerly commanding the Tempest, gunboat.’

  ‘Bad luck Mr Fury, bad luck,’ was all Lieutenant Miller said, leaving Fury sat with only his thoughts as they made their way back to Rear Admiral Gell’s flagship.

  It was Fury’s first real independent command in the face of the enemy, and he had lost it. That thought plagued him during the whole of the journey to the Royal George, eating away at him and enveloping him in a black depression. He did not like to fail, and he was damned if it was going to happen again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fury took a deep breath to compose himself and knocked on the door in the centre of Toulon. He had been there nearly three weeks before, his last sight of Sophie, and he was nervous. A few minutes’ silence ensued, broken only by the sound of shouting from somewhere within, but no one answered.

  Three days had passed since the destruction of the Tempest, and Fury had spent them wondering whether Sophie would agree to see him again after such a long absence with no word. Finally he had plucked up the courage to make the visit and, leaving Francis in command of Renard, had taken a boat to the quayside. He had been surprised, walking through the streets, of how things seemed to have degenerated since his last visit. He felt even more vulnerable than during his first visit in his British uniform; desperation and disorder seemed to hover over every citizen and every street. Now here he was in front of her door, fervently hoping she would not be too angry.

  He clenched his fist and knocked again, this time so hard that the door shook. After a small wait he heard footsteps within, and the sound of a key scraping in the lock. The door swung open and Fury forced a smile to the short, thickset man standing in front of him, his hair completely grey and his clothes little more than rags. The man frowned as he studied Fury in his uniform jacket.

  ‘Parlez-vous anglais?’ Fury asked, hesitantly.

  ‘I speak English, Capitaine.’

  ‘It’s, erm, lieutenant, sir,’ Fury corrected him. ‘Lieutenant Fury, of HMS Fortitude. I have come to enquire about Sophie Gourrier. Is she at home?’

  The man nodded, his frown deepening. ‘She is. What is it you want with her?’

  ‘I would like to ensure she has recovered from her ordeal the other week.’

  The man’s features softened immediately. ‘Ah, so you are the gentleman who rescued her? My apologies, sir, she did not tell me you were an English naval officer.’ He offered his hand and Fury shook it. ‘I am her father, François Gourrier, the Comte de Chabeuil, although I have found it prudent not to use my title for the last four years. You have my gratitude, sir, for coming to her assistance. God forbid what would have happened if you had not been passing.’

  ‘I am glad I could be of some service, sir. May I see her?’

  ‘Of course, Lieutenant. Come in, please.’

  He beckoned Fury inside the doorway and closed the door after him. The hallway was tiny, barely large enough for the two of them, and the light within was dull. Immediately to the right was a steep staircase leading up, the timber stairs bare and worn.

  ‘Follow me, please, Lieutenant,’ Gourrier said, leading the way up the stairs. ‘You catch us at the height of our misfortune, so that I feel compelled to apologise for the condition of our lodgings. There was a time when a gentleman calling upon my daughter would have needed to travel across three miles of my land before arriving at her door. Manservants and maids would have made him welcome and provided refreshments while he waited, but alas now I can offer you nothing.’ There was no hint of bitterness in his voice, just wistful reminiscence with perhaps a touch of regret.

  They came to the top, still with bare floorboards, and Gourrier turned left down the small landing to a door on the right, stopping before it and knocking. Fury heard a female voice from within and in response Gourrier said something in rapid French. There was a small pause and then the door opened, Fury catching his breath as he saw Sophie standing in the doorway still fixing her hair. She looked even more beautiful than he had remembered.

  ‘I hope I do not intrude, Mademoiselle,’ he asked over her father’s shoulder.

  She smiled at him. ‘Of course not, John. I am glad to see you.’ She turned to her father again and muttered something in French, in response to which her father nodded his head. She turned back to Fury. ‘Shall we go for a walk?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ Fury replied, relieved that he would not be spending his visit making nervous small talk with her father.

  She disappeared into the room momentarily and returned carrying a thin shawl, which she placed around her shoulders over her dress – the same dress, Fury noted, as the one she had been wearing when they had first met. He led the way down the stairs and out into the alley. He turned to her.

  ‘May I offer you my arm, Sophie?’

  ‘Thank you, John.’

  She smiled and hooked her arm through his, resting her hand on his forearm. Every time she smiled at him, Fury’s heart seemed to freeze for an instant. She led the way out of the alley and on to the street, where they walked in silence for a short time, Fury acutely conscious of the feel of her body next to his.

  ‘I must apologise for the length of time it has taken me to visit you. My ship was ordered away, and upon my return I was ordered to take charge of a gunboat defending the harbour. This is the first chance I have had to see you.’

  ‘You need not apologise. You have your duty to perform.’

  ‘You are very understanding.’

  Another short silence ensued, before Sophie spoke again.

  ‘Are you still in command of the gunboat, John?’

  ‘Unfortunately not. It was
destroyed by the Republicans three days ago.’

  Fury felt her hand flinch as it rested on his forearm, and instantly regretted his frankness. The look of alarm on her face as she looked up at him tugged at his heart strings.

  ‘Destroyed? So you could have been killed?’

  Fury swallowed hard at the recollection of those last moments on board Tempest, with the horrible mutilated bodies of his crew all around. He tensed his arm in an attempt to stop it trembling, lest Sophie detect it. ‘No, not at all,’ he replied quickly, trying to reassure her. ‘It was a lucky shot, nothing more.’

  She looked only slightly less worried at his feeble attempt to comfort her, and Fury decided immediately that he would not worry her with details of how the Republican batteries had eventually forced the Royal George, Aurora and the second gunboat to retire, effectively ceding the western end of the inner harbour to enemy control. He tried instead to change the subject.

  ‘I trust you have been good to your word, and steered clear of alleyways?’

  ‘Yes, you have no need to worry. I have learnt my lesson.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘I am glad you agreed to see me again, Sophie.’

  She looked up at him. ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  ‘I am an English officer. It cannot be easy seeing the English in charge of your city.’

  ‘It is preferable to the Republican fanatics who murder and pillage. Anyway, it is not our city. We only moved here four years ago when we lost our chateau. Now we barely have enough to eat. My father has vast experience of managing estates and tenants, but what use is that here? He has no other skills so he struggles to find enough work to support us.’

  Fury reached over and squeezed her hand, still resting on top of his forearm. ‘I am sorry to hear it. Hopefully this war will be over soon, so that we may all return to normality.’

  ‘And where is your home, John?’

  ‘I grew up in a small village called Swampton, about forty miles from the south coast of England. As far as I know my mother and brother still live there. I haven’t seen them in nearly two years.’