Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  ‘It must be difficult, leaving your home at such a young age and being away from your family for so long.’

  ‘You get used to it, in the end,’ he assured her, catching sight of what looked like a coffee house up ahead on the other side of the street. There were two empty tables placed outside on the pavement, directly in front of the shop’s large bay window, the glass reaching down almost to the ground. The stone front of the shop looked cleaner than those of the buildings either side, perhaps an indication of the owner’s pride in his establishment, and the sign above the doorway looked freshly painted. Even from here Fury could see through the window, where several patrons were sitting at the tables inside. ‘Could I buy you a cup of coffee?’ he asked, turning to Sophie.

  She hesitated, as though unwilling to accept any kind of charity. ‘Very well then,’ she relented. ‘But I shall return the favour some time in the future.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fury replied, beaming now at this hint that they would be seeing each other again after this.

  They entered and ignored the stares of the several patrons who were inside, some glancing at them in mere curiosity, some with more hostility. Fury led Sophie over to a table near the window and ordered them both a coffee. She plied him incessantly with questions about his childhood, his family and his home, and about his service in India with the Amazon. He told her of the village of Swampton where he grew up, of his mother and his brother, and of his departure to join the Amazon. He gave her a brief outline of his experiences in India, but spared her the horrors of the details, about the men he had seen killed next to him, about the blood and thunder of battle, of comrades lost.

  The coffee came and went, and Sophie told him about her childhood at her father’s chateau near Chabeuil, of her love for horses, and of their eventual flight.

  Her mother had died when Sophie was in her infancy, so it had just been her and her father for as long as she could remember. They had come to Toulon to start afresh, hoping to disappear among the populace of such a large city. Sophie tried to find work to help her father, who had quickly become frustrated at his lack of opportunity. Waiting on tables, laundress, shop assistant – she had tried it all, and Fury realised how difficult it must have been for a girl who had been brought up in comfort on a country estate, with every need catered for.

  Fury’s heart went out to her as she told him her story, and his hand moved across the small table to hers without him even realising it. She made no attempt to withdraw it, and when she had finished her story they sat in silence for a while, looking at each other. A sharp cough sounded from somewhere within the shop, startling Fury out of his trance and bringing his self-consciousness flooding back. He withdrew his hand with a shy smile.

  The shopkeeper was standing hovering nearby, and Fury noticed that the rest of the shop was now empty. He glanced outside and was surprised to see that darkness was already beginning to fall.

  ‘I think he wants to close up,’ Sophie explained, with a guilty smile on her face at the realisation of how long they had been talking.

  ‘Yes, I had better be getting you back. Your father will be getting worried.’

  They got up and left the shop, walking down the street arm in arm with Fury fingering the hilt of his sword nervously, conscious that with the darkness the danger increased, especially to a man wearing the King’s uniform. They walked in silence, but it was comfortable with no hint of awkwardness between them. Presently they reached the alley where she lived and they stopped outside her door, Sophie extricating her arm and turning to face him.

  ‘I have had a lovely time, John, thank you. It is a shame it could not last longer.’

  ‘There will hopefully be other times in the near future.’

  ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  She held out her hand and Fury took it, his confidence sufficient to risk a snub by stooping to kiss it. He straightened up to find her smiling still, and he held on to her hand slightly longer than was customary.

  ‘Goodbye, John, and take care.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  He finally released her hand and she turned to open the door, Fury waiting until it had been closed again before setting off through the darkening streets back to the quayside, and his duty.

  ‘Signal from the flagship sir!’

  Francis didn’t like interrupting Fury when he was pacing the deck, especially when he was still brooding over his failure with the gunboat just over a week ago, but he had no choice.

  Fury looked up, his mind only barely registering the report.

  ‘Eh? What’s that?’

  ‘Flagship’s signalling sir,’ Francis repeated.

  ‘Well, what is it?’ Fury demanded testily.

  ‘Captain to repair on board sir. It’s the Fortitude’s number.’

  ‘The Fortitude?’ Fury asked incredulously. The Fortitude was still not back from Malta as far as he was aware, and Lord Hood knew it. ‘Very well. Have the boat’s crew made ready.’

  With the Fortitude absent, there was only one ship which the Victory could be intending her signal for, and that was Renard.

  Fury hurried down to the master’s cabin and put on his uniform, newly washed. Planting his hat on his head, he made his way back up on deck. Renard’s longboat, which had been fastened by a painter to the brig’s stern, had been brought round to the side and secured, so that the crew were already filing down into it by the time Fury said his farewell to Francis.

  Fury went down last into the waiting boat and settled himself in the stern sheets, grunting out the orders which sent the boat on its way.

  He was already wondering what Admiral Hood wanted with him now, and was hoping that whatever it was would not interfere with rejoining Fortitude once they had returned. That would be any day now, hopefully with suitable reinforcements.

  ‘Boat ahoy!’

  The shout drifted down from the deck of HMS Victory, now looming large above them.

  ‘Aye aye!’ Fury shouted back, readying himself.

  The boat swung round and glided nicely to the Victory’s side as Fury put the tiller over and the oarsmen raised their oars simultaneously. Once the bowman had hooked on, Fury reached for the side ropes and hauled himself up, a moment later appearing through the entry port.

  The flag captain, Captain Knight, was there once again to greet him. Knight must be sick of the sight of him by now, Fury thought, as he was led aft towards the admiral’s quarters.

  ‘Lieutenant Fury, My Lord,’ Knight announced, as he ushered Fury into the by now familiar surroundings of Lord Hood’s day cabin. Hood was, as ever, seated at his desk behind a mound of paperwork.

  ‘Sit down Mr Fury, sit down.’

  ‘Thank you My Lord.’

  Fury sank gratefully into the chair opposite, while Hood finished his paragraph.

  ‘A nasty business, with those Republican batteries,’ Hood said at last, placing his pen on the desk and leaning back in his chair to study Fury.

  ‘Indeed sir.’

  Was this a reprimand for losing the Tempest?

  ‘You did well, Lieutenant. A little unlucky perhaps, to suffer a direct hit.’

  Fury remained silent, waiting for Hood to get to the point.

  ‘You escaped unscathed I take it?’

  ‘Yes My Lord,’ Fury replied, thinking it better not to mention the damage suffered to his pride.

  ‘Good. Then you are ready for more active duty?’

  ‘Yes My Lord.’ There was nothing else he could say to that.

  ‘Good,’ Hood repeated. ‘As you are no doubt aware, Mr Fury, I am desperately short of men to defend the perimeter of the city against the Republicans. Every day new reports come in telling of reinforcements to their numbers while not a day goes by when they don’t try some mischief against our positions.’

  Fury sat listening and nodding, wondering what on earth this could be leading to. Lord Hood continued.

  ‘I have recently lost one of my lieutenants at Fort Pomet, during o
ne such incident; he was shot while defending the valley from a small number of Republican skirmishers. I therefore need someone to take command of the garrison there.’

  Fury nodded again, his heart sinking as he began to realise what the admiral had in mind.

  ‘I am placing you in command of the garrison at Fort Pomet, Mr Fury, and you may take with you as many of your prize crew as you see fit, to increase the numbers. Your midshipman can remain in command of Renard at anchor with the remaining men until Captain Young returns. Any questions?’

  Fury knew that it was unwise to raise objections to any senior officer, let alone an admiral, a peer and commander-in-chief all in one, but the thought of leaving his ship and fighting in the rough terrain of southern France appalled him.

  ‘What will happen when Captain Young returns with the Fortitude, My Lord? He is due back any day now and he will be expecting me.’

  The argument was a weak one and Fury knew it, but it was the only objection he dared raise.

  ‘I’m sorry Mr Fury, but I need you ashore at the moment. I’m sure your ship can manage without you and your men for a short time. I shall be sure to apprise Captain Young of the invaluable service you are providing when he returns. That shall perhaps soften the blow of losing such an able officer.’

  Fury could not be sure whether Hood was being sarcastic. The old admiral’s face was expressionless.

  ‘Now, if you would be so kind as to wait in my clerk’s office while I have him draft up some orders for you and your midshipman.’

  ‘Aye aye My Lord,’ Fury replied, trying to keep the dejection out of his voice as he rose from his chair and saluted before leaving the cabin.

  An hour later Fury finally left the Victory, descending into the waiting boat with a small package under his arm wrapped in canvas which contained both his own orders and those for Mr Francis. He sat in the stern sheets at the tiller thoroughly depressed by this new development. On top of his dejection over the loss of Tempest, he was now being sent into more danger, an unfamiliar danger in strange surroundings. He had already seen enough within the city of Toulon to suggest that ashore was not the safest place to be; he would be further away from Fortitude and, more importantly, from Sophie.

  When they reached Renard he scrambled aboard with a brow like thunder, discouraging Francis to make any comment other than the routine ‘Welcome aboard sir’, before he dived below to his cabin.

  Once there he quickly opened the canvas bag, pulled out the two sets of sealed orders and sliced open the set addressed to him. He was surprised at how brief it was:

  Lieutenant Fury, HMS Fortitude.

  By virtue of the power and authority to me given, I do hereby appoint you Commander of Fort Pomet, requiring and directing you forthwith to take upon you the responsibility of commander of her accordingly, strictly charging and commanding all officers and men employed in the garrison of the said Fort subordinate to you to behave themselves jointly and severally in their respective employments with all due respect and obedience to you their said Commander. You are hereby ordered to hold the said Fort at all costs from the advances of the enemy until such time as you may receive orders to the contrary. In addition you will, at such time as may be required and on the receipt of further orders, further aid in the defence of the city of Toulon by reinforcing the garrisons of the surrounding batteries and redoubts in the event of sustained attacks by the enemy. In such cases you will first ensure that Fort Pomet itself is sufficiently manned and defended at all times.

  Given under my hand this first day of October, 1793.

  Vice-Admiral of the Red

  Lord Hood

  He re-read it twice to ensure he had not missed anything before folding it and sitting back deep in thought. While he had waited for his orders to be drafted up on board the Victory, he had used the opportunity to study a copy of a map of Toulon and its surrounding area to see exactly where Fort Pomet was located. He had been disappointed when he had finally found it, the furthest flung of any of the outposts around the city, approximately three miles inland to the north-west as the crow flies. It defended the main valley running between the mountains to the city and the bay, and the main road leading to the north. It was more likely that the Republicans would attack from the east and west, so the road from the north should be relatively clear, but their objectives were undoubtedly to take the heights surrounding the city, and Pomet was one of a chain of forts protecting one approach to those heights.

  It had looked remarkably isolated to Fury on the small chart because of its forward position and the high ground all around. He could only hope that the posts nearby occupying that high ground, such as the redoubts of de l’Andre, St-Antoine le Grand, and le Petit, held firm. If the enemy managed to overrun them, or indeed forts Missiessi or Malbousquet overlooking the inner road, then Fury and his men could find themselves easily cut off.

  He tried to push the gloomy thoughts from his head. Suddenly remembering the other set of orders he had brought back, he walked over to open the cabin door.

  ‘Pass the word for Mr Francis!’ he shouted, hearing the faint echo as other men on deck repeated the call. Fury was sitting back at the desk when Francis arrived, accepting the only other chair at Fury’s invitation.

  ‘I have some orders here for you from Lord Hood, Mr Francis,’ he began, watching Francis’ face as it creased up in surprise, and then worry.

  ‘For me sir? From the admiral?’

  His sudden alarm set Fury grinning for the first time that day.

  ‘You have nothing to worry about Mr Francis. I have been ordered ashore to take command of one of the outposts, Fort Pomet, taking some of the men and leaving you in command here. Those are merely confirmation of your orders.’

  He thrust the sealed orders across the desk to him, which Francis picked up, broke the seal and began to read, his face relaxing as he saw that his task was merely to stay on board in command of the remainder of the prize crew until he received further orders.

  ‘I understand sir,’ Francis said, folding up his orders. ‘When do you leave sir?’

  ‘At dawn tomorrow. Have the men mustered aft at the next change of watch. I will pick the men to accompany me and make sure they are fully equipped. That is all Mr Francis.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ the boy piped, leaving the cabin.

  Fury sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, trying his hardest not to let the fresh wave of despair sweep over him.

  The brig’s longboat gave one last surge as the last stroke of the men’s oars sliced through the water. Fury swung the tiller over to send the boat alongside the quay in front of the new arsenal basin as the men stowed their oars.

  The steely grey light of dawn was only just apparent as Fury leapt from the bow on to the stone quay, glad of the exercise at last after the thirty-minute pull from the brig in the cold October air.

  He slung the cutlass belt over his shoulder, sliding the cutlass into the frog by his left hip. The two sea-service pistols sticking in his waistband had been brought along instead of his uncle’s expensive pair; Fury was too afraid of losing them to risk taking them off Renard.

  ‘Out you get lads!’ he said, trying to sound as cheerful as he could as the seven men he had picked, amidst groans and curses, filed on to the quay.

  They had been unhappy last night when he had mustered the crew and informed them of his orders, especially when they found out they would be joining him. The ex-Amazons – Clark, Thomas, Cooke and Crouder – could not have been surprised to be selected by him, all having served with him before, but the others – Gooseman, McSherry and Perrin – could count themselves unfortunate. He had chosen them at random from the rest of Renard’s small prize crew, and they had done nothing but moan ever since. He could sympathise with them of course – they were sailors, used to living and fighting on board a ship, not in the mud and dirt of southern France. Nevertheless the iron discipline of the navy ensured that, despite the moaning and cursing, they would follow Fury a
nd obey any order that he gave them.

  He turned round on the quay and looked to his left where Fort Missiessi stood, a black bulk against the lightening sky beyond, with the fort of Malbousquet similarly placed further along to the west. Over to his right, beyond the buildings of the dockyard, he could see the high walls which surrounded the city of Toulon itself.

  ‘Right lads, follow me and keep in line!’

  He growled the order, unwilling to show too much sympathy lest they take advantage of it. The seamen, now looking around with cutlasses slung over their shoulders and pistols in their belts, groaned once more. He set off at a brisk pace, eager to work some warmth into his stiff limbs and those of his men following close behind.

  He led them along the quay, past the gun wharf and the general magazine where dockyard workers and red-coated soldiers cast them mildly curious glances. Fury exchanged salutes with the officer in charge of the small detachment of troops guarding the Royal Gate and led his men through into the countryside beyond. He followed the road north towards the hospital, and at a crossroads he paused, bringing up a picture of the chart in his mind’s eye. Turning left he led his men silently along the road back to the west, over a small bridge crossing the meagre Le Las river, before finally coming to the road leading off inland, to the north.

  A thin drizzle began to fall from the overcast sky, soon increasing as the wind picked up, flicking up coat-tails and tugging at Fury’s hat. The road was badly rutted and the rain was causing frequent large puddles, doing nothing to raise Fury’s mood as he dwelt on the knowledge that every step was taking him further from safety, and from Sophie.

  He could hear the men behind him cursing as ankles were overturned on the loose stones scattered along the road. Up ahead a large column of troops were marching toward him, the familiar scarlet tunics of regular British infantry stark against the grey landscape all around.

  ‘Make way there,’ Fury growled to his men, stepping on to the side of the road to let the troops pass.

  Small scrub brush lined the countryside, and Fury and his men stood shin deep in it while the troops marched by. Curious looks darted at them from within the ranks. One of the officers on horseback at the rear of the column reigned in beside them.