Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  ‘I am Lieutenant Fleming, of the 31st Foot.’

  ‘Lieutenant Fury, of His Britannic Majesty’s Navy. I am to take command of the garrison at Fort Pomet.’

  ‘You have my sympathy, Lieutenant.’

  Fury smiled grimly. ‘Is it far?’

  Fleming twisted in his saddle and pointed to the northwest. ‘Fort Pomet lies over there, on low ground in a valley separating the western end of the Faron ridge from its neighbouring height, Le Croupatier. It can’t be more than four miles distant.’

  ‘What is it like?’

  ‘Exposed. The valley is wide, but is constricted at its northern end by a series of spurs. These spurs overlook a road which passes through the village of Les Moulins. Pomet is about a mile from the village, located at the southernmost spur.’

  ‘Many thanks for the information, Lieutenant.’

  Fleming smiled, said his farewells, and wheeled his horse after the marching troops. Fury muttered a curt command to his men, led them back on to the road, and continued in silence.

  It took them almost an hour to draw abreast of the first of the peaks, about a mile inland and away to their right. They continued on, and after another thirty minutes the road wound to the right, running along the river Neuve and avoiding a flat peak which was directly in their path. As they rounded it another smaller peak came into view across the river, with a battery standing high at the top and pointing inland. Fury guessed that it could only be the redoubt of l’Andre. They were nearly there.

  Leaving the road, Fury led them across the shallow river and into the valley proper, winding their way round the left of the smaller peak and bringing them into view of Fort Pomet, situated on the low ground a little further down the valley.

  As they approached Fury could see that there was a ditch surrounding the fort to prevent attackers from getting close. From the bottom of the ditch he estimated the height of the walls to be at least twenty feet, so that tall ladders would be needed in any attempt to get over. The main entrance was reached via a small bridge across the ditch, and Fury could see the heads of two men patrolling the ramparts. One of the sentries shouted a challenge as Fury arrived at the small bridge crossing the ditch, and at Fury’s response and the sight of his uniform jacket, the doors swung open.

  The first thing Fury saw as they entered was a group of horses tethered together, presumably for delivering messages, next to what must be the officers’ quarters. He looked up to the ramparts where he could see the black breeches of the field cannon poking out of the embrasures, but any further scrutiny was ended by the approach of an army subaltern.

  ‘Sergeant Hawkins sir, of the King’s 69th Regiment. I am in temporary command of this detachment.’

  ‘Good morning Sergeant. My name is Lieutenant Fury of His Majesty’s Navy. I have been ordered to take command here.’

  Fury handed him his orders and waited while the sergeant read them, or at least made the appearance of reading them – by the look of him Fury doubted whether he could read at all.

  ‘Yes sir, we’ve been expecting you,’ Hawkins replied, handing his orders back. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of arranging quarters for yourself sir. There is room in the barracks for your men.’

  He glanced over Fury’s shoulder with a look of disdain at the rabble of seamen standing behind Fury.

  ‘Thank you Sergeant. Please be so kind as to lead the way.’

  Hawkins nodded and turned to lead the way over to a large building on the right which housed the men of the garrison. Fury conducted a quick inspection of the beds allocated to his men – weak-looking bed frames with paper-thin mattresses and one blanket each, but all relatively clean. He granted his grudging approval, leaving his men to settle in. He could hear from the men’s voices as he left that they were beginning to think this job was not such a bad one after all; after the constant work needed in keeping a ship seaworthy and presentable, they evidently thought that garrison duty ashore would not involve much hardship, and would provide uninterrupted sleep in a proper bed each night.

  As he followed Hawkins over to the officers’ quarters, passing the restless horses on the way, Fury doubted whether the Republicans would be so courteous as to leave them undisturbed every night.

  Fury paced the ramparts later that evening feeling thoroughly inadequate to the task given him. The sun had just dipped below the western horizon and the temperature was now dropping as dusk settled in. As well as Sergeant Hawkins, he had eighty-three men under his command, the majority of whom were soldiers of the 69th Regiment and therefore men whose drills, procedures or skills he knew nothing about.

  They had been lucky recently, Hawkins had told him, in that the Republicans had concentrated most of their efforts over to the east upon the batteries at Faron, and over to the west upon the batteries commanding the western side of the outer road.

  The walls of the valley on either side of the fort were too precipitous to be used for descent, so the only way the Republicans would be able to attack would be from the north, straight down the valley floor in the face of Pomet’s guns. Fury could see nothing much in that direction as the raised spurs crossing the valley floor obstructed views further north. Those spurs would provide cover for any enemy troops advancing, until the valley floor flattened out and they would be fully exposed for the final 300 yards to the fort. Fury made a mental note to post advance guards at those spurs in the morning, to provide more advanced warning of any attack.

  If they were overwhelmed, they would have a long retreat back to Toulon and the dockside. Fury could only hope that if the time did come, they would be able to make it back before getting cut off by enemy advances from elsewhere.

  The sound of cannon fire could still be heard in the distance. It was difficult to pinpoint its location but probably from both the east and west, Fury mused. It was so constant now throughout most of the day that the mind tended not to register the sound after a while.

  He nodded in greeting to one of the sentries posted along the ramparts to act as lookouts during the night in case of a surprise Republican assault. Down the stone steps and he was in the courtyard again, heading towards the faint glimmer of light visible from one of the windows in the officers’ quarters. A moment later he was lying on his bed under the single blanket, concentrating hard on trying to get some sleep.

  It was some time before sleep crept up on him, finally shutting out the distant thunder of cannon fire that continued throughout the night.

  The following morning Fury was up before dawn, a new sense of purpose coursing through him. He had made the decision to treat his current command just like any other, a decision which had come to him, strangely, while still asleep. The look of the men in front of him, standing in the pre-dawn darkness in the courtyard, suggested that many of them were still asleep.

  ‘All those not on sentry duty shall muster here each morning at six o’clock for inspection, in full kit.’

  A groan arose from the soldiers. At least they were awake now.

  ‘Any man late for muster shall be given extra duties.’

  Fury looked at them all, trying to detect any sullen faces which might speak of something more sinister than mere lethargy. He found none.

  ‘We shall start today by cleaning this fort from top to bottom.’

  More groans at that, although none from his own seamen, Fury noted – they were used to continual cleaning on board ship.

  ‘Very well Sergeant Hawkins, you may dismiss the men. Once they have had their breakfast I want five men sent north to keep lookout at intervals among the spurs. Any man who spots the enemy advancing is to fire his musket as a warning and they are all to retreat immediately to the fort.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘The rest of the troops can begin the clean-up.’

  Hawkins saluted, not looking particularly pleased himself, and dismissed the men to breakfast. Fury did not care what Hawkins thought, nor any of them. He knew as well as anyone that idleness bred trouble, and he was determi
ned to prevent that here, more so now than ever after his recent experience on Renard.

  He gave the men a good hour to enjoy their breakfast. By the time the advance lookouts had departed and the first of the men began to trudge reluctantly out of the barracks to begin the clean-up, it was light.

  It took nearly the whole day to complete the task, the echo of cannon fire the only accompaniment to the sound of scrubbing and scraping. As the sun went down that evening, Fury inspected the guns along the ramparts, all now considerably cleaner than before.

  Satisfied for the first time in days, he went down to his quarters and was asleep in minutes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He was as good as his word during the course of the next week, parading the men each morning at six o’clock despite the frequent bouts of heavy rain which teemed down and seemed to seep into every part of the body.

  After breakfast, Fury would have the men vigorously training with the great guns, staring mutely out of the embrasures down the empty valley. There was no chance of firing off the guns, of course – with the Republican army all around he had no wish to draw their attention – but the loading, reloading and pointing were all worked at incessantly until it became almost second nature.

  Most of the afternoons were spent in the courtyard at small-arms drill, practising with musket and bayonet, so that by the time the sun began to sink over to the west, the men were thoroughly exhausted and in no condition to contemplate mischief.

  With nothing else to think about, Fury found his mind increasingly wandering to his ship, the Fortitude, wishing he was still on board in familiar surroundings. It was not helped by the fact that after five days a message arrived at the fort for him from Captain Young, telling him that the Fortitude had arrived back at Toulon, but had been ordered by Lord Hood to Corsica to aid in the capture of all French possessions, and he had therefore had Fury’s belongings transferred to Midshipman Francis in Renard until such time as Fury could return. When would he be able to rejoin her? He longed to be back at sea, even if it did mean he would be taken further away from Sophie.

  His worry at that turn of events was short-lived, his mind soon diverted by matters closer to hand. It was becoming clear that merely keeping the men busy was not enough. He had to provide some variety to keep them happy and avoid the petty squabbles which would soon begin breaking out.

  He was pacing the courtyard debating this very problem when a shout from the sentry at the gate broke his concentration.

  ‘Rider approaching from the south sir!’

  Fury looked up eagerly, wondering if this could be the answer to the very question he had just been pondering. He walked towards the entrance, still a blur in the pre-dawn darkness.

  A fog was beginning to settle, reducing visibility still further and making him marvel that the sentry had managed to see a thing. A few moments later the large thick double doors at the main entrance were swung slowly open with a loud creak, and the rider trotted in with head bowed to avoid any possibility of hitting the frame of the doorway. He dismounted with graceful ease and secured his horse outside the window of Fury’s quarters.

  The light from the window allowed Fury to have a good look at him. The man glanced around the courtyard, unsure as to where he should go now. He was a young man, perhaps mid twenties, with a small amount of black hair showing beneath the large hat that was planted firmly on his head. Fury did not immediately recognise the red uniform he was wearing – similar to that of the marines – along with the white breeches and black boots.

  He had obviously spotted Fury because he was now walking over to him, holding the hilt of the large sword by his side to keep the blade away from his legs.

  ‘Lieutenant Fury sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I am Lieutenant Fury,’ Fury replied, impressed that the man had recognised the uniform of a naval lieutenant.

  ‘Good morning sir. My name is Lieutenant Carter, of the King’s 30th Regiment, and I bring you orders from Lord Mulgrave.’

  Lord Mulgrave was the man whom Lord Hood had appointed governor of Toulon to replace Rear Admiral Goodall, and was therefore currently in command of the forces occupying the city. What he could possibly want with Fury was a mystery.

  ‘Yes?’ Fury prompted.

  ‘Late last night sir, the enemy attacked our posts on the heights of Faron, over to the east.’ He indicated the direction with a stab of his hand. ‘They drove off the Spaniards and captured the battery. His Lordship intends to retake it as soon as possible and requires you to supply as many men as you can spare to join him.’

  Fury stood in silence for a moment as he tried to decide how many men he could sensibly spare while still providing sufficient men to defend Fort Pomet.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, making his mind up at last. ‘I can spare His Lordship forty men.’

  That was almost half the garrison he had at his disposal and would leave them short-handed here, especially if the Republicans should choose this moment to attack.

  ‘If you follow the road back towards the bay sir,’ Carter continued, ‘and then turn left along the foot of the hills, you will reach Lord Mulgrave and his men.’

  Fury nodded. He had studied the charts of the surrounding area enough to know where the heights of Faron were.

  ‘I must take my leave now sir, to round up more men from the other outposts.’

  Fury acknowledged his salute and Carter hurried back to his horse, quickly mounting with the speed and ease of someone who had spent a lifetime around the beasts, before trotting out of the fort and galloping down the valley in the direction of the harbour.

  Beyond the open door, Fury could see the fog thickening out in the valley, so much so that it swallowed up Lieutenant Carter in a matter of seconds. Would that help or hinder their attack, he wondered?

  ‘Sergeant Hawkins!’ he bellowed, unnecessarily given the fact that Hawkins, like every off-duty man in the fort, was standing at the open door of the barrack room in order to overhear what was being said.

  ‘Sir?’ Hawkins said as he hurried over to Fury almost immediately, skidding to a stop in front of him and offering a hasty salute.

  ‘You will take forty men to assist Lord Mulgrave in retaking the heights of Faron. I will remain here in command of the fort in your absence. I expect you to leave in twenty minutes.’

  It was still a good half-hour before the men were due for their morning parade so this was an even earlier start than usual, but Fury doubted whether any of them would mind now that the chance of action was imminent. Fury was desperately tempted to lead the attack himself, but knew that his place was here, in command of the fort.

  ‘Yes sir,’ Hawkins replied, grinning at this unexpected excitement.

  Hawkins hurried away shouting orders at his corporal while Fury resumed pacing. It could have been no more than fifteen minutes before Hawkins reported his men ready. Fury returned his salute, wished him luck, and watched as Hawkins led the men out of the fort and down the valley, envious of their chance of action while he had to remain behind and wait.

  Fury went back to his quarters and lay on the thin mattress, trying to get some rest until Hawkins and his men returned. Ten minutes of fidgeting was enough to drive him back on to his feet and outside, where those men on sentry duty paced at the main door and up on the ramparts. Corporal Jackson was drilling the remainder of the 69th at loading their muskets in the middle of the courtyard, and Fury left him to it and tried to occupy his mind elsewhere. He was surprised at how difficult it was to sit idle when other men – his men – were fighting for their lives not so very far away.

  The sound of laughter drifted across to him as he passed the men’s barracks, and Fury could not resist the temptation to investigate. The door was ajar as he approached, and he could now make out voices from within, loud but good-natured. He could distinguish Perrin’s broad cockney accent, followed quickly by Gooseman’s thick Yorkshire tongue. Fury had always tried to remain aloof from the men, as he thought an officer ought
to, and as his uncle, Captain Barber, had done with his officers, but his inactivity was getting the better of his usual reserve. He pushed the door open fully and walked in, seeing his seven Fortitudes sitting in a rough circle in the middle of the room, some on the floor and others on the edge of nearby beds. They looked up as the door creaked open and began to rise at the sight of him, but Fury waved them back down.

  ‘As you are, lads. As you are. I just came to see how you were doing.’

  He stepped forward towards them and glanced at the faces around the group; tough, practical men with a remarkably cheerful outlook on life, in spite of all their hardships. He suddenly felt proud to be in command of such men.

  ‘Very well, thankee sir,’ Clark responded, sitting on the end of a bed to Fury’s right.

  ‘Good. So you are coping with the inactivity?’

  ‘We struggle on, sir,’ Gooseman replied.

  ‘How’s that ship coming along Perrin?’ Fury asked, looking at the brash cockney. For hours while off watch on the Fortitude, Fury had seen him carving furiously into a block of wood, trying to fashion a replica of their ship. His skill with a knife was impressive.

  ‘Right well, thank you sir,’ Perrin replied with a grin. ‘The hull’s all done, just need to step the masts and set up her standing and running rigging.’

  The rest of the men were grinning along with Perrin, all seemingly pleased at Fury remembering such a trivial thing about one of their group. Fury looked down at the ground in the middle of the men, where two dice were sitting. The men saw the direction of his glance and their grinning faces turned to looks of apprehension. Gambling was forbidden by the Articles of War; the sight of those two dice was enough to have each and every man flogged, and they knew it.

  Fury turned back to Perrin. ‘Perhaps when you have finished, if you are of a mind to sell her, I could have first refusal.’