by G. S. Beard
A smaller volley of shots rang out from the works and Fury looked over to see Clark and the rest of the Fortitudes hastily reloading. He felt a sudden surge of pride that they had stayed to cover his retreat.
For a second he was unsure of what he should do: with the French approaching he needed to retreat as quickly as possible, yet he could not leave the General here as prisoner – Lord Hood would never forgive him for that.
‘Can you stand sir?’
The question was more a rhetorical one as Fury physically pulled O’Hara to his feet, looking pale and weak from the loss of blood. A mumbled order from O’Hara to leave him was ignored by Fury as he roughly grabbed him under his armpits and dragged him back over to the edge of the slope which they had climbed up not forty minutes past.
A glance back over his shoulder showed his men firing one more volley, before a shouted order from Fury had them abandoning their position and fleeing down the slope. Behind him Fury could hear the approaching French, and it crossed his mind to fling O’Hara down the slope, reasoning that it was the quickest way of getting him down and was infinitely preferable to being taken prisoner by the Republicans. The risk of serious injury from the fall was too great, however, so he dismissed it.
Clark and Thomas came bounding across to him, evidently having disobeyed his order to retreat.
‘Do you need a hand, sir?’ Clark asked breathlessly.
Fury nodded. ‘We need to get him down the slope, and quickly.’
Clark picked the general up and slung him across his shoulder like a rag doll.
‘Can you manage him?’ Fury demanded.
‘Aye sir, I think so.’
Fury nodded again. ‘Off you go, then.’
Clark began to pick his way down the slope with Thomas attempting to steady him. A musket shot sounded, quickly followed by another and another, the ground nearby kicking up dirt. Part of the wooden parapet was still alight to his left and Fury had a sudden idea. If the French decided to pursue them down the slope, they would easily catch Clark and Thomas, burdened as they were with General O’Hara. Fury needed to dissuade them, and fast. There was a tub still containing cartridges for the mortars which had been moved aside when the works had been set alight, and Fury grabbed a handful, aware of the sound of stamping feet on the ground behind him. He dared not look in that direction as he ran towards the edge of the slope and began slipping and stumbling down it, with more musket balls flying overhead.
He managed to stop himself about fifty feet down the slope and turned to look up. The first of the Republicans could be seen peering down at him and some made a move forward in pursuit. Fury took one of the cartridges in his right hand and hurled it back up the slope, missing the burning works by inches. He took another and tried again, the explosion as the cartridge landed amongst the flames flinging the men closest to it to the ground. Taking his last cartridge, Fury flung it back up the slope and continued his descent, only just registering the second explosion as he scrambled down.
He was near the bottom by the time he reached Clark and Thomas with O’Hara. Only now did Fury take the chance to look back up the slope, but he could see no further signs of pursuit, only the distant flames against the dark sky. Clark was breathing heavily by the time they reached flat ground, lowering O’Hara down with ill-concealed relief.
Fury could hear some of their exhausted men over to the left as they were rounded up by the officers. He quickly bent over O’Hara and gave him a shake. O’Hara began to come to his senses as Fury helped him to his feet, and he and Thomas half dragged him over to where he estimated the remaining British troops to be, with Clark bringing up the rear.
They were not long in finding stragglers of weary men in bloody, torn uniforms. Even those who had not been wounded directly by enemy fire had suffered some kind of injury as they had flung themselves down the slope to avoid the charge of the Republicans.
Looking round, Fury felt lucky to be among the few who seemed genuinely unscathed by the attack. Still propping up the heavy frame of General O’Hara with Thomas, he staggered forward amidst the scattering of men, finally catching sight of a couple of officers on horseback.
‘I have Lieutenant General O’Hara here!’
The horsemen turned towards him and, seeing the uniform of the man he was holding, galloped across.
‘We thought he was taken!’ exclaimed the first, as he fairly jumped from the saddle and knelt down beside O’Hara, now lying on the ground and groaning slightly as he began regaining full consciousness.
‘He very nearly was,’ Fury replied, remembering how close it had been. ‘His arm is shot through. He needs a surgeon quickly before he loses too much blood.’
One of the officers produced a rag and tied a rough tourniquet round the top of O’Hara’s arm to stem the flow of blood. A canteen was removed from the saddlebags of one of the horses and he was given water, the combination of pain and fluid helping to bring him round more quickly.
‘What happened?’
The question was asked in little more than a whisper.
‘We thought you’d been taken sir. This officer,’ the cavalryman pointed to Fury, ‘somehow brought you off.’
O’Hara turned his gaze on Fury and offered a weak smile.
‘Yes, I think I remember a little. Name and rank sir?’
‘Lieutenant Fury sir, of HMS Fortitude, now commanding the garrison of Fort Pomet.’
‘You have my sincere thanks Mr Fury, indeed you do.’
‘It is my men, sir,’ Fury protested, indicating Clark and Thomas, ‘who deserve your thanks. It was they who brought you off.’
O’Hara smiled weakly at them as Clark and Thomas shuffled their feet uncomfortably.
‘If you will excuse me sir,’ Fury interrupted. ‘I must attend to the rest of my men.’
O’Hara gave a small nod of approval and Fury turned away in search of them. They were not far away, largely unscathed and still together after having come down the slope in relatively good order. They seemed relieved to see Fury, but the compliment was lost on him in his current state of exhaustion.
‘How many have we lost?’
‘One dead sir,’ Gooseman replied, ‘another six injured. They’ve been taken to the field hospital.’
‘Any Fortitudes?’
‘No sir. We are all safe and sound.’
Fury supposed that they had been quite lucky considering the mayhem up there.
‘Very well. We shall begin heading back to the fort now. The men can have tomorrow off; I think they’ve earned it.’
Fury led the way back to Fort Pomet, the memory of his men standing firm to give him cover in the face of that Republican onslaught bringing a small smile of satisfaction to his face as he walked, so that the long journey back did not seem quite so tiresome.
Chapter Sixteen
Fury awoke with a start to find a man standing over him gently shaking his shoulder. He was one of the men whom Fury had inherited upon taking over the fort, and his stale breath invaded Fury’s nostrils.
‘Eh? What is it?’ he growled, vaguely aware that he had only laid down for a second to take the weight off his feet – he must have dozed off.
‘Beggin’ yer pardon sir, but there’s a messenger arrived for you.’
Fury struggled to his feet, shaking off the drowsiness which still hung over him like a blanket.
‘Very well. I shall be out presently.’
The man left and Fury took a little time to straighten his uniform and put on his hat.
It had been three weeks since the attack on the Republican mortar battery, and because of his refusal to supply the requested number of men to Lieutenant Carrick, he had been expecting a rebuke of some sort ever since. He had hoped that his rescue of Lieutenant General O’Hara would protect him from anything more serious, but perhaps he was wrong.
Satisfied with his appearance, he strode out into the courtyard to hear the worst. The messenger stood there tightly holding the reins of his hors
e as it nuzzled his shoulder, its breath clearly visible in the bitterly cold air.
‘Lieutenant Fury?’ he enquired, as Fury approached.
‘Yes?’
‘Orders sir, from the admiral.’
He reached into the half-open breast of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper with a thin wax seal holding it together, which he handed over. Fury turned and slowly walked away to get some privacy as he opened the orders, the relief flooding over him now he knew the messenger had not come from General Dundas.
The orders were dated 16 December 1793, and must have been completed the night before. Fury’s eyes widened perceptibly as he read them with an increasing sense of alarm. He hurriedly refolded the orders and walked back to the messenger.
‘Very well. We shall begin at once.’
The messenger hastily saluted and climbed back on his horse, wheeling it away and trotting out of the entrance.
‘Mr Hawkins!’ Fury bellowed, anger welling up inside him at the lateness of the order, combined with a nagging uneasiness at being so far away from Toulon with the Republican French advancing. The idea of getting cut off from his ship did not appeal to him.
‘Sir?’ enquired the sergeant as he hurried up, breathless.
‘We have been ordered to withdraw at once. The French have taken possession of the heights of Faron and have captured Fort Balaguier.’
‘I see sir.’
Hawkins’ reply was so calm and was uttered with such matter-of-factness that Fury warmed to the man, not for the first time. He glanced around to confirm the presence of the horses which were kept at the fort to deliver messages quickly. They were still tethered near the officers’ quarters, busily chewing on a large pile of hay. Fury turned back to Hawkins.
‘Who is your best rider?’
‘Rider sir?’ Hawkins repeated, slightly surprised at the question considering his men were infantry soldiers, not cavalrymen. ‘Well, sir – I suppose that would be Fisk.’
‘Have him report to me at once. In the meantime, have your men stationed at the guns. I want them loaded and ready to fire.’
Hawkins hurried off shouting orders to his corporal while Fury made his way quickly to the small barracks which had been his quarters for the past couple of months. A musket shot rang out in the distance, presumably from one of the advance lookouts which Fury had posted to the north. They did not have long before the Republicans would arrive.
It took only a moment to throw the cutlass belt over his shoulder and thrust the two loaded pistols into his waistband before diving back out into the courtyard to see Sergeant Hawkins coming towards him with a private in company.
‘Private Fisk sir.’
‘You can ride?’ Fury demanded, dispensing with the pleasantries.
‘Yes sir. Me father wer an ostler in Yorkshire when a werra lad.’
A shout from one of the men on the ramparts above interrupted him.
‘Lookouts returning, sir!’
A few moments later the entrance doors swung inwards and the five advance lookouts ran into the courtyard, exhausted. Fury turned back to Fisk, aware that time was running out.
‘Very good. I want you to take that horse and ride to the harbour. There is a small brig anchored in the outer road called Renard. I want you to get a message to her commander, Mr Francis – I don’t care how – tell him to have a boat waiting at the quay in front of the general magazine, ready to take the Fortitudes off when we arrive.’ The general magazine overlooked the inner basin in front of the new arsenal, and was the closest place Fury could think of to the Royal Gate, by which they would hopefully enter the city walls. Fury looked at his watch. ‘We shall be there by nine. Have you got that?’
Private Fisk nodded and repeated his orders at Fury’s request.
‘Cut along now then. You may remain with the boats till we arrive.’
Fisk saluted and any apprehensions Fury may have had regarding his horsemanship were quickly dispelled when he expertly jumped into the saddle and rode out of the fort.
‘All men present and ready sir!’ Hawkins reported, bringing Fury back to the task at hand.
Fury looked up at the ramparts and could see the men standing ready next to each cannon. Those men not required to work the great guns were keeping lookout with muskets ready.
Fury bounded up the stone steps to the ramparts to get an idea of how much time he had. As he arrived on the ramparts the first of Hawkins’ men began to fire muskets down the valley. Fury could immediately see scatterings of Republican troops – skirmishers, most likely – darting from cover to cover as they advanced through the series of lateral ridges dominating the valley floor. The sound of musket balls ricocheting off stonework betrayed the fact that they were returning fire.
It was clear to Fury that this was merely the advance force making their way down towards them, and he was sure the main body of the enemy – far too numerous for his small garrison to defend against – would not be far behind. What should he do? Should he put up a fight or order his men to retreat immediately, before they got cut off altogether?
‘Pick your targets! Don’t waste balls and cartridge!’ he snapped, aware that some of the firing from the troops was erratic and hasty. ‘Sergeant Hawkins!’
‘Sir?’
‘Have the men open fire with the cannon once you judge there to be sufficient troops to aim at.’
‘Yes sir!’
The sight of those cannon sitting impotently on the ramparts had made his decision for him – he would not order the retreat until they had at least fired them once, and given the enemy a bloody nose. Besides, the Royal Navy did not train its officers to run at the first sign of trouble, nor to gift their guns and supplies to the enemy. He would do his duty, no matter what the consequences.
He hurried back down to the courtyard and rushed into his quarters. He knew the chest in the corner would contain all he needed for the task at hand. The lid lifted with a creak and he rummaged inside, finally pulling out two reels, one of slow match and one of quick match, along with a knife and a waterproof packet containing flint and steel. Carrying his small bundle back out into the courtyard, he hastened over to the two horizontal wooden doors which were located in the far left of the fort, as far away as possible from the barracks.
He had not looked in here since he had taken over command of the garrison, but Sergeant Hawkins had assured him that the magazine contained barrels of gunpowder. It would hopefully make an explosion sufficient to destroy the fort if he could complete the preparations in time.
One pull at the right-hand door and it opened to reveal the gloominess within. The stone staircase leading downwards was swallowed up in the darkness after only five or six steps. He placed the waterproof packet on the floor along with the reel of slow match, only keeping hold of the quick match as he opened the other door in an effort to let in more light before cautiously descending the steps.
The first cannon on the ramparts bellowed out, followed by the rest in quick succession. Republican numbers down the valley were obviously increasing, placing even more pressure on Fury to complete his task quickly.
He reached the bottom, feeling in front with his feet to confirm it was indeed the bottom before slowly moving forward, the gritty feeling underneath his boots telling him there were at least some loose grains of gunpowder scattered on the stone floor. The knowledge that one small spark could set the whole place off did nothing to calm his nerves or bolster his confidence. Constant blinking and no small amount of concentration had their reward, however, as his eyes became accustomed to the gloom and he perceived the darker shapes of barrels all around, stacked up wherever there was space. His face broke into a fierce grin as he thought of the destruction it would cause, so much the better if the advancing Republicans were caught up in the blast.
He moved over to the nearest dark shape on the floor only three paces in front of him and stooped down to feel with his hands. It was not long before he had found the bunghole in the barr
el, placed upwards to allow easy access to the powder within when the gunner was making up his cartridges. He managed to prize the bung out with his knife, which he hesitantly thrust within, feeling the soft resistance of the powder which confirmed the barrel was full. He carefully tied the end of the quick match round the handle of the knife, before inserting it once more into the barrel.
Satisfied, he got slowly to his feet and backed away towards the steps, gently unreeling the quick match as he went. He moved steadily up the stairs towards the light, finally arriving back in the courtyard, shocked to hear the fierceness of the musketry from without and within the fort.
Now safely out of the magazine he could move more hurriedly across the courtyard to the entrance, stooping just inside the doors to lay down the quick match before running back to the magazine entrance to pick up slow match and combustibles.
On reaching the main doors to the fort once again, he stooped and reached for his knife before realising it was no longer with him. He unsheathed his cutlass instead, and cut a length off the slow match, which by his estimate would give them about five minutes to get as far away from the fort as possible before the flame reached the quick match. After that it would take only a second to reach the magazine.
It was a difficult decision to make – how much time to give his men to escape, knowing that every extra second increased the chances of the enemy discovering the match and extinguishing it before it could reach the magazine. Five minutes would barely give them time to get beyond the radius of falling debris.
After having made sure the two lengths of match were securely fastened together, Fury got to his feet and sheathed his cutlass. An idea occurred to him and he got back to his knees and started scraping up as much dirt from the ground as he could carry. He then went along the length of match running to the magazine entrance, scattering the loose earth over it to cover it from enemy eyes should they arrive in time to discover it.
