by G. S. Beard
Disappointed at missing, he turned away and rushed over to where the officer was lying. His coat was that of a naval lieutenant, the same as Fury, and his hair was thickly matted with blood. There was a block next to him on the deck, with the remnants of some burnt rope through it; presumably it had fallen from aloft and hit the man on the head, knocking him senseless. The skin on his face was beginning to blister from exposure to the heat, but it appeared from his pulse that he was alive so Fury tried to shake him awake, receiving an encouraging groan in response. Two sharp slaps across the face was enough to bring him round at least to semi-consciousness.
There was no time to help him recover further and so Fury began to half drag, half carry him to the side, suddenly realising for the first time that he had not spared any thought whatsoever as to how he would escape.
The fire ship had been stopped in her tracks before reaching the stone quay, and the French ship alongside was a seventy-four. There was no chance of climbing on to her higher deck, even if she hadn’t been well ablaze. The only option seemed to be to jump overboard. Once in the water, however, he would have no way of climbing up on to the quay, as there were no steps on this side of the inner basin. His only hope then, would be to try swimming back to where Francis had picked him up, where the stone steps rose out of the water to the quayside in front of the dockyard.
At that moment a loud crash erupted below, giving Fury an almighty shock. It was one of the guns on the main deck going off as the flames reached the priming. A moment later numerous other guns discharged, the deck heaving slightly at each one as Fury looked up in time to see the side of the French vessel opposite erupt into splinters at the impact.
He was also vaguely aware of smoke rising from the deck of the French ship to larboard, but there was no more time to think about that as he dragged his companion to the taffrail, deciding that jumping from the stern was preferable to jumping over the side now that he knew all the guns had been shotted. A quick look at the water beneath told him that the drop was about twelve feet. Without pausing for reflection, he pushed the officer over the side and quickly followed into the oily black water below.
The icy coldness of the water as he hit it was enough to shock the breath from his body, so that it was a frantic few seconds before he finally resurfaced, gasping for air. He became conscious that it was very difficult to swim with his boots on, not to mention the excess weight of the two sea-service pistols which were still stuck in his waistband, now useless. The latter problem was quickly resolved by two quick tugs, the pistols sinking rapidly once free of his body.
The other officer was nearby, evidently brought sharply back to consciousness by his sudden immersion. In the distance Fury could see the lights of the dockyard and town beyond, while overhead the cannonading from Malbousquet and Missiessi continued.
He pointed towards the lights in an effort to make the other officer understand, trying to keep the water out of his mouth as the wind flicked up the waves in the inner basin. The man gave a weak nod in comprehension and Fury struck out towards it with his slow breaststroke, knowing instantly that they would never make it.
He had not gone more than ten strokes when he became aware of splashing over to his right, and a moment later a boat loomed up out of the darkness.
‘Lieutenant Gore!’
The voice rang out as the men at the oars ceased their exertions.
‘Here!’ gasped out Fury’s companion, not more than five yards behind him.
Another dip of the oars from the crew brought the boat gliding alongside, where ready hands were waiting to haul the lieutenant on board.
‘Over here!’ Fury cried out quickly, worried that the boat’s crew may not have seen him.
Lusty strokes brought the boat rapidly alongside, much to Fury’s relief, and a moment later he too was sitting in the bottom, dripping and shivering uncontrollably.
‘Who are you, and where the devil did you spring from?’
Fury recognised the uniform of a post captain upon the man who had asked the question, although the single epaulette on his right shoulder denoted he had less than three years’ seniority.
‘I am Lieutenant Fury sir, of the Fortitude. I was in the process of transferring the late garrison of Fort Pomet to the fleet, when I saw your fire ship drifting off course. I took the liberty of having myself put on board to take the wheel sir.’
‘And a damn good thing you did, or else I’d be burnt to a cinder right now,’ interrupted his shivering companion. ‘I am Lieutenant Gore, and I am much obliged to you sir.’
Fury shook his outstretched hand.
‘And I,’ the captain continued, ‘am Captain Hare, commanding this small party. We are indeed obliged to you Mr Fury. The Fortitude did you say? But she is refitting at Gibraltar is she not?’
‘She is sir. I was placed in command of the garrison of Fort Pomet by Lord Hood. We received the order to retreat this afternoon.’
‘I see,’ replied Hare, ‘I regret I cannot guarantee you safe return to your ship. We are currently pulling for the new arsenal to assist Sir Sydney Smith and his men in their endeavours to destroy all they can.’
‘I was not aware Captain Smith was a member of the Mediterranean fleet, sir.’
‘He is not, technically. When he heard of the onset of war, he purchased a trim little cutter, the Swallow, and brought her here as a private vessel. He volunteered for this madness!’
Fury nodded and settled down in silence, bitterly cold and wet, as they pulled towards the dockyard.
They passed a number of gunboats just off from the quay as they approached, all busily firing their swivels in addition to the sole cannon mounted at the bows, to suppress the advance of the Republicans, some of whom Fury could see attempting to get round the wall enclosing the dockyard and city.
Fury and his companion Lieutenant Gore were both shivering hard by the time the boat pulled up to the stone quay in front of the new arsenal. Fury leaped out behind Captain Hare, grateful for the chance to work some life into his frozen limbs. Lieutenant Gore had to be helped out – he was now in some pain from the burns he had suffered along with his head wound.
A quick glance around showed the position clearly enough. Despite the fire from the gunboats the Republicans were still attempting to cross the moat which separated the western end of the new arsenal from the mainland. Numerous soldiers positioned on the quay were firing muskets in an effort to discourage them as the various fire parties from within the arsenal withdrew, presumably after laying down their charges and setting the place alight.
Moments later, flames leapt up into the night sky with amazing suddenness, so that in a matter of minutes many of the buildings of the dockyard were thoroughly alight.
Almost immediately the cannonading from Malbousquet and Missiessi increased, the shot falling all around the arsenal and the quay as they stood there. The light from the flames rising up within the dockyard was providing the Republican gunners across the bay with a better sight of what they were firing at.
Captain Hare was addressing another man wearing the uniform of a post captain, the epaulettes signifying that the wearer had held his rank for more than three years, both men impervious to the fall of shot around them. The man had an aristocratic face, with high cheekbones and a sharp, pointed nose.
‘This is Lieutenant Fury sir,’ Captain Hare was saying to him. ‘He boarded the fire ship and held her on course before bringing Gore off.’
‘Much obliged to you Mr Fury,’ the officer said, turning to Fury. ‘I am Captain Smith. Glad to have you with us.’
‘Thank you sir.’
‘Your appearance here is a blessing,’ Smith continued. ‘Poor Mr Gore is too badly injured to be much more use to me tonight, while I believe Lieutenant Pater has been much burnt in setting light to the rope walk, so that I find myself in desperate need of officers.’
At that moment a tremendous blast was heard behind them out in the inner road, everyone turning round instantly
to see the water lit up with white as one of the ships lying at anchor exploded, burning timber and spars falling all around the area. Even from the quay the force of the blast could be felt, albeit largely diminished by the distance.
Fury looked on in mute horror as a large piece of burning wreckage – a lower mast perhaps – landed squarely on top of one of the gunboats employed in keeping the Republicans pinned down. The boat itself was holed and sank almost immediately. Its two consorts pulled towards it with commendable rapidity in an attempt to pick up what survivors they could.
‘Blasted Spaniards!’ raged Smith, once he had recovered from the shock. ‘The powder ships were supposed to be scuttled and sank, not set alight!’
Suddenly Fury understood – the ship had been one of those used to store all the powder taken from the other ships of the French fleet, hence the size of the blast.
By now there was quite a gathering on the quay in front of the arsenal; all those who had been tasked with setting the place alight had now returned. There was also a noticeable slackening of fire from the Republicans, so shocked had they been by the explosion.
‘Captain Hare, please make preparations to abandon our positions,’ Smith ordered. ‘You shall make your way out through the east of the city and over to Fort La Malgue where our boats will take you off.’
Captain Hare walked briskly off. The bombardment of their positions now being resumed after the shock of the explosion. Splashes not far off from the quay, combined with what sounded like Spanish invectives, induced Fury to turn around sharply, instinctively reaching for his pistols as two boats came into view.
‘Our Spanish allies,’ Smith announced sarcastically, as Fury discovered his waistband empty of pistols.
A Spanish officer, resplendent in gold lace, clambered awkwardly from the boat on to the quay and proffered a measly salute to Captain Smith. What was said Fury could not tell, the conversation being in Spanish, but he could tell by the look of thunder growing on Smith’s face that the news was not good. Nevertheless Smith kept his temper, maintaining an air of icy formality. Finally, in response to a gesture from Smith, the Spaniard shrugged and, turning to bark an order to the men behind him, led them towards the town.
‘Incompetence! Sheer incompetence!’
Smith was fuming.
‘Sir?’ Fury enquired hesitantly.
‘The Dagoes, Mr Fury, have betrayed us. They were ordered to scuttle the two powder ships, and then set light to as many of the remaining ships in the basin as possible before retiring. Instead, this rabble have set alight one of the powder ships while managing to destroy none of the other French ships, which will now likely fall back into the hands of the Republicans!’
Fury was thankfully saved from replying by the arrival back of Hare to report the men ready to begin the retreat.
‘Very well,’ Smith replied, ‘you will take command of the retreat, Captain Hare. I shall take our two remaining gunboats, along with my Swallow, and attempt to set fire to the remaining ships in the basin of the old arsenal.’ Captain Smith took a moment to look around him at the small group of officers. ‘Mr Fury, you will command one of the boats, Mr Brisbane will command the other.’
Fury nodded along with the other lieutenant chosen, a thickset man with unruly blond hair. The crowd dispersed to begin preparing for the retreat, leaving Fury, Smith and Brisbane alone.
‘Lads!’ shouted Smith to the gunboats, ‘Come and take us off!’
The men sent the two boats surging in towards the quay while Smith turned to address Fury and Brisbane.
‘Now gentlemen, these gunboats should still have their supply of fuses and matches stored in the lockers which we can use. I shall lead in the Swallow. Lieutenant Brisbane, you will oblige me by carrying me off to her.’
The soldiers lately employed keeping the attacking Republicans at bay across the moat and opposite the bake-house were now hurriedly retreating past the still-burning new arsenal towards the old arsenal with the town of Toulon behind. There was a rearguard still firing ragged volleys at the Republicans as they swept forward in a surge across the shallow moat. The rearguard fell back another twenty paces and closed up their ranks for the men who had fallen from the last enemy volley. With the Republicans now in the dockyard the firing intensified, the balls flicking up chips of stone nearby. Fury shuffled his feet uncomfortably, fighting down the urge to take cover. He tried to focus his concentration on Captain Smith, who seemed completely oblivious to the danger.
The grinding of wood on concrete followed by muttered oaths caused Fury to turn round, to see that the two gunboats had reached the quay and were waiting for them to embark. Fury descended the steps in relief and leaped down into the nearest boat, glad to be on water again. Moving past the men at the oars he sat gratefully down in the stern sheets and grasped the tiller. Captain Smith followed Lieutenant Brisbane down into the other boat and Fury allowed them to shove off first before giving the order to follow. The men pushed off from the side and then dipped their oars in pursuit.
Looking down into the dark water, Fury shuddered, amazed that it was not more than thirty minutes ago that he had been in it, desperately swimming for the shore.
Chapter Eighteen
The fires throughout the dockyard, subsiding somewhat now, were nevertheless sufficient to provide light enough by which to see their intended victims. The masts and yards could be seen against the dark night sky, their hulls hidden by the stone quay separating the two basins.
The men at the oars paused while Smith transferred himself to his own little vessel, the Swallow, before leading them towards their target. For a few anxious moments as they crept across the basin Fury was fearful lest the forts should open fire on them, but it was clear that even with the light from the flames, they would have no way of telling whether they were friend or foe.
They were not more than forty yards from the narrow gut linking the two basins now. He could see Captain Smith’s small ship ahead slewing round slightly, and a moment later Brisbane’s boat, the next in line, did the same a little to the right of the Swallow.
Not sure what was happening, Fury eased the tiller over to send them towards the left of Smith’s position, where he could see men leaning over the side struggling with something. What it was became apparent to Fury a moment later when his own boat hit something solid which caused it to slow rapidly before slewing round like the others.
‘Boom!’ Smith hissed across at him. ‘See if you can get through it.’
For some inexplicable reason there was a boom blocking the entrance to the inner basin in front of the old arsenal. Instructing one of the men to keep hold of his legs, Fury swung his upper body over the side and down towards the sea. The freezing water was another reminder of his recent swim, but this time laying just beneath the surface his hands found a large wooden log.
Moving along it towards the stern of the boat he found the end, plunging down deeper to grasp the chain which kept the log secured to the next in line. A curt command to the men in the boat saw one of them pass him a cutlass, Fury reaching back to grasp it before plunging it into the water.
Even as he frantically hacked at the joint of log and chain with the cutlass, he knew it was useless. The chain was so large and well secured that he doubted if he could make any impression on it even if he had an axe. A splash nearby caught his eye and a moment later several more appeared, Fury’s mind only latterly registering the sound of musket fire which accompanied them. He hauled himself back inboard.
‘It’s no use sir,’ he shouted across to Smith, ‘it won’t part.’
Fury could hear the whine of balls through the air as the musketry rained down on them from men standing on the wall of the Batterie Royale, and it was becoming more intense as others joined them. The men in the three boats manned the swivels and pointed them into the darkness in the direction of the enemy, jerking the lanyards and sending a murderous hail of musket balls towards the Republicans, but still the fire was returned unabated.
One of the men in Fury’s boat let out a scream as a musket ball hit him in the thigh, two of his comrades springing into action to tie their scarves round his leg as a tourniquet. Further thuds sounded as balls smashed into the hull and planking of the boat, and a moment later Captain Smith’s voice rose above the noise.
‘Belay there! Pull back out of range!’
Not before time, Fury thought, as he settled himself back in the stern sheets while making an effort to appear calm and unworried by the hail of musketry raining down on them. The men at the larboard oars needed no second invitation to prize the boat away from the boom, and soon they were out of range and out of danger.
‘We’ll head out into the inner road and make for the vessels anchored offshore, to see what other mischief we can cause,’ Smith ordered as they sat at their oars.
Again the two gunboats followed Smith in the Swallow as they pulled on, Fury looking in envy at the activity of the men at the oars in comparison to his own inactivity, which was slowly causing him to shiver again as the wind pierced his damp clothing.
The fires in the dockyard were beginning to wane as the boats moved steadily across the basin in front of the new arsenal. Shouts and screams drifted across the water, and Fury looked over to the shore to see hundreds of people emerging from the town and the dockyard on to the quay.
The soldiers manning the gate to the dockyard must have begun their retreat to Fort Le Malgue through the city, leaving the gate open for the citizens to enter.
The cannon of Malbousquet and Missiessi, both high atop hills on the north shore of the inner road, were now silent, presumably reluctant to fire lest they should hit their own troops who were now pouring into the dockyard and town after the British and their allies had made their retreat.
The occasional orange glow within the town told of fires being started as, even now, the first wave of revenge attacks by staunch Republicans began. Peering back, Fury could see the quay in front of the town was a mass of confusion and panic. The lucky ones had procured boats which they were hurriedly pushing off from the quay, horribly overcrowded, in an attempt to escape from the wrath of the advancing Republicans.
