by G. S. Beard
The sound of musketry was very close. Some people, terrified and unable to obtain a boat, were actually rushing into the freezing water and attempting to swim to safety.
They were not more than twenty yards from the quay in front of the dockyard when Smith’s voice carried over the noises of screams and shot.
‘We will lay down covering fire for those boats!’
The two boats and the Swallow split up to find an advantageous position from which they could train their swivels on the enemy. Fury took his boat over to the left towards the western side of the quay and ordered his men to hold their position. He scrambled forward to the bow of the boat to see to the swivel himself.
Approximately thirty boats were now in the water, slowly increasing their distance from the shore, the oarsmen struggling to make headway in the crowded craft.
The Republicans were flooding on to the quay now from across the moat, firing at the boats and at the struggling swimmers in the water. Those who were unfortunate enough to be on the quay as the Republicans approached were shot without mercy, or bayoneted as the troops passed. Women and children were among the people cut down indiscriminately, some clutching their meagre belongings. Please God Sophie was not among them, Fury thought. He saw a young mother in a worn and dirty dress holding a sobbing child to her bosom. She stopped in panic as a Republican soldier ran towards her screaming. Fury was convinced that the soldier would ignore her, but he levelled his musket with bayonet fixed, and thrust it through the exposed back of the child and into the chest of the mother. Fury gagged at the sight and thought for a moment he was going to vomit. He was certain he could still hear the last dying screams of the child as the woman fell back on to the stone with the half-dead toddler still clutched to her. Fury instinctively grabbed the swivel gun as the rage began to well inside him.
One jerk of the lanyard was enough to send the tightly packed bag of musket balls hurtling into the crowd of men on the quay, cutting them down in swathes and sending back screams and cries of agony from those who had been unfortunate enough to survive.
Another shot from over to their right and more screams ashore told him that at least one of the other gunboats was pouring in canister, and Fury felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight.
He quickly reached down into the locker and took out cartridge, wads and another bag of musket balls. He hurriedly thrust these into the barrel and poured some gunpowder into the touch hole before swinging it round again towards the shore.
The Republicans were beating a hasty retreat from the quay as more canister poured in from the other gunboats, and Fury had only time for a quick aim before pulling the lanyard and sending the second hail of shot in. The Republican troops who had survived this final onslaught now took cover. For the moment there was no firing towards the escaping boats.
Fury turned his attention back to the quay itself, which was littered with the dead and dying. Many of these were Republican troops caught in the deadly fire from the swivel guns, but littered amongst these could be seen civilians – including more women and children – lying dead after they had been butchered by the troops. He glanced back at the body of the woman, with the lifeless bloodied body of her small child lying on top of her. His nausea returned and so he looked away quickly.
Several splashes in the water showed where those civilians who had not yet drowned were still struggling, and Fury hurried back to his place at the tiller and gave the order which set the boat surging closer in towards them.
Isolated potshots were aimed at them from the Republicans still sheltering on the quay, but Fury was not aware of any coming close to them. The first man they approached disappeared below the water before they could haul him on board, utterly exhausted from his exertions. Thankfully the others in the water nearby managed to last until they had been dragged shivering into the bottom of the boat. Six in all, two of them women, and a small enough return on the twenty or more who Fury was certain he had seen jump into the bay.
When he was sure there were no more left alive, he put the tiller over and the men bent to their oars to send them surging back to where Captain Smith was waiting with the Swallow tender and the other gunboat, both with swivels still trained on the quay lest the Republicans should decide to become a nuisance.
‘How many Mr Fury?’ Smith shouted to him.
‘Six sir,’ Fury replied, aware that it sounded a pitifully small number.
‘Very well. You may transfer them to the Swallow.’
Fury sent the boat alongside the Swallow with Smith looking down, and numerous hands above helped haul the wretches on board.
The majority of the boats which had escaped from the town had taken the chance to cease their efforts and rest, and so a fairly large expanse of water was now covered by them. Fury could see numerous Neapolitan uniforms among those men in the boats and a surge of anger rose within him at the thought of their cowardice in running from their posts at Malbousquet and Missiessi, leaving the French the opportunity of pouring in fire upon the retreating allies.
As if to heighten the irony of the occasion, at that moment the first shot from either Malbousquet of Missiessi was fired towards them. Sharp eyes had probably been monitoring events closely through their night glasses, and had deduced that the boats had successfully escaped.
Smith took a speaking trumpet from the deck of the Swallow and began shouting instructions to the crowded boats in fluent French, gesticulating and pointing with his arm to ensure he was understood. The boats slowly turned and headed away towards the inner road. Women and children cried as falling shot churned up the water all around them. The Swallow and the two other boats shadowed them out of the basin and into the inner road to ensure they were safely on their way, before Smith ordered the boats to lay on their oars.
‘Sir!’
Smith looked across at him through the darkness. ‘Yes, Mr Fury, what is it?’
‘There is something I must do first, before we leave. I will rejoin you in fifteen minutes.’
Fury was half expecting Smith to refuse, and he was quite prepared to disobey him if he did. He was not technically under Smith’s command, and therefore was confident that he would not be too severely punished.
‘Very well, Mr Fury.’
Fury swung the tiller over with relief and the boat surged towards the north shore of the inner road. He could see very little through the darkness save for the marshland backing away inland. The inner basin was to their right and he could distinguish the small river Nez as it flowed into the bay from its source up on the heights.
‘Easy all,’ he growled, when he judged them to be twenty yards or so from the shore. The men ceased their efforts and the boat continued to drift in towards the land as the momentum gradually diminished. Malbousquet was continuing its bombardment of the town and the dockyard, but they were safe enough here.
‘Sophie!’
He shouted the name into the darkness, unaware of the curious glances of his boat’s crew as he strained forward to listen. Nothing. He could feel the desperation rising within his breast and he tried to control the feelings of utter helplessness which seemed to cling to him.
‘Sophie!’
He desperately wished to stay, to scour the shoreline for any sign of her so that in the future he would at least have the comfort of knowing he had done all he could, but he knew that it was hopeless.
‘Give way al—’
‘John!’
The shout came from somewhere among the marshland, unmistakeably female, and Fury’s heart skipped a beat.
‘Sophie?’
‘Over here John!’
Fury thought he could discern a movement of white down by the water’s edge, and the sounds of splashing drifted over. He pointed forward with his arm for the benefit of the oarsmen.
‘Over there lads, quickly.’
The men bent to their oars and the boat surged forward. He could see Sophie now, only her head above water as she set off towards them, further splashes behin
d her betraying the presence of someone else, presumably her father.
‘Easy all!’
The men ceased their efforts and the boat drifted down to her. She swam in between the static oars and clung on to the side of the boat, turning back to the shore to check on the progress of her father. Fury rushed to the side of the boat, pushing his way between the oarsmen, and reached down to grab her by the arm.
‘Lend a hand here, lads.’
More hands grabbed her and she was hauled quickly up into the boat, a little more roughly than she would have liked, perhaps, but at least she was safe. Fury took off his jacket, still damp, and wrapped it around her shoulders as she began to shiver. They exchanged a glance – only briefly – but that one glance conveyed their relief more than any words could.
Her father had reached the side of the boat by now, and lusty hands were hauling him aboard, so Fury moved Sophie towards the stern sheets and settled her down on the thwart next to the tiller. He sat next to her and one look forward told him that Sophie’s father was now safely on board.
‘Give way all.’
The men bent to their oars again and Fury swung the tiller over to turn the boat around and send it back towards the entrance to the outer road, in the wake of Smith and the other gunboat.
He felt a slight pressure on his hand as it rested on the tiller, and he looked down to see Sophie’s hand on top of his. He smiled across at her but said nothing, feeling suddenly self-conscious with the boat’s crew all sitting nearby.
Smith’s boats could be seen ahead now, stationary in the water near two frigates which were anchored side by side.
‘Ah! Mr Fury, just in time, sir!’
That was Smith calling across to him from the Swallow as they approached.
‘Sir?’
‘There is a crew on board the nearest frigate, Themistocles, and they have agreed to let us ferry them ashore. They have assured me they will be no trouble, but as a precaution I would be obliged if you could keep your swivels on them at all time. Once they are out of our hair, we can burn these ships. Then we shall have to call it a night.’
Smith looked slightly disappointed as he made the last statement, and Fury realised that the mission would probably be regarded as a failure because of the lack of shipping destroyed. Only those who had been here, who had seen not only the advances of the enemy, but also the incompetence and treachery of their allies, would understand. The man had done as much as anyone could by causing as much damage as he had.
‘Yes sir.’
Smith then turned to address the Frenchman on board the Themistocles.
‘This officer here’ – he pointed over to Fury – ‘will have a swivel gun loaded with canister trained on you and your men at all times while you are being ferried ashore. If you show any sign of trouble, he is under orders to open fire at once. Do you understand?’
The man uttered a resigned ‘Oui’ and Smith gave the order which sent his boat surging forward towards the side of the ship, quickly followed by Lieutenant Brisbane in the second boat.
‘You two forrard,’ Fury called. It was unfortunate that he did not know the names of any of the men in his boat. ‘Ship your oars and take hold of that swivel gun at the bow. See that it is loaded and ready for firing, but don’t point it at the other boats unless I give the order.’
The last thing Fury wanted was for a nervous hand to pour a tempest of canister into their own boats accidentally.
By the time the two men had stowed their oars on board and taken up the swivel gun, men were already pouring down the side of Themistocles and into Smith’s boat.
All in all it took three journeys before they had transferred the last of the men from the ship, dropping them on the north shore well away from the arsenal and the town. Fury’s boat had shadowed them carefully on each journey, but the Frenchmen showed no signs of trouble at all. They had so far been unmolested by the batteries of Malbousquet and Missiessi too. Perhaps they had realised that the boats were full of French sailors.
Now, the transfer complete, all three boats approached the two empty ships swinging lazily at their anchors.
‘Mr Fury! I shall give you the task of burning the second ship. See to it at once, if you please,’ Smith called to him.
‘Aye aye sir.’
A quick order sent their boat gliding across the stern of the first ship, Themistocles, and under the counter of the second ship. Fury looked up and saw the name Hero emblazoned across her stern. He turned to Sophie and her father.
‘Please forgive me, I must leave you for a short time. You will be perfectly safe here until I return, then we shall make our way back to my ship.’
They both nodded, although Fury could see they were frightened. He tried to give them a reassuring smile, before passing control of the tiller to one of the seamen and moving forward to retrieve the packet of combustibles from the locker underneath the bow.
They were alongside the Hero by the time he was ready, making one final check that the packet was tightly closed with the string fastenings. Satisfied he had forgotten nothing, he moved into position and, clamping down firmly with his teeth on the string of the handle, reached up for the battens on the ship’s side and clambered swiftly up to the entry port.
At that moment either Malbousquet or Missiessi – Fury was not sure which – opened fire and a crash forward told where one of the balls struck. He became aware of splashes in the water all around, and he hurriedly shot a glance down to the boat to reassure himself that it was safe. Sophie was looking up at him with a look of terror on her face, and Fury resolved to complete his mission as quickly as possible so he could get back and take her out of danger. He turned back inboard, concentrating again on the task at hand.
It was a strange feeling, being on the deck of a deserted ship while thousands of Republican troops were massed not far away. He hurried forward through the darkness and found the rail overlooking the waist, moving along it until he came to the ladder leading to the deck below. Once on the upper deck he stood still for a short while so that his eyes became accustomed to the dark, before going along each side and hauling on the tackles to open several of the gun ports.
With more light now infiltrating, he could see that although the guns were still lashed securely, the deck was nevertheless in a poor state. There was thick dirt and rubbish everywhere, while most of the mess tables were slung down over the guns from the deck head above, as if her former crew had left abruptly. The whole effect was so eerie, Fury shuddered to himself as he walked along.
More distant thunder sounded, followed a second later by another crashing and splintering. The deck head to starboard disintegrated in a shower of splinters as one ball pierced the deck above and wedged itself in the timbers of the upper deck. Fury wiped his forehead with his sleeve and tried to put out of his mind just how close it had been.
He peered through the gloom, soon finding what he was looking for: lanterns sat on mess tables or hung from the beams above, all now extinguished but holding what Fury hoped would be sufficient combustible oil to get a good fire going. He put his packet down on the deck and collected as many of the lanterns as he could find, about eight of them all told, putting them down in the middle of the deck. Opening the packet, he pulled out its contents. Flint and steel he put to one side along with the lengths of slow and quick match, leaving the small bundle of rags, each one soaked in tar and wax.
He gulped hard as he heard another salvo unleashed by the Republicans, pausing in his work and bracing himself for the impact. Nothing. The sound of splashes all around reached him, raising a panic within his breast at the thought of Sophie being exposed as she was. Fumbling hurriedly with each lantern in turn, he opened up the bottom which contained the oil and poured it upon the bundle of rags, being careful to avoid any spills on his own clothing. This task done, he fumbled about with flint and steel until he at last got a spark, igniting the rags instantly.
The speed with which the fire shot up startled him, so tha
t he fell back on to the deck to avoid being singed by the flames. Recovering himself, and being satisfied that the fire had taken sufficient hold, he grabbed a length of slow match and stuck it into the flames at arm’s length until it caught light.
Even as he made his way to the ladder leading back up to the quarterdeck he could feel the heat from the flames behind him quickly spreading, crackling furiously. Once on the quarterdeck he ran to the nearest shrouds, those providing lateral support to the mainmast, and set them alight using the lighted slow match he was still carrying. He watched as the flames slowly moved up the rigging, hungrily fed by the thick coating of tar on each rope.
Lastly he went aft past the mizzen mast, to where the spanker boom extended out over the taffrail. The sail itself was not set but was loosely furled against the gaff above, ready to be raised the moment men hauled on sheets and halliards. With match still in hand he managed to heave himself up the mizzen mast using the rope around it for footholds. He did not ascend far, just enough to enable him to reach that part of the sail which was secured down against the mast, thrusting his lighted match against it long enough for it to catch light. Jumping back down to the deck he abandoned the lighted match and hurried over to the entry port.
Fury heard another cannonade as he reached the bulwark. It was quickly accompanied by a splintering sound from above, and he looked up to see the mainmast sagging sideways above the topmast cap. It hung there a moment, suspended by its stays, before they finally parted and it dropped, Fury flinging himself to the deck between two of the quarterdeck carronades. He heard the crash and clatter as it hit the deck along with its parted stays and blocks, including a loud thud nearby. He tentatively raised his head and looked around; there was a block sitting on the deck six inches from his head, presumably thrown there as the mast finally snapped. Part of the splintered main yard was laid at an angle, propped up on the carronade to Fury’s right which had stopped it from snapping his back like a twig. He took a relieved intake of breath and crawled out from beneath the tangled spars and rigging, standing up and dusting himself off.
