Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  The smoke was now billowing up from the waist, blotting out the few stars which were overhead. The occasional tongue of flame could also be seen rising up from the deck below, while the rigging above was well alight.

  Reaching the entry port Fury looked down for his boat, momentarily freezing in panic as he saw it was not there, before realising that they were merely waiting a short distance from the ship’s side to avoid the flames which were now protruding from her open gun ports. At the sight of him they pulled a few swift strokes to cover the short distance, so that by the time he had descended the battens they were ready and waiting beneath him.

  ‘Has everything been completed?’ Sophie’s father asked hopefully, as Fury made his way to the stern of the boat.

  ‘Yes it has,’ Fury replied. ‘We can be on our way now.’

  Sophie placed a trembling hand on his as Fury settled himself next to the tiller. He took her hand for a moment and gave a soft squeeze of reassurance, before withdrawing it and grasping the tiller bar.

  The whole of the ship was a mass of flame by the time Fury had taken their boat out of danger, the men resting on their oars to watch the sight as Smith and Brisbane approached in their boats. Beyond the flames Fury could just discern the Themistocles well alight, so that it looked very much like their work was completed.

  ‘Well done Mr Fury!’ shouted Smith as they approached. ‘I think it prudent that we effect our own retreat now before our luck runs out.’

  Fury could not agree more. ‘Aye aye sir!’

  The Swallow turned away to lead them towards the entrance to the outer road, with Brisbane in the second boat following and Fury in the last boat close behind.

  He had no idea what the time was, or even whether Renard would still be there when they reached the remnants of the fleet taking off the last of the men. Looking forward beyond the Swallow he could see the small peninsular of land with the old semaphore tower upon it. That peninsular marked the border between the outer and inner road. Beyond it, further over to the right, he could see a vague outline of the heights of de Grasse with all its batteries, while down below, almost at the water’s edge, were the two forts, Balaguier and l’Eguillette. If the Republicans had possession of them – which was more than likely, having seen the Neapolitans and Spanish in action – then they would have to undergo their fire on the way out to the outer road.

  As Fury peered forward intently, trying to distinguish the two forts against the darker background of hills and peaks, a thunderous explosion rent the air, the second that night. It took him some time to locate the source of the blast, somewhere over to the left not far from where the first powder ship had blown up. If anything, this blast seemed to be more violent than the first, and Fury was nearly blinded by the brilliant white which momentarily lit up the bay.

  He looked up at the sky, which appeared as if it were on fire as the burning wreckage and timber shot up and outwards before finally starting to fall. The boat was rocking more now as the shock waves sent a heavier swell spreading out, and the water swiftly turned into a boiling mass as the burning debris landed in the sea all around the two boats and the Swallow. There was nothing they could do but wait and hope. Everyone instinctively ducked their heads slightly as if to provide some protection from the deluge. And then it was all over, Fury looking up to see no more splashes and their consorts apparently unharmed.

  He was shaking slightly, well aware of how fortunate they had all been to escape serious injury or death, especially after witnessing the sinking of one of their gunboats earlier in the evening from a similar blast.

  ‘Those damnable Spaniards have done it again! We would fare better in this war if they joined the French!’

  The enraged voice of Captain Smith on board the Swallow drifted across to them. Fury sat silently for a few seconds to let his beating heart slow before giving the order which would hopefully see them soon safely back with the fleet. He was sick of this night. It seemed to be dragging on interminably and he just wanted it to end.

  ‘Give way,’ he growled, the oarsmen resuming their stroke in pursuit of the other boats which were now carrying on towards the entrance.

  It was a further ten minutes before they reached the quarter-mile-wide entrance to the outer road, the semaphore tower to the left clearly visible and slowly moving astern as the oarsmen struggled against the waves which became increasingly choppy as they entered the more exposed anchorage. No sign of life over in the forts to Fury’s right buoyed his confidence that they might pass unscathed.

  Suddenly a deep boom rang out from that direction, followed by another and then another, as the batteries of Balaguier and l’Eguillette opened fire. Fury noticed the white spray as one of the balls threw up a splash half a cable to their right, but he couldn’t distinguish any other sign of the shot.

  ‘Put your backs into it,’ he growled to the men straining at the oars.

  For twenty minutes they pulled hard, while the two forts kept up a constant if slightly erratic bombardment. Fury eased the tiller over as they rounded the peninsular on the left and turned away towards Fort La Malgue and the remnants of the British fleet, looking over his shoulder in an attempt to ascertain when they would be out of range.

  They must be at the limit of their range already, he judged, his pulse slowing as his tension diminished. He looked to his right and gave Sophie a small smile of reassurance, which she returned with an effort. Another cannonade sounded from one of the forts, probably their last effort, and Fury saw a splash thrown up about twenty yards behind him and to the right. He looked forward, startled, as a loud crash was quickly followed by screams of anguish. The second gunboat, immediately ahead, was in pieces and already sinking fast as the few survivors struggled to cling on to what remained of their craft. The last cannonball must have ricocheted off the water and ploughed straight into them.

  ‘Pull for them!’ Fury shouted as the last of the boat disappeared below the surface and – he counted – the four men left alive struggled to stay afloat in the water.

  They were among them in an instant, the men at the oars leaning over the side to pull in two of the survivors. Smith in the Swallow picked up one man, unable to get to the fourth before he slipped below the waves. Fury could hear Sophie sobbing quietly as the bodies of some of the boat’s crew drifted face down nearby. Even in the darkness Fury thought he could see blood on the surface of the water, but he could not be sure.

  ‘Give way all!’ he snapped, sending the boat in the wake of the Swallow.

  It was still a further twenty minutes before the outline of ships at anchor and boats passing to and from the shore became visible. Fury breathed a sigh of relief as he distinguished the outline of a small brig lying not far from the large two-deckers. Although unable to make out her identity in the darkness from this range, she looked very much like Renard, and the chances of another such brig being anchored here were so slim as to drive all doubt from his mind.

  A short time later and the Swallow heaved to, awaiting the arrival of Fury’s boat.

  ‘Can I take it that is your ship Mr Fury?’ Smith asked when within earshot.

  ‘I believe it is sir,’ Fury replied.

  ‘Very well then, I think it’s about time you joined her. I am much obliged sir, for your able assistance. I shall make a full report of it to the admiral.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  ‘You may keep those men with you and return them to their ships when you rendezvous with the fleet.’

  Fury touched his hat and shouted the order which sent the men rowing again, hopefully for the last time.

  The sudden realisation that he was not at all sure of what the rendezvous was, sent his hand anxiously reaching inside his pocket to confirm his orders were still there. He could feel that they were still damp from his previous immersion in the waters of the inner basin, but they should still be legible. Satisfied, he allowed himself to relax as they approached Renard and hooked on.

  He looked up to see the sur
prised face of Midshipman Francis peering down at them.

  ‘You made it sir!’ Francis exclaimed, his face lighting up as Fury made his way on to the low deck of the brig.

  A feeling of relief swept through Fury as he gained the deck, almost like a homecoming after a long absence. He had survived, along with his men, and they were back among familiar surroundings at last. He could feel tears welling up inside him, perhaps as a result of the release of all the pent-up tension from the continued mortal peril he had been in recently. He fought them back, cursing his own stupid weaknesses, and turned his concentration elsewhere to get himself under control.

  The deck was a mess as Fury looked around him, with belongings scattered everywhere and small huddles of frightened people.

  ‘Refugees sir,’ Francis explained. ‘We’ve taken as many as we can.’

  Fury stood in silence for a while as he studied the pitiful groups, lucky though they were at having escaped at all. The memory of that mother and child lying dead sprang into his mind and he quickly turned to try and shake it away. Sophie was just being helped on to the deck, still wearing his coat, and Fury held her by the arm to steady her.

  ‘Very well Mr Francis. Have them taken below and then prepare to weigh anchor. There are some extra hands down in the boat for you. Call me when everything is ready.’

  He strode aft without waiting for Francis to acknowledge, leading Sophie and her father down to his cabin. They entered the day cabin and Fury helped Sophie into a chair.

  ‘You can stay in the cabins just forward of this one. I am sorry it will not be more comfortable.’

  ‘It is more than enough, Lieutenant,’ Sophie’s father reassured him. ‘We owe you our lives.’

  Fury waved away his thanks in sudden embarrassment.

  ‘We do not mind sleeping with the other refugees,’ Sophie interrupted, darting her father an admonishing glance. Fury looked at her, amazed at her beauty even with her wet hair a mess and after everything she had endured.

  ‘I am sure you do not, but the cabins are empty.’ She opened her mouth to protest further but Fury placed his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Please do not protest. The captain’s orders are final.’ He smiled. ‘I have no wish to place you under arrest for disobedience.’

  She smiled back at him, in spite of his poor attempt at humour.

  ‘Very well, John. Thank you.’

  ‘If you will excuse me, I must change before I return on deck to supervise the preparations for getting underway.’

  He bowed stiffly and opened the door to the sleeping cabin, relieved to see his chest still wedged in the corner. He was grateful for the chance to change into new shirt and breeches, along with his second uniform jacket, creased but dry. Sitting on the edge of his cot he paused to compose himself. The memory of that mother and child returned to him, and the sound of Sophie’s voice through the bulkhead reminded him of what he had very nearly lost.

  He put his head down and felt tears on his hand, and with the first drops the floodgates opened in an outpouring of emotions which had been locked up for months. He dried his eyes in embarrassment afterwards, and got up with a large sigh, straightening his uniform and preparing himself for the work ahead. There would be much to do.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Renard thrashed her way along eastward under the dark grey cloud dominating the sky. Fury stood on deck staring landward through the thin drizzle which had persistently fallen since they had cleared the outer road of Toulon some four hours before. Looking at the bleak landscape did nothing to lighten his mood.

  According to the chart, the rendezvous of Hierres Bay which Lord Hood had chosen for the British fleet lay some twenty miles ahead, and Fury was hopeful that once there he would be able to unload the passengers who seemed to occupy every corner of the ship from stem to stern. Those on deck tried their best to shelter from the bitterly cold north-westerly wind, which drove Renard along the coast at six knots with everything but the royals and topgallants set.

  Fury caught occasional glimpses of one face or another as he glanced around, each one looking thoroughly miserable and seasick as they huddled together with loved ones or friends. They had lost everything, and Fury had every sympathy for them. He could only admire the way they carried on, with little or no complaints. He had not even seen Sophie cry since she had come on board, and her strength only served to intensify his feelings for her. Still, they were the lucky ones. He was reasonably sure that those Royalists left behind would soon be meeting Madame Guillotine in their hundreds, if not thousands, as the Republicans seeked reprisals amongst the populace.

  He started forward as a light shove in his back sent him momentarily off balance.

  ‘Pardonez-moi Monsieur,’ muttered a small bald-headed man – green from seasickness – as he lurched along the deck looking for a suitable space along the bulwarks into which he could squeeze.

  As much sympathy as Fury had for them, their presence about his deck was proving an irritation to him, when all he wanted was to pace up and down in solitude and let his mind run free. He wished to analyse events during the last few months at Toulon, to ascertain what had gone wrong. He was well aware that it would be seen as a defeat, and he wished to satisfy himself that he had done everything he could. He did not like to lose, and the thought of it was causing a foul mood to descend upon him.

  ‘Mr Francis!’ he shouted.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I am going down to my cabin to get a little sleep. Please call me as soon as we come up with the fleet.’

  If he could not pace his own deck in freedom, he would go below.

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied.

  Now that the thought of sleep had crossed his mind, Fury realised how tired he was after having had no sleep since the night before last. It was a vast effort to drag himself over to the main hatchway and make his way below, passing more sullen refugees before reaching the cabin aft. Quickly pulling off his boots, he swung himself into the cot and was fast asleep in an instant.

  When he awoke, he lay for some time staring at the deck beams above, trying to work up the effort required to get up and go on deck. A quick glance at his watch told him it was a little before eleven in the morning and so he could not have been asleep for more than two hours.

  ‘Deck there! Sails in sight on the larboard bow!’

  The faint shout coming down from the masthead lookout stripped Fury’s drowsiness away in a flash. By the time the expected knock on his cabin door came to report the sighting, he had struggled into his boots and was ready.

  He nodded to Midshipman Francis as he gained the deck, turning his face skyward.

  ‘How many?’ he shouted.

  There was a slight pause before the reply came while the lookout made a quick count.

  ‘’Bout twenty or more sir. Looks like the fleet!’

  Fury had guessed that as soon as the initial sighting had been made. With the Spanish under Admiral de Langara back at Minorca, the only large body of ships in this vicinity was the Mediterranean fleet under Lord Hood.

  With the wind on her quarter Renard was still making a good six knots through the choppy water, so that the numerous mastheads which the lookout had reported were already visible through the thin veil of drizzle. The ships themselves were hidden by the spit of land which formed the western end of the bay, but would soon reveal themselves as the entrance opened up.

  Fury realised with a start that the whole side of the brig was lined with refugees staring forward, pointing and chattering wildly amongst themselves.

  ‘Mr Francis!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘We shall soon be anchoring amongst the fleet. Get these people below and out of the way immediately.’ With a wave of his hand Fury indicated the multitude of French littering the deck. ‘I don’t care if you have to shove ’em into casks and stow ’em all in the hold.’

  ‘Aye aye sir!’ Francis replied, trying to stifle the grin which that last remark had triggered.

&
nbsp; While Francis walked off bellowing at the passengers, attempting to make himself understood, and ordering the Fortitudes to begin herding them all down below like sheep, Fury turned his attention back to the bay which was now approaching.

  It took nearly an hour before they reached it, Fury giving the orders which saw Renard shorten down to topsails alone and haul her wind to make good her entrance into the bay.

  He stood by the larboard main channel watching as they slowly glided in, the man forward with the lead calling out the depths to ensure they did not go aground. The chart that Fury had been given showed ten fathoms almost up to the shore, but it was as well to be cautious, especially under the eyes of the entire fleet.

  He could see HMS Victory, Hood’s flagship, among the lofty two- and three-deckers swinging restlessly at anchor.

  ‘Mr Francis, prepare to salute the admiral’s flag at my order. Thirteen guns if you please.’

  Fury waited patiently while Francis made the arrangements, unusually content that he had everything under control. The anchor had been unfished and brought up to the cathead ready for dropping long before, with thirty fathom of cable ranged out on deck.

  ‘Begin the salute,’ he ordered Francis, who was waiting for the word.

  Francis turned to give the order to the man standing by the first gun, but he had already heard and the gun barked out a moment later. The whole of Renard’s larboard battery fired slowly in succession, most of the guns being quickly readied for another shot so that the whole thirteen could be completed.

  A quick thought crossed Fury’s mind for the terrified French below decks, Sophie amongst them, startled by the sound of gunfire and wondering whether they were all about to die. It was too late to do anything now.

  The salute was finished and the men were securing the guns while the flagship returned the salute, with two guns less as the regulations demanded. Fury paused to let the men get back to their stations after securing the guns before giving his next sequence of orders to bring Renard to anchor. Once they were ready he began, and the meagre crew performed the task much to Fury’s satisfaction. He turned to Francis, standing by the man at the tiller.