by G. S. Beard
The only problem, however, was the wind. If it remained steady as it was, they might spend days beating back to make the entrance to the English Channel, which would delay the delivery of Hood’s despatches to Their Lordships at the Admiralty.
He glanced around, aware that the men on deck were looking at him, waiting for his decision. He noticed Sophie and her father clasping tightly on to the bulwarks, looking at him expectantly. Sophie flashed him a nervous smile and he returned it, making an effort to drag his mind from her and back to the decision at hand.
In the end, his own inherent impatience brought the answer to him. He would risk remaining on this course, unwilling to endure days of delay beating back up to the entrance to the Channel. Besides, the thought of turning tail and running at the first possible sign of danger appalled him.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called. ‘Take a glass up to the man at the masthead – quickly now!’
Francis ran to the binnacle in front of the tiller, grabbed one of the telescopes held there and dashed up the shrouds to the man at the fore masthead. Fury waited for him to hand the telescope over to the lookout, and gave the man a chance to study the strange sail, before he asked his next question.
‘What d’you make of her?’
‘She looked ship-rigged when I first saw her sir. She’s under full sail now – her hull looks low and she looks to be pretty fast sir!’
‘Keep me informed!’ Fury shouted back as he paced the deck, feeling much more relaxed now that he had made the decision to remain on their current course.
He was interrupted a moment later by de Lissey next to him, awaiting his attention.
‘Is everything well Your Grace?’ Fury asked, with as much politeness as he could muster after having his reverie interrupted.
‘Is she an enemy?’ de Lissey asked, ignoring the question. Typical of a Frenchman to ask a silly question such as that, Fury thought, as he mentally phrased his reply.
‘We cannot tell at this distance sir, but we will know soon enough. There is every chance she is a British ship of war cruising this area.’
That was perhaps an exaggeration, but there was no point in alarming the man at this stage. Besides, there was every chance de Lissey might insist they bear away now if he voiced his concerns over her identity.
‘As I told my wife and sons!’ de Lissey said. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to tell them sir, to put their minds at ease. They would believe it better coming from you.’
‘Certainly Your Grace,’ Fury replied, following him over to his family, where he made his bow.
‘Madame, messieurs,’ he began, trying his best to put on a reassuring smile but feeling awkward and fake as he did so. He was not helped by the arrival of Sophie and her father, no doubt also eager to hear the news. ‘As I was just saying to His Grace, many British cruisers patrol this area, and there is every chance that this is merely one of them.’
‘And if it is not?’
That was Sophie asking the question, Fury feeling momentarily lost as he stared into her deep brown eyes.
‘Then, Mademoiselle, we shall bear away at once. Renard is a fine sailer and I am confident we would have the legs of her.’
He dared not lie blatantly to this young woman, as he feared she would see right through him with those penetrating dark eyes of hers. She held her stare for a brief moment so that he thought she had not believed him, before the pursed lips broke into a warm smile.
‘Thank you Lieutenant, it is a great comfort to us.’
Fury smiled back, holding his own stare for a few seconds before he shook himself out of his trance, straightening up stiffly.
‘If you will excuse me, I have my duty to attend to. Your Grace. Madame. Mademoiselle. Messieurs.’
With a curt bow he walked back up the canting deck to the tiller.
‘Deck there!’
Fury was not sure how many minutes it had been since he had resumed his pacing and he stopped abruptly at the call.
‘Deck here!’ he called back quickly. ‘What is it?’
‘She’s about four miles off now sir – definitely a ship-rigged sloop sir – I think I can make out ten ports along her side sir, but I can’t be certain from this distance!’
‘How is she heading?’
‘Still south-east sir, on an intercepting course!’
Fury turned round to spy out Mr Francis, who was standing nearby waiting for the orders which he knew would come.
‘Mr Francis!’
‘Sir?’
‘Have the recognition signal bent on and ready to hoist.’
‘Aye aye sir!’ Francis replied, hurrying off to prepare the current flag which, if answered correctly by the strange sail, would confirm she was British.
A moment later Francis was back to report the task completed.
‘Very good,’ Fury replied. ‘Have the hammocks brought up and stowed in the nettings, then make sure we have plenty of shot in the garlands in case we have to use the guns. Once that is completed have all the small arms on board brought up and placed ready about the decks please.’
Francis acknowledged and scurried off once more, leaving Fury to question the effectiveness of the small six-pounders which constituted the main armament of the Renard. Certainly against a larger opponent, such as the ten guns per side of the strange sail, with twelve-pounders or eighteen-pounder carronades most likely, Renard would stand little chance if they got close enough.
He thrust his hands into his coat pockets and his fingers closed around his telescope. Moving quickly over to the larboard bulwark, he placed the glass to his eye and scanned the horizon, finding the ship almost at once about four points off the bow now. She was under full sail and was making good speed judging by the sheet of spray which was thrown up every time she thrust her bow eagerly into the next wave.
He turned round to find Francis supervising the men bringing up the folded hammocks from the deck below, passing them through the standard hoop which would determine whether they were the correct size or not, before placing them in the nettings on top of the bulwarks and covering them to prevent the spray getting to them.
A moment later another small group of men appeared from the main hatchway, struggling with the large chest which contained the pistols and cutlasses.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called over to him. ‘Hoist our colours and the private recognition signal at once, if you please.’
After a few minutes their pennant streamed out in the breeze from the masthead, followed a moment later by the private signal. Fury whipped the glass to his eye once again to study the ship, now only three miles distant.
Agonising seconds passed during which he could detect no change in her appearance, and then at last he saw a flag spring out at her masthead – the British flag.
‘Deck there!’ the lookout reported. ‘She’s hoisted British colours sir!’
Fury looked up at the signal flags to make sure they could be seen clearly. The westerly wind was blowing them out to starboard but they should still be visible from the deck of the other ship.
He waited a little longer with his glass to his eye, but no answering signal was made, and he finally made the decision he had been hoping to avoid since noon.
‘Put your helm up – bring her before the wind!’ he snapped at the helmsman.
The tiller was put over and Renard’s bow began to swing to starboard, turning first her quarter and then her stern to the wind, and flying before it.
‘Brail up the main course! Furl the fore topsail!’
The orders were greeted by a stamping of feet as men tailed on to clew lines, sheets and braces. The fore and aft main course was brailed up quickly as the men hauled on the halliards, so that the sail was gone by the time the men swarming aloft were out along the fore topsail yard. More hauling by the men on deck brought the clews of the fore topsail up to the yard, enabling the topmen to gather great bundles of the canvas and secure it against the yard with the gaskets.
Renard was no
w under topgallants, main topsail and fore course, so that as far as possible all sails were drawing well with no sail taking the wind out of another one to deaden their speed.
The de Lisseys and the Gourriers were looking at him with worry on their faces, and he felt suddenly ashamed of not explaining the full facts to them before. There was nothing he could do now, he thought philosophically, except ensure they escaped. In order to achieve that, he thrust them out of his mind and concentrated his efforts on the task in hand.
He strode to the taffrail to join Francis who was staring back at the strange sail, easily visible to the naked eye now and thrashing along on their larboard quarter.
‘How far Mr Francis?’ he asked.
‘About three miles I’d say sir,’ Francis guessed.
‘More like two miles if I’m any judge,’ Fury replied. ‘Get your sextant up from below and calculate how far off she actually is by the angle to her mainmast. Then take another measurement after fifteen minutes to see if she is gaining on us or not.’
Francis looked crestfallen as he acknowledged the order and hurried below to find his sextant. Fury raised a smile as he watched him go – he could well understand his reluctance to sit down and perform mathematical calculations, when not two miles astern was an enemy vessel intent on capturing or destroying them.
Francis was soon back on deck next to him, struggling with his sextant on the sloping deck. He evidently managed to get an accurate measurement at last because he scuttled off below once more, presumably to perform his calculations.
A quick look at his watch and Fury saw it was nearly two o’clock. The sun would have set in four hours, which would allow them to slip past their adversary unseen in the dark and continue their journey to the north. Hopefully by that time they would not have ventured too far into the Bay of Biscay, and so would not have too far to beat back out again.
He began to pace back and forth once more, deep in thought, so that he did not notice Francis coming back up on deck fifteen minutes later to take a fresh measurement, before diving back down below yet again to perform the calculations. It was Francis himself who interrupted him some time later.
‘Excuse me sir.’
Fury looked up.
‘Ah! Mr Francis. You have your results?’
‘I do sir,’ Francis replied, the look on his face telling Fury it was not good news. ‘During the fifteen-minute period I took my measurements sir, she gained nearly a cable on us. According to my last sight she was just under two miles away.’
‘Thank you Mr Francis,’ Fury replied, trying to keep his voice steady and without emotion. Even with Renard sailing before the wind their pursuer was still gaining on them. It did not look good.
He had one quick glance over the taffrail as he turned away from Francis, and it was clear that she had gained on them. It was a long time since he had performed calculations, but he set his mind working feverishly now. If she was two miles away, gaining by a cable’s length every fifteen minutes, then it would take – how long? – before she was up to them. Roughly four hours was the figure he came to. In four hours the sun would be starting to set, so that it would be a very close run thing indeed. And if she managed to shoot something away before then … It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Mr Francis!’
‘Sir?’
‘Have the men go aloft with buckets of water and wet the sails.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ the boy replied, digesting the unusual order for a moment before turning away to organise the men.
Ten minutes later and in the absence of any suitable pumps on board, buckets were being passed up by a chain of men stationed on rigging, before going to the topmen out on the yards to pour down over the fore course and main topsail.
Captain Young had tried the same trick on the Fortitude when chasing Renard, knowing that wet sails would catch the wind better than dry sails. Fury was sceptical about whether it would make any material difference to her speed, but it was bound to have a greater effect on Renard than it did on the 2,000-ton Fortitude. Besides, it kept the men busy and, judging by the grins and enthusiasm with which they went about the task, they were obviously enjoying the competition with the strange sail up to windward.
‘Deck there!’
That was the masthead lookout once again.
‘Deck here!’ Fury shouted back.
‘The strange sail has hoisted French colours sir!’
He stared across at her with his telescope to see that the tricolour was indeed now flying at her masthead in place of the British flag which had preceded it.
Fury remained there, staring back at the other ship thrashing along after them and losing track of time as she grew perceptibly nearer. He was about to turn away when he saw a puff of smoke appear from her bow, the wind whipping it away an instant later. A dull clap reached them after a second or two, carried across the water by the breeze. Where the shot fell he had no idea – he quickly scanned the sea but he could not find any plume of water.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called, ‘Have the aft-most larboard six-pounder cleared away and try a couple of ranging shots.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied eagerly, shouting to a group of ex-Fortitudes to man the gun.
The chances of reaching them from that distance were remote – Fury was well aware of that – but it would give the men something to occupy their time. He walked past the group of men casting off the breeching tackles of the aft-most gun and made his way to where the de Lisseys and Gourriers were still looking on at events with mounting worry. He was determined to put on a display of coolness and unconcern, so as to put the ladies at ease.
‘Please forgive me for this small diversion,’ he said, bowing low. ‘It will delay our arrival in Portsmouth by no more than two days.’
‘If we reach Portsmouth, Lieutenant!’ de Lissey’s wife said.
‘Madame, there is absolutely no doubt about that, I assure you.’
‘But are they not gaining on us? Are they not firing at us?’
This was Sophie’s father addressing him, with an edge of panic in his voice.
‘They are certainly gaining on us sir, you are correct. But they will not catch us before nightfall. As for the shot, it was merely a ranging shot, to check the distance. As you can see, I have my men doing the same thing at this very moment.’
He pointed aft to where the gun was now loaded and run out, the men standing back out of its recoil path with one man holding the lanyard. Midshipman Francis was on his way over to them at that very minute.
‘Well, I trust the lieutenant completely, as should you Papa!’
Fury turned back to them just in time to see a look of disapproval on the face of Sophie, clearly aimed at her father. A second later and she turned to Fury, her mouth breaking into another warm smile which very nearly disrupted his composure as he attempted to smile back. He regained it just in time for Francis to demand his attention.
‘Gun loaded and run out sir.’
‘Very good, I will be across presently.’ He turned back to both families for one last charade. ‘It would please me greatly if I could have the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight.’
He looked at them all, the surprise showing on their faces at the dinner invitation amidst their current plight. Still, not to be outdone, de Lissey recovered himself sufficiently.
‘We shall be honoured, Lieutenant.’
Sophie’s father followed suit. ‘As shall we, sir.’
‘Excellent! Shall we arrange a time later when we are not quite so busy?’
‘As you wish, Lieutenant.’
‘For now, I regret that my duty tears me away once more, so if you will forgive me.’
Fury made his bow, his gaze lingering upon Sophie a little longer than was customary, before he made his way over to the gun where the men were waiting.
‘Who aimed it?’ he demanded brusquely.
‘I did sir,’ Francis replied nervously.
Fury looked along the bar
rel of the gun, in the line of which he could see the bow of the strange ship rising and falling with each wave in the distance. Noting the elevation was at maximum, he stepped away with a grudging ‘Very well’ and gave the order to fire when ready. The man chosen to fire it waited for the uproll before jerking the lanyard, the gun barking out and leaping back against its breeching rope.
Fury and several of the men immediately peered over the hammock nettings to search for the fall of the shot. No one among the group of men crowding along the bulwark spotted it, Fury guiltily realising that he should have ordered someone to keep a lookout with a glass.
‘Reload and try again lads,’ he ordered, pulling his telescope out of his pocket and putting it to his eye to adjust it to the correct focus.
It took the men only seconds to reload the little six-pounder and haul on the tackles to run it out of the gun port once again, during which time Fury noted another distant clap which told of another shot from the bow chaser of their pursuer. Again, there was no evidence of where the shot fell.
‘Ready sir!’ Francis announced.
Fury whipped his glass to his eye once more and brought up the strange sail through the lens.
‘Fire when ready,’ he ordered.
There was another small pause before the gun barked out while the man holding the lanyard waited for the uproll. A moment later Fury saw a tiny spout of water rise up, about a cable’s length short and somewhat to the right of the ship. He turned to the gun crew.
‘Secure the gun. She’s too far off and out of our current arc of fire.’
The men looked slightly disconsolate as they secured the tackles housing the gun, but Fury had no choice. It was pointless wasting shot when the vessel was clearly out of reach, even if it did keep up the men’s morale. With the guns unable to bear, and with their pursuer gaining on them, he knew he would have to change course, even if it would mean delaying their arrival in England still further.
