by G. S. Beard
He turned to the helmsman, ready to try his second line of defence.
‘Bear away four points to starboard.’
Renard was currently heading immediately before the wind to the eastward on what Fury had assumed was her best point of sailing, even though it meant the enemy ship was on a converging course. By turning southward and bringing the wind on their starboard quarter they would be running directly away from their pursuer, but they would also be sailing further away from their destination. The frustration that Fury could feel was tangible.
‘Brace the yards round there!’
Fury watched in silence as the men hauled on the braces until the yards were trimmed round in response to the new course.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called. ‘I think we’ll loose the main course and the fore topsail.’
With the wind now on their quarter they could afford to set the main course and fore topsail, as they would no longer be taking the wind directly out of the other sails.
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied, shouting the orders which sent the men to their stations for making sail.
Even with a small crew, unfamiliar with each other and with the ship, the sails were set in admirable time. Renard thrust her bow into the short waves even more willingly as she heeled further over with the increased pressure aloft.
One glance showed that their pursuer had altered course to match, and was now directly astern, probably just over a mile and a half distant. Fury wished Renard had a gun mounted at her stern, so he could at least continue to fire upon her. His watch told him only an hour had passed since he had last looked, meaning there were still three hours to go before nightfall would save them.
Over the next half an hour Fury remained at the taffrail looking back at their pursuer. It soon became clear that she was still head reaching upon them, so he felt obliged to try something else.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called, turning his back on the taffrail and the enemy.
‘Sir?’
‘I want all the shot we can lay our hands upon brought up from below, wrapped in the men’s hammocks and placed on the starboard side. When that is done I want every man over on the starboard side also.’
‘Starboard side – aye aye sir,’ Francis replied, and hurried off.
With the increased canvas aloft the ship was naturally heeling more to leeward, so by shifting as much weight as possible over to the other side to lessen the heel, the rudder would get more of a grip in the water, increasing the ship’s speed. A desperate measure, perhaps, but at the moment Fury was willing to try anything.
Soon the men were busy bringing up shot from below and securing them in the rolled up hammocks, before placing them in the scuppers along the starboard bulwark. His passengers were looking on in astonishment at the proceedings, especially after the last shot had been brought up and the men all moved over to the starboard side of Renard, leaving them the only people on the larboard side.
At that moment the sound of another gun reached them, now closer, and as Fury whipped round he spotted a fountain of water directly astern of them about thirty yards away. Almost immediately another bang drifted down to them, followed by another ball, Fury seeing it fully this time as it ricocheted across two or three wave caps and plunged into the sea the same distance away as the first.
He immediately turned on his heel and strode forward to where his passengers were standing, now over on the starboard side with the rest of the crew. He bowed quickly to them.
‘Your Grace, messieurs, miladies. I deeply regret this necessity, but for your own safety it would be best if you went below for the time being.’
‘Are we in danger here?’ the eldest son asked, somewhat foolishly in Fury’s opinion.
‘They are attempting to damage our rigging. If they succeed, there is a chance of injury by falling blocks or spars. You will be perfectly safe below, I assure you.’
Fury was most relieved that de Lissey took charge at this point.
‘Come along!’ he insisted to his family, discouraging any further questions from being flung Fury’s way. ‘The lieutenant has enough problems without having to worry about us.’
He gently took hold of his wife’s arm and led her along the canting deck to the main hatchway, followed obediently by his sons. Gourrier led Sophie behind them, Sophie sparing the time to glance back and flash him a smile as they went.
Fury watched them go below with some relief and then turned his attention back to the ship astern, which was keeping up a steady fire now with her two bow chase guns. Nine-pounders, perhaps?
He suddenly remembered the admiral’s despatches which were still sitting down in his cabin, locked in the desk drawer along with the current signal book. He hurried down to the cabin, thankful that he had remembered them before it was too late. If they were captured and the enemy got their hands on those, then Fury would wish he had been killed because Their Lordships at the Admiralty would see to it that he never found employment again.
He fumbled in his pocket for the large iron key and bent down to unlock the top drawer of the desk. The lock was stiff and he braced himself to turn the key when there was a loud crash and splintering sound close at hand, followed quickly by a dull thud. Fury looked up in time to see a cannonball hit the deck and roll around as the ship pitched.
He could see the forward bulkhead, forming the partition between his cabin and the rest of the deck, had signs of splintering in one area where the spent ball must have hit it after smashing its way through Renard’s stern timbers. The noise of the rolling ball was beginning to annoy him, so he scrambled around the cabin after it, finally managing to pick it up – a nine-pound ball, as he had guessed. He walked over to the hole in the stern and pushed it through, hearing the small splash as it hit the water, before calmly turning back to the desk.
His second attempt at opening the drawer was interrupted by the cabin door being flung open, and he looked up to see Midshipman Francis standing there, a look of worry on his face.
‘It is customary to knock, Mr Francis,’ Fury said wryly.
‘My apologies sir,’ Francis stammered, ‘I heard the ball hit our stern and thought—’
‘Yes, yes, I know what you thought,’ Fury replied testily. ‘Well as you can see I’m fine, so if you will excuse me …’
‘Of course sir.’
Francis closed the door quietly as he left and Fury lifted the canvas sack containing the admiral’s despatches out of the drawer. He carefully opened the sack and checked its contents – including the lead weight placed at the bottom which would ensure the bag sunk immediately if thrown overboard – before reaching into the desk drawer and pulling out the signal books and journals, placing them carefully within the sack also. Happy that nothing had been forgotten, he securely tied the top of the bag and took it with him back up on deck.
When he arrived he threw it down by one of the larboard six-pounders and moved to the taffrail. The enemy vessel was now no more than a mile astern, and the two bow chase guns were barking out alternately as fast as they could be reloaded. At this extreme range most of the shot was falling slightly short, with some, aided by ricochets from the wave tops, crashing into Renard’s stern, each one causing Fury to flinch slightly at the impact. He estimated that five or six had so far hit their stern, with all but one failing to penetrate Renard’s timbers and every one so far luckily avoiding any damage to the rudder. All had also avoided hitting the brig’s pinnace, which was towing astern. The one which had smashed its way into the cabin while Fury had been at the desk had presumably been fired on the limit of the enemy’s uproll, or else maybe had been fired with a greater powder charge than the others.
Gradually, as the next hour wore on and the sun began to sink painfully slowly over to the west, their pursuer crept nearer so that her bow chase guns were well within range, each shot flying high but miraculously avoiding any essential rigging as they passed Renard. Looking aloft, Fury could see one or two shot holes in the main and fore topsails, ho
les which would slow them down still further.
It was at this time that Fury made the decision which he had been avoiding for as long as he could, and he called Midshipman Francis over to inform him.
‘Mr Francis, we will cast the guns over the side if you please, larboard side first.’
Francis looked only slightly surprised at the order. He touched his hat in acknowledgement, and with a quick ‘Aye aye sir’, went to inform the men.
It was tough work for the men for the next half-hour as they struggled with handspikes and crowbars to loose the cannon from their carriages and heave them over the side, quickly followed by the carriages. The increase in speed of Renard was perceptible, even without a cast of the log – unsurprising since they were now about ten tons lighter.
For the fifteen minutes following the last gun going over the side, Fury looked back from the taffrail at the enemy ship and discovered with satisfaction that their pursuer had made little ground on them during that time.
He remained there looking at the ship three quarters of a mile astern, with the sky overhead lighting up in a brilliant soft pink as the sun began to set. By Fury’s reckoning it took a whole thirty minutes from the time the bottom rim of the sun touched the line of the horizon to the time it finally disappeared – not without one final peek – below the curvature of the earth.
His watch showed that it wanted ten minutes until six o’clock, and the sky was now a darker blue with the first of the stars beginning to appear through the cloud.
‘Mr Francis! Call the masthead lookouts down and have six lookouts stationed around the deck, if you please.’
As his orders were relayed and obeyed, Fury could feel the confidence surging within him once more as the visible horizon shrank with the ever-growing darkness. In command of one’s own ship, night was usually a time when the confidence seeped from the body like water through a sieve, and all the doubts which lay hidden from the daylight seemed to grow and grip at the throat. Tonight was different, however. Tonight the darkness was a welcome saviour from the certain death or capture thrashing along behind them.
The question of what to do once it did turn completely black – whether to remain on their present course or turn north or west – began to occupy his mind. The captain of the other ship, knowing they were British, would no doubt be expecting them to turn north as soon as darkness had fallen, to resume their course for England. At least that was what Fury would be thinking if the positions were reversed. The thing to do then would be to continue on their southerly heading, but every minute on this course was taking them further from England, and he was loath for that to happen.
Suddenly an idea occurred to him. He took a couple of minutes to bring the idea into sharper focus and turn it over in his head for obvious flaws or drawbacks but, finding none, he made his decision.
‘Mr Francis!’ he called, as a tearing sound aloft told of another shot hole being made in one of their sails.
‘Yes sir?’ Francis replied, appearing out of the ever growing gloom as the sky continued to darken.
‘Go below and make sure there is not a light showing anywhere in the ship. Then have three powder casks brought up on deck, along with a length of slow match, flint, steel and a lantern. Understand?’
He doubted very much whether the young lad would understand, but Francis answered in the affirmative nevertheless. One more shot crashed into the stern, narrowly missing the rudder pintles as Francis turned to make his way below as ordered.
The outline of the other ship was growing blurred now as the final stages of darkness closed in. Francis was soon back up on deck reporting not a single lamp was lit anywhere in the ship, and with him he had the slow match, flint, steel and a lantern. Twelve seamen soon followed, carefully manhandling the powder casks on to the deck.
‘Excellent!’ Fury exclaimed, as Francis held the items in front of him. ‘I want the pinnace brought alongside and those casks secured between two thwarts in it.’
Francis snapped an order to the men keeping the casks securely held on the deck, and soon lines and tackles were being readied. It was a challenging task to lower barrels full of gunpowder down into a boat secured alongside, while Renard was bowling along under all the sail she could carry, but it was eventually done with no mishap.
The dusk was sufficiently upon them to ensure none of it was visible to their pursuer, and by the time they were down in the boat, it was completely dark. Fury looked down into the boat as Perrin and Gooseman finished the job of securing the barrels between two of the thwarts amidships, with the bungholes uppermost. One look astern showed nothing but blackness, the other vessel completely swallowed up in the gloom.
‘Up you come now!’ he called down to them. They nodded in acknowledgement and began clambering back up Renard’s side as Fury turned inboard to organise the next part of his plan. He caught sight of Clark, and a quick shout brought him over. At Fury’s request he handed over his knife. Fury knelt down and cut the slow match at what he estimated to be a length of ten inches, which should give them twenty minutes. Standing up again, he took the flint, steel and lantern off Francis, and began a careful descent down the side of Renard. He reached the boat and huddled down by the powder casks, placing his items on one of the thwarts.
Firstly he prized open the bung from the middle cask, took a length of slow match and stuck one end down into the barrel, making sure it was adequately buried within the powder. Satisfied, he took the lantern and made his way to the stern sheets of the boat, along with the flint and steel. It took only a moment to secure the lantern at the stern, and a quick fumble with flint and steel produced a spark sufficient to light it. Happy, he hurried back to the powder casks and lit the slow match, waiting only long enough to ensure it was well alight, before climbing quickly back up Renard’s side and on to the deck, where Francis was waiting.
‘Very well, Mr Francis, have the boat cast off and pay out the line over the stern.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
The line securing the pinnace to the side of Renard was loosed and the men walked with it to the taffrail, constantly paying it out as they went. Fury stood with them and watched as the distance between them and the boat increased, until finally it disappeared in the darkness, with only the light from the lantern betraying its location.
‘That’s the last of the line, sir.’
‘Very well, release it,’ Fury ordered.
The line dropped into the sea and disappeared. Another shot sounded in the distance, the fall of which was unseen as Fury turned to the men.
‘To your stations lads!’ he hissed fiercely, trying to make himself heard without his voice carrying far. ‘Mr Francis, I want every order given and obeyed in silence. See to it that the men are informed, and then stand ready to convey my orders. We shall be coming round shortly to head north.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis acknowledged, moving silently away into the gloom as he went along the brig’s deck to inform all the men stationed ready at main or foremast of the need for silence.
Fury looked at his watch by the soft light of the binnacle; a little over five minutes had passed, meaning they still had nearly fifteen minutes before the flame would reach the gunpowder.
‘Up with your helm,’ he ordered quietly to the helmsman, when he was sure all was ready. ‘Bring her to a northerly heading.’
The tiller was put over by the helmsman, and the brig’s bow began to come round further away from the wind. Fury moved forward until he could distinguish the slight uniformed frame of Francis standing near the foremast.
‘Brace the yards round there!’ he hissed.
Francis acknowledged and turned to pass the order on to the men by the foremast, a task which proved unnecessary as they had all heard it themselves. Men were now clapping on to the braces of both fore and main and hauling to bring the yards creaking slowly round in response to Renard’s turn.
Fury kept an eye on the compass card as the brig’s bow turned eastward and kept on s
winging, until at last the wind was on the larboard beam. She was heeling over more now with the wind abeam as she plunged forward through the choppy waters of the Bay of Biscay, heading north at last. The helmsman straightened the tiller to right the rudder and settle her on course.
A short while later and the yards were braced round satisfactorily, allowing Fury to take a stroll over to the binnacle and see from the faint light of the lantern there that they were now heading slightly west of north. That was good. Any amount of westing they could make now would save them time later when it came to beating out of the bay towards the entrance to the English Channel.
Two more shots echoed out of the darkness somewhere in the distance, but no sound or other evidence of the fall of shot reached them. He could still see a tiny light, already far astern of them, which showed the location of the boat.
Francis was coming over to him now as the sound of another shot – surprisingly distant – reached them.
‘Everything’s drawing well sir,’ he reported, referring to Renard’s current spread of canvas.
Fury grunted his approval. He started towards the binnacle to check his watch, but was stopped in his tracks as an explosion erupted in the distance. The dark sky astern lit up in brilliant white for a fraction of a second, before everything went black again. Fury blinked in quick succession to rid his vision of the momentary flashes of colour.
‘It looks like it worked, sir,’ Francis offered, the relief in his voice evident.
Fury’s original intention had been to distract their pursuer with the explosion, allowing Renard to slip away in the confusion. He had considered the possibility of the illumination from the blast revealing their position, but had discarded it; the light from the explosion would be so brief and so intense that the chances of one of the enemy crew looking in their direction and spotting them at the exact moment the boat went up were minimal. More likely they would be focused on the single lantern attached to the stern of the pinnace, hopefully steering a course straight for it.
