by G. S. Beard
As he regained the deck he was pleased to see that Francis had had the forethought to have a chair rigged up to a tackle at the main yardarm, for the ladies to use for their descent into the boat alongside. That procedure was completed eventually, but only after much squealing on the part of de Lissey’s wife.
‘Mr Francis, you will remain here in command until I return, unless you receive any orders to the contrary.’ Fury was feeling quite emotional as he completed the formalities, standing in front of the entry port prior to going down the little brig’s side.
‘Aye aye sir.’
Those were the last words he heard as he descended Renard’s shallow side, transferred himself to the boat, and made his way to the stern sheets – despatches still in hand – to take the tiller.
‘Shove off! Give way all!’ he called, sending the boat away from the brig’s side and surging forward over the sheltered waters of Spithead towards the jetty at Portsmouth.
It was a little over fifteen minutes before Fury put the tiller over to swing the boat round as she neared the stone quay, the men raising their oars at a curt command from Fury and laying them in the bottom of the boat.
Fury was up and on to the stone quay in an instant, the joy of being back on English soil once again lost as he turned immediately to help out the ladies with their small amount of baggage.
‘You may return to the ship now,’ he told the men in the longboat, once he and the passengers were safely ashore.
He stood there watching for a short time to make sure that the boat was in fact returning to Renard – he had a small enough opinion of the men’s ability to resist temptation in the guise of ale or women without an officer present to remind them of their duty. Satisfied, he turned to help de Lissey and his family with their belongings.
As usual, their arrival had already attracted the attention of several peddlers looking for trade, so it was no difficult task to choose the soberest looking man among them and have him take their small baggage to the George Inn, with Fury leading the way along the cobbled streets. He stopped outside the door of the George and turned to de Lissey.
‘This will be a comfortable enough inn for you until you get your affairs in order, Your Grace,’ he said. ‘For me, I regret that I will have to take my leave of you now. I have despatches from Lord Hood which need to be delivered to the Admiralty at once.’
De Lissey held out his hand and Fury shook it.
‘I must offer my sincere thanks, Lieutenant, for ensuring the safety of myself and my family. If ever I am in a position to repay the debt, I trust you will not hesitate to let me know.’
Fury bowed stiffly.
‘You are most kind, Your Grace. I have enjoyed your company greatly,’ he lied.
He turned to the duchess and kissed her outstretched hand, followed by a curt nod to each of their sons.
That job done, he led Sophie and her father through the streets to a small lodging house, which was the same one used by himself upon his arrival in Portsmouth prior to joining the Amazon. From what he could remember it was a small establishment, with very basic furnishings, but it was clean and well run, and, more importantly, it was cheap. He hammered on the door, and when it opened he recognised the wizened features of the elderly housekeeper, even after more than two years.
‘Good morning.’ He indicated Sophie and her father, standing quietly behind him. ‘This family require lodgings for a week. Do you have room?’
‘We have one room, with a bed.’ She paused and looked behind Fury at the Gourriers, as if checking them up and down. ‘I suppose I could have another bed put in there, but it will cost extra.’
‘How much, all told?’
‘Ten shillings per night, including the extra bed. And they’ll get a hearty breakfast each morning.’
‘Very well.’ Fury fumbled in his pocket and brought out his money, counting out enough for one week’s lodging, and handing it over to the eager hands of the housekeeper. He turned to Sophie’s father. ‘I have paid for seven nights accommodation for you and Sophie. I will be back from London by then, at which time we can arrange something more permanent.’
Gourrier clasped Fury’s hand and shook it vigorously, reiterating his thanks and his intention to repay Fury as soon as he had found work. Fury managed to extricate himself finally, and turned to Sophie.
‘You will return soon?’ she asked him.
‘Yes,’ he reassured her. ‘As soon as my business in London is complete.’ He took hold of her hand and they looked at one another in silence for a few seconds. Finally, he bowed and kissed her hand – her trembling hand, he noted – before straightening up and forcing a smile. Then he turned his back and walked away, trying hard to refocus on his duty.
His next stop took him to the gates of the dockyard where he was given the address of the port admiral, to whom he would need to report initially before beginning his travels to London.
The house was a large building three storeys in height, overlooking the anchorage with a whitewashed front. The footman who answered the door in response to his knock showed him into a side room only after a careful study of his uniform. Fury placed the despatches on the table and made himself comfortable in a large leather chair.
It was probably the most relaxed he had been since he was packed off to sea by his mother and uncle. So much so that when the footman returned after twenty minutes to announce that the admiral was ready to see him, it was with reluctance that Fury rose, picked up the despatches, and followed him up the sweeping staircase.
Rear Admiral Benbow was an elderly man with thinning silvery hair and a paunch around his midriff which bespoke of having been too long ashore with rich food and little exercise. Nevertheless he looked a cheerful man, sitting in front of a roaring fire with his cheeks beginning to turn red from the heat. He rose to greet Fury, beckoning him to a chair opposite his own in front of the hearth so that almost immediately Fury began to feel uncomfortably hot around his collar.
‘You are the commander of that little brig that came in yesterday, I take it,’ Benbow began.
‘Yes sir,’ Fury replied, ‘Lord Hood placed me in temporary command of her to carry his despatches to the Admiralty. She is a former prize.’
‘Despatches eh?’ Benbow mused. ‘I suppose you want to take the post-chaise?’
Any despatches which needed to be sent by a port admiral to the Admiralty in London could be delivered by a special post-chaise under the charge of the admiral.
‘If I could sir – they are quite urgent.’
Benbow reached to the small table next to his chair and rang a bell which was sitting there.
‘What is this news that is so urgent?’ Benbow asked while they waited for the footman.
Fury’s reply was interrupted by the opening of the door and the arrival of the footman in question. Fury took the opportunity to study the room more closely, the ornate gilded decorations adorning the walls and the numerous oil canvases representing naval engagements. There was a dog in the corner, sleeping soundly, saliva dripping from the side of its mouth on to the wood panelled floor as it snoozed.
He heard the door click shut and realised that the admiral had given the instructions to the footman without him hearing it. Benbow was looking at him once again.
‘Now, where were we Lieutenant? Ah yes, the latest news!’
‘Lord Hood found it necessary to evacuate Toulon on 17 December, sir.’
‘Good God!’ exclaimed Benbow.
‘A proportion of the French fleet was taken or destroyed by Captain Sir Sydney Smith on the evening of the withdrawal, and the fleet retired to Hierres Bay to the east. Admiral Hood informed the fleet before I left that he proposes to attack Corsica next. More news than that I cannot tell you sir.’
‘I see. That is bad news indeed! No doubt John Bull will have much to say about it,’ Benbow replied, having regained his composure after the news. ‘The post-chaise will be ready in twenty minutes. Is there anything you need before then?’
‘Thank you, no. Although …’
‘Yes?’
‘Renard – the brig I came in with – is anchored still in the roads. Lord Hood had agreed to buy her into the service …’
‘I’ll have her looked over by the adjudicator and we will agree a price for her. Anything more than that is out of my hands until I receive orders from the Admiralty.’
Fury thanked him once again and stood to take his leave. Benbow condescended to shake him by the hand and show him to the door, after which Fury had several minutes to wait while the coachman and postilion finished harnessing the horses of the post-chaise, now standing outside the front door in the street.
The horses were great black beasts, much bigger than he had seen before, neighing and scraping the cobbles with their hooves while the steam from their nostrils showed how cold it was.
‘Ready sir,’ said the coachman at last, with a touch of his cap.
Fury opened the door and climbed inside where the smell of worn leather accosted him. The sound of a whip soon reached his ears, followed quickly by the voice of the coachman shouting ‘Up, up there!’, encouraging the horses to break into a canter.
Fury had forgotten just how bumpy and uncomfortable it was to ride in a carriage, but he was reminded soon enough as they passed along the uneven roads through Portsmouth. Presently they were through town and out into the country on to the London road, where over 150 miles of countryside awaited them, broken only by toll roads here and there and small villages.
At least the ride was smoother now, reflected Fury, as he settled down and watched the countryside roll past through the window, determined to enjoy the journey no matter what the future might hold for him.
It was nearly twenty-four hours later before the carriage finally made its way through the outskirts of London and turned into Whitehall. They had gone through countless villages, and had changed horses at Petersfield and Cobham along the way. They had even stopped at an inn on the outskirts of Godalming, where Fury had ravenously devoured a sixpenny ordinary, before lying down in one of the rooms. Two years of being at sea had given Fury the ability to snatch a moment’s sleep at any opportunity, so that when the coachman had come in to inform him they were ready to continue, he was sound asleep. That seemed like days ago now, and Fury stifled a yawn as the carriage continued up Whitehall and came to a standstill outside a very palatial building set back from the road behind a large wall.
This was Fury’s first visit to the Admiralty, and he was struck by its imposing grandeur. The building, all in white stone, formed three sides of a square with the courtyard in the middle. A stone screen at the front overlooking the road, with a large archway in the middle, admitted entry to the courtyard beyond.
As he stepped down out of the carriage, the foul smell which had assaulted his senses upon first arriving in London now became sharper. Peddlers and hucksters of every kind were along the road trying to sell their wares, some of them no more than small boys, ugly and filthy. Fury felt a pang of sympathy for them, and realised just how lucky he was.
‘The Admiralty sir,’ the coachman confirmed.
Still tightly clutching the despatches, he waited till the street was clear and hurried across, pausing outside to let a couple decked out in fine clothes pass along the pavement, strolling along as if they had not a care in the world.
He looked up at the archway before walking through, the two pillars on each side both having some kind of winged unicorn statues on top. The courtyard itself was awash with activity, a continual procession of arrivals and departures accentuating the importance of the establishment. In many ways, the future of England rested on the decisions made within these walls. At the far end of the courtyard through the hurrying multitudes lay the main entrance, four tall stone pillars in front with a large engraved anchor at the top.
Fury felt the weight of history as he walked past the hurrying messengers and through the entrance into the hallway beyond. There was a large fire burning fiercely in the fireplace to his left, the crackling of the wood and embers audible even over the bustle of officers within the hall. The flames helped to supplement the weak light from the glass lantern hanging from the ceiling, the overall effect being to cast moving shadows along the oak-panelled walls on either side.
Two high leather-backed black chairs either side of the fireplace were occupied by officers, both engrossed in reading newspapers, while at the small side table beyond stood what Fury supposed to be a messenger, also studying a copy of the latest newspaper, the Morning Chronicle.
The porters, whose job it was to greet new visitors and enquire of them their business, spied his uniform – a lowly lieutenant – and made no move in his direction. Years of employment at the Admiralty Office had obviously instilled in them a disdain of junior officers – lieutenants in particular – over whom they had found with gratification they could wield some little power.
Fury strode purposefully toward the nearest porter for the unpleasant task of trying to gain an interview with the First Lord.
‘Excuse me, but I have urgent despatches for the First Lord, from Lord Hood.’
He addressed the request to a small ferret of a man with steel-rimmed spectacles, balanced so far down his nose Fury was amazed they didn’t fall off.
‘Very well. I shall see that he gets them at once,’ he replied, looking up at Fury over the top of his spectacles, his hand outstretched.
‘I must deliver these despatches personally. Now if you would be so kind as to enquire if the First Lord can spare me a few moments of his time, I would be greatly obliged.’
‘The First Lord is a very busy man and has no time for people without appointments, especially lieutenants,’ the man replied, still with his hand outstretched. ‘I shall pass them to him, have no fear.’
‘These despatches were entrusted to me by Lord Hood. I was ordered to ensure they reach the First Lord personally, which is precisely what I intend to do. Now if you cannot help me, kindly find me someone who can!’
The beginning of Fury’s sentence was pitched a little above normal volume, and by the time he reached the end he was only a little short of shouting in his best quarterdeck voice.
‘Is there a problem, Jeffrey?’
The voice – coming from behind Fury – made him turn. He came face to face with another gentleman wearing spectacles, his thinning brown hair showing flecks of grey which betrayed his otherwise youthful appearance. The change in the porter – Jeffrey – was startling.
‘No problem Mr Barrow, sir. This gentleman was asking to see the First Lord, and I was explaining that he could not do so without an appointment.’
The obvious deference with which Jeffrey uttered the sentence made Fury look even harder at the newcomer, who was presumably a man of some importance.
‘That is ordinarily correct, Lieutenant,’ Barrow confirmed, looking at Fury. ‘May I ask what your business with the First Lord is?’
The politeness of the question was in stark contrast to Jeffrey’s manner.
‘I have lately returned from the Mediterranean fleet, with despatches from Lord Hood. I was specifically ordered by His Lordship to deliver these personally to the First Lord.’
Fury tapped the bag holding the despatches lightly with his hand, as if to add further weight to his argument.
‘I see,’ replied Barrow. ‘In that case I am sure an interview can be arranged.’
He shot a glance at Jeffrey which displayed his displeasure more than any words could have, before turning to Fury once again.
‘May I ask your name, Lieutenant?’
‘Lieutenant Fury, sir,’ Fury replied, bowing stiffly just low enough for politeness.
‘If you would be so kind as to wait in there, Lieutenant, I will inform His Lordship of your presence.’
Barrow pointed to a room on the left of the hallway through which Fury could already see a multitude of officers within, the steady buzz of conversation floating across the hall over the crackli
ng of the large roaring fire. Fury bowed once again, a movement which was copied by Barrow, before he strode down the hallway towards the entrance, past the fire and into the waiting room.
It was obvious as soon as he entered that he would have to stand. One quick glance told him there were at least two post captains in the room having to stand themselves, such was the crowd. They were deep in conversation with each other, no doubt to avoid the necessity of having to converse with any of the more junior officers crowded within.
Fury’s entrance attracted not the least flicker of interest from anyone, so he contented himself with finding a corner of unoccupied floor space, and waited patiently. His ears picked up fragments of several different conversations while he waited.
It must have been twenty minutes or so before a loud voice echoed over the din.
‘Lieutenant Fury!’
His summons, so soon after his arrival into the waiting room, prompted one or two inquisitive glances as he crossed to the door, the officers no doubt wondering who he was to get seen before they did.
Fury followed silently as the porter led him along the hall to the staircase at the far end, sweeping up and to the right. The carpet felt thick underfoot as they ascended the stairs, pausing momentarily halfway up to let an officer pass – a messenger judging by the package he was carrying and the speed with which he flew down past them.
Another corridor stretched away at the top of the stairs which they continued down, the silence here in stark contrast to the noise and bustle below. The porter stopped outside a closed door on the left, so suddenly that Fury almost ran into the back of him. He knocked quietly and opened the door, beckoning Fury after him.
Fury followed him halfway into the room before laying eyes for the first time on a gentleman he assumed must be the First Lord, the Earl of Chatham, sitting behind his desk amidst a mass of paperwork. The porter announced Fury before quietly slipping out, leaving the two of them alone together.
