by Alaric Bond
* * *
It was the coveted exercise hour, the time when those stationed on the orlop deck were allowed up and into the blessed daylight of the waist. Crowley may well have been better off joining the others as they strolled about the deck; in a ship as crowded as the Hoche space, fresh air, and a chance to stretch the legs were benefits not to be declined. But he was fascinated by the far off ships, and usually spent all of his time in the daylight staring through the same empty gun port.
The British had been following almost from the moment they had set sail. There was only one today: a heavy frigate that was just in sight off their starboard quarter. Whatever moves the French made, however hard they tried to shake them away, the same ship, or a small brig, and occasionally both, would be trailing them whenever he looked. Doggedly following their path, too far off to be caught, but close enough to let them know that they were under observation.
Crowley sat back on the deck, hands behind him, legs crossed at the ankles and his face enjoying the gentle rays from the afternoon sun. He could still just see the British ship, and not much was going to happen, but he would rather spend his time sitting there and watching than wandering about the place with men he was fast becoming painfully familiar with. The accompanying French frigates were maintaining poor order. Sometimes his ship, the Hoche, a seventy-four and the most powerful in their small fleet, was leading, on other days she was very much the tail ender, and no one seemed terribly bothered either way. But then this could partly be put down to the regular sail drills.
He had forgotten how little time the French spent out of harbour and had grown to accept the high standard of seamanship aboard British vessels. From the moment they had left France he was concerned; the hands, though in the main seamen, were woefully out of practice, and fumbled even the most simple of tasks. All those in his group besides Walsh were sufficiently competent to be rated able, and to find themselves in the care of such men was decidedly disconcerting. That was one of the reasons the British had caught them so soon; a simple passage like the Raz should have been negotiated in half the time; as it was, they had wavered and blundered about for so long the British would have been fools not to spot them.
But at least the captains of each ship apparently shared his dismay, and for all of the voyage to date several hours a day had been devoted to exercise. The constant training was starting to pay off, although Crowley knew that much more would be needed before any of their fleet could tack or wear like the British.
And that was just the seamanship. He had not witnessed either of the two gun drills held aboard the Hoche, but could tell from the shouts and disorder that filtered down to them that they had not gone well. He remembered watching the crew of Pandora. Admittedly she was a frigate, with only one main gun deck to serve, but still the coordination and timing was so fine that all the carriage guns moved as one, and her practice broadsides sounded off at least twice as fast as anything the French could manage.
No, the British bettered them on both counts, and Hoche and her companions were now firmly fixed in their sights. There were only a couple of them; but should more join, and they chose to force action, Crowley knew the French would not fare well.
* * *
Scylla sliced through the swell, her sails set stiff in the steady breeze. The wind, though not particularly strong, had been holding in their favour throughout and the faint chill that it brought made the late afternoon sun especially welcome. Since leaving Dublin two days before they had made a reasonable passage and spirits in the ship were high. On the foremast several of the hands were skylarking while Barrow and Rose had taken young Parfrey up the mizzen, traditionally the first mast for any man or boy to climb. Chilton looked up from his station on the quarterdeck; the trio were resting securely enough at the cross trees, and Barrow was pointing at the nearby mainmast, clearly instructing the kid. Parfrey was still slightly swollen from the mumps, but they had been so keen to go that, as officer of the watch, the lieutenant could hardly have refused.
He took two turns along the deck only to stop once more next to the binnacle. The run north against the wind to Dublin had been as frustrating as it was long, but since then they had been ordered back south and enjoyed sweet sailing. Now the energy was certainly returning to the ship; at any moment they expected to raise the Irish coast once more, and might even be anchoring in Cork that very evening. But somehow Chilton doubted they would be doing anything quite so placid. Nothing specific had been said, although the captain had impressed upon them all the importance of a good lookout. That could only mean that the French were probably at sea and likely to be in their vicinity; Chilton could not imagine Scylla staying meekly in harbour while that remained the case.
There had also been talk of a flying squadron joining them. For such a venture to be worthwhile it would have to be of sufficient force to deal with a major enemy. Then, with luck, they would meet, and there would be a fleet action.
A fleet action, and one that his ship would be involved in: for all his time in the Navy, Chilton had yet to experience combat on that scale and he felt his pulse race at the thought. The bell rang out three times; in half an hour the first dogwatch would come to an end and he could claim a few hours rest. Ahead two men began to climb the weather shrouds, one at the fore and the other the main. Banks had ordered the lookouts doubled, with each man being relieved hourly, a bell apart. That meant that at any time there would be one who had been on duty for less than half an hour, and another to confirm or question anything he might see. It was about as much as they could do, and even then a ship, be it friend or enemy, could easily slip by beneath a cloud on the horizon.
“Sail ho, sail off the larboard bow!” Just as he was thinking, Chilton heard the cry. He made no move for a moment. For a sighting to be made this close to Cork was no surprise; the likelihood was strong that it was nothing more than a small coaster, or maybe even another warship. There were known to be several in the area, all scouting for the French. Scylla could have run into any one of them, or even another from England, despatched to join the hunt. “She’s a brig, or a snow,” the lookout continued, “beating up against the wind with all sail set.”
The lieutenant glanced at the midshipman standing attentively nearby. “My compliments to the captain: tell him of the sighting.”
The lad was off before Chilton had even finished, and he was considering another turn up and down the deck when Banks appeared.
“Where away?” he asked, as he buttoned up his shirt. His hair was awry and it was clear he had been sound asleep.
“Off the larboard bow, sir,” Chilton said, pointing at the empty horizon.
“What do you see there?” Banks bellowed up to the masthead.
“Brig, sir,” The answer came back almost immediately, and Chilton wondered how long the lookouts had been watching to be certain before announcing the sighting. “Close hauled on the starboard tack. And I’d say she were Navy, though it’s still too far off to be sure. We’re closing on her fast, though.”
“Steer two points to larboard,” the captain snapped, and Chilton called out the orders. Scylla took up speed as the wind moved further on to her quarter. Banks turned to the midshipman. “Masthead for you, lad. Take the glass and let me know what you see.” The boy slung the leather bound brass telescope about his shoulder and made for the shrouds.
“Deck there, she’s tacking.” The officers on the quarterdeck waited while the lookout concentrated. Clearly the strange sighting had now seen and identified Scylla, and the fact that the she was turning towards them almost confirmed her nationality beyond doubt. “Yes, now on the larboard tack, and Miller here thinks ‘e knows her.”
“She’s the Sylph, we was with ‘er last commission,” the second lookout called down.
“Commander Chambers White, sir,” Chilton said. “Something of a rising star, in these parts.” Banks looked at him and the lieutenant continued. “Captured several privateers in the last few years, and destroyed a French fr
igate when she had been run ashore.”
“Indeed?” The captain said, staring forward where the sighting should appear at any moment. “Well, let us hope that he is bringing us good news.”
* * *
“What fever, sir?”
The two vessels were less than half a cable apart. Banks had kept the brig to windward and ordered the fever flag hoisted once more.
“The mumps,” Chilton bellowed in reply. The brig’s crew gave a chorus of ribald laughter, which was answered by a couple of indignant shouts from the Scylla‘s lower deck.
“Then I’ll thank you to stay to leeward of me, sir!” Clearly Sylph‘s captain found the situation just as amusing. For a moment Banks was annoyed, and decided that White was probably a young commander and clearly not insisting on correct discipline aboard his vessel. Then he remembered that it was hardly three years ago that he himself had been in a similar position, and collected the speaking trumpet in a slightly more tolerant frame of mind.
“Do you have news, for me, Captain?” Banks bellowed.
“Aye, sir, the French are out.” The tone was more serious, as was the message. “We caught them off Brest and have been following for several days. My Lord Bridport will be aware b’now.”
Banks pursed his lips. He disliked discussing news of this importance in front of the entire crew, but time, and the damned mumps, gave little option. “How many are they?”
“Nine frigates and a liner,” White replied. “Some might be armed en-flute, but still a sizeable number.”
The two ships were starting to drift apart; someone in the brig gave an order and she closed again, although they were clearly intending to keep a fair distance off.
“Who is following them?” Banks asked.
“Captain Countess in Ethalion, along with Amelia. Anson joined a day back; that is when we were despatched.”
Banks knew George Countess: a sound man and, more importantly, ahead of him in the captain’s list. And Anson, if he was not mistaken, was a heavy frigate, a razee, cut down from a sixty-four. It was a reasonable force, but not sufficient to deal with ten Frenchmen.
“Where is the enemy now?” There was a hesitation; it was clearly not a question easily answered: with British ships shadowing, the French were probably leading a merry dance. White had been out of touch for a day or more, and whatever he said would be more of an indication, a basis for the start of speculation.
“Last seen they were approximately fifty north, eleven west, and apparently heading for Ireland.
Banks nodded, it was the obvious conclusion. “And your orders, Captain White?”
“I am to head for Cork with the news, sir. Advise any ships met on the way, and then attempt to meet up with Sir John Warren.”
“Warren?”
“He has been given a squadron, sir, liners and frigates, and should be in the vicinity.”
That sounded a little more positive. Warren was another good man, and clearly had been equipped with a force powerful enough to deal with the French.
“Very good, Captain; I shall detain you no longer,”
“What are your intentions, sir?”
“I shall make to join Captain Countess, though will obviously be on the watch for Sir John as well; you may say that should you find him first.”
“Very good, sir,”
Orders were shouted on board the brig, and the yards came round almost immediately. It was an example worth following, and Scylla was soon back on the wind and heading away. Hands aboard both ships waved and exchanged shouted messages, and it was just as the two were almost out of hailing distance that someone on Sylph’s lower deck delivered the coup de grâce:
“An if you can’t fight the frogs, at least you can pox ‘em!”
Chapter Eight
The weather stayed bright for the next few days, although the wind was not exactly in their favour and carried an edge that warned the true seamen amongst the crew of an impending storm. Once past Cape Clear Scylla had altered course and was keeping the coast of Ireland just in sight off her starboard beam to aid accurate navigation. Finding two small fleets in a wide expanse of ocean must be more a question of luck than judgement, although having some idea of the enemy’s destination was a considerable help. There were bays and inlets a plenty on Ireland’s western coast. Many would make an excellent landing point, and it made sense to keep such places under observation whilst they steadily headed northwards.
But so far they had found little other than fishing vessels and coastal traders. The few of any size they did encounter turned out to be neutral merchants: inspecting them wasted valuable time and proved fruitless, and Banks was just starting to wonder if Sir John Warren would actually meet the French and see action before Scylla made contact with either of them. The shout and clump of a musket from the marine sentry followed by tap at his cabin door brought him back to the present, and he called for the messenger to enter.
“There are two fishing boats in sight, sir.” It was Parfrey, the volunteer. “And Mr King says he doesn’t like the look of the weather.”
“Very good, my compliments to Mr King and would he alter course to intercept. I shall be on deck presently.” Fishermen remained a potential source of local knowledge even if he had learned very little from those he had already met. The lad touched his hat and was about to dash from the room when Banks called him back.
“Mr Parfrey, I assume you are now fully recovered?”
“Oh yes, sir; thank you, sir.” The lad’s chin and neck had certainly returned to normal, and his face actually looked quite ruddy with health.
“I am glad of it. There have been good reports from your divisional lieutenant which have also pleased me; continue with your studies and you shall have a bright future within this ship.”
Parfrey left in a blur of smiles and thanks and Banks sat back in his chair. A lot had happened during the last few days and his mind was still something of a whirl. The interview at Dublin Castle had been inconclusive, although his talk with St John was almost worth the diversion on its own. As it was, with the Viceroy many miles away, he had spent a barely half hour with a deputy minister who added little to the briefing he had received in the carriage. The man could hardly have been less interested in a member of His Majesty’s Navy, and closed the meeting promptly at one, presumably the time for his luncheon. It proved to be a meal to which Banks was not invited.
He thought about his brief visit to Ireland’s capital city once more. The very castle itself seemed to stand as a metaphor for the military attitude to the Irish situation. On the outside strong, forbidding and considered, but beneath the stone façade there were just corridors of dusty, ill kept offices that had seemingly been added on a random basis without any thought for order or purpose.
The attitude of the staff was also at odds with a country currently striving to hold the safe ground between civil war and all out rebellion. On the way in he noticed two locksmiths who, according to his guide, were employed on pretty much a permanent basis. Apparently security was universally accepted as lax, with keys to the government offices frequently being lost or stolen.
Banks remembered St John’s final words. Despite the official line that the rebellion was all but over, he expected further trouble; indeed, he appeared to sense it as a dog might game. But even one with such an agile mind and in an informed position was in the dark as to exactly where the fight may lie.
If it were at sea, against enemy shipping, then Banks had every confidence. Scylla was a fine ship, one that had already found a place in his affections, and her crew were loyal and ready for command. In straight combat with an identifiable enemy he had few doubts about how she would perform. But with the Irish situation as it was they were just as likely to be involved in a land based campaign, one where enemy might as easily pass as friend, and any action was bound to be horribly expensive in human lives. The idea did not appeal; but if the rumoured invasion force turned out to be real, and should they be given the chance to lan
d in any one of a hundred likely places, there seemed little alternative.
His thoughts were broken for a second time by the rumble of feet upon the deck above. King was manoeuvring the ship, which meant the fishermen were close by, and he could waste no more time on idle speculation. He rose from his chair; previous interviews had brought little news, and he didn’t expect this one to be any different. But the French may have been spotted; even now, as he made his way to the quarterdeck, they could be anchoring in some sheltered inlet, ready to disgorge their troops and start the whole murderous procedure off once more. He clambered up the short companionway and touched his hat as he approached the group of officers next to the binnacle. Scylla had backed her mizzen and was starting to wallow in the gentle swell. He glanced round; there were two small boats about half a cable to leeward, but what really drew his attention was the shadow off the larboard bow. The horizon was shielded by a dark fog and the very air felt heavy and torpid.
