The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  The French for certain. Banks looked about and caught King’s eye, as Caulfield appeared at the quarterdeck steps. “Gentlemen, we will keep them in sight for this watch. Take in the royals and allow them to gain on us; I intend to turn and take up their course when they are within six miles.” The assembled lieutenants absorbed his words with serious expressions. Their need to find Warren’s ships had grown considerably, although now they were effectively tied to the French. If necessary Banks would have to shadow their progress all the way to Ireland, unless of course he chose to abandon them in favour of raising the alarm on shore.

  “Send the hands to dinner as usual, but we shall clear for action immediately afterwards.” That made sense: if everyone kept their heads little could happen in the next few hours, and it would mean the men would have a hot meal inside them, albeit one that might have to last them a considerable time. Banks moved away and was about to take a pace or two about the deck when he saw Sarah waiting patiently beside the taffrail. He knew that his movements were being watched by most on the quarterdeck, and wandered across almost self consciously, in a gait that was something between a saunter and a casual stroll, finally arriving by her side as if by pure chance.

  “We may be in action shortly,” he said, his words clipped and muted to prevent anyone overhearing what the vast majority already knew. “I would see you and your family safe, before that occurs.”

  “Thank you, Richard. I will ensure that my parents do not get in the way.”

  “And you will remain safe yourself,” he said, his tone unusually soft.

  “I shall, and you also,” she went to raise her hand to him, but stopped just in time, and brushed down her dress instead. He smiled, noticing the movement, before hurriedly wiping his face clear of any expression as he realised his mistake. Then they both very nearly dissolved into giggles and she had to turn back and consider the ship’s wake to hide her expression. This really was extremely difficult; he was behaving like a love struck youth and she was little better. But somehow, with Sarah, such foolishness seemed not to matter at all. They had spent so long in quiet conversations that he felt he could tell her anything, and she had already said much that showed her trust in him.

  “Make for the orlop deck once you hear us beat to quarters,” he said when they could speak again. “Mrs Clarkson will find you a place that is comfortable enough. Until then you had better go below – to the gunroom, he added hastily.” It would be unthinkable for a female passenger to be alone in the great cabin. There had been enough risk with her taking coffee with him, and what the rest of the officers would be making of their present conversation was only too predictable.

  But Banks cared little for that as well. In fact, he had never felt quite so untroubled in his life, even with a hostile fleet bearing down.

  “Of course,” she said, “I shall be perfectly safe; worry not.” She added a private look. “You truly think the ship will be in action?”

  “I would say it were almost certain.”

  “Then I will leave now, and maybe we can speak again later?”

  “I hope so.”

  She stopped and looked back at him, her expression now serious. “Oh, there will be time, my love, I know it. But you must be careful; it is indeed wonderful that we have met, and I would hate to lose you quite so quickly.”

  * * *

  Crowley heard the call and his spirits dropped. A frigate; a bloody British frigate, and just when they were almost in sight of Ireland. But it was only a small ship, one that they might simply brush aside; indeed, it would be strange if it even offered combat at all. However he was experienced enough to know that where there was one there were likely to be many. The whole of the western approaches was probably cluttered with warships out hunting for them, and now that the Royal Navy had their scent, it must only be a matter of time before they were caught.

  But even then the situation seemed easily solved. Were Crowley in charge he would split the fleet and send two of their fastest sailors to see the swine off. They still had the windward gauge; even French seamen could benefit from that. The British ship might not be destroyed, but at least it should be distracted long enough to enable the rest to slip by. Then a suitable landing spot could be found, and the process of disembarking the troops begun. Admittedly it would be a lengthy and hazardous business, and one that the British might well interrupt, but really all Crowley wished for was a chance to get away, and he could not have cared less about anything else.

  He wanted out, wanted to be gone. And as for the hateful little ship that was in his way, the one that quite probably stood between him and freedom, well he didn’t think he could curse it soundly enough.

  Chapter Twelve

  The wind was still in the north west and blowing stronger by the minute. Another storm was due and all aboard Scylla were well aware of her perilous position. The enemy lay to windward and less than six miles off; it would take little more than an important piece of tophamper to carry away and the British frigate would be swamped by a vastly superior force. They were heading northeast, on a course that should take them past the northern coast of Ireland, and at any moment the loom of land was expected.

  “What do you see there?” Caulfield called up. It was a redundant question. All were painfully aware of the enemy’s proximity, and if there were even the hint of land, or another sail, the lookouts would have certainly reported it.

  “Enemy fleet is maintaining position,” Miller, the hand at the masthead, dolefully reported. “No other sighting.”

  Caulfield looked about, conscious of the public display of his anxiety. There were few who blamed him, however, and hardly any who did not wish to ask the same question sixty seconds later.

  A gunroom steward came up on deck and began to pass out steaming mugs. King, who was officially officer of the watch, collected two and handed one to the first lieutenant. Caulfield shook his head, but King pressed the mug on him.

  “Take it,” he said. “You might not get the chance later, and it will warm you.”

  Caulfield sipped at the drink. It was coffee, strong, sweet, and very welcome. He had drained half the cup before realising quite how hot the liquid was, and had to suppress a shudder as it found its way into his stomach.

  “Wind’s rising,” he said. Both men had been watching the sails. The canvas on the upper masts was stretched tight and would have to be taken in shortly. They had allowed their lead to dwindle in order to identify the French ships, and now were desperately trying to claw back some sea room. The ship’s bell rang. The afternoon watch had two hours to run; they would certainly reach the coast within daylight; then the fancy manoeuvres would begin.

  No one in Scylla had the vaguest idea where the French were intending to land; they would have to continue to shadow the enemy fleet, anticipate their movements, whilst being careful not to become trapped between them, the wind, and the shore. It would be a difficult trick to pull off; any mistake on their part might easily cause the loss of the ship, or the French to escape. And there was also the problem of signalling the enemy’s position. Warren’s fleet could not be so very far away; it was the duty of frigates to bring opposing forces to battle, and yet to do so would mean abandoning the French to go in search of support.

  King sipped at his coffee. The captain had made his decision and ordered them to keep in contact with the enemy at all costs. To do otherwise, and fail to raise Warren, would be a disaster. But then there was little a single fifth rate could do to stop ten ships, and Sir John might find the French easier to destroy were he to encounter them at anchor and disembarking their troops. Not for the first time King was glad that the responsibility lay with someone other than him.

  Banks had gone below after they had cleared for action. His quarters, the great cabin, had ceased to exist, and was now merely an extension to Scylla‘s gun deck, but King supposed the captain had found a place to rest. Possibly the gunroom, and probably he had company in the form of Miss Monroe. Well, so be it; if
conversing with a pretty girl gave him the relaxation he needed to see them safely through the next few hours it was hardly his concern. And he was absolutely positive that Sir Richard would be a perfect gentleman; there would be little privacy for anything else.

  “I suggest we take in the royals,” Caulfield said finally. “Mr Barrow, send word to the captain that I am shortening sail. We have increased our lead by two miles or more, but the wind is still rising.”

  Barrow touched his hat and disappeared below in search of Banks, while Caulfield nodded to Johnston, who ordered the topmen aloft. In many ships the first lieutenant would have waited for permission from the captain, especially considering their current position. But Banks had sailed with most of his senior officers a good while, and there was a strong element of trust that was appreciated by all parties.

  “Sail ho, sail on the larboard bow!” It was the cry that all had been waiting for, and it took several seconds for the news to sink in. Caulfield looked at King, then collected the speaking trumpet.

  “What do you see there?”

  The pause was to be expected. Royals were still being taken in, and the lookout must have called the sighting at the very first opportunity.

  “Topsails, sir; nothing more.” Caulfield opened his mouth to call for a messenger, but Barrow was already searching for the captain; he glanced about for another when Banks himself appeared. He was wearing oilskins, a sensible precaution in the circumstances, and one which told the officers that he had intended to come on deck before the sighting.

  “Sailing with the wind on her quarter,” the lookout continued. “She’ll sight the French at any moment, if she hasn’t already.”

  “Mr King,” Banks said. “You will oblige me be taking a closer look.”

  “Yes, sir.” King touched his hat then thoughtfully stuffed it into the binnacle locker as he retrieved a glass. Barrow was back on deck, but this was a job for a more experienced eye, and King had no qualms at being sent to the masthead.

  He clambered up the main shrouds, conscious of the curious eyes that were following him. Though still in his twenties, he was aware that much of his skill at working aloft had been lost. Any of the topmen and some of the general hands could have made the journey in a faster time. But then, they weren’t a lieutenant, he told himself a little pompously. They didn’t have to cope with the responsibilities the position carried. He heaved back up the futtock shrouds, and was panting slightly as he started up the topmast. And they were fit.

  Once at the main crosstrees he secured himself with a line and unhitched the Dollond from over his shoulder. He might go higher; Cooke, the lookout, was several feet above him and clinging onto the topgallant mast while he peered into the wind. But King had to handle several feet of brass telescope and was still very much out of breath; he felt the stability of his present perch to be preferable.

  “I’d say it were a frigate, sir.” Cooke told him. King looked up. “Tell by the set of ‘er masts, an’ she just got the feel about ‘er,” the lookout continued. “Didn’t like to commit m’self, though.”

  King raised the glass, and soon found the sail that Cooke had reported. Gradually his breathing fell back to normal, and the image grew sharper. Yes, there was what looked like a commissioning pennant, and as he caught the flash of a weathered forecourse his mind was made up.

  “British frigate, sir,” he bellowed, more than happy to commit himself. “She’s seen the enemy and is altering course.”

  The yards came round and the ship was now pointing more directly at Scylla. King could hear Banks ordering a change of course and the private signal prepared. The newcomer was to windward so it would be up to them to act first, but the captain had clearly accepted King’s judgement.

  “She’s settled on our reciprocal course.” The ship was certainly sailing fast; he could now see most of the hull, but then Scylla had also turned. King took a quick scan about the horizon before concentrating on the frigate once more. She grew closer with every second, and he could hear that they had sight of her on deck. There was no doubt that she was a fifth rate, similar to themselves. Then he noticed a black mass of bunting running up her fore.

  “She’s making a signal,” King called as it broke out, but Barrow had already reported it, and was replying with Scylla‘s number.

  “I think there’s another beyond, sir.” The lieutenant looked up to see Cooke, perched above his head, pointing towards the oncoming ship. He focussed his glass but could see nothing, then caught a brief flicker of canvas: a topsail or possibly a royal, he could not be certain. And there, just to the right, what might be another. He strained through the spotted lens, willing the image in. Yes, it was, for sure.

  “Two ships sighted beyond, and on the same bearing,” he called down. There was also a commissioning pennant, he was almost certain, but would wait a moment longer before reporting it. The only thing that really mattered was a squadron of British ships were coming down on them. They were still to leeward of the French, and might only amount to half their force, but Scylla was no longer alone. And, if the mystery squadron was Sir John Warren’s, there would be a battle, of that there could be no doubt.

  * * *

  When clearing for action part of Scylla‘s orlop deck was allocated to the medical department. The bulkheads to the midshipmen’s berth and other accommodations were struck down, and an area made clear for two operating tables. Space was also left for the wounded waiting for attention. These would be placed in line on a deck that had been covered with two layers of canvas. Each man was taken in order, with scant regard for the degree of injury, and little for their rank or standing. Patients who had been attended to were moved further forward, while any who died were neatly stacked to one side for later disposal. The gunroom on the deck above and even the officers’ cabins would also be liable for requisition if the numbers grew too high.

  Clarkson and Manning had supervised the moving of drugs and equipment from the sick bay and were now laying out their tools, while the loblolly boys, assisted by Mrs Clarkson; Mrs Porter, the boatswain’s wife; and Miss Monroe finished preparing the area.

  “You shouldn’t be lifting, my dear,” Clarkson told his wife. She stopped in the act of moving a bench and obediently stood back to allow the surgeon to slide the wooden form against a bulkhead.

  “I had no idea you were with child,” Sarah told her.

  “Oh yes,” Betsy replied, sounding every bit the seasoned mother. “It is only the first few months, but you know what men are like.”

  Sarah said nothing. In fact she knew rather less than Betsy, but did have a far greater understanding.

  Two of the loblolly boys began dragging midshipmen’s sea chests to form the operating tables, which Sarah and Betsy immediately covered with canvas, and four heavy lanthorns were hung from the deckhead: it would be poor light, but close examination was rarely necessary. Most of the surgeon’s work involved the removal of splinters and amputation of limbs, and even if Manning prided himself on his fine needlework, there was rarely time for anything but the most basic stitching when it came to closing wounds.

  “We’ll need an empty barrel,” Mrs Porter said. “Speak to the cooper will you, Taylor?” The man knuckled his forehead and Betsy glanced at Sarah.

  “That will be for the legs and wings,” she explained. “The bits the surgeons remove that are no longer required.”

  Sarah swallowed. She had volunteered to help the medics, thinking it would be more pleasant than sitting the battle out with her parents in the cable tier, but now she was beginning to have doubts.

  Betsy sensed the other woman’s uncertainty and instinctively took her hand. “I am sure you will find it easy enough when we are busy,” she told her. “To be frank, much of our job is instinct. Tell the men they shall be well again, even if you know it to be otherwise, and comfort them as much as you can.”

  “Yes, thank you. I think I shall be fine when there is more to do.”

  “The waiting is more�
�n likely the worst part,” Mrs Porter agreed, joining them. “Tell me, do either of you have a pen and paper?”

  “No, I…”

  “Then I shall see they are available.” The boatswain’s wife bustled off determinedly while Sarah looked again to Betsy for an explanation.

  “Some near death may need to tell us things,” she told her. “Maybe instructions or messages; it would be better to write them down.” Her eyes grew a little distant as a thought occurred. “And there could be those who think we are someone else: their mother or their wife, or perhaps just a lover.”

  Just a lover? It was an odd phrase, but Betsy was still speaking.

  “When a man is near death his mind may play strange tricks. Though I am sure you will say whatever is needed.”

  “Yes, thank you. I think I understand.”

  “Bibles are kept next to the drug cabinet, should any ask. If all fails it might help to read a passage or two. Maybe a psalm?”