by Alaric Bond
King was still trying to identify the speaker; possibly a warrant officer further forward: probably on the forecastle. But with the noise of battle and murmurings from their own boarding party steadily growing louder, it was impossible to be certain. Then a more definite shout followed, and he saw Ross, the former officer, catch his eye and wave. “I shall lead the first attack, Mr King,” he yelled, and it was the same voice. “Follow as soon as you are able.”
There was no time to discuss the order of command and Ross certainly had the right idea: the wardroom windows would make an excellent entry point: there was no sign of fighting on the upper decks, so they would be arriving close to the centre of the action.
“Starboard a point!” King ordered, and the ship moved almost imperceptibly round to line up directly with the seventy-four's gilded stern. Now all lay in the hands of time, and what they had was fast running out. He knew he would be leaving the prize almost unmanned; a group of elderly military men from the passengers had agreed to defend the ship if the French proved successful in taking Prometheus. But King had no illusions: should he fail, the privateers would be in possession of the first British liner to be taken in the current war, and must also reclaim their own vessel into the bargain.
But this was not the time to even consider defeat. “Starboard,” he repeated, as the ship neared. Then: “starboard – hard a starboard!” and, with a drawn out groaning of wood against wood, they scraped gracefully against the battleship's ornate gingerbread.
Those on the forecastle and forward of the main mast were the first to board. Ross himself, wielding a gunner's crow of iron, smashed through the starboard wardroom windows and soon the air was filled with the crashing of glass as Flint and Harrison copied his example. Then there was a tumble of bodies landing aboard the liner, with those still in the prize eagerly pressing forward for their turn to follow.
“Avast there!” King bellowed. He was still peering over the Belle Île's top rail and could see that some vagary in wind or waves was forcing the two ships apart. There was now a space of several feet between them, even though both ships appeared to be relatively stationary. “Wait for the time, lads,” he continued, noticing with despair, that the distance was actually widening further. This was as bad as it could be; less than half of the boarding party had made it across: unless King could follow with the rest, both parts of the now divided force were in danger of being annihilated. Some of those about him had also registered the fact and one, a young topman and unusually lithe, looked ready to leap, despite the considerable gap that divided the two vessels.
“Stand down there, Jameson!” King ordered. He had no wish to snub the man's enthusiasm but to jump, and fail, would be the waste of a life. And if he were to succeed, it might persuade others less able to follow. Jameson positively growled with anger but the two ships were now being drawn together once more, and King realised with relief that all soon would be able to follow. Then the time was right and he himself leapt the last remaining few feet, landing soundly on the stern of the battleship, and clambering up and over the wrecked windows.
* * *
But the advance party had already quit the wardroom; most of Flint's mess were now passing out through the double doors that led to Prometheus' upper gun deck, and all were eager for action. They spotted a group of former prisoners who had come up from below and were in deadly combat with a small number of British men, led by Saunders, the master at arms. The new arrivals joined the fray with all the energy of those denied action for much too long. Ross threw himself at a darkly clad officer who seemed to drop to his knees at the sight of the unexpected attack, while Butler sought out the burly, ginger-haired brute currently pinning the master at arms against the capstan head. Saunders had obviously been wounded, and the Frenchman was about to deliver the coup de grâce with his half-pike when Butler's cutlass intervened.
“Obliged to you, Butler,” the master at arms told him shakily as he staggered forward, one hand firmly clapped across a bleeding shoulder.
“Go boil your head, Mr Saunders,” Butler beamed, before moving on to seek out a fresh opponent.
But there were none to be found; it had been a brief but bloody battle: within seconds the French were overpowered, and the boarding party left without opposition.
“Below!” Ross roared, pointing down the staircase and bursting the other men's moment of self congratulation. The battle was clearly still hot on the lower deck, and in no time the group had reformed and begun to tumble eagerly down to meet it.
* * *
By the time King had scrambled through the shards and splinters that had been part of Prometheus' wardroom windows, the rest of his party had also boarded. He glanced at the familiar canvas covered deck and was almost surprised to find himself in his old home. But there was no time to waste; the first of the boarders was already gone, and soon he too was rushing through the room and out onto the upper gun deck beyond.
There he was greeted by a space filled only by dead bodies and an assortment of groaning wounded. But further sounds from below indicated where the battle was being fought, and King threw himself down the aft companionway noticing, almost with detached interest, that the steps were damp with fresh blood.
Once on the lower gun deck it was as he expected: the fighting was indeed fierce, but it appeared as if the British were gaining the upper hand. Amid the shouts and screams of action, a wall of marines could be seen steadily advancing, and there were cries of surrender from French voices that became more numerous as progress was made. With the stimulus of action, King's mind was racing like a clock robbed of its pendulum, and he quickly retreated to be met by those still coming down the staircase.
“Go back,” he yelled. “We can do little to assist here, but may be of use for'ard.” His hanger was hot in his hand: it was a brand new affair, bought when Prometheus had been commissioned, and he held it tight as he chased his men back up the staircase. As a group they raced along the upper deck, reaching the forward companionway in seconds. A quick glance below told King his force would indeed be needed, and he plunged down the wooden steps without pausing.
Now the new blade came into its own. A Frenchman had trapped one of Prometheus' men against an oak knee: King gave a sideways hack with his sword, and the attacker crumpled to the deck. He glanced aft to where the van of the second party of British could be seen advancing steadily, but there were more enemy between them and him, and King raised his weapon once more.
A pike, seemingly coming from nowhere, pitched into his left shoulder, spinning him round and biting into flesh. But the turn had caused the weapon to deflect, and King was able to swing his sword in the general direction of the unseen attacker. He felt the hanger jolt, gratifying, as its blade cut first into muscle before grounding on bone, and the body fell away into the darkness.
And then, almost as if to a silent signal, noise of the fighting started to fade. All about began to lower their weapons and stare questioningly at each other as they panted in the half light. Several of the French were standing with their hands held as high as the deckhead would permit, and there were moans and cries from the bodies that seemed to be littering the deck at every station. King caught a glimpse of Sergeant Jarvis, who had blood streaming down his white shirt, and there was Lewis, also injured, although the hand held against his thigh seemed to be keeping whatever wound he had sustained closed. Then Ross appeared from aft, teeth shining in the gloom as he grinned.
“Well, gentlemen,” he said, speaking in an assured voice and with a commanding manner that was previously unknown to any aboard Prometheus. “We seem to have settled the Frenchmen’s hash adequately enough, wouldn't you say?”
Chapter Fourteen
But much remained to do. King had taken a cursory glance at his shoulder; his jacket and shirt were ripped, but the wound beneath was not deep and had already ceased to bleed so could probably be left. Marine NCOs were organising the rounding up of prisoners as British seamen and petty officers attende
d to the wounded. Noticing the latter, King supposed he should go down to the orlop and check on Manning. He may have been hurt during the uprising but, even if not, the surgeon would be unprepared for what was bound to be an influx of casualties.
“I have yet to rig an operating area,” his friend snapped impatiently when King approached the sick berth. “There are upwards of thirty men awaiting my attention, and nowhere to place them.” Manning was literally up to his arms in gore as he tried to stitch a badly cut body on his examination table while Dodgeson, one of his mates, was similarly employed on the deck of the dispensary.
“I shall commandeer the gun room,” King said decisively. “Give me a spell to have it cleared, but your men can start bringing wounded to the lower gun deck straight away, and I shall direct any freshly injured there.”
Manning looked his thanks, then returned to the matter in hand, while King squeezed out of the cramped quarters, glad to be free of the place.
“Take him to the gun room,” he told two loblolly boys currently dragging another unfortunate towards the dispensary. “And bring any more back there.”
One of the men knuckled his forehead and turned to go; King made his way past them and began to press through the temporary pens, now being refilled with the French prisoners. In action, a good proportion of the orlop would normally have been set aside for the care of wounded. Manning was used to a large working space, with at least two operating tables formed by midshipmen's sea chests, and waiting and recovery areas for his patients. But Prometheus had been taken by surprise and the makeshift cells took up much of the deck needed. The gun room, which had a reasonably sized dining area, would have to do instead.
“Let me through, damn it,” he said, reaching the end of the detention area, and noticing Chivers beginning to close the door on him. “Once you are finished here, follow me. We need to rig a temporary sick bay.” The midshipman touched his hat but King was already gone.
“Good God, Michael, are you all right?” he asked, entering the gun room and almost tripping over the first lieutenant who, still strapped to the chair, had fallen to the deck in his efforts to free himself. “Here, lend a hand will you?” he snapped, noticing Judy at the other end of the darkened space. Together they released Caulfield, who stood up shakily while rubbing at his wrists.
“Do not concern yourself with her,” the first lieutenant said bitterly, as King helped the woman to her feet. “Swift is also secured aft, yet she would not lift a hand to release either of us.”
King made for the far end of the room where the marine lieutenant was indeed lying half under the table, his hands and feet expertly bound. They were seaman's knots; any one would have held for an eternity but, when faced with equally experienced fingers, were released as easily as they had been tied, and soon the young officer was clambering to stand.
“Is this true, Judy?” King found himself asking. The ship had been all but taken, many were dead or injured, and he had just taken part in one of the most desperate fights of his life. And yet the woman's apparent betrayal seemed almost as important.
“He said he would take me to France,” she declared stubbornly, wrapping her arms tightly about herself. “Said he would care for me. That we would be safe and live together in a proper home.” The girl looked imploringly into King's eyes. “And that is all I have ever wanted,” she told him.
* * *
The next day Banks was feeling very much better. Once more, he had called the meeting in his sleeping quarters as the great cabin was now being used as a further extension to the sick berth. He sat alone, at what effectively became the head of the card table, with the others crowded about the other three sides. And he was in the comfortable chair that had once been considered an indulgence. Since rising for the first time that morning Banks had eaten two full meals and taken one short nap, but now the responsibilities of command were gradually returning to his shoulders, and he was feeling increasingly guilty as a consequence.
“And you believe it to be poisoning?” he asked, aware it was not the first time he had posed the question. Despite the evidence, Banks could still not believe such a thing would have taken place.
“Yes, sir,” Manning replied, as patient as ever. “Saltpetre, to be precise.”
“And it definitely wasn't sourced from the Indiaman,” the captain questioned. Saltpetre was a regular essential often shipped from the East, so would have been an unlikely outward bound cargo. Besides, his memories of the rescue were decidedly shaky, but he could not recall any freight being salvaged.
“No sir,” Caulfield replied, a little crestfallen. “We think they might have taken it from the gunner's stores.”
Banks waited, and his first lieutenant continued with the painful story.
“As soon as the prisoners were established on the orlop, both magazines, and even the light room were doubly secured and placed under additional marine guard. But Mr Abbot, our late gunner, kept a storeroom, for flints, locks and other supplies. He also carried a small stock of saltpetre there, and it is believed that the fellow Carroll gained access to it.”
Banks remained silent while he thought. Saltpetre was a component of gunpowder, but needed to be mixed with sulphur and charcoal before any dramatic result could be achieved. By itself, the stuff would not necessarily be considered a dangerous substance and Prometheus carried far worse. Try as they might, it would have been impossible to guard or remove all such items, and it was just unfortunate that their efforts in securing the ship had been shown to be inadequate. But then the act appeared to have been carried out by a man who had given his parole, so there was at least some defence.
It was less easy to excuse the girl's part in the proceedings. After accepting their trust, the tame stowaway had betrayed them; something that was regrettable on many levels. However, if anyone was to turn traitor, it was surely better for it to be an outsider, and Banks would rather deliver her to the authorities in Gibraltar than any of his own men.
“And how was it administered?” he finally asked.
“Of that we are not so certain,” Caulfield confessed. “But Miss Kinnison's duties as an honorary steward gave her access to all pantries and the main galley. It is assumed she contaminated what she could of the officers' food, as well as that supplied to the marine guard and some of the hands.”
Banks considered this. Manning had already stated the smallest measure of saltpetre would be needed to create symptoms of headaches, nausea and heavy sweating. Had she increased the dose, someone would undoubtedly have died, for which, he supposed, they should be grateful. From the little he knew of the woman, she was probably not intelligent enough to understand the devastating effect it would have. Neither was there reason to endanger her captors so effectively, unless...
“She was not working alone, of course,” he said at last, and noted that all of the assembled officers accepted his comment.
“No, sir,” Caulfield agreed, almost sadly. “I am afraid she was in league with the Irishman.”
The atmosphere in the small room grew suddenly tense. They were coming to a different matter entirely and, rather than regret at knowing their trust had been betrayed, Banks found himself growing increasingly angry.
“Well damn him to hell,” he said simply, as an echo of his former headache momentarily returned. “The man gave me his personal word of honour...”
“Yes, sir,” Caulfield agreed, while King and Lewis looked unaccountably sad, although Banks noticed that Manning was showing no emotion.
“I did challenge him on the subject,” King said softly. “He said he had agreed not to attempt escape, but there was never any mention of refusing to take up arms.”
The captain snorted; it was pure semantics, of course, but such things should be expected when dealing with rogues. At least the privateer's captain had made no such undertaking: the man may be little more than a pirate in many people's eyes, but clearly held some respect for the obligations of a gentleman.
“Very well,�
� Banks conceded at last. “You had better let me have the butcher's bill.”
Manning reached into his pocket and brought out a scrap of paper. “We lost eighteen men, including nine marines and four able seamen and not counting Mr Abbot or Marine Lieutenant James who you already know about. Thirty-one are wounded and require sick berth accommodation. The French losses amount...”
“I'm not interested in the French,” Banks told the surgeon bluntly. “There will be less of them to look after, and the wounded can be cared for by their own.”
Manning's eyes rose up in a brief protest, but lowered again at the captain's livid expression. “And there are still twelve men recovering from internal consumption of saltpetre,” he finished lamely.
Banks said no more. After his personal experience of the stuff he would have little hesitation in feeding it to Carroll and the rest of his cronies, were such a thing permitted. The illness was bad enough, but to be totally incapacitated while his ship and people were in such danger had brought out the worst in him.
“And where do we stand as far as healthy bodies are concerned?” he asked, switching his attention to Caulfield.
“Five hundred and ten,” Caulfield replied crisply, and without reference to notes. “Four hundred and seven trained hands, the rest are landsmen and boys. Our marine force has been cut to thirty nine by fatalities, injury and current sickness,” he glanced across at Manning. “Although I understand that most of the latter are expected to be back on duty within the next day. Mr Donaldson is still indisposed, and has expressed a wish to be exchanged when we reach Gibraltar. Until then, the marine contingent is under the temporary command of Lieutenant Swift.” All looked towards the young officer who was seated with them. He had been silent throughout and now blushed at the sudden attention.
