by Alaric Bond
“I have another in sight,” Steven reported from the masthead, confirming Bank's suspicion that they were gaining on the enemy. “Same bearing, and I'd judge her to be another liner, steering a similar course.”
Banks said nothing; even if the French hove to, it would be several hours before Prometheus closed on them, and he was convinced that feeding the men a hot meal later was the correct decision. They would then go through the evening and part of the night with full bellies and, when action was joined, be that much the stronger for it.
In theory, the chase might continue for far longer, of course; the British may follow the entire run to Cádiz, only to be cheated of their prize at the very mouth of what purported to be a neutral port. But Banks thought not: an inner feeling, born either from experience or intuition, told him this would not last more than twelve hours. Within that time they would see action. And the French would be defeated; of that he was quietly positive, even if he could derive little pleasure from the prospect.
Instead he seemed to know already that the victory was to be tainted. However hard he may try, he could tell no more, but the feelings remained strong, and he was strangely disconcerted.
* * *
“Never gone into battle afore with duff in me belly,” Harrison commented with an air of wonder. It was over six hours since Prometheus made her hasty exit from Gibraltar, and the men had just consumed an unexpectedly large supper. “I'm not sayin' it ain't welcome,” he continued. “But it just don't feel like we're gonna do any fighting today.”
Despite the fact they had still to beat to quarters and were officially off watch, most of Flint's mess had gathered about the starboard gun that several of them manned. The piece also marked the aftmost limit of their mess area; there was no table slung from the deckhead, and their benches had been consigned to the forward hold, but all were comfortable enough. Some perched on the gun carriage, others leant back against a convenient oak knee or, in the case of Butler and Jameson who were younger and far more supple than most, sat cross-legged on the deck. And they had eaten well, for the considerable meal recently issued came atop of a perfectly acceptable midday dinner of cheese, raw onions, pickle and biscuit; something which would have suited them perfectly on most banyan days.
“It was on the captain's orders,” King, who was passing by, told Flint's men.
“Kind of 'im, I'm sure,” Harrison replied, picking at his gums with his finger.
“Aye,” Thompson mumbled. “Probably thinks we'll die better with decent scran inside us.”
“Any news of the enemy, sir?” Flint asked in a clearer voice. He had known King since the officer had been a raw volunteer and, despite the fact that Flint's career had failed to progress to the same extent, there was mutual respect between them.
King paused and squatted down to speak with the mess. “I've not been on deck for an hour or more,” he said. “Last I heard they were still six or eight miles off our prow.”
“Travelling slow for Frenchmen,” Cranston commented.
“There's some talk about them having come from the Americas, so they might not be as spry,” King replied.
“Or as well manned,” Ross added.
“How do you work that out?” Thompson asked, suspiciously.
“Fever,” the seaman replied briefly.
“He's right,” Harrison agreed. “They got all sorts out there, you can take your choice.”
“Long as barrel fever's included, I'm in,” Thompson commented dryly.
“So when do you think we'll meet them?” Flint asked, and King shrugged.
“Blowed if I knows. Aries, the frigate, was off their larboard beam earlier; trying to steal past to make sure there weren't no more hiding ahead, and one of them let off a broadside in her direction. They were out of range, but it was trained straight: if the French are short of men, they've a fair few gunners left and no lack of powder.”
“How far is Cádiz?” Ross asked, and King considered him for a moment. No mention had been made to the hands about the enemy's probable destination: he had worked it out for himself. But then King supposed it was no great mystery. The man was a former officer after all and, if he had retained his commission, might even have been his senior.
“We're comfortably through the Strait by now,” he replied, glancing through the open port. “If that's where they're heading I would expect us to turn north-westerly at any time. Then it can't be more than fifty miles.”
“Do you think there will be British thereabouts?” Ross again and, again, an intelligent question.
“Now that is something we can only guess,” King replied. “Last heard, the Dons were neutral. We may have a couple of ships keeping watch, but there'll be no official blockade.”
“Fifty mile ain't far,” Flint pondered.
“No it isn't,” Ross agreed. “And if they've come from the Indies, the French will know less than we do. So I'd say they'll go elsewhere.”
“Not make straight for Cádiz?” King asked. “Why so?”
“If they've crossed without speaking to any ship, they may think us at war with Spain,” he reasoned. “Everyone knows it will happen soon enough and, when it does, there is bound to be sanctions on every Spanish port. Three big ships might make it through from seaward and take a blockading force by surprise, especially if they come by night. But if we're on their tail, we should be close enough to give warning. And with our help, even an inshore squadron would snap them up, neatly enough.”
“So you think they might give Cádiz a miss?” King asked, impressed, despite himself.
“To my mind; at first anyway.” Ross confirmed. “I think our friends will carry on westerly in the hope of shaking us off, which they may well do in the dead of night.”
“And then what?” Thompson asked.
“Well, there's no moon at present,” Ross mused. “If we get a change of wind, I wouldn't put it beyond them to work past, leaving us sailing blindly into the Atlantic while they try their luck on Cádiz without us a chasing them.” There was a pause while they all digested this, and then Ross added; “Sir.”
* * *
It was five hours later, the wind had indeed veered and was now blowing just as strong but more from the south-east. Prometheus and the other British ships remained steady on their westward course and Caulfield was just considering going below to get what rest he could. His cabin would not exist, of course. Even though it lacked a gun to encumber the space, the frail bulkheads would have been knocked down with the rest and what had been the officers' wardroom would simply be an extension to the upper gun deck. He may get a hot drink from one of the stewards, if they were serving a nearby gun, but no more. And there would be little chance of conversation, something he craved even more than any bodily need at that moment. Then he saw King clambering stiffly up the quarterdeck ladder; he and the second lieutenant had been shipmates for years and Caulfield waited expectantly in the half light of dusk.
King noticed him and walked slowly over with the air of one who had been on his feet a good while, and expected to remain so for some time longer.
“Fancied a breath of fresh air did you, Thomas?” Caulfield asked as the younger man approached.
“Thought I'd leave Carlton in charge of the deck and take a peep at the enemy,” King replied. “There's nothing to be seen from below; the French are so set on our prow that even the for'ard ports don't cover them.”
“Then look your fill,” the first lieutenant told him, adding, “but make it your last.”
King glanced sidelong at him as they moved to the fife rail at the break of the quarterdeck.
“Sun'll be setting in no time,” Caulfield explained. “It'll be pitch black within the hour.”
Prometheus was now sailing in line abreast with Canopus to starboard while Aries sat well off their larboard bow. The French were in clear sight but still a good four miles ahead of the battleships.
“And we're still heading west?” King asked. It was a foolish question: th
e lowering sun was quite obvious and almost in their faces, but he craved conversation almost as much as the first lieutenant.
“Indeed, they seem set on shaking us off, though we shall surely catch them eventually.” Caulfield stated confidently.
“And you don't think they might double back, in the darkness?” his friend whispered.
“Oh, I think it very likely,” the first lieutenant replied. “Doubtless Sir Richard has considered the possibility as well, and shall take measures to see they do not.”
“But what can he do?” King persisted, and Caulfield sighed.
“In truth, very little. Oh, he may set us further apart, and make certain all keep a sound lookout,” he continued vaguely. “Send Aries in as close as she can lie, without risk of trying their mettle; other than that, not a great deal. There is no moon at present and we cannot set a line between us,” he tried to force a laugh; the conversation was becoming far too serious and he was mildly disappointed: usually Thomas could be counted on for a measure of banter. “But why do you ask?”
“It was one of the men,” King replied guardedly. “He mentioned the possibility.”
“One of the men?” Caulfield reacted in astonishment. As first lieutenant he rarely spoke with the people on matters of strategy and was almost shocked that King should think of doing so. “You mean a hand?”
“Yes,” King admitted. “Ross.”
Caulfield nodded. Ross, yes, that perhaps made a little more sense. “You have mentioned him before,” he said. “Commended him, as I recall, for his part in retaking the ship. And was it not you who brought the man to us originally?”
“I did, though that were pure chance,” King replied. “But there is something I suppose you should know.” His tone was still restrained; not like the spirited young man Caulfield knew at all, and he waited for him to continue with a feeling of trepidation.
“Ross was an officer.”
“Indeed?” That was probably the last thing Caulfield had expected his friend to say.
“A lieutenant,” King elaborated. “First of the brig, Wakeful. He was broken at court martial.”
“I read of it for sure – Antigua, was it not?” Caulfield muttered as the memories came back. “A sad case, and one that painted few in a good light. I thought at the time their premier seemed to have paid the penalty, but didn't expect to find myself shipping with him. And an ordinary hand, you say?” He sighed softly before adding, “how are the people taking it?”
“They do not know. No one does – and they must not,” King said, suddenly guilty. “I gave my word...”
Caulfield looked at him in further surprise. “If you gave your word, Tom, why ever do you speak of it now?” he asked. The two were friends without a doubt, but that did not excuse either of them from the normal constraints of gentlemanly conduct. Why, King was behaving as badly as that fellow Carroll.
“I – I am uncertain,” King admitted and the first lieutenant was forced to concede that he did seem remarkably at a loss. “I suppose it must be all this talk of the French...”
There was silence as both men considered what had been said. As far as Caulfield was concerned, the shock of discovering one of their regular hands to have been a fellow officer was nothing compared to King's apparent disregard of a personal confidence. But then he also knew the young lieutenant well, and trusted him far more than most; if King had broken his word it could only have been done for the greater good. Vague memories of a recent conversation with Carroll hovered at the edges of his mind but he instantly dismissed them. This was a completely different situation: the two did not compare in any way.
“Never fear, I shall say nothing,” Caulfield told him eventually. “If Ross were concerned about the enemy we can only assume he has our welfare very much in mind. But such a man may have caused any amount of mischief amongst the people. Were you prompted to tell me at all, I would have preferred it to have been earlier.”
“It was not my secret,” King explained, and received a brief nod of understanding in reply.
“But be assured, we had already considered the chance the French may double back,” Caulfield continued. “That, or make a move to the north-east: either is a possibility. I cannot say it will not happen, or that, if it does, we will necessarily be aware. But in any event, we do not need the advice of a broken officer, sound though his intentions may have been.”
“He wasn't attempting to advise,” King said hurriedly. “And does not know I am even speaking with you. In truth, there never was a more loyal hand; I doubt that I would stay so in his position.”
“No indeed, I see that,” Caulfield allowed. “And a first officer, you say? It shows we can never foretell what may occur.”
“And probably better so,” King agreed.
Chapter Nineteen
The French made their move just after two bells in the middle watch although Prometheus' bell had not actually been struck since dusk. The night was at its darkest, those officially below were behaving like true seamen and taking the opportunity to drift into a deep and dreamless sleep, when all became suddenly awake. The fact that they had spotted the enemy's change of course was in no way down to Ross and his predictions; the manoeuvre was actually signalled by Aries, who had already dodged the wrath of two further broadsides in her effort to keep in touch with the French squadron. When she was finally certain of the new heading, the frigate sent up a rocket that shone painfully bright, before being engulfed by the absolute black of night.
“Summon the watch below,” Banks growled. The cry was immediately taken up, and the deck became alive with men turning up from their various sleeping places. “Master: a course for Cádiz, if you please.”
“All hands – all hands wear ship!” Cartwright called out in oddly restrained tones.
“Steer nor'-east by east,” Brehaut told the quartermaster then, to his captain: “That will bring us to windward of the port, sir.”
“Very good,” Banks agreed. It was a wise move and Brehaut had done well to consider it. Arriving with the port on their lee gave them an advantage should no British forces be on station. And it also kept them the right side of the French during any pursuit. “Make to Canopus and Aries to follow.”
The deck was briefly lit by the glow of four blue lights; the night signal for a starboard turn. Canopus might be the larger ship and John Conn's command of her no doubt indicated his position as one of Nelson's favourites. But Banks was senior on the captains' list, and would take charge of any action that might ensue.
Those on the quarterdeck could hear the rumble of feet on the hollow deck as the afterguard rose up to their duty, but few faces could be made out in the poor light. Then, with the squeal of blocks and a good few groans from her hull, Prometheus began to be eased through the wind.
The manoeuvre was completed with the minimum of fuss and soon the ship settled on her new heading, although the night remained so dark that little could be seen in any direction: even the masthead lookout was invisible to those on deck.
“Well, we can only hope to be following, and trust Canopus and Aries are doing likewise,” Banks said to the officers who had instinctively clustered about the dim glow of the binnacle lamp. “But send all to quarters; if we run across a Frenchman there will be small enough warning.”
Caulfield hissed to a midshipman, who made off into the gloom to pass on the order. “I think most will be awake by now,” he said, after the lad had departed. “Indeed, they will be eager for a fight.”
Banks supposed he was right. Even after so great a delay, the men would be more than ready to see their guns put to use, although he was also aware that the ship could not remain at action stations indefinitely. Once summoned to their pieces, even the strongest nerves would be stretched. Exhaustion would soon set in, and every man's fighting ability was bound to deteriorate. And if, as he suspected, the French were intending to avoid action and simply make a run for Spain, their current game of blind man's bluff could last a good few hours
yet.
But it was not to be. Within minutes, those on the quarterdeck were alerted by the sound of one of the masthead lookouts slipping down the main topgallant backstay, and all waited in expectant silence as the man made his way to the command group on the quarterdeck.
“Liner to leeward,” he announced excitedly, and Caulfield remembered him as being pressed from the homebound transport before they left Tor Bay. “Just off our larboard bow,” Butler added excitedly. “But they've made sail, and we're losing 'er.”
“Are you certain?” the first lieutenant questioned.
“Both me an' Jameson saw 'er, sir,” the lookout confirmed.
“Very well, return to your post,” Caulfield told him, before turning back to the group where Brehaut was in deep conversation with the captain. Prometheus was riding with the wind on her beam under staysails, topsails and forecourse, but the breeze was proving fickle in both strength and direction. To constantly set and strike canvas would only cause confusion, yet the night would remain dark for several more hours, and if they did nothing the French might steal a lead that could see them safely to Cádiz. It was not a decision the first lieutenant would wish to make.
“Set t'gallants,” Banks voice rolled out strong in the hushed atmosphere, and there was a flurry of movement. Caulfield watched Brehaut mark out the order on the traverse board as the topmen began scaling the starboard shrouds. The extra sails would make Prometheus more visible, and could even endanger her masts, if there were any repetition of the gusts experienced during the first watch. But the captain was evidently content to risk that in return for the increase in speed more canvas would bring. It was a brave move, and one that might see them separated from Canopus, a ship that had already proven herself to be a slow sailer.
Banks looked to Caulfield. “Reckon we're in for a bit of a chase, Michael,” he told him, as if the previous hours had not existed.
“Do you think they will make safety, sir?” the first lieutenant asked. It was probably not the most professional of questions, but the captain's sudden bouts of loquaciousness always caught him off guard.
