by Alaric Bond
HMS Prometheus
Alaric Bond
HMS Prometheus – Copyright © 2015 by Alaric Bond
ISBN 978-1-943404-06-3 paperback
978-1-943404-07-0 e.book
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series, #8)
HMS Prometheus | Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Epilogue
Selected Glossary
Principle Characters
About the author
Also by Alaric Bond:
The Scent of Corruption | (sample) | Chapter One
About Old Salt Press
More from Old Salt Press
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The cover shows a detail from Combat de la Poursuivante contre l'Hercule, 1803 by Louis-Philippe Crépin (1772 – 1851) The original is in the Musée national de la Marine
Publisher's Note: This is a work of historical fiction. Certain characters and their actions may have been inspired by historical individuals and events. The characters in the novel, however, represent the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Published by Old Salt Press. Old Salt Press, LLC is based in Jersey City, New Jersey with an affiliate in New Zealand. For more information about our titles go to www.oldsaltpress.com
For Norman and Pat
HMS Prometheus
Prologue
It was luck of the worst possible kind, although Acting Lieutenant Hunt had already told himself so at least a dozen times and the repetition in no way eased matters.
“Starboard guns are ready, sir,” the elderly master's mate reported and, at a nod from Hunt, the brig's paltry battery of six four pounders spat defiantly back at the oncoming enemy.
But the shot was light and would do little damage, Hunt was as sure of that as he was the other factors stacked against him. Nothing would help; his was a hopeless case.
“Bring her to the wind, Mr Carston,” he ordered in an artificially firm voice as his prediction was proved all too correct. There were barely enough men to fight and sail his small command. Those allocated to the guns were already serving their pieces while the few left to man the braces followed the brig round as her helm was put across. And all he could do was strain to see the fall of shot against the rising sun's increasing glare, that and curse the misfortune which had placed him in such a position in the first place.
With luck they might get another broadside in – possibly two, before the xebec came alongside. Not so much as a musket shot had been received in reply from the graceful but deadly vessel, although that was not the advantage it might appear. Hunt knew he was facing Barbary Pirates, probably the most ferocious and merciless enemy expected in the entire Mediterranean, and their mode of attack was all too well known.
In this current battle they were superior in almost every quarter, and the fact that no shots had been fired did not mean the xebec was unarmed. Across the narrow stretch of water his opponent was likely to mount a veritable arsenal of nine, twelve or possibly eighteen pounders; formidable fire-power that would not disgrace a frigate. But all the pirate ship actually needed was to come alongside to do the business. She would be crewed by over three hundred fearless fighters – no match for the twenty or so British seamen at Hunt's command. His small force was bound to be overwhelmed within seconds, while the brig would make a far better prize if she were unblemished by gunfire, and contained a full crew of strong, sound and, primarily, saleable Europeans.
The lateen rigged, three masted vessel had first been spotted an hour or so back, as dawn began to break. And with an outline so extreme, so well known, the British crew’s suspicions were immediately aroused. Until then, Hunt's hundred ton charge had been making reasonable progress and would soon have found safety in harbour. She was a capture, taken while trying to run the blockade off Toulon, with Hunt given temporary charge to see her to Gibraltar. But as soon as the deadly silhouette came into sight, swooping down from the east with the rising sun behind her, he sensed his first experience of independent command was about to end.
“I think we may have done some damage after all, sir,” the master's mate suggested cautiously, and Hunt looked again at the hateful vessel. Yes, Rutherford was right; a good chunk of the enemy's slender prow had been knocked away by the last broadside, and Hunt acknowledged the fact with a cursory nod. But it would take more than a four pound round shot to stop such a sleek and warlike craft. There were still two hundred miles separating them from Gibraltar with no friendly territory between, and what time remained was fast running out.
Of course they might yet run. Unusually for the Med., the night breeze had not been swallowed by the sun, and still came from roughly the same direction. They were carrying all plain sail when the enemy was first sighted, and Hunt immediately ordered the helm across, so every ounce of the precious force might be taken on their quarter. He had learned much during his brief command. Despite winds which changed from light to non-existent, the brig was fast for her size, a fact that inevitably endeared her to him: Hunt had even hoped they would maintain their lead, if not extend it.
But the change of course also benefited the xebec; the wide, high, triangular sails were made for sailing the Med., as was that distinctive and gainly hull. Her frame might be light when compared with the far more durable structure of the brig and, placed together in the midst of an Atlantic storm, there was no doubting which vessel would last the longer. But these were peaceful conditions: the soft wind and gentle sun of a pleasant Mediterranean summer's morning, and the enemy continued to close on them. Hunt supposed stunsails might still be added, but that would take men from the guns, and even their meagre broadside was likely to be of more immediate benefit in the next few minutes.
“She's a pirate, sir. Sure as eggs is eggs,” Rutherford, who was second in command, grumbled, and the young, fair haired officer could only agree. A pirate indeed, although that should not come as a surprise when the area was plagued by them. And Hunt was equally aware that, however much he might blame ill fortune, the whole sorry situation was really his own stupid fault.
For it had been vanity: nothing less. When entrusted with despatches and a well found brig to carry them, Hunt had been prepared to risk anything in search of a swift passage, and the pursuit of a solid wind had taken them perilously close to the African coast. At the time Hunt was sure there was little need for concern: the brig showed a fair turn of speed and was armed: in effect a minor warship: he really should fear nothing. But it was a foolish deci
sion: one based on a young and unknown officer's desire to impress, and they were paying for it now.
Or rather, they would be very shortly; the Barbary Pirate's treatment of prisoners was as well known as their fighting tactics. If, or to be pragmatic, when they were taken, the brig and her stores would not be the full extent of their booty: Hunt, and his fellow men, could expect to spend the foreseeable future as slaves.
So they must waste no time. To fire another broadside it was necessary to yaw, and preferably now, despite the fact that several of the servers were yet to signal their pieces ready. At his shouted command, the brig fell off to starboard and began to wallow as the men he had so casually designated gun captains peered over the weapons' crude sights. To Hunt, who only a week before had been second in command of a third rate's battery of thirty-two pounders, the guns appeared ludicrously small although, once despatched with another ear-splitting clatter, he hoped they would still have some effect on the enemy.
“Holed her fore that time,” Rutherford announced with satisfaction, and indeed a dark patch in the vessel's forward sail showed where she had been hit. But there was no split; the sail continued to draw to some extent, and neither had the mast, nor any of its supporting lines been struck; something that might have bought more time, and perhaps altered the odds in their favour. Hunt turned away from the sight, conscious that the aloof and confident persona expected of even a young commander was becoming hard to maintain. His brig was coming back to the wind and already picking up speed, but the enemy now lay hardly a cable and a half off, and the next broadside the British fired would be their last.
He tried not to think about what was to come; to the months, probably years to be spent as a captive. Algiers was the nearest port; should the enemy hail from there it was a dismal prospect. There would be no honour in being a prisoner; none of the mutual respect or reciprocal arrangements usual in European conflict. He supposed amongst people who held scant regard for their own lives, those of defeated unbelievers were bound to figure low. The British would be put to work, and work hard; his men probably being sent to serve in just such a vessel as the one that was shortly to capture them. There they would find the hardships of Royal Naval service nothing compared to what was demanded. Stories abounded of men being put to the oars for hours at a stretch; many died of exhaustion or malnutrition, and the Barbary nations were no respecters of rank or position: even as an officer, Hunt would be lucky not to join them.
He gritted his teeth and tried to clear his mind of further dismal thoughts, concentrating instead on what every captain should do during the last few minutes of command. In the binnacle drawer lay Admiral Bickerton's despatches which he had brought up from his cabin as soon as the sighting was reported. He collected them now, and held the tarred canvas bundle tightly against his chest. Rutherford was apparently watching the oncoming enemy, but Hunt knew the older man had noticed his action, and would agree the end was close. When capture became inevitable, the parcel must be consigned to the deep, its ballast of small shot ensuring all sank well beyond enemy reach.
Indeed, there seemed little point in delaying longer; Hunt took two steps towards the lee bulwark before tossing the bundle over. It fell with barely a splash: Hunt had no idea what the local Dey would have made of communications from Sir Richard Bickerton, but he was not going to get the chance now. And then there were the three sacks of general mail that lay ready by the taffrail. Some might conceivably contain items of small commercial value but, even if not, no one liked the thought of personal messages falling into enemy hands, and one of Hunt's last responsibilities to his colleagues was to see they did not.
By the time all were disposed of, the brig's guns were almost loaded once more. On this occasion when they yawed, Hunt knew there would be little point in turning back. The xebec was making good speed and lay less than a cable off their stern. The British would get their broadside in before the collision, but could not prepare another before the inevitable rush of boarders. He caught the eye of the quartermaster who clearly waited for his order, and was actually drawing breath to give it when a call came from the masthead.
“Deck there, I have a sighting to the east.”
The young officer froze, his mouth comically open, but the report was creating far too much excitement for anyone to notice.
“It's a frigate, or at least something substantial, an' no more'n three mile off,” the man continued, over the babble of excited comments. “She were hidden by the enemy but I have her now. Under all plain sail an' settin' stuns'ls.”
“Any colours?” Rutherford asked, but it was a futile question. If the sighting was indeed a frigate, it was likely to belong to a friendly power, although even a Frenchman would be welcome at that particular moment.
Hunt glanced back at the oncoming pirate; there was now no point in their yawing, they must maintain the chase for as long as possible. For a second the terrible thought that the enemy might also have failed to spot the newcomer flashed through his mind, then he noticed the xebec's yards move slightly as his pursuer altered course.
“They're going to pass to starboard,” the master's mate murmured softly. It would be foolish in the extreme for the pirate's commander to continue attacking the brig when any delay was likely to see his own ship captured. Instead, with the situation neatly reversed, he was now altering course to place the xebec in the optimum position for a stern chase, and a lateen rig would be more effective with the wind a littler firmer on the beam.
Soon it was clear the subtle change had indeed increased their speed. The pirate was going to pass close, but not so as to allow them to board, although Hunt might expect attention from their cannon. And a vessel of such a size would be expected to produce a broadside substantial enough to sink his little brig with a single dose.
“Looks like we're to exchange one drubbing for another,” the master's mate snorted, as if in agreement with the younger man's thoughts. Hunt did not respond; what Rutherford said was correct although he, for one, preferred taking his chance against enemy fire to facing the prospect of a lifetime's bondage.
“Sightin's a Jonathan!” the lookout called in glee. “An' a big one!”
Hunt accepted the information without comment. The Americans were currently fighting an intense campaign on the nearby North African coast. It was something the Barbary States were pleased to call a holy war, or Jihad, and the British Navy stubbornly ignored, in the face of a bigger conflict that threatened their own shores. He was fortunate to have chanced upon one of their larger ships, and that his attacker had taken notice and was doing the sensible thing by running. But before he could welcome the change in luck, there was the small matter of a parting broadside which, Hunt guessed, the xebec would deliver and was likely to be significant. But if that were the case, the young man was determined to get his shots in first.
“Ready lads, aim at her spars and make 'em count!” Rutherford cautioned as the xebec's brightly painted hull crept into the brig's arc of fire. There was no point in delaying; should the pirates beat them to it, some British guns could be disabled, whereas a lucky hit might wound the enemy's tophamper sufficiently to allow the Americans a chance to deal with her properly.
At a call from Hunt, the guns were discharged in a series of staccato snaps that covered several seconds. One shot fell disastrously wide and two merely punctured the mainsail but Hunt was reasonably sure the xebec's mizzen was also struck. Then the pirate's full armament was being run out, and Hunt found himself looking straight into the mouths of twelve heavy cannon. They were significant pieces; eighteen pounders by their look: more than enough to annihilate his command.
And then, even as he considered the prospect, the enemy opened fire.
Chapter One
So this was Gibraltar. Kate Manning stood on the quayside basking in the hot sun as she took in the sights and smells of a busy harbour. Besides the general packet that had carried her so far, several other traders clustered together in the centre as if for securi
ty while, to the north, a line of supply hoys, uniformly painted and moored with precise regularity, lay ready for work. The Royal Navy was also in evidence, with a two decker, pristine in fresh paint and apparently polished to perfection appearing ready to sail. She was anchored a respectable distance from the private shipping with just a few of her type, but smaller and not so magnificent, allowed near. A variety of light craft under oddly shaped and gaily coloured sails passed between, and a heavily laden lighter was in the process of being unloaded at a nearby wharf. But one ship and one ship alone captured Kate's attention and she was probably the least impressive of any on display.
Soundly secured to a mole at the southern side of the harbour, and sheltering under the protection of several canvas awnings, the aged third rate looked more fit for a breaker's dock than the open sea. Kate had seen her before, but the last occasion had been many months ago and under very different circumstances. Still, she recognised the lines immediately, and knew for certain her journey was at an end.
Actually it had been a remarkably fast passage from England. So much so that it seemed the decision to join Robert was hardly made before she arrived, and with his ship in plain view. She was in no hurry, however. In a time when to have anything other than the whitest of skin was frowned upon, Kate held no petty inhibitions and took her pleasure wherever it could be found. The summer sun was agreeably hot; about her the stones positively glowed with warmth, but they merely emphasised the coolest of breezes, and she was content to stand a while longer, enjoying the pleasing contrast. Her journey that far might have been brisk, but it would be finished in a more leisurely fashion and there was no possibility of her arriving in a fluster. When she met with Robert, their reunion would be as dignified as possible.
And it was strange that she should be so concerned; Kate was nothing if not pragmatic; abstract or groundless worries rarely bothered her. Their parting had been perfectly genial, after all; Robert was even keen for her to accompany him to sea, as on earlier commissions. But there were more subtle reasons why Kate preferred to stay in England, not the least being she felt herself in danger of becoming a professional sea-wife: one of those worthy types whose life apparently centred about her husband, and the ships he served aboard. More than a few such creatures had crossed her path and, in truth, she did not despise them greatly. But Kate knew herself, and that she could never be satisfied with such an existence.