by Alaric Bond
* * *
“I should say it will take the French completely by surprise,” King said, still staring at Brehaut's chart. All her senior men were assembled in Prometheus' great cabin including the Royal Marine officers. Banks considered the group as they crowded about the large table and found himself strangely gratified. Even King was back with them once more. He would be of little physical use in any action but remained a welcome face.
“Surprise?” Caulfield snorted. “Or should that be shock?”
There was the muttering of restrained laughter expected when seasoned men consider a fresh challenge.
“How many will be involved?” Reynolds, the marine captain, asked more cautiously.
“Just under three hundred, plus supporting officers,” Banks told him from the head of the table. “We will take eighty from ourselves and Belleisle. Victory shall contribute the remainder and I understand Captain Summers is in overall charge of the operation. Each of the smaller units will operate independently, however, and under command of their own officers. Belleisle is to tackle the eastern battery, while we take that to the west. Each are only supposed to be manned by gunners and a cursory guard. Victory’s men, which make up the largest force, will land at the centre of the causeway, then pass across to the opposite shore. The French liner is believed anchored just over a cable to the north in a small bay; other than her, there should only be fishers and maybe a lighter or two: there is no major garrison in the immediate vicinity that we are aware of.”
“And how shall they reach her?” King asked.
“Hardly our concern, Tom,” Banks smiled. “But there is a quay that always contains a good deal of lobster boats. It should be easy enough to commandeer sufficient craft, and the target is effectively in ordinary; indeed, she is barely finished, so we are not even anticipating an anchor watch in such a protected harbour.”
There was a silence as all present considered this. King was right, Banks decided. Actually reaching the anchored liner was decidedly the weakest part of the plan. However well his men, and those of the Belleisle, performed in capturing the two major military emplacements, the whole operation would end in shambles if the main force were unable to burn the French ship. Men would die, a good many; either in taking and holding the shore batteries, or their subsequent abandonment. And, despite what Hardy may have said, any action that wasted lives could only be considered a defeat.
“The attack has been scheduled for the fifteenth of the month; that is one week's time. The moon shall already have been new a while so, with luck, those ashore will not be expecting any attention.”
“And if the Fraternité is moved into the coppering dock before then?” Caulfield asked.
“Then we will obviously have to abandon any attempt to destroy her,” Banks replied. “But the admiral considers that a better option than making our move at the start of a new moon.”
“If I may ask a foolish question,” Reynolds, the senior Royal Marine officer, began cautiously. “I fail to understand why a ship should be launched without first being coppered.”
“Coppering is a different procedure to construction.” Caulfield explained. “It is standard practice, both in France and our own yards, to carry out cladding after a hull has been in the water a fair while.”
Reynolds raised his eyes in mild surprise, but said no more.
Banks looked about at the assembled faces. A land operation was not his preferred choice of action; his ship would be endangered while trying the batteries, and they might lose a few men; certainly amongst the marines. As for success, that must depend almost entirely on Reynolds and his subordinates; the only sea officers involved being those from Victory and maybe a junior lieutenant to collect the returning landing party. But at least Prometheus was going into action, and the destruction of a brand new seventy-four would undoubtedly annoy the French, as well as being a welcome addition to her battle honours. “If there are no other questions, gentlemen, I think we may adjourn,” he concluded. “Mr Reynolds, you will have plenty of time to speak with your officers, and select those that are to be involved; obviously it would be better if they were all volunteers,”
“Every one of my men is a volunteer, sir,” the marine officer replied with a flash of teeth, and there was a rumble of light laughter from the sea officers. The joke, though often told, remained true; all of the Royal Marines aboard Prometheus were, in theory at least, there entirely of their own volition; something that could rarely be said about a group of Royal Navy seamen.
“Then, we may indeed withdraw,” Banks concluded.
“Actually, sir, I have a suggestion,” King said, rather hesitantly, from his left. “It might be of interest, if you would care to hear of it.”
“Indeed?” the captain inclined his head in the young man's direction. “Then perhaps you might remain behind, Tom: Michael, you will stay also?” he added, glancing across at the first lieutenant.
To Banks' mind, that was the icing on the cake: King had not only returned to duty, but was once more coming up with ideas. Previously these had varied from the barely possible to totally outrageous, although all bore the mark of originality, and were rarely an effort to listen to. It also signalled that King was not just healing physically; the old spirit had returned, and Banks could not have been more glad.
Chapter Six
It was just over a week later that Hunt found himself in charge of the blue cutter. They were off Cape Sicié and he had a midshipman and twenty-five hands aboard, as did Franklin in the black boat, which was a mile or so to the east. They had left Prometheus several hours before when darkness made their departure less obvious and, despite what had been a pleasant day, all were now extremely cold. But the chilly autumn air was not the worst of it; this would make the fourth night Hunt had been so employed, and the last that allowed Tom King's particular slant on the attack to be implemented. To Hunt's mind the amendment carried a hint of genius about it, although there were other reasons he wanted the lieutenant’s plan to be successful.
The first was personal. They had met so very recently and Hunt was still only an acting lieutenant, whereas King, a seasoned man, had held his commission for all of six years. Yet he had done much to welcome Hunt into the wardroom, and proved not too proud to befriend what many would regard as a jumped up midshipman.
And there were more practical grounds. Since joining the inshore squadron, all aboard Prometheus were becoming increasingly frustrated by the succession of coasters that regularly risked the short passage from Marseilles to Toulon; something which had clearly inspired King in his scheme. The runners made their move by night, and at all stages of the moon, relying heavily on protection from the concealed rocks, shallow waters and devilish currents that haunted the area while, nearer to the port, both field and permanent shore batteries kept the larger ships of war at bay.
There were breaks in the man-made defences, of course, although none that allowed a line-of-battleship to manoeuvre in safety. Smaller vessels might be brought in, but the rip remained strong; something that Hunt already knew all about. For any craft not under oars to approach the coast was dangerous, and little could be achieved without warning being given. But ships' boats under the cover of darkness were a different matter and so, at the admiral's consent, he and Franklin, as well as fifty or so of Prometheus' prime seamen, had spent the previous evenings in the cold, open cutters while they negotiated an area already remembered by the British Navy as the site of one of their more ignominious defeats.
They would in no way be avenging the rout of almost sixty years ago, however; all any of Hunt's blackened faced men hoped for was to snap up a coaster, preferably one carrying valuable spars, ordinance or other bulky supplies for the shipping at Toulon. These were items less suited to the long, overland journey, yet desperately needed by the French fleet.
But at that moment his potential prey's cargo was of little concern to Acting Lieutenant Hunt. Despite his temporary status, he was in command of the operation, Fran
klin being of the same rank but lacking exactly nine days' seniority. To Hunt it was far more important they should be successful.
Were he to carry off a smooth and slick capture of a small enemy vessel, perhaps a polacre or maybe a chasse marée it would, in turn, enable a far more ambitious plan to be launched. Such things could easily sway an undecided examination board, and see his commission confirmed: a result that would undoubtedly warrant the cold dark hours and constant danger the victory had cost.
But that was assuming there would be a victory. So far they had achieved nothing, each night having been spent running in towards the deadly rocks, then battling equally evil currents without the merest sliver of moon to assist. It had been four evenings of what he could only think of as monotonous peril; and that night, the fifth, looked like being no different. They might change the boat crews, but he and Franklin turned out on each occasion, as did their two midshipmen. And with no apparent end in sight, he knew the other three were getting just as tired of the process as he was.
“Take her back to the Two Brothers,” he said without any attempt at the French name for the twin rocks. Brown, who sat beside him in the cutter's stern sheets, duly called an order out to the rowers, before pressing the tiller across. They were once more reaching the small headland that marked the westward end of their watch, and would now spend the next twenty minutes doggedly pulling back in roughly the opposite direction. If there had been a convenient bay in which to shelter, matters would have been very much easier, but the coastline was as dangerous as the current, and they could only truly consider themselves safe while their boat was in motion. The lad brought the cutter's head round to face the eastward boundary of their patrol, and Hunt resigned himself to yet one more leg. Then, five minutes later, one of the seamen broke the silence.
“I think I can make out a ship aft, sir.” It was only a brief comment but spoken by Flint, who was pulling stroke, had the effect of lifting the young officer free of his apathy. Both he and Brown turned in their seats and, sure enough, there was the slightly darker mass of a vessel under sail closing on them from astern.
“Take us inshore, and row easy,” Hunt hissed, and the cutter began to turn immediately, her way falling off as she encountered the contrary current. Franklin was further to the east: he must also spot the vessel, although it would be harder for his boat to arrive in time for a simultaneous attack. So be it, Hunt had more than enough to overwhelm the crew of a normal sized coaster. Especially one in the midst of considerable navigational difficulties, that was also trying to avoid the dangers of a British inshore squadron.
“Bring her round,” he whispered, and the boat turned once more until her bows faced out to sea. Then he could see the vessel in greater detail; a brig, probably no more than a hundred and fifty tons, and under easy sail. His cutter sat low in the water; it should be all but invisible, especially as any spare attention from the enemy's lookout would be spent watching for an attack from seaward, and Hunt felt strangely confident as he gave a nod to Flint sitting opposite.
The boat began to accelerate across the rip. Their quarry had passed: they would be taking her from behind, which was the ideal station, especially when Franklin's cutter should be in the perfect position to lead an attack from the bows. Hunt crouched low on his seat; there was no need to say anything: all aboard knew their tasks well enough. Each was armed with a cutlass, no firearms having been issued as it was hoped the exercise might be carried out in relative silence. But the coaster would only be carrying a crew of ten, fifteen at the most; a show of force was probably all that would be needed. And it was strange that, as they shot forward through the crested seas, all feelings of cold had left him completely.
* * *
They were spotted when Hunt's cutter was within musket range of the enemy, a fact both announced and demonstrated by the discharge of a firearm from the brig's quarterdeck. The shot ran true and scored a hit, landing with a solid thud, square in the centre of the boat and in front of the two officers, after presumably neatly dividing the banks of rowers. But no one paid any attention; their little craft was speeding forward under the combined strength of eight powerful men, and soon drew alongside the brig's larboard quarter.
Sanders, who had been rowing behind Flint, took a grip on the counter while a figure only dimly seen at the bows locked on with a boat hook. Between them they secured the cutter while the rest of its crew swarmed up the brig's side. Hunt and Brown stood ready to take their turn, the former momentarily relieved that he had specified a force of able seamen, rather than any bootnecks. Then a space became clear; the two young officers jumped, and began scrambling up the vessel's tiny quarter gallery.
They were over the bulwark and standing on the quarterdeck in seconds where, despite the darkness, a fight was already in full flow. Flint had no sword but could just be seen slugging it out in true brawler's fashion: as they watched the British seaman knocked his uniformed opponent out cold with a powerful fist. But further French were coming from below and forward, all apparently clambering to get their hands on the boarders.
Hunt drew his hanger before pushing his way forward and soon had engaged with a heavily set seaman who carried what looked like a wooden belaying pin. His opponent boasted a magnificent moustache, which was almost a better defining mark than the darkened faces of the British but, though undoubtedly strong, he was also slow. After parrying two strikes, Hunt was able to fell him with an unconventional blow from his sword, smacking the man square in the face with the full power of his right arm behind the weapon's steel guard. Then came a cheer, followed by the sound of rushing feet from the forecastle; Franklin's men must be boarding, and the added force would surely quench any vestige of resistance in the French. And so it proved; in no time the brig's crew were subdued, allowing themselves to be roughly disarmed and secured in small groups on the main deck.
“Brown, take the wheel,” Hunt snapped at the nearby midshipman adding, “Belay that light,” to Sanders, one of the last to board, who was now fiddling with a closed lantern. Franklin emerged out of the gloom, a bright, and apparently unused, boarding cutlass in his hand.
“The ship is ours, Tony,” the older officer told him, his teeth shining in triumph. “Both cutters are secure and I've posted men at the braces; we can alter course whenever you wishes.”
“Thank you for that,” Hunt replied. “And your prompt attention; you came in the nick of time.” Franklin muttered something depreciating, although Hunt chose not to listen. He had nothing against the man, and his assistance had indeed been welcome, but there was something in his manner that told Hunt he was not a conventional fighting officer. He peered forward; the deadly pair of rocks that sat at the end of the nearby headland were growing close and he must make sure the whole episode did not end in foolish disaster.
“Port your helm,” he called to the midshipman at the wheel. “Take her five points to starboard.”
His order was repeated and the brig turned as sweetly as if she had been sailing under the union flag all her life. Under stars alone it was unlikely anyone ashore had noticed their capture and they should be comfortably over the horizon or at least unidentifiable by morning. But the greatest satisfaction to Hunt lay in his personal success. His cutter had led the attack and now there would be a trophy to dangle before the examination board while, with an enemy coaster in British hands, nothing remained to stop King's addition to the plan being implemented. The young officer realised he was grinning inanely in the near darkness and quickly assumed a more suitable expression; one worthy of a cool headed commander at the conclusion of a pleasing operation. But the truth was, he had seldom felt happier.
* * *
“I think we must all congratulate Mr Hunt and Mr Franklin,” the captain told them in the early hours of the following morning. “Not forgetting Mr Brown, of course,” he added, with a nod to the ginger haired midshipman who still boasted a fair amount of burnt cork on his face. “A well found brig loaded with general stores includ
ing, I am led to believe, powder, which will be ideal for what we have in mind. And, with luck, the officers captured will enlighten us further as to the state of play ashore – providing our questions are worded correctly, of course.”
Banks was seated at the head of the long dining table, with Caulfield on his right and the remaining officers to either side. These included all but one of those who were involved in the previous night's action.
“Which reminds me, have the brig's officers been taken to the flag?” The captain asked.
“Yes, sir; they were transferred not half an hour ago,” Caulfield told him. “There are also eighteen seamen uninjured; who are being held below, although one appears keen for service with the king. The three wounded are with Mr Manning; he reports them to be in no immediate danger. None of our men reported injury.”
“Very good,” Banks grunted. “And the prize?”
“I have appointed Mr Adams in temporary charge, sir,” Caulfield replied. “He was the other midshipman involved and is experienced enough to keep her from prying eyes for the rest of the morrow.”
The captain nodded, pleased that his second in command was proving as solid as ever. “We have to await confirmation that the vessel is suitable,” Banks continued. “Doubtless the admiral will send a party to inspect her during the day. But I would be so bold as to predict tonight's operation will be conducted according to Mr King's amendment, and we should all offer him our vote of thanks.”
King flushed deeply as the officers around him rumbled in approval, while some thumped the polished wood of the table to emphasise their support.