HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  The lad, though clearly disappointed, allowed himself to be shepherded into the cutter behind its former crew, then King turned back to Hunt.

  “Very well, Tony; the wind is in our favour,” he said, smiling suddenly. “For now at least; what say we square away?”

  Hunt looked his confusion. “But you must take the cutter back to the ship,” he protested. “I am to continue alone.”

  “Young Adams is competent enough for such a task,” King's temper was improving with every second and he felt it would not take much to make him laugh out loud. “And as Flint said, the mission called for volunteers...”

  * * *

  “Where is Mr King?” Caulfield demanded of a flustered Adams as soon as the young man appeared through Prometheus' entry port.

  “H-he has command of the prize,” the midshipman stammered in reply.

  “What in God's name...” The first lieutenant seemed to physically rear up at the news, and the boy added a hasty, “sir.”

  “Is there a problem, Michael?” It was a quiet voice, and one that belonged to the only person permanently allowed address the first lieutenant so. Caulfield turned to see Captain Banks directly behind him, and went to explain. But they were on deck; Adams and his men having just disembarked from the cutter, and hardly private.

  “Mr King has remained with the prize, sir.” Caulfield told the captain hotly, although Banks gave no visible reaction to the news.

  “I see,” he replied. “Then we shall be short of an officer commanding the lower guns.”

  “Indeed we will, sir,” Caulfield agreed his anger mounting. Whatever his part in planning the attack, King had no business in absenting himself from his ship, especially when they were about to go into action. Such an act must surely be the subject of a court martial. But as he turned to express his disgust to the captain he could tell there would be no support from that quarter. Banks was anything but cross and might even have been smiling slightly. He certainly bore the air of one who had expected nothing less.

  * * *

  King and Hunt stood together on the brig's tiny quarterdeck. There was no moon, and none of any merit was expected, while the masthead lantern had been doused over an hour before. But the stars were sufficiently bright to reveal all that was needed to be seen within the craft and, when clear vision really mattered, there would be the lights of the port they were intending to attack.

  On leaving the cutter, the brig had sailed to the north west, until it reached the coast in roughly the same position it was captured, not quite twenty-four hours before. And now they were steering on a similar course: Cape Sicié stood out boldly to larboard while, almost directly ahead, the peaks of the Deux frères were in plain sight, with phosphorescent water surging between the two massive rocks, making the hazard more obvious. At the same time, further out to sea and considerably off their starboard bow, the loom of a familiar British third rate could be seen as she came sweeping down towards them. The ship was on the larboard tack and about as close inshore as one of her bulk might manage. No captain would risk his vessel so without a target in mind and, if there were eyes on shore, the little brig would appear to be exactly that.

  “Tide is near perfect – such as it is in the Med., and the wind will serve for the present,” Hunt murmured. They were the first words that had passed between the two officers for some time. Even when Prometheus was first sighted, an event signalled by Cross, the midshipman, releasing something between a shout and a shriek, neither had spoken.

  “Aye,” King agreed, after considering for a moment longer. “Though it will hardly serve as well when we are inside the bay.”

  Indeed, the breeze was fair and just on their beam, but would be dead against them when it came to encountering shipping to the southern side of the harbour. The wind commonly backed with the chill of night, but both were experienced seamen and needed no glass to tell them when a change was due. And they were equally aware that, should the temperature remain high, or some other quirk of nature keep matters as they were, it might spell the difference between success and failure. Or, to be brutally accurate, whether they lived or died.

  “Prometheus is wearing,” Cross squeaked again and, sure enough, they could make out the mighty liner as she began to bear round. Unseen hands gathered in her forecourse, and the ship herself seemed to have taken on an abstract entity that had nothing to do with the home and workplace they all knew so well.

  “Then we may expect attention at any moment,” King grunted.

  “For what we are about to receive,” Hunt added in heavy irony. Then, even as the words were spoken, it happened.

  A series of lights that were painfully bright ran down the side of the liner, causing all aboard the smaller vessel to wince in horror. A second or so's pause, then the sea ahead of them was torn up as if struck by a dozen separate whirlwinds, while the whole devastating display was accompanied by the deep-throated roar as the sound of a battleship in anger reached them.

  “Steady, lads,” Flint's voice came from the forecastle, and the nervous chatter of the brig's crew gradually diminished. The experience of being aboard an unknown vessel, especially one so recently taken from the French, had already caused a deal of excitement. King was glad to see that Flint, dependable as ever, was keeping control. But now Prometheus was apparently firing upon them, it would be strange if at least one of their number did not start to regret his decision to volunteer. All were well primed and expected nothing less but when the broadside rolled out, even King was aware of his heartbeat increasing.

  They were making good speed though, and would soon be in the lee of the two rocks ahead. Banks was playing his hand well: Prometheus had continued to turn and was now heaving to, with her broadside facing considerably forward of the little craft. Clearly he was intending to stand off and await their arrival. Had they really been a blockade runner, it would have been the ideal position for a powerful enemy to take up. For them to reach harbour and apparent safety, the coaster must pass directly through the arc of a deadly barrage and, however friendly the ship might actually be, it was not a pleasant prospect.

  The possibility of the battleship firing blank charges had been mooted, although such a ruse would be easily spotted from the shore, and King wanted the engagement to appear as authentic as possible. That had been during a casual discussion amongst fellow officers who were also his friends, with the decision taken amid the reassuring solidity of Prometheus' great cabin. Now, as he stood on the frail coaster's deck and was about to receive a battleship's broadside for the second time, he wondered if he should not have been quite so insistent. It would only take one gun captain, either out of spite or through mishap, to lay their weapon slightly askew and the brig would be seriously damaged. They might even have to call off the entire attack although, with several tons of powder aboard, the outcome could be considerably worse.

  “Starboard your helm,” Hunt grunted, and the oncoming rocks moved steadily across their bow, while the brig eased in gently towards the shore and found the shallow water only she was able to traverse.

  King remained silent; his last minute decision to join the expedition had rather thrown out the order of command. He was the senior officer present and, as the instigator of the plan, had every right to take control of further proceedings, although an inward sense of justice could not be ignored. Hunt had originally volunteered to lead, and it was a position confirmed by both the captain and, ultimately, Admiral Nelson himself. Whatever the outcome of tonight's escapade, King would have some explaining to do, but before then it should be decided between themselves exactly who was in charge.

  He cursed inwardly; forcing himself along had been an impulsive, yet idiotic act; he could see that now. In taking it, he had potentially wrecked the mission and whatever remained of his career. Hunt and he were friends, they worked well together, at least until that point. But eventually one must defer to the other, and any argument or conflict would only cause confusion. He turned to the younger man, and
went to speak, but before he could, Hunt settled everything.

  “Do you wish us to call for soundings, Tom?” he asked, and King felt the relief flow about him like warm water added to a cold bath.

  “With the current taking us so, we have plenty of depth,” he replied. “And such an action might betray our caution to those watching from the shore.”

  “You do not mind my asking?” Hunt enquired gently. “This is my first such mission, and I welcome your command.”

  “I do not mind at all,” King told him before adding a quieter, “thank you.”

  * * *

  He wasn't exactly looking to go in a blaze of glory. In fact, despite his somewhat rash behaviour of late, Flint still retained a very healthy fear of death. He would actually have preferred to see that night out, and then spend the next with his mates in the mess. But the growing pain and hunger – food remained difficult to handle – had started to wear him down. And he was also uncomfortably aware that, however much he might argue against it, Mr Manning would soon be placing him in a transport home.

  But it would not be home – England had long ceased to represent any such image to him and Flint was set upon a totally different tack. Whatever vessel carried him from active service was bound to call at Gibraltar or Malta. The former was by far the more likely, but both were garrison towns and, even though he would be many miles from his native Sussex, he could be more certain of finding a hospital berth in either than the place of his birth.

  “Queer trick, being fired upon by the barky,” Jameson sniffed, and Flint smiled vaguely in reply. The lad had been one of the more conventional volunteers; he stepped forward when asked, and was chosen as an experienced topman; someone who possessed the skills likely to be in demand during that night's activities. Flint, who also tried to join at that stage, had not worked aloft for some while, and was ignored.

  Yet Jameson's presence was partly the reason he forced himself aboard. The two had shipped together for almost ten years, weathering many kinds of excitement, from fleet actions, to single ship engagements; storms, groundings and even a mutiny. Flint's support and their shared experiences had boosted Jameson from a blinking-eyed volunteer third class to his present position as one of the most respected of seamen, whereas Flint remained in his apparently permanent able status. But the personal progression from Jameson's sea daddy to tie mate was more important to him than any official rank and, as the two were about to become separated for what must be forever, he had been determined to accompany him on this final adventure. One more time when they shared the excitement of action, and let a draught of danger quench any fears he may have of his own impending death.

  It was not something he could share with Jameson. Even now, Flint doubted if someone so young and full of life would have an inkling of what his friend would shortly face. But face it he must and, if the chance were given, would rather do so alongside those he cared for. And, however much a future night with his messmates appealed, Flint was also philosophical enough accept it might as well be that evening as any.

  * * *

  Now the two jagged outposts of rock were growing rapidly nearer – a true measure of the little vessel's pace although, to starboard, Prometheus remained in a position to fire upon them when they drew level. Before her refit, the battleship's gunners had boasted about releasing two broadsides in as many minutes. They were out of practice now though, and speed was anything but important. Still, the British ship must fire within a reasonable time, if only to avert suspicion.

  Then the brig was pulled to one side by an eddying current as the Deux frères passed to starboard, momentarily shielding the small craft from the third rate's anger. Her earlier turn had taken the battleship a little further off, but not so far as to rob the British gunners of any degree of accuracy. And it was just as the coaster was emerging from the granite shelter that Prometheus spoke again.

  King found himself gasping as the shots fell to either side, with spray coming aboard, to the obvious consternation of the hands on the forecastle. But although neatly straddled, the prize remained untouched, and King was able to order her round and into the shallows that must see off even the most determined pursuer.

  “Biggest jack-in-the-box I've ever encountered,” Hunt stated glumly, and King grinned. The show was over, as far as Prometheus was concerned. The battleship would continue to pursue them, but must stand off as they were reaching the point where the first shore batteries were positioned. Shot thrown from the land could be counted on to fly that much further and with greater accuracy than anything a third rate could return, and stone built embrasures were stronger than the defences of a wooden warship.

  But King knew Banks would not be put off by such statistics, and neither was he withdrawing by any means. In company with Belleisle, who was due to make an appearance at any moment, Prometheus was actually intending to draw the shore batteries' fire. It was hoped the attentions of two Royal Navy vessels would befuddle the issue; that their presence alone might distract any attention the French gave to one small brig. In fact, as King had blithely predicted, the coaster could expect to be allowed through in the confusion. There may be challenging signals, and their lack of response was bound to cause doubt, but one that had faced the anger of British liners must be given a deal of leeway. If he could only ease the prize past what Brehaut's captured charts labelled the Pointe du Rascas, a major problem would have been solved.

  There was one significant flaw in his plan, however; he was assuming the French had not guessed what they were about. For all he knew, the coaster's capture had been spotted. At that very moment, as his vulnerable little brig steered through the shallows, aiming for the apparent safety of shore based enemy defences, their gunners might be lining up heavy weapons and simply waiting for the order to open fire.

  There was more than two miles to cover before then, and they would be under threat while they did. From a good way off Prometheus chanced another broadside, but her shot fell comfortably short and, so intently was he watching for a sign of action from the shore, King barely heard the deep rumble of the battleship's fire.

  “So far, so good,” Hunt mumbled, and it was clear he was also concentrating solely on the batteries. Then a flash of light from the nearest emplacement made them all jump, and was instantly followed by more until the entire battery apparently erupted in a sea of flame.

  * * *

  But they were not the target. The shots must have passed perilously close, and would be heavy; each probably thirty-six pounds and, allowing for the French method of weighing ordinance, possibly more. However the brig sailed on in relative safety, although Prometheus, about half a mile further out, was neatly straddled.

  It was a good start, King decided. If those on shore believed the British had control of the coaster, that fire would have been directed at them. All plans for attacking the port must then be abandoned while the vessel on which he currently stood would be lucky not to find herself in a thousand separate pieces. At least the French were in doubt and, as the all important headland was now less than a mile off, there was not a great deal of time for them to consider the matter further.

  “There's a light, sir!” It was Cross; the midshipman was standing on the forecastle and pointing eagerly over the larboard bow. Sure enough, King could make out the eerie glow of a blue lamp that came from the Pointe du Rascas, and appeared to be sited just above a battery. The signal was shielded once, before disappearing completely as another barrage followed. King had been focusing intensely on the light, so the savage brightness of cannon fire blinded him temporarily. Once more Prometheus was the target, although this time her position had been poorly estimated, and the shots fell short.

  King turned to Hunt. “There is no point in replying to their signal,” he said firmly, aware that the temptation was unbelievably strong. Both men knew to predict the combination of lights, colour and station that made up that evening's response was all but impossible, and a wrong answer must immediately confirm any dou
bts the enemy may be harbouring. Even if the brig was following another vessel, and copied her reply, provisions were probably in place for such an eventuality.

  No, it was surely better to say nothing. But now a recognition signal had been ignored, they were more likely to receive fire from the shore and, with the Pointe du Rascas growing ever closer, King's excitement was at the stage when he was finding it hard to stay still.

  Hunt was holding his watch close to the dim light of the binnacle. “The French took six minutes to reload,” he announced. King was surprised – if asked he would have estimated approximately half that time.

  The signal was repeated and, now that they were drawing into point blank range, it became harder than ever to ignore. Such a bright blue light was impossible to miss, and to fail to acknowledge or reply could be fatal. King remembered the hurried plans he had drawn up and explained to his captain. A brief outline had been forwarded to the admiral, and all agreed the scheme held merit if only, as Banks rather dourly pointed out, to remind the French the British were still there. But he had not thought out the problems of recognition signals properly, and simply believing the coaster being under chase would be enough now appeared to have been dangerously naïve.

  Then the waters in front of them erupted once more and, for one dreadful second, King feared they had been smoked.

  “It's Belleisle!” Hunt bellowed and King followed the direction of his pointed finger. Sure enough, the British two decker could be seen off their starboard bow, and worryingly close to the battery. To anyone on shore it would appear the coaster was her prey, whereas in reality she was fighting to reach the spot where her marines could be despatched. The ship was heeling significantly, but progress was being made, and she had loosened off a broadside, potentially at the brig, at just the right time. Hunt was peering at his watch again.

  “The French are due to fire at any time,” he muttered, “And we can only wait and wonder what target they will choose.”