HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  They might still report the matter to a superior, although none of the lads were certain who. Should they go directly to the captain or first lieutenant, or would a divisional officer be sufficient? Of them all, King appeared the most approachable and was the allocated senior lieutenant. But once that happened, once the terrible news of what they had done became fully known, they would be on a path far more unknown and dangerous than the wrath of any father or magistrate.

  The Articles of War were recited after divine service most Sundays. None implicitly referred to situations such as theirs, but a good few came close, and many cited death as the appropriate punishment. Each of the boys were also aware that, although designated as quarterdeck officers, they were about as junior, and inexperienced as was possible. Guidance would certainly be available, but if anyone mentioned a word to King it could start a process that would not end until they were all swinging from a fore topyard.

  But there was one apparently good aspect; Poppy had said nothing. Each boy was certain such a dreadful breach of discipline and law, both actual and moral, would not be overlooked or suppressed, so assumed she was either biding her time, or the incident meant little to her. None were so naïve as to hope for the latter however, and individually wanted to apologise; to assure her a terrible mistake had been made, and explain how the others were to blame for creating the entire wicked scenario. It was just a shame that no such opportunity ever presented.

  And so they continued in their crowded lives, welcoming the occasions when their newly acquired responsibilities gave temporary respite from guilt and worry, and only sometimes wondering when, and how, the whole darned affair would finally come to an end.

  * * *

  Nelson, and the bulk of the blockading force, had departed nine days before, and Banks was slowly becoming accustomed to his role as captain of the only British liner on station, as well as unofficial commodore to two fifth rate frigates. October had begun with one of the worst storms any of them could remember, although the weather stayed mercifully clement for his first week of independent command, with little cloud and clear, moonlit nights to bolster his confidence. But on that particular evening, heavy cover was closing in from the north west; the previous night's watch had been more hazardous, and with the moon now very much on the wane, he was not looking forward to the next eight hours.

  A movement to his left alerted him. Caulfield had just appeared and was ambling over to the binnacle with a cup of something hot and steaming in his hand. The first lieutenant was not officially on duty, but clearly intended seeing the dark hours out on the quarterdeck and Banks was silently grateful.

  They were on the eastern edge of the outer harbour. To the west, the sun was starting to dip below the headland of San Mandrier. The last of its beams were currently shining through the low, grey cloud that covered most of Toulon in a way that some probably found attractive. But Banks could see only potential fog and a good chance of rain. He was in sole command of the entire British force, with a substantial fleet of enemy warships anchored not seven miles off his larboard bow, and felt every need to be wary.

  The ship's bell sounded; the first dogwatch had barely half an hour to run and, no matter how close the enemy lay, Banks knew the ship would soon start to settle for the night. Some, who were fortunate enough to be classed with the idlers, might even be hoping for uninterrupted sleep, while those standing a watch should get at least four hours in their hammocks. It was only the senior officers, he told himself bitterly. It was only him, Caulfield, and maybe a couple of the others who would see the dangerous night out, and still be expected to function normally the following day. And as he thought, the darkness closed further about him, while the first drops of what was bound to turn into a torrent began to fall.

  A few minutes later King appeared, suitably dressed in oilskins and sou'wester, to take the next watch. Hands were summoned for the change and came up from the convivial fug of the 'tween decks to whine about the state of the weather, and there was the usual muttered comments and jokes as the new men took charge. Banks started to pace the quarterdeck, rubbing his hands together for warmth as he did, while wondering vaguely if he need send for David to bring his watchcoat. Prometheus was under reefed topsails alone and, on a broad reach against a mild wind, made little way. Ahead, the slightly darker mass of one of the frigates could be seen as she nosed ever nearer to the harbour entrance, and at any moment there would be a ranging shot from the battery on Pointe du Rascas. His servant appeared, unsummoned, and silently helped him on with a heavy cloak. Then, just as he was buttoning up the horn toggles, a light was seen from forward.

  But rather than the flash of gunfire that all had been expecting, this was no more than a dull blue glow. It emanated from the frigate ahead and was masked almost as soon as it appeared. Banks continued to watch though, and felt hypnotised as the flare was revealed twice more, before dying completely.

  “Signal from Seahorse,” Brown, the ginger haired midshipman, reported promptly, before sorting through the bundle of papers he had been clutching. It was one of the disadvantages of night communications: messages were liable to be more easily intercepted by the enemy. In theory, nothing could be learned without access to that day's cypher but, on such a duty as this and with the same content being repeated several times during an evening, it would not take a genius to work out what was said. And it was equally clear that Brown, the detailed signals officer for the next two hours, had yet to learn that night's schedule, so all on the quarterdeck were forced to remain in ignorance while he fumbled with his codes.

  “Enemy is making ready for sea,” he finally announced in a hesitant voice.

  “You are quite certain, Mr Brown?” King questioned.

  “Y-yes, sir,” the boy replied, adding, “it is definitely for today,” before peering uncertainly at the papers once more.

  “Take her three points to starboard,” Banks ordered, and the ship slowed slightly as the wind began to be taken before her beam. Making ready for sea could mean anything from crossing yards to actually setting sail, but it was their duty to ascertain which, and that would probably entail taking more than a few risks.

  “Ask Mr Franklin if he would be so good as to join us,” Caulfield this time, and a messenger shot from under the shelter of the poop, and made straight for the aft companionway.

  “Deck there, Seahorse is turning back for us,” the masthead reported, although there was still just about light enough to see as much from the deck.

  The acting lieutenant then appeared, along with Brehaut.

  “Three blue lights shown in succession, Mr Franklin,” Caulfield snapped, in lieu of a greeting. “What do you make of that?”

  The officer paused for no more than a second. “By today's code, the enemy would appear to be making ready for sea,” he said, with reassuring certainty. “Though not setting sail; that would be four lights. Did it come from one of the frigates, sir?”

  “It did,” Banks replied. “And I think we might prepare ourselves for a busy evening.”

  * * *

  Poppy also intended to be active. As soon as her secret was out, at least as far as her employers were concerned, she had known her time aboard Prometheus would be limited, and the excellent money she was making must end. And since announcing her condition, Mrs Manning was actually giving her more freedom. She might pretend to be hard, but Poppy was now allowed to come and go pretty much as she pleased. It was as if Mrs Manning no longer cared, which mildly worried her although she consoled herself with the thought that the old girl had known exactly what she was taking on when offering her the position.

  Working exclusively as a servant had not been not so bad, but Poppy liked earning money more. She had also strayed in the past, quite early into her employment in fact, and was taken back then. Besides, Mrs Manning claimed to be an experienced midwife, so properly appreciated the need for expectant mothers to be given special consideration. In fact Poppy was encouraged to lie down whenever possible.r />
  But she wasn't planning any rest that night, only a further chance to add to her funds, for Poppy was smart enough not to allow any opportunity pass her by. In a ship filled with comfort starved men, there was trade wherever she looked. Such activity would hardly go unnoticed though, and Poppy restricted her patrons to a select few that she had deemed trustworthy. But of late it had occurred to her a couple more might not go amiss. On some nights she was even without custom, and she wanted to make as much hay as possible while the sun still shone. Hence, there was a new fancy man booked for that evening, although this one came without recommendation and from an unexpected quarter.

  To date her trade had been plied almost exclusively amidst the foremast Jacks and marines of the lower deck, with only a single petty officer for variation. The venues varied, however; she had been smuggled into empty cabins and storerooms, dark areas of the orlop and once, with a gunner's mate, even the light room of the grand magazine. But until that night she had never been approached by any member of the wardroom staff, or invited to meet in the stewards' room. And this man was particularly insistent she should turn up, even to the extent of passing on one half of a pound note to see that she did.

  * * *

  “You don't seem so chipper, old cock,” Cranston told him with his customary bluntness. “Maybe another trip to the sawbones is in order?”

  Flint looked away, his eyes naturally falling on the small chunk of biscuit he had been aimlessly chewing on. As a matter of fact, this was as good as he had felt all day, and soon they would be clambering into their hammocks, which was probably the best time of all.

  He would not sleep of course – the nights when four hours could be spent in an agreeable coma had long since passed. But the lack of movement a prime tight hammock encouraged was preferable, even if he would later have to spend an age straightening up and easing his limbs back for work.

  “He's right,” Bleeden confirmed, and in a voice that was unusually serious. “You been looking crook a while now, and they're not putting you on no more boat duties, 'appen a spell in sickers is in order?”

  “Nothing more than a chill,” Flint replied before biting into his hard tack with all the appearance of enthusiasm. He ground the hard biscuit between his teeth, doing his best to appear nonchalant and at ease. But the eyes of his mess mates were alert. Each man at the table knew him better than any in the ship – any in his life when it came to it, and Flint sensed that none were being fooled.

  * * *

  “A Bible?” Poppy shrieked in disgust. “You want to read to me from a bleedin' Bible?”

  “I want to introduce you to the word of the Lord,” Kennedy corrected her in a far softer tone.

  “Well I've heard of some rum fancies in the past,” Poppy reflected. “An' I'm not sayin' I ain't prepared to put in a bit of effort to please my gentlemen...”

  “It's not for my pleasure, but your salvation,” The senior steward told her firmly. “You and I both know why you came here tonight, and that it can only condemn your soul to eternal damnation.”

  “Can't say I hold with such things, miself,” she snorted. “But if I did, I'd say there were already enough misery aboard this ship to need be afeared of any more.”

  The man looked at her with pity in his eyes. “I am truly sorry to hear you say so,” he said, “and sincerely believe I may help. Perhaps if we started by reading a little from Mark? His gospel is an excellent introduction to those coming to faith. Then we might move on to Matthew, who is more for the new believer?”

  “I ain't stayin' round to listen to no God botherer,” she declared. “You promised a quid for an hour of my time, and you'd better pay up...”

  The steward sighed, then reached in his jacket.

  “It's just not what I expected,” Poppy explained, as she accepted the other half of the note. “Not what I'm accustomed to; that's all.”

  “You could become accustomed to the Lord's teaching,” Kennedy tried again. “It would help; bring you away from your sin while granting eternal life. And I have paid for your time.”

  “No,” she told him. “Not me, I'm beyond help. But you're right, I suppose you haven't had your sixty minutes,” she conceded, and the stewards' expression lifted slightly. “Do you want to see a bit o' leg afore I go?”

  * * *

  Banks' prediction had proved totally correct. Three hours later, when the first watch was properly underway, the position had changed considerably, and it was becoming clear that few aboard Prometheus would be getting any sleep at all that night.

  “Enemy to larboard,” the forecastle lookout reported solidly, but he was only confirming that the leading ship, first spotted by his masthead colleagues some while back, was now visible from the deck.

  The first French vessel had set sail two hours before. Almost immediately the rest followed, and began edging out of the inner road during the second dogwatch, although scant progress was being made since. And they may not be intending to go further; the little jaunt might be nothing more than a chance for their admiral to give his men some heavy weather practice in the north of the outer harbour. But it was enough for Banks to have the ship cleared for action, and draw closer himself, but from the south. And the last few minutes were bringing developments that were increasing the heartbeats of all on the quarterdeck.

  The rain was still falling but in varying intensity, with short periods when it was almost clear, and proper sightings became possible. And it was through a succession of these, when reports from the fore and main mastheads gave tantalising fragments of information, that he pieced together a picture of the enemy's movements.

  It seemed the French ships were manoeuvring, although not in the usual manner of an exercise: some were actually remaining relatively stationary. Banks was still not convinced but as time went on, and further intelligence came through, it became increasingly obvious that the wider waters of the outer road were being used to collect and arrange the fleet into a specified sailing order. And, try as he might, Banks could only think of one reason for such tactics: they were intending to leave Toulon.

  At first he almost dismissed the thought as being wishful thinking. Were the French really proposing to flee, the act of forming up so near to land seemed unnecessary. But he was equally aware that the Royal Navy was rarely subjected to the indignity of a blockade, and had become accustomed to being the dominant power at sea. Consequently, British ships would normally take up fleet order much later, often beyond sight of land. But with the French spending far more time in harbour, and when a hostile force may lurk behind any horizon, assembling what was effectively a line of battle within safe waters was a sensible precaution. He must be sure though; they might be planning little more than dampening their canvas, but Banks was under Nelson's instructions to keep a close watch and that was exactly what he proposed to do.

  “I think we should take a closer look,” he said. “Bring her in, if you please, Mr Brehaut.”

  The sailing master responded instantly and, as the ship crept further into enemy territory, Banks became conscious of the increase in tension amongst the officers around him.

  Not that he was unaware of the risks, he told himself. Prometheus was sweeping in every bit as sweetly as if she were doing no more than approaching a friendly anchorage, but entering an enemy harbour, even one as wide and accommodating as Toulon, would always be a hazardous business. The wind may shift, and they could find themselves trapped. Or it might die completely leaving the ship, and all aboard her, to the less than tender mercies of gunboats and shore batteries. However, Banks was commanded by an admiral accustomed to taking chances, and one who expected as much from his fellow officers. In addition to a warning that the French had sailed, Nelson would want to know what, if anything, had been left behind while, should a significant number remain, a frigate must be detailed to keep watch.

  It was, he decided, an instance where intelligence was worth more than the vessel gaining it; if Prometheus were lost by his actions, it wo
uld be a personal disaster for him, but on a wider scale, such a risk was more than outweighed by what could be learned by exposing her to danger. And additional, if doubtful, reassurance lay elsewhere: were the French battleships undecided as to their course, a juicy British man-of-war lying temptingly within their reach might just be enough to entice them out further.

  * * *

  An hour later, Prometheus lay to the east and almost half a mile within the outer road: well inside enemy territory. The weather had grown far worse, however; rain now fell in sheets and heavy cloud obscured much of the nearby shore, although it also gave a measure of security. The French shore batteries were apparently surprised, and incensed, to find a British ship with the gall to enter their waters. There had been no response for several tantalising minutes, then both fortresses opened up with a series of barrages from either side of the wide bay. In clear conditions Prometheus might have been severely damaged but Banks kept to the middle channel, making the range long for both emplacements. The drifting fog also added another complication, as did the British ship's refusal to fire in return, and thus make herself a more defined target. But eventually the third rate slipped through without major damage, and was finally able to find safety, even if it were qualified. Prometheus was now clear of the two major batteries' arc of fire, but remained trapped inside an enemy's lair. Banks guessed they had one, perhaps two hours before a suitable reaction was organised – maybe gun boats sent in to harry them, or a temporary field battery set up that could bear upon his command. When that happened, Prometheus must leave, and then pass the heavy guns at the harbour mouth once more. And he could be certain that, this time, they would be ready for them.

  Seahorse had been recalled before Prometheus ventured in: the fifth rate being far too frail to face shore battery fire and there was little sense in risking two ships on the same mission. When last seen, the frigate was considerably over to the west and heading away. Night signals were basic at best, but Banks was confident Boyle, who had her command, would now be sheltering out of sight somewhere to the south west of Cape Sepet.