HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  The fact that he could effectively forget about the frigates was welcomed. Banks had enjoyed the brief period of commanding a small squadron, but it was far easier to concentrate on his own ship exclusively. Now he felt able to focus his mind on a single problem and, despite the obvious danger, was actually enjoying himself.

  The ideal scenario would be for all the French to leave harbour, and head south for the open sea. Prometheus, then Seahorse, would allow them past, before trailing behind and remaining in contact while Narcissus, the second frigate, was sent to take word to Nelson. Of course the enemy may decide otherwise; his own ship was currently lying less than three miles off their potential path; even at night, and in such dreadful weather, it would take no more than an hour's work for the French to account for her, as well as the other two British vessels waiting outside the harbour. Such a powerful fleet would only suffer slight damage by such an encounter, and then be free to go wherever they wished without fear of report, so far less risk of running in with the bulk of the British force.

  But Banks thought not, and neither did he consider it likely the enemy were leaving their inner harbour merely for heavy weather drill. Their navy's lack of equipment was legendary: he doubted any admiral would willingly take his ships to sea on such a filthy night simply for that purpose. And he was equally certain his opposite number would decline even a minor action, were he intending to leave harbour for good. That same dank, dark rain that was making their lives so very horrible would be affecting the French every bit as much, and he was sure they had chosen the conditions in the hope of making their move as secret as possible.

  Besides, for the enemy to sail was the one scenario Nelson wanted above anything else, as well as being a fundamental requirement if both forces were to be brought together in battle. And the more Banks considered it, the more likely it seemed he was about to witness the entire French fleet actually leaving harbour. But the final, and deciding factor was far more subtle, and one that Banks hesitated to admit, even to himself. It might mean exposing his ship to further danger, but he could not help but think how splendid it would be if he were able to confirm the news to Nelson personally.

  * * *

  A little later they were almost a mile into the outer road of Toulon and Caulfield, for one, was feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The batteries on both headlands had set up a murderous fire when they entered but, due mainly to their passing through while visibility was bad, Prometheus took little damage. It would be foolish to expect the same luck when they made to leave, however, and this was not a prospect the first lieutenant relished. As for the French shipping, as far as anyone could tell, the main body was less than three miles off their larboard bow. The wind was well set for them, as it would be for Prometheus when the captain finally came to his senses and retreated. But allowing such a powerful enemy to chase them away was not Caulfield's idea of a peaceful night.

  Then again he was the first lieutenant, so his main concern was for the ship. All her needs, be they material or otherwise, rested upon his shoulders, and he had scant knowledge or understanding of the orders his captain had received from Admiral Nelson. But still he was relatively sure they did not require him to risk Prometheus unnecessarily, and that was exactly what Sir Richard appeared to be doing.

  The French were on the move; which was good news indeed, and Caulfield was astute enough to understand that an enemy in open waters was far easier to defeat than one that cowered in harbour. But why Prometheus must keep so close a watch over them remained a mystery. They might surely retire, then send word to the main force, while doing their utmost to remain in contact. This storm would not last forever; it was late October, and more could be expected but, with the remaining frigate's support, it should still be possible to keep track of such a body until the British fleet was brought up. And even if they were lost, the Med. was not so very large a place and had but a single exit. With the starting point set, Prometheus and one of the frigates would be able to begin the search while the others were sent for. And it would be strange if the enemy were not found and brought to battle, before being allowed to join up with more ships from the west coast of France.

  But all this was evidently beyond his captain, who seemed set on counting every last enemy vessel as they made their bid for freedom. Presumably he wished to be sure all had sailed, but such knowledge was of no value if not passed on. And that was what they risked. If Banks was determined to remain where they were, the chances of the French taking them were high. And then Prometheus would become the best informed British warship at the bottom of Toulon harbour.

  * * *

  Brehaut's thoughts were not so reasoned, but generally ran on similar lines. Sir Richard Banks was mad: there was absolutely no other conclusion to be drawn. As sailing master, he was entrusted with the safety of the ship; for the calculations that saw her to every destination without harm and, on most occasions, actual control if manoeuvring amid navigational hazards or when under fire. The captain retained overall command, of course, and it was not unknown for the ship to be ordered into situations where Brehaut, seaman first and a fighter a long way second, would never have taken her. But usually there was a modicum of sense in the action. To take an enemy or avoid defeat: something worthwhile to balance the risk they were running. Venturing this deeply into a French port at night, during a storm, and while a positive fleet of warships were heading out to sea, was blatant folly, and the sailing master was very nearly in despair.

  * * *

  But, on the lower deck, feelings were very different. Of all aboard Prometheus, the men who served the thirty-two pounders were probably the least well informed, although what could be gleaned by an occasional glimpse through a gun port was actually enough to hearten the majority.

  There were the French, their hated enemy, and a vast number of them: all ostensibly waiting to be taken. One or two of the brighter hands may have worried over the odds, but the bulk held ultimate confidence in their ship and her officers. They may understand little about the current situation, but were accustomed to victory. And, if their captain had placed them so, he must be confident either of support, or some other way of foiling the devils, which was all they needed to know.

  Actually the buzz was quite specific; Nelson was bound to be in the vicinity; perhaps Prometheus had been ordered in with the express intention of flushing the enemy out, in the same manner a single ferret might be sent to purge a colony of rabbits. And there was about to be a battle: that also cheered them greatly, for most were inwardly certain it would be won.

  Only a few had doubts; only a few thought further than a group of Frenchmen, apparently ripe for the picking, and those that did were working on scant information. They knew nothing of Agincourt Sound, or that most of the British ships were likely to be more than two hundred miles away, and taking on wood and water. But they were aware that neither sight nor sound of any other friendly vessel had been made for a good while. And some even suspected Prometheus to be the only ship of substance currently in the area.

  Flint was one of the latter. He had lived long enough and through sufficient scrapes to recognise a tricky situation when he saw one. The wind was fair for them to leave, but to do so would mean tacking in front of the enemy, and it would be strange if such an action did not bring the wrath of what he could tell was a significant force about their necks. But strangely this did not dampen his spirits, in fact he had not felt so good for many months. There was a whole French fleet out there while his ship – and he guessed his ship alone – was veritably bearding them in their own harbour.

  Since the attack in the coaster, his condition had worsened, and was starting to become well known – it being difficult to hide the more visible signs of illness from those living in such proximity. Little had been said, and only slight considerations made when doling out food or extra duties, but still he feared it generally accepted he would soon be leaving. He had retained his position as head of the mess, and enjoyed being with the men althoug
h, even without the surgeon's glum forecast, Flint was aware the time he had left aboard a warship was limited. That evening might have started like any other, but had since developed to the point where he could see what appeared to be one hell of a scrap in the offing. He remained very much of the opinion it would be better to go down fighting. And, for whatever reason the captain might have, there seemed every likelihood they were all about to do exactly that.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Any sign of Seahorse?” Caulfield called to the masthead, and Banks was forced to suppress a start. In truth, he was mildly shocked that the question had even been asked, and such an obvious indication of his first lieutenant's concern was the first thing that made him reassess the situation. He looked across to where the other officers had gathered next to the binnacle. Was it significant that none were choosing to stand by him?

  “Nuffin' beyond the cape, sir.” the lookout reported dolefully. “An' that's all but covered in cloud at present,” he continued.

  But as Prometheus edged ever nearer, the dark mass of the French battle fleet was becoming clearer to those on the quarterdeck, and Banks found his breathing growing shallow as he realised their strength. They were also coming devilishly close and, for the first time that night, he wondered if some ghastly mistake had been made.

  One of his intentions had been to tempt them out of harbour; to use his ship as a lure: something that might sway a hesitant commander into taking his fleet to sea. That purpose had been served some while ago and, if he were honest, it would only have been necessary to patrol about the very edges of the outer harbour to do so. Then Banks remembered blithely telling himself that Prometheus would be ignored: brushed aside by the French admiral who would have more interest in seeing his charges safely to sea. But now as he looked that possibility seemed highly unlikely; the leading ship could even be a three decker, and he seriously wondered if the enemy really would allow a prime English liner to be left by the wayside, as it were.

  However, the French should still be ignorant of Nelson's current position. For them to delay long enough to wipe out even a single ship would be foolish if doing so brought the might of the British fleet down upon them. No, he must maintain his composure and, difficult though it may appear, stand firm while a truly massive body of enemy warships effectively passed in front of his nose.

  The wind was mainly north by north-west, ideal for those intending to leave harbour, as it would be for him, should he decide to run. But Prometheus was currently close hauled on the larboard tack, and creeping inexorably forward under reefed topsails alone. The eastern headland was too near for them to wear, and still avoid the batteries at Cape Carqueivanne, while inching even the minimal amount they were to the west, would only bring them closer to the line of ships that were now making their way cautiously south. It could be done, Banks decided, and his instinct that the French were as much under orders not to engage as he was, remained strong, although the sight of a British warship so temptingly close, especially one with her bows exposed in the act of tacking, may well prove a temptation too hard to ignore.

  “Never been so near to a Frenchie afore,” one of the nearby carronade crew commented curtly. “Not without it endin' in tears.”

  “Silence, there!” Caulfield bellowed, although many aboard the British liner would have sympathised with the sentiment. The leading French ship was closing steadily. Their column still lay a good distance to larboard, but soon Banks would have no choice whether to stay or not: his exit would be effectively blocked until the French were clear of the harbour.

  But then it was necessary to remain where he was for a while longer, certainly if he wished to check exactly what had sailed. And there was now the possibility that, were he to turn and run or not, Prometheus might still be caught.

  He leant back and raised his hands to his mouth as an improvised speaking trumpet. “Masthead, what do you make of the harbour?”

  There was a pause, and all aboard seemed primed for the response. Then came the squeaky voice of a midshipman.

  “Still covered by cloud, sir,” the lad piped. “We'll have to go a deal further to be sure.”

  Banks gave no reply, and indeed had never felt the loneliness of command more acutely. He was proud of his ship, and thought her able to outrun any of a similar size in normal circumstances. But when facing such a force in their own waters, and as heavy frigates were likely to be involved, he was not so sure. In fact, at that point there was little he was certain of, and it slowly began to dawn on him that he may well have come to the wrong decision.

  He had done so in the past, of course: many times during what was now a long career, although this ran far deeper than a poor choice of anchorage or calling for the wrong sail. And it was then that he fully understood the next half hour would likely take the ship, and possibly his life.

  The rain had held off for some time; a few stars were even starting to appear and, in the improving light, he could make out the force he faced more clearly. A cold shiver of doubt ran down his spine; he had been convinced the enemy would either be leaving harbour, or remaining in the inner road, but what if there had been another option? What if it had never been their aim to set sail en masse, but really were intending an exercise in the spacious waters of the outer road? And if such a thing was on the French Admiral's mind, would it not be logical to feint a departure, especially if such a move might fool the annoying British ship-of-the-line that seemed determined to dog their every movement?

  If the main bulk of the British battle fleet had been there to support him, Banks supposed there would have been little wrong in his actions. Perhaps he had been part of a powerful force for too long, and not fully appreciated how precarious his position really was. He had wished to be certain none were left in harbour, and wanted even more to impress Nelson. But, whatever his reasons, it had been a fool's action to venture so far into enemy territory.

  The bleak reality seemed plain enough now and, when viewed by others in retrospect, would always appear to have been so. In a moment of chilling foresight he could imagine his fellow officers reading of his defeat in the Naval Chronicle, and shaking their heads in sorrow at such folly. But they would never know the certainty that had led him to such a disastrous situation; no one would ever fully understand.

  He felt the need to pace the deck but stopped himself from doing so, if only to retain some credibility in front of those about him. Inwardly he was becoming more certain of his mistake; it might have been made through arrogance, pride or plain stupidity but there was no excusing the end result. If the French chose to turn now, his ship would be neatly taken, with none of the enemy even needing to step beyond the safety of their own shore batteries. And the only person he could blame was himself.

  * * *

  “Leading ship is turning to larboard,” the lookout at the main reported, although all on deck saw her change of rig, and the glow of the signal from her poop was unmistakable.

  “Prepare to tack,” Banks responded. There was room to wear ship, but that would take him perilously close to land, and the batteries installed there. He was likely to be trapped between the shore emplacements and the oncoming French, so was far better to seize the initiative and make a move towards them. Then he remembered Prometheus was still under reefed topsails, and had to stop himself from stamping his foot on the deck in rage. What a fool he had been – why had he let his mind become so set on one objective? Did he not know the dangers of an enemy harbour? The manoeuvre would be that much slower – that much more hazardous; canvas could only be added when it was fully completed and, for probably the first time since a midshipman, Banks had to refrain from thrusting his hands into his pockets.

  “Take her round to larboard, if you please, Mr Brehaut.” He cleared his throat. “You have the conn.”

  Despite his anger, the last order had actually been spoken in a moderate tone, and was in no way unusual. For the sailing master to have charge of the ship, whether she be in action or not, was cus
tomary; no one would think any less of him for handing over control. But Banks knew the true reason behind the request, and his personal shame increased further.

  “Deck there, I have the harbour!” the midshipman at the masthead squeaked suddenly, as Brehaut began to call out the orders that would shortly see Prometheus in irons. “No ships of any merit appear to be present,” the lad continued. “There are the three in ordinary we have spotted before, and two that need repair; otherwise only those on the slips and the big Indiaman what we thinks to be crank.”

  There was some consolation in that, Banks supposed. At least he had obtained the all important information, although such intelligence only became of value when it was passed on. Besides, he was already sure the French were not intending to sail for good. Whoever was in command had simply taken them into the outer road for exercise, with perhaps the chance of dealing with one of those annoying British blockaders into the bargain. And he had played right into their hands.

  The rain was stopping. Banks watched as Brehaut calmly turned the ship in the night air that was becoming clearer by the second. The first Frenchman slowly crept towards Prometheus' larboard bow as the British liner was heaved through the wind and, now that he had passed over command, Banks instantly became critical. Thinking over the problem again, he decided that more sail might have been added, allowing Prometheus to gather speed before attempting the manoeuvre. But then Brehaut probably knew better, he told himself broodingly. After all, it was his own orders that placed them so far in; shaking out reefs and adding sail would only have made their eventual escape completely impossible.

  “There she goes!” an unknown voice piped up from forward, and Banks was in time to see the last of the flames from the first Frenchman's bow chasers. One shot hit them with a sound smack to their prow, but Prometheus was starting to turn now, she would soon be on the starboard tack, and able to bear away.