HMS Prometheus (The Fighting Sail Series Book 8)

by Alaric Bond

  Six bells rang, the watch was three-quarters over already; in little more than an hour Hunt would be enjoying his breakfast, safe in the knowledge that, apart from unforeseen circumstances, he would most definitely be dining in the wardroom for the rest of his time aboard Prometheus.

  But before that could happen, there was one brief but important procedure to go through. Towards the east, the sky had been lightening for some while and, just as the opening rays of a wintry sun broke through the gloom, the first lieutenant appeared on deck, his personal glass in hand.

  Hunt acknowledged his senior formally, and Caulfield responded with a touch to his own hat, although neither spoke. Daylight would be upon them in minutes, and could reveal anything from an enemy battle squadron to a fleet of French merchants ripe for the picking. But on that particular morning only one other vessel could be seen, and she was a brig that might, in theory, belong to a number of nations. The tattered ensign that was already flying said otherwise, however, and only confirmed what her rig, and the colour of her sails, had already told the two officers.

  “She's making the most of what wind there is,” Hunt commented as the small hull bobbed manfully a mile or so off their windward quarter. Caulfield nodded, but made no reply, although he continued to watch. The breeze was light; it came on both their starboard beams and appeared likely to increase. But the sighting, which could not have been more than a hundred and fifty tons, was under all possible sail, and healed markedly as she strove to overhaul them.

  “Our friend seems intent on a race,” the first lieutenant muttered. He had brought out his personal glass and was still studying the small craft. “I think we may hoist our own colours, Mr Hunt.”

  The sun was undoubtedly rising so there was nothing extraordinary in the request, but still Hunt felt he must have missed a significant point about the brig.

  Then Caulfield took a step back and snapped his glass closed. “She's carrying despatches,” he said.

  Hunt stared hard; the light was improving all the time and, even without using a telescope, he could now make out the distinguishing bunting that was blowing almost directly towards them. This must be one of the regular vessels that brought communications to and from Nelson off Toulon, he decided. The brig would have left Gibraltar three or four days before, and should reach the blockading fleet at least twenty-four hours ahead of Prometheus. In addition to official papers, she would be carrying personal mail, perhaps a few essential supplies, together with any officers or men who were to return to Admiral Nelson's force. Nothing unusual, nothing in any way of interest really, except that the first lieutenant had taken to staring at her through his glass once more.

  “She's signalling,” Caulfield said without surprise, and Hunt snapped to attention. Bentley, the duty signal midshipman was on hand, but Hunt's new position as official fifth and junior lieutenant carried additional responsibilities, one of which placed him in charge of all ship's communications.

  “Seven six nine; that would appear to be the private signal for today.” The wind's angle made identification difficult, and Bentley spoke hesitantly from the poop, while Caulfield looked at Hunt for confirmation.

  “Yes, that's today's code,” it was a different voice, and both lieutenants turned to see Franklin, who had joined them on the quarterdeck.

  “Very good, Mr Franklin,” Caulfield replied gently, noting the exchange of glances between the two officers. “Kindly see we make the appropriate response.”

  “One four seven over our number, Mr Bentley,” Franklin ordered, and the midshipman disappeared to do his bidding.

  “If they are charged with despatches no detours are permitted unless they be of a significant nature,” Caulfield mused. The brig was steadily drawing on them and now lay almost directly in front of the growing sun. “But kindly summon the captain, I believe she is intending to close on us after all.”

  * * *

  Once more Caulfield's instincts had proved correct. By the time Banks, clad in trousers, shirt and leather waistcoat under a quilted silk dressing gown, appeared on deck, the brig was already less than a cable off, and clearly intending to come alongside.

  “She's listed as Aries,” Caulfield told him. “A government charter, I know not who has command.”

  Banks gave an ill-tempered grunt. Whoever it was would be a lieutenant, or possibly a commander. They may be carrying news, or require something of Prometheus, but it could hardly be important. And his breakfast had been interrupted.

  “I think they wish to speak,” Caulfield continued, aware he might have upset his captain in some way.

  “Prometheus ahoy!” Despite being heavily distorted by a brass speaking trumpet, it was a young voice. And the slight figure that held it, apparently the brig's captain, looked less than eighteen.

  “What brig is that?” Banks responded in a solid bellow that needed no assistance. He knew the answer but it was first light and his mood made him pedantic.

  “His Majesty's Hired Vessel Aries; my name is Jefferson: we are three days out of Gibraltar.”

  Three days; they had made a good passage, and were obviously keen to continue as the brig was steadily headreaching on the third rate.

  “I'm carrying despatches for Lord Nelson, but have a message for you also from the naval commissioner.”

  Banks snorted; it would be one of the manifests he had somehow forgotten to return; that or an error in a way-bill; certainly nothing to warrant delaying a despatch vessel, and he was surprised at Otway for doing so. “Go ahead,” he replied, while reaching out to David for his first cup of coffee of the morning, and preparing himself for what was bound to be a rather public reprimand.

  “A French squadron passed through the Strait two days after you left.”

  Banks narrowly avoided dropping the china cup. An enemy squadron. Nelson had been obsessed with allowing the French to sail; that they would, and must surely then head for Gibraltar before the open Atlantic, had lain at the forefront of all their minds for a good while. But this was something different. This was additional shipping, presumably sent to take on the blockading British and, were they to succeed, it might mean the end of the Mediterranean Fleet.

  “What force are they?” Banks found himself asking, although his voice was nothing like as strong as before.

  “Three third rates, two frigates and a sloop,” Jefferson replied. “We passed them yesterday even'. The sloop gave chase, but we managed to keep out of their way, though the whole squadron cannot be far behind.”

  Banks managed to stop himself from instinctively looking south, but the news was enough to evoke a dozen equally foolish reactions. They were probably still a good two days from Toulon with the current wind; even if Prometheus packed on all sail and this little brig made exceptional time, the only help they could expect from the inshore squadron would be a chance ship returning to Gibraltar.

  “Were there any serviceable British ships at Gib.?” Banks asked. When he had left the answer had been no, but it may conceivably have changed in the meantime.

  “Nothing that would give you support, sir,” the voice answered and, even through the distortion, Banks thought he could detect a note of sympathy from the young man. “Captain Otway has authorised Prometheus to shadow the enemy, but you are not expected to engage,” Jefferson continued.

  “Very good,” Banks replied, his tone now level. “Then you must continue to find Admiral Nelson, and I wish you God speed.”

  The brig was now considerably ahead and her captain answered with nothing more than a wave of the speaking trumpet as the two vessels drew further apart. Banks turned to the first lieutenant. “We would appear to be expecting company from the south, Mr Caulfield,” he said. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to set the stuns'ls?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Banks had spoken at length with Caulfield and Brehaut. Prometheus was currently off the Spanish coast, with approximately a hundred and seventy miles to run before they raised Toulon. That would take at least
two days at their current rate, or less if only the breeze would increase.

  As well it might; the glass was dropping and there was definitely the scent of change in the air. But should what was coming turn out to be a heavy winter squall, it could as easily work against them. At least what airs there were lay in the south east; a rare occurrence for those waters, and they were making the best speed possible while it did. The same wind would be powering the French, however and, as they included a number of small craft, some might be expected to come into sight at any time.

  But whether or not they were about to be overrun by a squadron of enemy warships, life aboard Prometheus must continue, and Banks could see no reason to clear for action. He had learned from experience that the very act was enough to begin sapping energy from his crew and, as this chase might last for some time, the longer they retained creature comforts such as hot food and draught-free accommodation the better. Consequently, the decks had already been scrubbed white, the midshipmen and master's mates were attending their customary classes with Brehaut, and all the other minor rituals common aboard a ship of war continued as if the nearest Frenchman was several hundred miles off, with no chance of Prometheus going into battle that day, or any other.

  And the same rules should apply to him, Banks decided. He already had a full day's work planned, and there was a punishment to be witnessed in under three hours. So when he sent for Franklin, the newly failed acting lieutenant, he did not wish to spend a great deal of time with him.

  “I was sorry to learn of your board,” he said, once the man was seated. “They are a chancy business at the best of times; doubtless you shall fare better on the next occasion.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Franklin's reply came readily enough although, when he added, “I hope so,” there was an element of finality that Banks was quick to notice.

  “You are settling down in the aft cockpit again, I trust?”

  Franklin was about to respond, but Banks did not wish for a long discussion, and spoke over him.

  “You must not think your unofficial duties as senior of the mess are unappreciated,” he said. “Indeed, guiding young men in their careers, and seeing them become efficient officers is worthwhile work, and should never be underestimated.”

  Banks was unsure how to phrase the next part. He had discussed it long and hard with Caulfield the night before, but was still not wholly behind the idea. Unfortunately that meant allowing a pause in the conversation; something that Franklin was quick to take advantage of.

  “I have visited Brown and Briars, if that is what you are referring to, sir.” he said, innocently.

  It wasn't, and Banks had to hold back a curt reply. Instead he drew a fresh breath and forced himself to relax. He might think a pursuing force of French warships did not concern him but that was clearly not the case, and he wondered if this really was the right time to handle other matters.

  “Brown and Briars will be dealt with in due course,” he finally replied. “I would chance their eventual return to Gibraltar will be called for; they are intending to plead guilty, so no prosecution witnesses shall be required.”

  “Though someone should surely speak in their favour,” Franklin persisted, and Banks was mildly surprised by the remark. He had forgotten it was every man's right to have his divisional officer, or any member of the ship's company, stand for him. Presumably the same provision would be made in civil courts, and was an important consideration; it would be terrible if he consigned both youngsters into the hands of the authorities, only to find he was also losing King, or another favoured officer.

  The thought lowered Banks' mood still further, and he knew he was in danger of losing his temper. The man opposite might be no more than a midshipman, yet was attempting to impose his opinion on him, a senior captain. And it was doubly annoying that, in this one small matter at least, he appeared to have been successful.

  “Little can be said in their favour,” he began, controlling his tone manfully. “They are condemned by their own mouths; we must let justice take its course.”

  Franklin made no response and his face remained entirely neutral, although Banks still drew the impression the warrant officer held a strong opinion. He could not fail to be reminded of similar conversations held with Adam Fraiser, his former sailing master. Franklin might be old for his post, but remained considerably younger than Fraiser, although the similarities were strong.

  “But we shall let their future be for now,” Banks continued, reclaiming the conversation. “It was a different matter entirely that I wished to speak with you about.”

  Franklin looked back with interest but said nothing, and Banks found himself becoming more frustrated with every passing second.

  “It has come to my notice that, in addition to your normal duties, you have been undertaking a degree of pastoral care.”

  “Yes, sir,” Franklin admitted. “Mr Kennedy and I organise regular meetings for any who wish to learn more of the Christian faith. Mr Caulfield is aware, and has no objection.”

  “I am sure of it,” Banks replied automatically. Whatever his personal thoughts about the value of such assemblies, Britain was a God-fearing nation, one in which all were presumed to have a faith; it would be wise to show nothing other than support. “I trust you are receiving a regular attendance?”

  “Yes, sir,” Franklin repeated. “And it is growing steadily.”

  “Well, I was to offer you the chance to place such matters on a more formal basis.”

  The interest was suddenly evident on Franklin's face, and he actually sat forward on his chair as his captain continued.

  “Prometheus does not have a chaplain at present, neither are we likely to acquire one in the near future. And, whilst you may not have taken holy orders, you are clearly generally respected. Would you consider taking on the position for the length of this commission?”

  Now Franklin showed true surprise, his mouth opened as if to speak, but not a sound was heard, and Banks felt suitably gratified to have finally silenced the man.

  “It would be strictly unofficial, of course,” he continued. “You should continue to draw your midshipman's allowance, and would not be entitled to the monthly groat from the people.” He cleared his throat and passed on quickly. “But I would value your assistance at divine service; you may give the blessing and read prayers and perhaps an occasional sermon? And I would chance the people would take more notice of a cleric who was also a fighting officer, especially one who has distinguished himself so conspicuously in action.”

  Franklin was deep in thought, and Banks started to wonder if he would ever speak again. Then he finally stirred himself.

  Thank you, sir,” he said, although his gaze was still set in the distance. “It would be an honour, and a move I was actually considering at the end of this commission.” The last words might have been spoken lightly but were clearly meant.

  “I know little of such things,” Banks replied. “Though if it has been on your mind to change your career, a spell aboard Prometheus as her unofficial chaplain could only speak in your favour.”

  Franklin's eyes turned to meet those of his captain and they were strangely alive. “It would indeed, sir,” he said.

  “And you might return to the wardroom,” Banks added. Despite his mood, seeing Franklin take to the idea so wholeheartedly had actually given the captain a modicum of pleasure. And such a concession would not inconvenience him in any way.

  Franklin thanked him once more, although now his face had unaccountably fallen.

  “You would be more comfortable in the wardroom, I am sure,” Banks added, noticing the change.

  “Oh, undoubtedly, sir,” the midshipman agreed. “Though in truth I am happy enough in the aft cockpit, and feel that is where I have been placed.”

  “Well, that is for you to decide,” the captain told him. “But I see no reason why we should not start immediately,” he continued in a more businesslike manner. “I have already spoken with the first lieutenant,
who is ready to make suitable changes to the watch bill. And you can begin by considering a sermon for this Sunday's worship.”

  As far as Banks was concerned, the interview was over and he raised himself up from his chair. After a second or so Franklin followed, although his mind remained some distance away.

  “But I was forgetting,” the captain said as the two men shook hands. “You may start considerably before then. We have a deserter aboard; a man name of Butler. We shall be flogging him in less than two hours. You had better make your way to the punishment deck and do whatever is necessary.”

  * * *

  “We might take advantage of this unusual wind and head north,” Brehaut suggested softly. “Take us as near as we can go to the Spanish coast, then shelter behind Cape Creus.”

  “And allow them to sail past?” Caulfield asked. “It is a thought, I suppose, but would the enemy prove so obliging?”

  “Properly hid, they should have little choice,” King mused.

  “A north westerly, which is far more common in these waters, will doubtless reassert itself in time,” the sailing master continued, warming to the idea. “When it does, we might come up from astern and track them all the way to Toulon.”

  “Though it would be difficult to alert the inshore squadron.” Caulfield pointed out. “I doubt the captain would condone such a move.”

  “He has been uncommonly touchy since that affair in Toulon harbour,” King reflected.

  It was mid morning and the three officers were the only occupants of the wardroom. They sat about the large table with Caulfield at the head, as was his right. Before them lay a chart of the North Eastern coast of Spain, with Prometheus' current position shown by three neat pencil marks. But their discussion had already drifted once from the problem at hand, and seemed liable to do so again.

  “He has,” the first lieutenant agreed. “Frankly I cannot see Sir Richard meekly following such a force; nor shall he stand by while they attempt to join those at anchor in Toulon.” There was a moment's silence, before Caulfield delivered the killing blow. “I think it far more likely he will wish us to engage.”