by G. S. Beard
Fury arrived back on board with no incident later that night, his mind still able to concentrate on nothing other than Sophie. The next day he threw himself into his duty in an attempt to take his mind off her, keeping the men busy in the process in accordance with Ross’ orders. In spite of the work, it was easy to see they were restless after remaining at anchor with no shore leave. Many of the other ships in the British fleet had lost as much as one third of their crews to garrison duties on shore, but as yet the Fortitude had not been affected. With rumours that Carteaux’s army now numbered some 6,000 men to the west, however, along with another 6,000 men under the so-called Army of Italy to the east, Fury did not think it would be long.
For two days he kept the men as busy as possible, scrubbing and cleaning, blacking the cannon, tarring the rigging and checking for any signs of chafe. Francis was by his side for most of that time, and Fury thought he could detect an improvement in the boy’s confidence, as though he felt more comfortable with himself and his own abilities. Perhaps Francis had seen enough during the action ashore at Sète to suggest that he could control his fear and still do his duty in the face of the enemy.
‘Mr Francis!’
‘Sir?’
‘I am going to see the captain. Keep the men working, I shall not be long.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury turned aft towards the captain’s suite of cabins. He had resisted the urge over the past two days to request additional shore leave, but he could stand it no longer; he wanted to see Sophie again. A shout from Midshipman Goddard, the signal midshipman, stopped Fury in his tracks.
‘Flagship’s signalling sir!’
Fury turned towards him. ‘Well?’
Goddard had his telescope to his eye to check the flags, before replying.
‘Captain to repair on board sir. It’s our number.’
‘Very well. Hoist the acknowledgement.’
The marine sentry announced Fury’s arrival as he entered Young’s cabin and reported the signal.
‘Very well, I shall be on deck presently,’ Young replied hurriedly, shuffling papers on his desk. Fury paused for a moment, but thought better of making his request for shore leave; he could wait until Young returned from his visit to the flagship. Returning to the quarterdeck, he waited for Young.
The Fortitude’s barge had already been hoisted out prior to the signal, so that by the time the crew were filing down into it, Young was on deck in full dress uniform, ready.
‘Keep the men busy, Mr Fury.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury touched his forehead in salute and watched as Young descended into the waiting barge. He watched as it pulled away from the Fortitude’s side on its way to the flagship, before turning back inboard to continue his supervision of the men.
He worked the men relentlessly, leaving no corner of the deck unscrubbed, unpolished or unchecked. He threw himself into the task so completely that it was a surprise to him when Midshipman Goddard announced the return of Captain Young’s barge. Fury looked at his watch; Young had been gone for two hours.
‘Mr Francis. Report the captain’s return to Lieutenant Ross, if you please.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Francis hurried off below and Fury waited by the entry port as the barge approached and hooked on. Ross appeared silently by Fury’s side just in time for Young’s head to appear above the level of the deck, the twittering of pipes accompanying his arrival.
‘I trust your visit to the admiral went well, sir?’ Ross asked, as Young returned their salute.
‘Yes, thank you, Mr Ross. If I could trouble you to have the officers assembled in my cabin in five minutes, I shall explain.’
Fury glanced at Ross with raised eyebrows as Young walked aft to his cabins.
‘Perhaps we are to lose some of our complement for duties ashore,’ Ross speculated.
‘Perhaps,’ Fury replied. He turned to Francis. ‘Mr Francis, inform Mr Dullerbury, Mr Parker and Mr Oldroyd that their presence is required in the captain’s cabin in five minutes.’
Francis hurried off once again and Fury began pacing the quarterdeck, hoping that any current developments would not interfere with his plans to visit Sophie.
Five minutes later, all the officers were assembled in Young’s day cabin, with Young sitting behind his desk. There was an expectant buzz in the room, and Young seemed to revel in it, before he finally began.
‘Well gentlemen.’ He looked around at them all before continuing. ‘Lord Hood is eager for reinforcements. The Bedford and Leviathan arrived yesterday with 800 Sardinian troops, along with a small Neapolitan squadron carrying 2,000 troops.’
Fury had seen the ships arrive yesterday as he paced the quarterdeck in the early evening, although he had no idea they were carrying troops. Young continued.
‘As I am sure you are all aware, the British fleet has been substantially weakened by the need to send large numbers of seamen ashore to defend the various posts. With the increase in Republican numbers day by day, the arrival of these reinforcements are required to augment these men, not replace them. Therefore Lord Hood has judged it expedient to send the Fortitude to Malta with all despatch, and request from the Grand Master of Malta 1,500 Maltese seamen to serve in the British fleet, while our presence in the Mediterranean continues.’
There was silence in the room while this news was digested. Fury was staring at the carpeted floor, thinking of Sophie. She would be expecting a visit from him any day soon, and he would have to disappoint her. The thought of it stung him to the core. Would she forgive him when he finally called upon her? Would she understand? He looked up as Young broke the silence.
‘I would like to be underway immediately after the men have had their dinner. That will be all, gentlemen.’
They filed out of the cabin, Fury’s disappointment tangible. He refused his dinner, his appetite now gone, and merely stayed on the deck looking across at the shore. He heard the shout for ‘All hands’ as it rang around the ship once the men had finished their meal, and the subsequent stamp of hundreds of feet accompanied the rush to their stations for getting underway.
And so, that afternoon, after weighing anchor and picking their way out of the outer road with a brisk north-easterly wind, the Fortitude weathered the headland and stood out to sea, with Fury staring wistfully through his telescope at the city of Toulon, slowly slipping astern.
Chapter Nine
Fury reached the maintop and continued upwards, the shrouds narrowing as he reached the topgallant yard and sat there for a few moments to catch his breath.
He had been fastidious about continuing his exercise each day with at least one journey aloft as fast as he could go, even while the Fortitude had been at anchor in the outer road at Toulon. It was a habit made slightly easier by the boredom of sitting there with no sight of action. He was now satisfied that he had regained his old speed and nimbleness aloft.
He gave a wry smile as he thought back to the terror and hardship of his first visits aloft, not long after he had joined the Amazon at Portsmouth: clutching on to the rigging for dear life, unwilling and sometimes unable to let go and carry on. One look down was enough to freeze his limbs back then so that a handspike could not have prized his fingers off the rope.
That was over two years ago now, but it seemed like another lifetime when he looked back on it. Eventually through repetition, and perhaps also due to the number of times he had been mastheaded by the captain as punishment for some misdemeanour, he had gained more confidence aloft, until finally he was almost able to forget where he was. Now it was one of the only places in the ship where he could find some solitude.
‘Excuse me sir.’
The voice startled him, something in his subconscious mind telling him it had come from higher up. He looked up to see the mainmast lookout staring down at him from his perch.
‘What is it?’ he demanded, annoyed that his peaceful reverie had been interrupted.
‘A fleck of white
sir, on the horizon. It looks too permanent to be a wave cap sir, but I can’t be sure.’
The white froth of a wave cap would disappear as the wave moved on, so the most likely explanation would be a ship’s sail in the distance, hull down over the horizon.
‘Where away?’ Fury asked, his tone softening at the thought of some possible excitement.
‘Over to larboard sir. About five – no, six points off the larboard bow.’
Fury grabbed the telescope which he had in his pocket – he always carried it aloft with him so he could spend time studying the surrounding sea, too often finding it empty, as though they were alone in the world.
He quickly scanned over to his left, seeing nothing initially and so slowing down his search until he saw it, two patches of white on the horizon almost merging into one, but with one slightly lower than the other. The lookout certainly had good eyes, he thought, as he studied it in his glass. It could only be another ship riding along under topgallants, and judging by the two masts was possibly a brig of some kind.
‘Sail ho!’ He shouted the report down to the deck, and a moment later the bellowed reply of ‘Where away?’ reached him. ‘Six points off the larboard bow!’ Fury glanced back up to the masthead lookout. ‘Very well, keep an eye on her and report any changes in position,’ he ordered, folding his telescope again and preparing to make his way down below.
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury transferred himself on to the shrouds and scampered down as quickly as he could. By the time he reached the quarterdeck he was considerably warmer, quickly crossing to the starboard side where Ross was pacing up and down, no doubt waiting for his report.
‘What do you make of her?’
‘She’s still hull down over the horizon, about six points off the larboard bow. She looked like a brig to me sir, but it’s hard to tell at this distance.’
‘Why didn’t the lookout report?’ Ross demanded, probably thinking the lookout had not seen it and was neglecting his duty.
‘The lookout reported it to me sir,’ Fury explained. ‘He wasn’t sure whether it was a ship or not at first without a telescope.’
‘Very well,’ Ross replied, apparently satisfied. ‘Please inform the captain.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury made his way aft past the men at the wheel and towards the captain’s quarters.
‘Lieutenant Fury sir!’ the marine sentry bellowed as he walked past, knocking on the door of the day cabin before entering.
‘Ah, Mr Fury! What can I do for you?’ the captain asked, looking up from his desk.
‘Mr Ross’s compliments sir, and we have sighted a strange sail six points off the larboard bow.’
‘Very well,’ Young replied, ‘My respects to Mr Ross and I will be on deck in a moment.’
Fury acknowledged and left the cabin, a faint shout from the masthead lookout reaching him as he passed through the captain’s dining cabin on his way back to the quarterdeck.
‘Lookout’s just reported,’ Ross told him, after Fury had relayed the captain’s response. ‘She’s nearly hull up now. Two masts, square-rigged but with a fore and aft main course. All sail set to the t’gallants and he thinks she’s heading northwest.’
With a rig like that it was almost certain she was a brig. Fury took a quick look at the compass card housed in the binnacle. Fortitude was currently heading almost south, with the coast of Sardinia somewhere over to larboard. A quick look up at the set of the sails, along with the feel of the breeze on his face, told him the wind was somewhere between south-west and west.
He rubbed his hands excitedly at the realisation that they may stand a chance of catching the strange sail – assuming she was an enemy of course – the longer the brig held on to her present course. As soon as she sighted Fortitude and realised who she was, the sensible thing for her captain to do would be to put his ship about and run before the wind, trusting to her faster speed to outrun Fortitude. With the wind from the west, however, and the Fortitude to windward of her, with any luck the brig would find itself caught on a lee shore. The longer she went before spotting the Fortitude, the tighter the net would become.
Another scan by Fury with his telescope brought the brig into view, now hull up even from deck level such was the speed with which they were approaching each other. The fact that they had not spotted the Fortitude yet – a big two-decker – suggested that she was a merchant ship, as any warship would be carrying lookouts and would surely have seen them by now.
‘Mr Ross, I’ll have the royals and weather studdingsails set, if you please.’
Fury turned round to see Captain Young studying the brig with his glass as he gave the order, Ross acknowledging as he picked up a speaking trumpet from its becket and began bellowing orders about the deck.
‘Come up four points to port,’ Young muttered to the quartermaster.
A quick turn of the wheel brought the Fortitude’s bow round to port, heading in towards the invisible coast and more directly towards the strange sail.
Ah! They had seen them at last. Fury could see the brig in the distance changing shape now – her hull foreshortening as she turned, briefly exposing her stern to Fury’s glass before her starboard side came round and she began to head away from them, south-eastward.
The Fortitude was now heading directly towards them, still astern by a good mile and a half but now on her best point of sailing, with the wind abeam. Fury turned his attention aloft, watching as the men scrambled up the rigging to loose the royals, followed by the hauling of sheets and clew lines to secure the lower corners of the sails to the yard below, before the halliards were hauled on to send the royal yards up to their working height at the top of the masts, the canvas filling out as it was raised. One more shouted order from Ross sent the men to the braces to swing the royal yards round to achieve the best angle for the wind to catch the sail.
Once that job was finished, more shouted orders immediately followed to get the studdingsails – the large extensions at the side of each sail – set. Men moved swiftly back out along the yards to slide out the studdingsail booms, which were kept secured on top of the yards themselves. The studdingsails and their small spars were scattered along the deck as men finished reeving the ropes through them. That job done, they were hoisted aloft by the halliards and secured, the sails flapping down to the corners of the booms below as men hauled on the tacks.
Immediately the studdingsails began to draw, and the Fortitude surged forward as the extra canvas increased her speed, like a majestic swan suddenly spreading its wings.
One more look forward to the brig showed that she too had set more sail in a desperate bid to escape. It was difficult to see if they were gaining on them, but Fury was doubtful. Certainly they did not look as if they had lost any ground, Fury being thankful that the Fortitude was probably one of the sweetest sailing seventy-fours in the Navy List. It was also lucky that this chase was not taking them too far off their original course to Malta. Young was no doubt conscious of the urgency with which Lord Hood needed the reinforcements from Malta, and he would not take kindly to any time wasted chasing a small brig.
The only question now was how far ahead the coast of Sardinia was, and whether they would reach it by nightfall. If not, the brig could easily pass them unseen during the night and be out of sight by daybreak.
Fury’s attention was caught by two seamen coming down to the quarterdeck from the poop deck above, walking over towards Ross with the log line.
‘Eight knots sir,’ one of the men reported.
Ross turned round and strode over to the captain to report. ‘We’re making eight knots sir.’
‘Very good,’ Young replied in a dull monotone. If he was pleased he did not show it.
Fury reached into his coat pocket and fumbled about for his watch. Half-past four. The sky overhead was predominantly clear, so they probably had another four hours or so before the night began to draw in.
He walked along the gangway to the focsle
, passing the belfry just as seven bells was being struck. Looking forward through his glass again, he fancied they had narrowed the distance since he had last checked, although with the difference being so small he could not be sure. He considered rushing below and bringing his quadrant up – the measurement of the angles from the height of the brig’s mast would provide a means of calculating their distance from it. He dismissed the idea almost immediately. In this sea it would be difficult to get an accurate measurement and therefore his calculation would be meaningless, even if he did have the patience to sit performing calculations as they thrashed along in pursuit of an enemy.
It took them two hours before Fury estimated that they had closed the gap to only a mile. During that time the captain had ordered the fire pumps rigged, and the men had been employed wetting the sails so that they caught and held the wind more. Fury was sure Young had ordered it merely to keep the men busy – he himself did not believe that the trick would make any difference to the speed of a ship weighing 2,000 tons.
Fury had stood on the focsle the whole time, telescope to his eye staring forward until his eye ached. Even from his advanced position he could sense the mood of excitement throughout the ship, not necessarily at the thought of action – it was becoming more apparent that it was unlikely they would catch the brig before nightfall – but from the efforts of gaining the last fraction of a knot out of the ship.
Numerous times Fury had looked back to see Young or Ross ordering a slight alteration of trim as they looked up to see how the sails were drawing, or snap out a fierce warning to the helmsman as a momentary lapse of concentration or a fluke of wind caused the Fortitude’s head to fall off or come up slightly.
‘Deck there! Foremast lookout here!’
The shout came from high above Fury’s head, and a moment later Ross’ bellowed response carried forward to where he was standing on the focsle.
‘Deck here! What is it?’
‘Looks like land sir!’ the lookout reported. ‘Dead ahead – ahead of the sail!’