by G. S. Beard
My God! Fury looked at his watch and noted the position of the sun, now beginning to lower itself towards the western horizon. They still had a chance to catch the brig before darkness came to save them.
The deck erupted into activity as topmen rushed aloft, Fury watching as the studdingsails were lowered down to the deck as men eased off on the lifts and halliards, obviously in response to an order from the captain, although Fury had not heard it. He could sense a small difference in the ship’s motion immediately as her speed diminished slightly.
One look forward showed that they were now no more than half a mile astern of the brig, which was still ploughing on. Obviously they had not yet sighted the land ahead.
Ah! Now they must have, because their course was altering to starboard, hoping no doubt to run down the coast until sunset.
Fury looked back as a marine drummer began his familiar beat, in response to which 600 men went rushing to their stations for battle. Fury made his way quickly below to the lower gun deck, where men were already busy wetting down the decks with the wash-deck pumps before sprinkling sand over it. A silent acknowledgement to Lieutenant Dullerbury as he approached, and then he turned his attention to the men rushing to the guns.
It took no more than five minutes for the breechings to be cast off the guns and all the equipment necessary to be laid along the deck – rammers, sponges, wads, buckets of water, and arms chests flung open next to the masts. Powder monkeys were standing patiently behind the guns with ready-made cartridges for the gun captains, while the heavy thirty-two-pound cannonballs lay around the deck in shot garlands ready to be used.
‘Larboard side ready sir,’ he reported, as Dullerbury approached him.
One word from Dullerbury to the small midshipman who was stationed down there to act as messenger sent him scurrying up on deck to the captain, to report the lower gun deck ready for action.
Fury began to pace now to ease his frustration at not being able to see what was going on up on deck. It took some moments before the small midshipman, Harvey, was back again to report to Dullerbury.
‘Captain’s compliments sir, and would you open the larboard side gun ports and run out, but don’t fire until he gives the order!’
Fury did not wait for a response from Dullerbury, but swung round to his crews.
‘Larboard-side crews, stand to your guns. Open ports!’
The ports along the left side slowly raised on their hinges until they were fastened to the hull, letting in shafts of dull light from the early evening sun outside.
‘Run out!’
The men threw their weight on to the slide tackles to haul the massive guns forward until their thick black muzzles were sticking menacingly outside the open ports.
It did not take long once this was done for Dullerbury’s and Fury’s curiosity to overcome them, sending them over to the nearest open port to thrust their heads outside and look forward in an effort to see what was going on.
The brig was now no more than three cables’ lengths away on the larboard bow, clear against the low grey smudge beyond, which was the coast of Sardinia. She had changed course to south and was now running along the coast with the Fortitude sailing towards her at an angle, trying to cut her off.
At that moment a large sheet of spray hit Fury full in the face, stinging his eyes and sending him back to his post.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Dullerbury asked, as Fury rubbed his eyes briskly.
‘We’ve got her!’ Fury replied confidently.
‘It certainly looks that way,’ Dullerbury agreed, ‘but at some point as we approach her we’ll have to yaw off to bring her within range of our guns. If we don’t damage her rigging with that one broadside then we’ll lose so much distance that she’ll get away in the dark.’
Fury nodded his head, realising that Dullerbury was right. They had no choice though – she was obviously not going to surrender until she had to, even if one single broadside from the Fortitude could destroy her completely. If they did have to fire a broadside it would be a thin line between merely damaging her rigging and destroying her altogether.
He began to pace up and down behind the guns along the larboard side, the crews standing round each gun, fidgeting restlessly during the wait.
He did not know how much time had passed when a shouted order from above for all sail handlers reached them, the members of the gun crews who were allocated as sail handlers immediately quitting their guns and rushing up on deck. Fury glanced at Dullerbury quizzically before striding over to the nearest port once again and staring out. The brig was now a cable ahead in the ever decreasing light and had come up into the wind to heave to, a white flag now clearly flying from her masthead.
The Fortitude was coming round slightly until she was parallel with the coast beyond, her guns now pointing directly at the little brig. From the shouted orders above it was clear that the men were rapidly reducing sail, probably down to topsails only before heaving to and sending across a boat to take possession.
Fury glanced up at her masthead once again, suddenly realising he did not even know what nationality she was. With the wind blowing directly away from them he could not quite make out the flag.
It was some minutes before the movement of the hull under his feet told him they had heaved to, and a moment later the order to run in and secure from quarters was brought down. Fury eagerly harried the crews as they hauled once again on the tackles to bring the guns rumbling in, before closing the ports and making it almost pitch black along the deck.
It took what seemed to Fury an eternity for the men to clear away the equipment and wash down the planking before he could finally make his way to the quarterdeck with all the haste his dignity would allow. As he reached the quarterdeck he could see that the men had just finished hoisting out the launch and cutter, and Ross was standing in front of Young deep in conversation.
‘Ah, Mr Fury. Just the man,’ said Young, as he caught sight of Fury approaching.
‘Sir?’ Fury enquired, with rising excitement.
‘You will accompany Mr Ross over to our new capture.’ Young waved his hand in the direction of the brig, still stationary and wallowing on the swell waves a cable under their lee. ‘Mr Ross will take the launch and you will have the cutter. Her crew will be transferred over here while Mr Ross and yourself collect all of her papers. You will then take command of her when Mr Ross leaves and you will lay in a course for Toulon. We will rejoin you once we have finished our business in Malta. Any questions?’
‘No sir,’ Fury replied simply. He was well aware by now of Young’s dislike for explaining anything more than once.
‘Very well then. I’ll give you five minutes to collect all the things you may need, after which the master will provide you with our current position. Mr Ross has already picked out a prize crew of twenty men and one midshipman, Mr Francis, so off you go.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury moved to touch his hat in salute before realising he was not wearing one. His excitement was beginning to overcome him and he made an effort to keep it in check, blocking out of his mind the thought of being in command of his own ship once again.
He reached the upper gun deck quickly, just as the men were finishing re-establishing the bulkheads which formed their different cabins. The chests of belongings had already been brought up from below and were strewn about the deck waiting to be packed back into the respective cabins.
Fury recognised his immediately by its battered appearance; it had been brand new when he had first joined the navy, but it had received some rough treatment during his short service, most notably during his time in the Indian Ocean. Now the leather was worn and faded, with the occasional scratch or tear where it had been damaged during the hurried process of stowing down below when the ship went into action. He strode over to it and flung open the lid to see what he would need. There was an empty canvas sack with a drawstring neck laid on the top of his belongings, which he removed and placed on the de
ck. He was wearing his undress uniform along with his black Hessian boots, so the only other items of clothing he would need were his hat, and a couple of extra shirts and breeches. He gathered them up and stuffed them down into the canvas sack. Fumbling about in his pocket, he grabbed his telescope, thrusting it back into the chest – he would take one of the Fortitude’s own telescopes, so there was no chance of him losing his.
A final hasty inspection of the rest of the contents revealed that the only other items which he would need were the two pistols – his uncle’s pair – that were packed neatly down the side in their case. He quickly picked the case up, emptied it of the two pistols and stuffed them into his waistband, replacing the empty case and closing the lid of his chest before making his way back up to the quarterdeck with the sack.
There was an open arms chest on the quarterdeck when he arrived back, half empty now that the boarding parties had taken their choice. Fury reached down and pulled out a cutlass and belt, throwing the belt over his shoulder and slipping the cutlass into the frog down by his left hip. He walked over to the binnacle box and took one of the telescopes hanging within, placing it on top of his clothes and pulling the drawstring tightly closed.
‘Here is our position, Mr Fury.’
He glanced up to see the master, Mr Potter, holding out a scrap of paper which he accepted with thanks and thrust into his coat pocket.
‘All set Mr Fury?’
He spun round to see Captain Young and Lieutenant Ross standing in front of him.
‘Yes sir.’
‘Very well then, good luck. Carry on gentlemen.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Fury and Ross both touched their hats and turned to make their way towards the entry port. Ross descended into the launch first, settling himself down into the stern sheets before giving the order to shove off, which allowed the cutter to be brought into position.
Fury quickly made his way down the Fortitude’s side and scrambled into the crowded boat, thankful there was not a heavy sea running as he made his way to the stern sheets past the silent men clutching cutlasses and fingering pistols. He sank down next to the tiller which had already been shipped and, with a curt ‘Shove off, give way all’, thrust the tiller bar over to port to send the cutter clear of the Fortitude’s side and on its way over to the brig in the wake of the launch.
It was a matter of minutes before they reached the brig, Fury laying the cutter alongside her while the seaman in the bow hooked on. Hurrying up and straightening his jacket and cutlass, he made his way past the oarsmen towards the brig’s entry ladder. The sound of voices drifted down as he made his way up the brig’s side, surprisingly low compared to the Fortitude’s towering hull, so that it was only a moment before he found himself standing on her deck.
Ross was busy talking to a scruffy-looking man, short and stout, with a stained shirt and a large bald head. The rest of the launch’s men were standing with pistols in hand covering the brig’s crew, all standing sullenly over by the mainmast. Fury hastened over to Ross as the rest of his cutter’s crew made their way on board.
His quick scan of the deck revealed enough dirt to infuriate even the most slack first lieutenant, and he even caught sight of some empty bottles rolling around in the scuppers. Ross turned as he approached and beckoned to the scruffy man in front of him.
‘This is the captain, Mr Fury. And this …’ he spread his arms around the deck in an extravagant gesture, ‘… is Renard. The captain has kindly offered to escort us below to his cabin so we may collect the ship’s papers.’
‘Aye sir,’ Fury replied, looking at the man as he stood there swaying slightly – he was obviously drunk.
‘Mr Francis!’ Ross bellowed over Fury’s shoulder, in response to which the midshipman hurried over. ‘We are going below. Kindly begin to transfer the prisoners over to the Fortitude.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied, scurrying off piping out orders as he went.
A quick gesture from Ross sent Renard’s captain waddling down towards his cabin below, closely followed by Ross and Fury.
His cabin was no cleaner than the rest of the brig, a number of empty bottles strewn about the deck being a further indication of what he had been doing while he waited for the boarding parties to arrive.
Ross strode quickly over to the desk, took a pull at the top drawer and quickly demanded the keys from the captain, who gave them up quietly. The contents of all three drawers were promptly emptied out on to the desk by Ross, who then started to sift through them quickly, sorting them out into two piles as Fury watched.
‘You come from Ragusa eh?’ Ross asked the man, looking up. A grunted assent was the only reply he received.
Ragusa was a fortified seaport city on the coast of southern Dalmatia, in the Adriatic Sea.
‘We’re not going to get any more sense out of him for a while.’ Ross used his hand to indicate the captain, who was now merely staring down at the deck as if concentrating fiercely on trying to stay on his feet. ‘I’ve got all her papers here,’ he continued, resting his hand on the larger of the two piles on the desk, ‘the rest of the papers contain the captain’s charts of the whole region, from the western Mediterranean to Egypt and the Levant, so they may come in handy for you. There are also separate charts here for the Adriatic and the Aegean Sea.’
‘Yes sir,’ Fury acknowledged. ‘What’s she carrying?’
‘I was just coming to that,’ Ross started. ‘She’s on her way from Smyrna to Marseilles with a cargo of timber. As you are no doubt aware from the state of the captain here, there is also liquor on board. Mark me, Mr Fury, on no account are you to let the men near it. Once a seaman gets his hands on ardent spirits then you can kiss goodbye to discipline.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘It is locked away currently in the hold, so you should be safe enough. Here is the key.’
He handed Fury the key and turned away, placing the papers in a waterproof bag and leading the way out of the cabin. Fury dumped his own sack of belongings on the floor of the cabin and followed, literally dragging Renard’s captain along with him by the arm. By the time they reached the upper deck the light had faded perceptibly, so that the occasional star could be seen in the deeper blue of the sky.
The deck was now clear of the brig’s original crew and Fury could see the launch returning after what must have been the final leg transferring the prisoners over to the Fortitude. The cutter was still secured to Fortitude’s side, waiting to be hoisted back on board. Once the launch had arrived back at Renard’s side the boarding party scrambled down into it, roughly dragging the brig’s captain down with them.
Ross turned briefly to wish Fury good luck and then he too was gone from view, reappearing moments later in the stern sheets of the launch as the boat was cast off from the brig’s side to make her final trip back to the Fortitude.
Fury glanced briefly aloft to see the British flag now flying above the ship’s own colours, before turning round to look at the twenty men who constituted his prize crew, all standing along the deck in the gathering gloom. The towering presence of Clark was there, along with the other ex-Amazons – Thomas, Cooke and Crouder – their presence reassuring. Some of the other men he recognised from his own division on the Fortitude – Gooseman, Perrin and Haycock – but the rest of the faces were still anonymous. No doubt he would know them all soon enough. Young Midshipman Francis was by the mainmast, waiting for his first orders.
Fury had been a midshipman in the Amazon the last time he had commanded his own ship, and the sensation felt strangely new to him as he tried to drag his mind back to what orders he would need to give. One look over to larboard, where the low smudge of the coast of Sardinia was now rapidly fading in the dwindling light, made his first task obvious. Even hove to as she currently was, the brig was drifting down towards that coast and so it was imperative that he gain as much sea room as possible, especially with night approaching.
He took a quick glance aloft to where the f
oretopsail was backed against the mast, with the main topsail drawing to balance it out.
‘Mr Francis!’
‘Aye sir?’
‘We’ll get under way now. Split the men into two groups if you please. One will be responsible for the foremast, the other group for the mainmast.’
‘Aye aye sir!’ Francis replied, quickly splitting the men into two groups of ten and herding them into position by their respective masts.
Fury stood there, quietly thanking Captain Young for giving him able seamen so that he need only give an order and it would be carried out with no confusion or delay. He was thankful too that the wind had backed three points to westerly so that they had a chance of weathering the southwestern tip of Sardinia without having to tack. He had no wish to throw her in irons on a lee shore and with his captain watching.
He walked over to the tiller, looking forward to satisfy himself that the men were ready before beginning his orders.
‘Brace the foreyard round there!’ he bellowed, the men stationed by the foremast immediately tailing on to the braces and hauling the yard round until the foretopsail began to fill again and Renard slowly started to gather way.
One look ahead gave him a faint glimpse of the rocks at the south-western corner of Sardinia, which had effectively trapped the brig between the Fortitude and the coast. She had steerage way on her now and he eased the tiller over himself, bringing her bow round until she was heading – he took a quick glance at the compass – south-west by south, close hauled on the starboard tack. The large bulk of the Fortitude slowly dropped astern to starboard as they passed between her and the rocky coast over to the left.
A sharp flutter overhead told him he had gone too close to the wind and he eased her off slightly, watching over to larboard as the coast, now nothing more than a black hump against the dark horizon beyond, slowly slipped past. He waited tensely for the sudden jerk or tearing sound which would tell him that they had not weathered the rocks, but none came, and half an hour later he was confident that they had passed the southern end of Sardinia and gained sufficient sea room.