by G. S. Beard
It was now completely dark, with Fortitude long ago out of sight. Fury took out from his pocket the scrap of paper on which the master had scribbled down their position. He could only just make out the master’s scrawly handwriting with the aid of the dim light from the binnacle lantern – latitude thirty-nine degrees seventeen minutes north, longitude eight degrees forty-one minutes east. The course they were currently steering was taking them away from Toulon and so his next task, now that he had sea room, was to tack and begin heading north.
He decided to do so immediately, as it was not necessary at the moment to look at the chart and plot an accurate heading – a rough knowledge of the area would do for now until they could take their own noon sight tomorrow.
‘Mr Francis.’ He beckoned to the young midshipman, who had been standing silently nearby ever since they had got underway. ‘I am going to tack the ship now.’
He saw a look of relief on Francis’ face as the boy realised Fury had no intention of leaving such a manoeuvre in his inexperienced hands.
‘Ready about! Stations for stays!’
The shout escaped from his mouth before he realised the men had no stations, but it seemed to get their attention. He could see them standing ready, darker shapes around the two masts, jostling for position as Clark and Thomas took responsibility and tried to arrange them into some sort of order, quietly allocating duties to different men for the forthcoming manoeuvre.
He slowly started to ease the tiller over, Renard’s bow coming up into the wind until the tiller was as far over as it would go.
‘Helms alee!’ he shouted, the men at the foremast starting to slacken off the sheets of the foretopsail to lessen the effect of the forward sail.
Her head was in the eye of the wind now and the momentum that she had carried into the turn, combined with the pressure of the backed foretopsail, was helping to push her head off the wind the other way, completing the turn surprisingly easily as Fury quickly centred the tiller to right the rudder.
‘Mainsail haul!’ he bellowed, sending the men stationed at the mainmast hauling quickly on the braces to bring the main topsail yard creaking round on to the other tack, the wind soon filling the sail once again.
‘Haul taut! Let go and haul!’
The foretopsail yard was now swung round on to the new tack, the sail flapping as it passed through the eye of the wind before numerous sharp slapping sounds told him it was filling and sending them forward on the larboard tack, the wind on the larboard beam. One glance at the compass, lit by the dim light in the binnacle, told him they were heading north, and, happy with that heading for the night, he called over the nearest seaman he could recognise in the darkness, the sandy-haired cockney called Perrin.
‘Take over the helm, Perrin. Keep her at north.’
‘North sir. Aye aye sir,’ Perrin repeated as he grasped the tiller from Fury.
Fury stooped once again over the light in the binnacle, taking out his watch and holding it open to the light. Almost eight o’clock. Good timing, he thought, as he walked over to the larboard bulwark where young Francis was still standing.
‘Mr Francis, I want the men split into two watches. One watch can go below and get some rest until called. It’s almost eight o’clock so we can start a new watch immediately. Make sure we have four lookouts posted round the deck tonight – one on each bow and one on each quarter. We will remain under topsails only tonight and continue on our heading of north. You can take the first watch while I go below and look over the charts. If you need me during the next four hours then call me. Understood?’
‘Aye sir,’ Francis replied, as he tried to memorise everything Fury had just said.
‘Very well then. You have the deck.’
Fury made his way below to the shouts of Francis dividing the men up into their two watches and organising the four lookouts. The master’s cabin was in blackness, and it took a quick grope around to reveal the location of a lantern. Some moments of fumbling and cursing with flint and steel swiftly followed, until at last it was lit, throwing just enough light to cover the desk and the remaining papers on it.
He sat and started to leaf through them, and it was not long before he could hear half the men on deck coming below to find somewhere to sleep for the next few hours. Francis had obviously completed the first of his tasks, Fury thought. The boy was doing well, and being part of Renard’s prize crew would only help him further. Strange to think that he was not much older than Francis himself; if Fury had been on the Fortitude a year ago, they would have been messmates, skylarking around together. Now they were separated by the invisible barrier of discipline. He took out his watch again. Twenty minutes of poring over the charts and he would take another look on deck to ensure the boy hadn’t forgotten anything, he decided.
Chapter Ten
The night passed smoothly, the wind remaining fresh and steady from the westward. Renard thrashed along to the north with a beam wind during the entire night, with Fury and Francis keeping the deck alternately, four hours on and four hours off.
The following morning Fury woke up automatically, through two years of routine, to find that the cabin was still quite dark. It took him a few moments to realise where he was before his befogged brain cleared and he remembered he was on board a prize. As he swung himself out of the cot, he could just make out the needle on the telltale compass fixed to the deck head above him in the poor light, noting they were still making good their course of north. He made his way over to the bowl which he had found the previous night, filled it with water and plunged his face into it. The cold water gave him a shock but he was grateful for its stimulating effect, helping to clear his mind further as he threw off the last effects of sleep.
As he sat down and began to pull his boots on, he tried to sort the myriad thoughts in his head into some kind of coherent order. He stood up and put on his uniform jacket, buttoning it all the way up to the collar, before reaching for his hat and pressing it down firmly on his head as he made his way out of the cabin and up to the deck.
Dawn was slowly beginning to approach, cold and grey, as he reached the upper deck trying to shake off the depression which always seemed to engulf him at this time of the morning.
The men were all on deck now, some on hands and knees busily scrubbing with holystones to get rid of the dirt on the planking, while others rubbed the ship’s brass work with brick dust to bring out the shine. A quick glance at his watch as he walked over to Francis showed it was just before half-past six.
‘Good morning sir,’ said Francis cheerfully.
‘Morning,’ Fury replied curtly, deliberately leaving out the ‘good’. ‘Anything to report?’
‘No sir,’ Francis replied, ‘course at north still and I’ve just sent the lookouts aloft. I took the liberty of ordering the galley fire lit sir, and breakfast should be along in an hour. Oatmeal gruel, ship’s biscuit and we found a little cheese too sir.’ Francis was grinning eagerly and rubbing his hands together.
‘Very good,’ Fury grunted begrudgingly, slightly nettled that the youngster had taken it upon himself to order the men’s breakfast. ‘Carry on,’ he continued, moving over to the weather side of the deck, eager to walk off his depression.
Head down he walked, subconsciously picking his way among the men cleaning the decks; short-handed though they were, Fury’s attention to duty still could not tolerate the state Renard’s deck had been left in. The sight of the men gave him a sudden thought, and he turned to find Francis.
‘Mr Francis!’
‘Sir?’
‘Set the rest of the men to going throughout the ship cleaning and scrubbing, including my cabin. Any clutter lying about which is not needed for the direct running of the ship should be stowed below out of the way. We may not be aboard for very long, but we may as well make it habitable.’
‘Aye aye sir.’
Francis hurried away shouting orders. It was true that they would probably not be aboard Renard for more than a week or two,
but Fury was secretly proud of his temporary command, and he wanted to feel at home aboard her. He continued his pacing with dozens of thoughts and ideas milling through his head demanding his attention, so much so that he did not notice the wind pick up slightly, carrying with it a slight drizzle from the overcast sky.
Midshipman Francis had the good sense to keep out of his way and leave him alone among his thoughts, so that by the time breakfast was reported ready just over an hour later, his mood had lifted perceptibly.
He had just finished breakfast in his newly cleaned cabin and returned on deck when eight bells sounded, the men below hurrying up to take over the watch as Fury relieved Francis of his duty. The drizzle had thickened slightly in the last half an hour, leaving visibility shortened. He stood there, gently swaying to the motion of the ship, looking forward.
The upper deck on which he was stood ran the whole length of the ship, with no raised quarterdeck or focsle as on larger ships. He took a look at the guns lining the sides, ten in all – small six-pounders by the looks of them. Pop guns, he thought, carried merely to deter the smaller privateers. He would definitely be in trouble if he ran across anything on his way back to Toulon, especially with a crew of only twenty men. He shook off the thought – with the British controlling the Mediterranean only the odd privateer would likely be found at sea, and the chances of meeting one so close to Toulon were tiny.
He glanced aloft to where the two masts stood sharp against the sky, all square-rigged apart from the main course which was a gaff-headed fore-and-aft mainsail, extended by a boom at the foot and a crossjack rather than a main yard. He could see that the topsails were bellying nicely, yards braced up to catch the beam wind at the most efficient angle. The sight of it brought him to the sudden decision to clap on more sail, his impatience getting the better of him.
A quick glance further aloft revealed the topgallant yards down on the cap with no other yards beyond them, not surprising considering merchant captains were notoriously reluctant to increase sail even to topgallants, let alone royals, because of their relatively small crews and their miserly desire to conserve canvas.
He transferred his gaze back to the deck, where those men of the watch whose duties allowed it were huddled round the deck below the bulwark, yarning amongst themselves. Walking over to the binnacle box drawer, he picked up a speaking trumpet.
‘All hands! All hands to make sail!’ he bellowed, feeling slightly absurd at shouting for all hands when he only had a crew of twenty.
Nevertheless the ten men constituting the watch below, having just finished their breakfast, came streaming up eagerly enough and ran to their stations. Fury paused for a moment to make sure everybody was ready before he began.
‘Lay aloft and loose the fore course!’ he shouted, knowing that it was the only order he need give for the time being. Experienced seamen like these would work better on their own than with Fury bellowing orders step by step.
Already the men were flying up the shrouds to the lower yard before laying out along it using the stirrups underneath. It took them only a minute or two to undo the gaskets which were keeping the sail tightly bundled against the yard, and the great folds of canvas came flapping down.
The men on deck quickly clapped on to the sheets and hauled taut to bring the corners of the sail down, the lee sheet being secured aft with the weather tack down forward so that the canvas soon began to belly with the pressure of the wind, the patches of lighter and darker cloth on the canvas betraying where previous repairs had been made. A slight adjustment by the men at the braces brought the yard round to the right angle as the rest of the men stood by ready for his next order.
Already he could sense a difference in movement as Renard picked up speed and the bow lifted slightly from the effect of the fore course.
‘Set the mainsail!’
The men at the mainmast sprang into life now, some swarming up to release the brails which were holding the fore-and-aft sail up to the gaff and mast, while the men on deck hauled on the sheet to bring the lower corner extending out to the foot of the boom below. Another quick adjustment to the tackles attached to the boom, which acted as sheets, had the sail at the right angle, blocking out much of the grey sky from Fury’s sight.
He moved forward along the deck so that he could get a clearer view of the bow. He had already decided against setting the topgallants. With only a small crew he did not want to be taken unawares by a sudden change in wind or weather, as was very likely in the Mediterranean.
‘Set the jib!’
The men stationed at the foremast moved forward towards the bowsprit, some stationing themselves at the outhaul, some at the halliards, and some at the sheets. The men were pulling on the outhaul now which was attached to the tack of the jib, sending it running out along the jib boom. Once there, the men began hauling on the halliards to send it rising up along the foretopmast stay, while the men tended the sheets to secure the inner corner of the sail aft along the bowsprit.
A quick nod by Fury as the men secured everything and moved back to the foremast told them that it had all been done to his satisfaction, and a word to Mr Francis as he arrived back near the tiller had the watch below stood down once again.
Happy that he had done as much as he could for now, Fury spent the rest of his watch pacing, pausing occasionally to look up at the set of the sails. At midday he had time to rush down and collect the sextant he had found in the master’s cabin, before coming back on deck to perform the ritual of the noon sight, a task made somewhat more difficult today with the horizon obscured by the drizzle which was still coming down.
He had searched the master’s cabin the previous evening for a chronometer, but had not been able to find one. Upon later reflection he had come to the conclusion that this was unsurprising due to the fact that the brig was unlikely to venture any farther than the Mediterranean, and so navigation would have been possible by a combination of latitude calculations and landfalls.
And so it was that Fury found himself sitting behind the desk in the master’s cabin with only a latitude figure calculated, of forty-one degrees forty-five minutes north. The position seemed reasonable looking at the charts, and there was little else he could do now but to keep her on the current heading until they sighted the French or Italian coast ahead.
Later that day the wind strengthened somewhat, obliging Fury to order a reef to be taken in the topsails. They carried on throughout that night and all the following day, the wind maintaining a steady strength so that the one reef in the topsails proved to be sufficient.
It was not until just after three bells in the first dogwatch, the sun now well down towards the horizon over in the west, that a hail from the fore masthead lookout warned of the sight of land ahead. It loomed up through the darkening haze half an hour later, leaving Fury eminently relieved that it had still been light when they had approached.
He immediately ordered sail to be reduced to topsails and jib only, and gave the order to the helmsman to come up to the wind and keep her close hauled until it was time to tack, bringing the wind on to the brig’s starboard side.
The rest of the night was spent standing off and on, beating up to the west close hauled towards where he hoped Toulon would be. His common sense told him that he had done everything right, and his calculations and the charts all told him that he was on the correct course to reach the British fleet, but no amount of calculation could erase the nagging doubts which plagued him.
He was on deck several times during the night as a result of his standing orders to young Francis to call him whenever the ship needed tacking once more. Each time he would take a walk around the deck, quietly asking the lookouts stationed around the ship if they had seen anything yet, causing Francis to send several anxious glances in his direction. Each time he would dive back down below exasperated, to attempt sleep again.
By the time the sun peered over the eastern horizon, showing the coastline about two miles distant off their starboard bow, Fur
y was quite exhausted. He tried to shake off his tiredness with a brisk run up to the fore masthead later in the morning while Francis had the watch, giving him the opportunity to study the coastline through his glass. The patchy grass, intermingled with the harsh grey of the rocky ground beneath, was backed by a string of mountainous peaks and winding valleys beyond, stretching away inland. It was so much like the landscape he had seen surrounding Toulon that by the time he had regained the deck his worries about their position had subsided to a slight doubt.
The rest of that day and throughout the night they continued beating up close hauled against the westerly wind, so that it felt like it would be weeks before they finally reached their destination.
The following day broke grey, each man aboard thoroughly exhausted from the slow beat to windward. It was not until nearly seven bells in the afternoon watch that the fore masthead lookout hailed the deck to report the sight of several batteries dotted on the coast ahead and inland. Fury, busy pacing the deck at the time trying to pass the last half hour of his watch quickly, felt a sudden surge of confidence that they had at last reached Toulon.
Two hours later, after another series of tacks against the wind, the harbour of Toulon opened up to starboard, Fury’s glass picking out the crowded anchorage of the outer road.
He snapped his glass shut and turned to the man standing at the tiller.
‘Ease her off two points.’
They were already on the larboard tack heading in towards the coast, so it only needed a slight alteration of course to bring her further off until the wind was abeam and they were heading directly into the harbour mouth itself.
Fury walked up the heeling deck to the larboard bulwark and watched as Cape Cepet, jutting out from the opposite shore, slowly slid past with the tall semaphore tower at its tip standing stark and clear.
‘Clear away the anchor there!’ he shouted forward to the men stationed round the foremast.