by G. S. Beard
The anchor was unlashed from the brig’s side and the men hauled it up to the cathead before securing it, ready to drop when Fury gave the order.
The huge bulks of the two-and three-deck line-of-battle ships anchored at the eastern end of the outer road were looming up ahead now, the Spanish or British flags streaming out in the wind. The western side of the road was still slightly blocked from view by the last of Cape Cepet, as Fury scanned forward anxiously with his telescope to find the best place to anchor.
The western side of the road slowly opened up as they weathered Cape Cepet and Fury could see that it was not quite as crowded on that side.
‘Bring her up full and bye!’ he ordered the helmsman.
‘Full and bye sir. Aye aye sir,’ the man replied, easing over the tiller to bring her further into the wind.
Fury heard the leech of the topsails begin to flutter as she came up too far into the wind before the helmsman eased her off a trifle.
‘Full and bye sir,’ he reported.
‘Very good.’
Fury was looking ahead, finally deciding that he would take Renard between the big line-of-battle ships and the shore, where there was plenty of room due to the fact that the ships were all anchored in the deep water towards the middle of the bay.
Two more tacks and they should be in position, he thought. It sounded simple, but those two tacks were going to be performed in full view of two fleets, and Vice Admiral Lord Hood.
A big three-decker flying a Spanish flag slipped slowly past about two cables’ lengths off to starboard, and then they were beyond her into a relatively clear area.
‘Stations for stays!’ he shouted, followed by a low growl to the helmsman, ‘Ease down your helm.’
Renard came round slowly into the wind, the men on deck easing off the jib sheets to help her round, before those at fore and main hauled to swing the yards round to fill on the starboard tack.
Fury glanced at the compass to see they were now heading south by west, a look ahead showing the northern shore of the Cape Cepet peninsular approaching, with the hospital of St-Mandrier clearly visible.
They had picked up sufficient speed now and the shore was getting ever closer, Fury waiting for as long as he dared before giving the order to tack once again, to ensure that they would be able to reach their anchorage on the next tack. A look over the starboard quarter where he was planning to anchor told him that now was the time. Another shout to the men, another growl at the helmsman to put the helm down, and they were swinging once more, hanging for a terrifying moment in the eye of the wind so that Fury thought she was going to be caught in irons, before finally completing her turn and gathering way on the new tack as the men braced the yards round.
They were now heading north-west with the Balaguier battery atop the small spit of land jutting out into the bay, approaching off the larboard bow.
Fury hastily scanned the anchorage for sign of HMS Victory. Ah, there she was, about half a mile further into the outer road, beyond three other ships but clearly visible with her ensign hanging lazily at the fore masthead denoting the presence on board of a Vice Admiral of the Red. No doubt Lord Hood had been informed of the arrival of the captured brig some time ago and was waiting impatiently for the commanding officer to report on board to him.
A sudden breath of wind blew out the ensign at her masthead, the sight of it prompting his memory with a shock. He had not yet offered the salute due to a vice admiral! He turned and hurriedly instructed Francis to have the larboard guns cast loose and loaded with blank charges ready for the salute of thirteen guns.
Francis had the task completed with commendable speed, but even so it was not quick enough for Fury as he stood on the deck of Renard, shuffling his feet uncomfortably.
Finally the first gun barked out, and as it did so Fury’s confidence began to wane. Had he remembered the passage correctly? It would not go well on an officer who made a hash of the Royal Navy’s precious ceremonials.
The last gun of the thirteen due had just sounded, and a moment later HMS Victory, as if satisfied, began her reply. By the time that had been completed, they had the battery of Balaguier abeam, her guns looking black and menacing through the embrasures.
Fury, the relief coursing through him, tore his gaze away from Balaguier and looked at the water ahead, all worries over salutes pushed aside as he decided now that the time was right to anchor.
‘Hard astarboard!’ he snapped to the man at the tiller.
The brig’s bow immediately began to swing into the wind, losing way rapidly until finally coming to a brief standstill.
‘Let go the anchor!’
The men forward released the anchor, the sound of a huge splash quickly followed by the steady humming as the cable roared out of the hawsehole.
They were making sternway now as the wind pushed them backwards, helping the anchor on the seabed to dig in.
‘Lay aloft and furl!’
Men went streaming aloft, while those on deck eased off the halliards to bring the topsail yards down to the cap before the men scrambled out along them. More hauling of the clew lines and buntlines by the men on deck brought the lower corners and foot of the topsails up to the yard, where the men were waiting to fist the canvas into submission before securing it to the yard with the gaskets.
With the sail now furled the sternway diminished, until finally the last of the anchor cable ranged out on deck was reached and she came to a standstill, swinging slightly to the light current within the outer road.
Chapter Eleven
The relief that he had managed to bring Renard in safely in front of Lord Hood and the remainder of the two fleets surged through Fury. His hands were still trembling slightly with the release of tension as he looked across to the shore where he could clearly see Fort Balaguier staring at them, the British flag flying proudly in place of the French tricolour. That was as much time as he dared spare for the shore at that moment.
‘Mr Francis!’ he bellowed, turning round startled as Francis replied just behind him. ‘Please be so kind as to have the boat cleared away so that I may make my call upon the admiral. I will be down below in the master’s cabin.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied, as Fury descended down the hatchway and made his way aft to the master’s cabin.
A quick search of the sleeping cabin revealed the boat cloak which he had seen when he first came aboard with Lieutenant Ross, and he placed it on his cot. One look in the grubby mirror hanging in the cabin confirmed his worst fears. His face looked exhausted and dirty, with growths of stubble here and there. A glance down at his clothes showed his white breeches were also dirty and his jacket was creased.
Fury quickly changed into a new pair of breeches and hastily plunged his hands into the bowl of water sitting on the sideboard, vigorously rubbing his face. By the time he arrived back on deck in his clumsily straightened jacket and stock with the boat cloak folded under his right arm, Francis had finished having the boat hoisted out and was standing waiting for him.
Fury picked the nearest ten seamen and ordered them down into the boat, before turning back to Francis.
‘You will take command until I return, Mr Francis.’
‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied formally, saluting and following Fury as he walked over to Renard’s side.
One look down showed the men were already in the boat waiting for him, five oars a side. He pulled the boat cloak over him and made the short journey down into her, moving aft and settling himself in the stern sheets at the tiller.
‘Shove off. Give way all,’ he growled, taking his apprehension out on his men.
He steered a course which would take them between two large three-deckers and past the stern of another two-decker before arriving at the one-hundred-gun Victory.
The wind was whipping up spray all around as the small boat ploughed through the waves, Fury glad that he had at least had the foresight to look for the boat cloak. Nevertheless his eyes were stinging from th
e salt spray as he looked forward, licking his lips occasionally to prevent the salt from drying them out.
He could see curious eyes above the bulwarks of the huge ships as they passed, all looking down at the boat and no doubt wondering who he was and how the brig was captured.
‘Come on lads, put your backs into it!’ he encouraged, as the men struggled at the oars.
They were past the last two-decker now and there was the Victory ahead. Luckily her starboard side – the side used by officers – was nearest to them, so they would not have to row round to the other side to hook on.
As soon as they were within earshot, a figure by her quarterdeck rail high above leaned over the netting with a speaking trumpet to his mouth.
‘Boat ahoy!’
The shout came drifting down to Fury carried by the wind. There was no coxswain in the boat so Fury took a deep breath before shouting his reply.
‘Aye aye!’
He pushed aside his boat cloak so that his uniform could be seen from her deck. The man above disappeared and Fury was left to concentrate on laying the boat alongside her properly, a quick turn of the tiller to port sending the boat sliding alongside her massive bulk, the men raising and stowing their oars without the need for orders while a man in the bow stood ready with the boat hook to fasten on.
Fury shrugged off the boat cloak fully, straightened his jacket and walked towards the familiar entry ladder stretching away above. He paused for a moment as the boat rose on a wave before leaping for the ladder, grasping the ropes hanging down the side of the battens, held out by the side boys.
It did not take him long to reach the entry port located about halfway up the Victory’s side, pulling himself in and coming face to face with Captain Knight, whom he recognised from his previous visit to the Victory on passing for lieutenant.
‘Lieutenant Fury sir, of HMS Fortitude, reporting on board,’ he said, straightening himself up and touching his hat.
He had the impression that Knight was looking him up and down, no doubt noting his slightly ragged appearance.
‘Lord Hood will see you shortly Mr Fury. If you will follow me I will show you the way.’
The words betrayed no hint of disapproval at Fury’s appearance, which helped to settle his nerves as he followed quietly behind the Victory’s captain. He was led to a cabin aft which contained a table and a number of chairs, one of which he gratefully sank into as Knight made his excuses and left the room.
It was a full fifteen minutes before the appearance of a man in a sparkling lieutenant’s uniform interrupted his thoughts.
‘Good afternoon, I am Lord Hood’s flag lieutenant. His Lordship will see you now.’
Fury followed him, cursing his luck that he should be ushered in to see Lord Hood by a man wearing one of the most sparkling and well-cut uniforms he had ever seen, in comparison to his own well used and slightly grubby undress uniform.
Lord Hood looked up from his desk as they entered the admiral’s day cabin, his bulbous red nose pointing at them as he beckoned the two officers in further.
‘Lieutenant Fury, My Lord, of HMS Fortitude,’ the flag lieutenant announced formally.
Fury touched his hat self-consciously and muttered, ‘My Lord.’
‘Very well Hodge, you can leave us now,’ the admiral said with a wave of his hand at the flag lieutenant. Hodge slipped out and Hood turned his attention to Fury. ‘Well Mr Fury. How is it going aboard the Fortitude?’
‘Very well thank you, My Lord.’
‘Excellent. Pray take a seat and give me a verbal report of how you come to be here without your ship.’
Fury sat down in one of the chairs opposite the admiral’s desk, placed his hat on his knee, and paused while he mentally arranged his report.
‘Four days out from Toulon My Lord, en route to Malta as ordered, we encountered a Ragusan brig, the Renard, on her way from Smyrna to Marseilles with a cargo of timber. There is also a quantity of liquor on board. After chasing her for over four hours she finally surrendered without a shot and I was placed in command by Captain Young. I was given orders to sail back to Toulon and await his return.’
‘How does she sail?’
‘Very well My Lord. She seems weatherly enough.’
‘Hmm,’ Hood mused, ‘I will have someone take a look at her with a view to purchasing her into the service. We’re always in need of runners to deliver reports and the like.’
A small smile crept across Fury’s face as he mentally began spending his share of the prize money.
‘Now,’ Hood continued, ‘on to more pressing matters – how many men have you got with you?’
‘Twenty able seamen and one midshipman, My Lord,’ Fury replied, dragging his mind back to the present.
‘Excellent. I may need to avail myself of the services of you and your men, Mr Fury, while you wait for Captain Young and the Fortitude to return.’
‘I am at your service, My Lord,’ Fury replied. He couldn’t very well say much else.
‘Excellent!’ Hood repeated, rising slowly from his chair to signal that the brief interview was at an end. ‘You and your crew may stay on board Renard. You will no doubt receive your orders shortly, once we have assessed where the next Republican threat will come from.’
‘Aye aye sir. What about the cargo and liquor, My Lord?’
Fury did not particularly like the idea of sitting idly at anchor when ardent spirits were to be had on board.
‘Ah yes, the liquor. Uncomfortable with those spirits on board eh?’ Hood didn’t wait for an answer. He knew as well as anyone the capacity of the ordinary seaman to get at drink when given half an opportunity. ‘Very well, I shall make arrangements to have them both unloaded tomorrow.’
‘Thank you My Lord. And resupply, sir?’
‘I shall have Renard added on to the fleet list. You will get reprovisioned from the hoys along with the rest of the fleet.’
‘Thank you, My Lord.’
‘Oh yes, and there will be a vessel leaving for England in two or three days. I shall be instructing a boat to visit each ship and collect any letters, so if you have any, you had better make sure they are bagged and ready.’
‘Yes, My Lord.’
Fury touched the brim of his hat in salute and left the cabin. Five minutes later he was sitting in the stern sheets of the boat once again, as the crew shoved off from the Victory’s side and began the pull back to Renard.
Fury waited patiently as the men tugged at the oars to send the boat slowly bobbing through the choppy waters towards the brig, snubbing quietly at her anchor cable.
Finally they were hooked on and Fury, eager to get aboard and rest his weary limbs, clambered swiftly up her low side and on to the deck. Francis was in front of him with a worried look on his face.
‘What is it Mr Francis?’
The boy was shaking his head. Had the brig sprung a leak?
‘You’re not going to like it sir,’ he stammered.
‘Out with it, for God’s sake!’ Fury snapped, his tiredness fraying at his temper.
‘It’s some of the men sir.’ Francis paused, but the sudden look of thunder on Fury’s brow prompted a hasty continuance. ‘They got at the liquor sir, while you were visiting the flagship.’
‘God damn and blast it!’
Francis was looking terrified now, but Fury was in no mood to calm him, even if he did think the boy innocent of any wrongdoing. He blamed himself and no one else. He should have taken more precautions once they had reached Toulon. It had been easy to keep the men away from the stuff when they had been beating back against that westerly wind – the men were so exhausted then that once off watch, the only thought had been sleep. Now, though, with time on their hands, they had contrived to get at it.
The words of Ross, words he had considered patronising at the time, returned to haunt him. Would he never learn? The sounds of laughter drifted up from below as if to mock him further.
‘How many Mr Francis?’
&nbs
p; It took a large effort to bring his temper under control and ask the question calmly, but the shame at his previous outburst spurred him on.
‘Only six sir. The men not on anchor watch.’
Once safely in harbour, the majority of a ship’s crew were stood down from duties, a skeleton ‘anchor watch’ being the only watch needed. Naturally it had been the idle men, allowed peace and quiet down below, who had transgressed.
‘Where are they now?’ Fury demanded.
The shuffling of feet behind him told him that the boat’s crew were now all up on deck, listening to the exchange with curiosity.
‘Still down below sir. We only have four men sober sir, and I didn’t want a confrontation.’
That may be so, Fury thought, but with his boat’s crew back, he now had plenty of men to deal with them.
‘Wait here.’
He hurried to the master’s cabin and unlocked the desk drawer, taking out his pistols. They were still loaded, so it took only moments before he was back on deck, suddenly wishing he had some marines on board to back him up. He would have to rely on the loyalty of the men on deck. He knew Clark and the other ex-Amazons would stand by him, but what about the others? Would they back him up if the men below decided to fight? Probably so, he thought. They would be in no hurry to let their shipmates continue drinking when they were stone-cold sober.
‘Mr Francis, you will remain on deck with the anchor watch.’
Francis merely nodded. He had been looking even more worried since he had seen Fury return on deck with two pistols in his hands.
Fury turned to his assembled boat’s crew.
‘Follow me lads!’
He tried to sound confident but his stomach was churning and his palms were beginning to sweat. He had no wish to fire on a British seaman, one of his own crew.
They followed him below to the berth deck, where a hanging lantern forward cast its orange glow over the small group of men, sitting on the bare planking with empty bottles strewn about them.
Fury strode towards them, his stomach tightening still more as he went. One of the men saw him and stumbled to his feet, swaying slightly as his comrades followed suit. Fury stopped. He could see frightened eyes glancing from his face, down to the pistol in each hand.