by G. S. Beard
The look of relief spreading across the men’s faces was obvious, and almost prompted Fury to break into a grin. He stifled it with an effort.
‘Aye sir, of course,’ Perrin replied.
‘Excellent! In the meantime, to help you cope with your inactivity,’ Fury flashed a wry glance at Gooseman, ‘perhaps you will all join me in the courtyard for some sword drills. The 69th are there as we speak practising with muskets, and it would be a shame to give them the impression that His Majesty’s sailors enjoyed an easier life than theirs.’
The men got slowly to their feet with barely concealed reluctance, McSherry surreptitiously sweeping up the two dice from the floor and stuffing them in his pocket. They picked up their cutlasses and Fury led them out of the barracks and into the courtyard, where the fog lay low on the ground like a blanket. Fury partnered McSherry, who was as tall as Clark and nearly as wide. The remaining six Fortitudes paired up and began circling each other, weapons ready.
Soon the clash of steel on steel could be heard along with the clicking and scraping of the musket drills from the 69th. It was an interesting problem for Fury, tackling an opponent with a much longer reach than his own; he had to rely on his own speed and nimbleness to dart in and out of his opponent’s guard at the right moments, while not allowing himself to get too close and hence give McSherry a chance to use his greater body strength.
They were all panting and sweating by the time Fury was satisfied with their efforts, calling time on the drill and allowing the men to return to their barracks for some well-deserved rest. The 69th had long since finished their musket drills, so the only men remaining were the sentries on duty. Fury looked at his watch; they had been at it for nearly two hours, with barely a pause. His chest was tight and his arm was heavy, but it had served to put from his mind all thoughts of Hawkins and his men.
He spent the rest of the day impatiently pacing throughout the fort and on the ramparts, scanning further down the valley to the north for any signs of life. The fog had lifted during the early afternoon so that he could see as far as the first ridge constricting the valley floor. Nothing. Not even a sign of his own advance lookouts.
The sound of distant cannonading could be heard as usual, betraying the continued bombardment from the Republican batteries scattered around the allies defensive perimeter, but no small-arms fire could be heard from the allied attack to retake the heights, which only seemed to intensify the feeling of utter isolation.
The sun had already begun its slow descent over to the west, the light fading fast, by the time the first of the shouts came from the sentry posted at the main door to inform them that Hawkins and his men were returning.
Fury hurried down from the ramparts, pausing only long enough to throw his telescope on to his bed, before making his way to the entrance, the relief pouring through him that the waiting was over. Hawkins was the first through the door, his uniform filthy and torn, with what looked like a dark stain of blood smeared across the front. His men following behind looked little better, all exhausted and perspiring freely. Hawkins came to a standstill in front of Fury and offered him a weary salute.
‘Well Mr Hawkins? How went it?’
‘Tolerably well, sir. We managed to drive them off and retake the heights.’
‘How many men did you lose?’
‘Three men killed, sir, and another four injured. They’ve been taken to the field hospital for treatment.’
‘But the heights are secure?’
‘For the time being, sir. We just haven’t got the men to defend the whole perimeter. The Republicans have got tens of thousands of men available, and numbers are growing all the time. At some point in the future they are going to penetrate our defence again, and we may not be able to respond quite so swiftly next time.’
‘I see. Well, you and your men should get some food, Sergeant. I’ve had some cold meat and biscuit left out for you. After that you can get some rest, you’ve earned it. Have them ready for parade an hour later tomorrow, at seven.’
‘Yes sir.’
Hawkins turned to his men and ordered them to fall out, before making his way over to his barracks, leaving Fury to ponder on what he had been told. The heights of Faron had been retaken, giving the city of Toulon a further reprieve. But for how long?
It was only a week since they had retaken the heights of Faron, and the excitement and adrenalin of action already seemed like a distant memory. Fury persisted with the daily drills, even though they were hardly enough to occupy the men indefinitely. He even began to question their necessity, having seen no evidence of Republican activity nearby. Lookouts were posted with telescopes on the ramparts day and night, keeping a ceaseless watch inland for any sign of the enemy approaching through the spurs which dotted the valley floor in front of the fort to the north-east, but to no avail. From the sound of the cannon fire in the distance, it seemed the Republicans were concentrating their efforts over to the west.
After Hawkins’ pessimistic report following the action to retake the heights of Faron, Fury’s thoughts had turned more and more to Sophie and her fate should the Republicans succeed in driving out the occupying allied forces. After almost three days of deliberation he finally found a solution to set his mind at ease: he wrote a note to her father instructing them to head for a rendezvous point should the city fall, assuring him that he would pick them up and take them off to safety. He enclosed a map of the bay and the surrounding land, clearly marking the rendezvous, and entrusted both to Clark and Thomas with directions to their lodgings and strict instructions to hand the letter over to him and him alone, and wait for his confirmation.
It was almost six hours before they returned, and Fury was sure that he could smell alcohol on their breath, but as they reported the delivery a success and handed Fury a note from Sophie’s father confirming his agreement, Fury had been satisfied. The successful completion of the task had at least enabled him to cease worrying quite so much, and to turn his attention back to his duty.
As the weeks wore on, the days became more and more of a struggle as Fury began to run out of activities with which to keep the men occupied. Small-arms drill and practice with the cannon sat on the ramparts could only take up so much time, while the maintenance of the garrison and its equipment was a simple matter once the initial cleaning had been completed on the first day. He even found himself wishing he had brought the Articles of War with him so he could read them each morning to the men, just to take up some more of the day and perhaps impress upon them the continued importance of discipline.
They were resupplied after three weeks from wagons escorted by the 14th Foot Regiment. The chance of slightly fresher food at least served the purpose of lifting the men’s spirits again, if only for a short time.
The tentative patrols which Fury sent out further down the valley, in an effort to gain some intelligence about the whereabouts of the enemy, came back with nothing. They went as far north as the northernmost lateral ridge crossing the valley floor, but could not see anything. They even passed through the village of Les Moulins on the banks of the river Neuve to the north-east, but still no sign of the enemy. If it wasn’t for the continued presence of cannon fire in the distance, Fury would have thought the war was at an end, and he tried his very best to ward off the complacency which inactivity inevitably produced, hoping that when the time came, his men would be ready.
‘Rider approaching sir!’
The shout came from one of the patrolling sentries on the ramparts after almost a month had passed. Fury was pacing round the courtyard, more to keep warm in the cold November air and stave off the boredom than anything else. He felt a surge of excitement course through his body as he acknowledged the report and turned towards the entrance, his mind racing with the possible implications of their unknown caller.
The doors were swung open to admit the visitor. He looked to be a messenger, and glanced around the courtyard upon entering. In stark contrast to Lieutenant Carter, their previous messen
ger, this one looked so ill at ease sitting on his horse, it was almost laughable. Fury had to stifle a chuckle as the man clumsily attempted to climb down from the saddle, his sword getting caught between his legs and sending him tumbling to the ground. One or two of Fury’s men nearby were not quite so discreet in their merriment.
‘Silence,’ growled Fury, stooping to help the man back on his feet.
‘Many thanks, many thanks,’ their visitor said. ‘Bloody horses. I hate the things!’
His red uniform was now thick with dirt and dust from where he had fallen, while the packet which he was holding in his hand was crumpled and torn. He offered the packet to Fury with an apologetic look as he tried to adjust his sword and jacket into some semblance of order.
Fury noticed that the seal had already been broken, and he pulled out a sheet of paper. It was a written order, signed by Lieutenant General O’Hara, stating that the bearer was acting under his authority and must be given whatever assistance he required.
‘What is all this about?’ Fury demanded, waving the sheet of paper in front of the officer.
‘I have been ordered to round up as many men as I can for an attack on one of the Republican batteries over to the west. It has been harassing the flank of Fort Malbousquet since yesterday, and the General wishes to be rid of it.’
Fury thought for a moment about the position of the enemy battery. It must be somewhere near the heights of Le Petite-Garenne, where the batteries which had destroyed his gunboat had been sited. The thought of revenge gave him a fierce pleasure.
‘I shall, of course, provide you with whatever you require. I am Lieutenant Fury, commander of the garrison here at Fort Pomet.’
‘A pleasure, Mr Fury. I am Lieutenant Carrick, on the staff of Major General Dundas. He will be leading the initial attack.’
Fury baulked slightly at having to follow the orders of an officer who was, technically at least, junior to him, but he bit his tongue and waited for Carrick to explain what he wanted.
‘Due to the shortage of men available to defend the perimeter of the city, we shall require sixty men from your garrison to aid in the attack.’
Fury shook his head.
‘Out of the question I’m afraid, Lieutenant Carrick. I can spare you forty men at most.’
‘You have read my authority?’ Carrick asked.
‘I have. My orders from Lord Hood, however, were explicit. I am to ensure that this garrison is able to defend itself at all times.’
Fury stood there staring at him, while Carrick searched his eyes for any signs of weakness.
‘Very well,’ Carrick relented, ‘I shall accept forty, but I shall be obliged to mention this matter in my report.’
The implied threat irked Fury, but he had no wish to let Carrick know it.
‘You must do as you see fit, of course, Lieutenant.’
It took all Fury’s willpower to answer using his best manners. Carrick sighed at his stubbornness. He had fully expected Fury to accede to his request in the face of a possible disciplinary charge from General Dundas.
‘Very well. You may pick your men now, Mr Fury. I wish to be under way within thirty minutes. General Dundas will be wanting to get into position before nightfall.’
Fury nodded and went to seek out Sergeant Hawkins to have him pick the men. He was wondering as he went whether he should let the sergeant lead the men again – Hawkins had led the attack to retake the heights of Faron, and there was nothing in Carrick’s orders which stated that Fury himself had to go.
By the time he reached Hawkins he had already decided. He would go himself, and to hell with Hawkins’ feelings. The thought of sitting back in ignorance for a second time while his men went into action appalled him.
The face of Hawkins when he broke the news tugged at Fury’s conscience, but by the time he left the fort at the head of his forty men a little under half an hour later, with Lieutenant Carrick leading the way, there was only one thing on his mind. Revenge.
The battery, sitting high on the flat top of the hill, could not be seen from where Fury was lying, face down in the dirt and shivering with the bitter cold which seemed to reach everywhere with every breath of wind.
The sky was littered with stars, but the moon had not yet risen. The slope began gently but then got steeper, and even in the dark Fury could see the loose rock and stone scattered everywhere, with only the occasional small scrub brush breaking the monotony of brown and grey.
It was too dark to look at his watch, but Fury knew it could not be much past nine o’clock. Plenty of time for what they had to do. He glanced to his right and then to his left to look along the line of men waiting silently at the bottom of the slope. He thought he could see the uniform of Lieutenant General O’Hara away to his right, but he could not be sure in the darkness. As far as Fury was aware, Major General Dundas was supposed to be leading the initial attack, but his senior, O’Hara, seemed intent on joining them.
Another glance above showed that they had a good 200-yard dash up the slope until they came to the battery, which the Republicans had erected to lay down a continuous fire upon the battery of Malbousquet overlooking the inner road.
The approach to their present position, conducted only after darkness had fallen, had been effected without a single sound. And now, 200 men, mostly soldiers or marines but with a scattering of seamen among them, were waiting for the final charge.
A movement to his right drew Fury’s gaze, and he saw the first men begin to rise to their feet, presumably on a signal from General Dundas. Fury himself rose to his feet instinctively, followed shortly by the men to his right and left, so that soon the whole group were standing amid the low sound of swords being drawn.
Starting from the right over where the general was, the men moved forward up the slope like a huge wave. Fury had to make a conscious effort to control himself and not go running ahead like a madman, which would inevitably set off the men around him and lead to chaos.
It was difficult to keep his footing on the slope, the loose rocks giving way under his feet and falling in mini avalanches to hinder the men struggling up behind him. A hundred yards to go now and he was conscious of his legs aching slightly with the climb, a glance above showing a face peering over the hastily constructed works housing the French mortars.
Fury thought initially that the French had seen them long before and were waiting silently at the top to massacre them as they arrived, but a moment later a terrified shout from above told him that the man who had first spotted them was taken completely by surprise.
They were almost there, and the men were shouting and screaming now that the need for secrecy was gone. As they approached the flat of the high ground, a ragged volley of musket shots pierced the air, and a man to Fury’s right fell with a shriek, but Fury could spare no more time for him as the low wooden parapet loomed up in front of him and, with cutlass in his right hand, he managed to hurl himself over with the help of the men pushing up behind him.
More musket shots rang out, this time from their own soldiers as they neared the French who were rapidly falling back from the works. Fury whipped one of the pistols out of his waistband and fired it at the man closest to him before flinging it at another and lunging forward with his cutlass. He felt the jar and heard the familiar sound of steel on steel as the man in front parried and quickly countered, Fury only just recovering his balance and deflecting the strike heading towards his side. It took only a slight movement for Fury to adjust his cutlass as his opponent lost his balance and almost fell on to the point of his blade, Fury managing to wrench it free quickly and continue forward.
The French had been thoroughly surprised and were now running away from the works as fast as they could across the flat summit towards the opposite slope. They were followed by the majority of the British soldiers shouting and screaming after them, their impetuosity and ardour overcoming their discipline.
Fierce shouting over to his right attracted Fury’s attention and he looked o
ver to see both General O’Hara and one of his aides shouting at the top of their voices for the men to return. It was no good, however – the men were now completely overcome by fighting madness and blood lust. Even if they could hear the shouted orders, Fury doubted whether they would have obeyed.
Looking around, Fury estimated that no more than about twenty men now remained at the works, and the general was bawling orders to them to destroy the mortars as quickly as possible before the Republicans managed to regroup and advance in force.
It took twenty minutes for the men to spike the touchholes and manhandle the mortars off their carriages and throw them down the slope. Fury and his men pulled down the temporary wooden parapet and works, setting light to as much of it as possible after dragging the wicker baskets containing powder cartridges out of harm’s way. The flames sprang up readily enough and the heat reminded Fury of how cold he was, at the same time providing sufficient light to see further across the summit.
A large volley of musketry sounded in the distance, warning of a probable counterattack, but even so it was another twenty minutes before the first of the British soldiers arrived back exhausted.
The remainder of the troops came running in complete disorder shortly after, musket shots ringing after them as the French advanced. General O’Hara was standing and shouting frantically at his men in an attempt to rally them, but they carried on in a panic down the slope into the darkness.
All the advantages gained by the surprise attack had now been lost as the rest of the British troops fled back from the advancing French looming up out of the dark. As Fury watched him, the general suddenly spun round on his feet and fell heavily to the ground, and in a few steps Fury was over to him.
O’Hara sat up with Fury’s help, and it was clear that he had been hit in the left arm with a musket ball, the blood staining his coat and running down his arm towards his hand. His aide was dead, lying in the mud with one eye missing and a widening pool of blood beneath his head. Fury looked to his left where the French were now no more than a hundred yards away, approaching more cautiously as they neared what was left of their battery.