Lieutenant Fury

by G. S. Beard

  ‘Let me worry about that, Mr Francis,’ Fury snapped. ‘You have your orders.’ He caught sight of Clark clambering out of the boat back on to the quayside, followed by Thomas. ‘What d’you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Coming with you sir, beggin’ yer pardon.’

  Fury opened his mouth to argue, but changed his mind. He would feel safer with a couple of his men along, and they were unlikely to be bothered if there were three of them, all armed. Besides, he knew Clark too well to think that he would give up easily.

  ‘Oh, very well. But stay close by me.’

  ‘But how will you get back to Renard, sir?’ Francis persisted.

  Fury had not thought that far ahead, but was reluctant to let Francis know. ‘It’s all in hand. Just concentrate on getting the men back to Renard.’

  Francis acknowledged reluctantly and clambered back into the boat, while Fury turned to Clark and Thomas, standing silently waiting.

  ‘Come on.’

  He led them, half running, past the mast house and towards the timber storehouse at the edge of the dockyard. The number of soldiers increased as they neared the entrance to the city. The massive gates were closed and locked to keep out the citizens of Toulon, and Fury had to argue fiercely with the soldier commanding to get him to open them. Fury led Clark and Thomas through as the soldiers struggled to shut them again amidst the press of people.

  They pushed their way through the throng, Fury only subconsciously registering the shouts and screams emanating from the crowd as they passed through and into the darkened streets beyond, with people in near panic everywhere. Intermittent loud crashes sounded as several cannonballs from the Republicans over at Fort Missiessi landed on buildings.

  ‘Come on,’ he growled over his shoulder, encouraging Clark and Thomas to keep up with him. He was gasping for air just as much as they were, but his anxiousness for the welfare of Sophie took precedence over any physical discomfort.

  He reached the end of the street and paused on the corner, looking left and right in an attempt to get his bearings. The lack of any lighting was making it difficult for him to find his way, and he could only hope that soon he would come across a familiar street.

  A small group of men caught sight of his uniform and started to approach, shouting at him aggressively. Fury turned towards them and raised both his pistols, causing the men to pause in their tracks. Clark and Thomas placed themselves on either side of Fury and stood ready with cutlasses and pistols, and the sight of them made the group think better of it. They turned away with a final shouted insult, or so Fury assumed it to be.

  ‘This way!’

  He turned left and broke into a run, his instinct telling him that he was heading in the right direction. He increased his speed without even looking over his shoulder to check if Clark and Thomas were still with him. He could feel the anxiety welling up within him at the thought of Sophie being unprotected amid such mayhem and lawlessness.

  People were emerging on to the streets from buildings carrying armfuls of clothing or other belongings, some even with furniture, all with as much as they could manage. Fury was unsure whether the people were trying to save their possessions, or whether they were looters, using the current panic to pillage and plunder.

  He became aware of a whistling sound overhead, and a moment later the front of the building immediately to his right erupted into a shower of stone and glass. A shout of pain behind him caused him to stop, and he turned around to find Thomas bent over the crouching figure of Clark. Fury rushed over to them.

  ‘Are you hurt, Clark?’

  ‘It’s nothing sir, just a flesh wound,’ he said through gritted teeth.

  Fury helped him gingerly to his feet, and could see the blood soaking through the shoulder of Clark’s jacket.

  ‘Are you sure? Can you move your arm?’

  Clark moved it in a circular motion, the grimace on his face betraying the pain of the wound.

  ‘See, sir? It’s fine.’

  A child’s crying penetrated the din of the continuing bombardment overhead. The front of the building next to them had been destroyed, presumably by one of the Republican cannonballs, and Fury could see wreckage within.

  ‘Wait here.’

  Fury moved over to the building, the sound of the crying increasing as he neared. Stuffing his pistols in his belt, he used his hands to clamber over the rubble and into the room. Dust was everywhere, along with broken furniture and shards of glass. A woman lay in the corner, her body broken and twisted at a sickening angle. A toddler was bent over her, a girl of no more than three years old, crying hysterically as she tried to prod her mother back to life. Her hair was plastered with blood and her dress was torn and caked with dust.

  Fury went over to her and picked her up, prying her fingers off her dead mother’s dress and resisting her frenzied kicks as he took a final look around the room to ensure no one else lay alive. There was nobody. Picking his way carefully over the rubble with the girl still crying and kicking frantically, he arrived back on to the street.

  An old woman came towards him crying and holding out her arms, and Fury passed the child to her in silence, the tears beginning to sting his own eyes. He blinked them away and turned to Clark and Thomas.

  ‘There’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s go.’

  He set off at a run again, his worries over Sophie intensifying after witnessing the destruction caused by the Republican batteries at first hand. His chest was tight and heaving by the time they reached the coffee shop where he and Sophie had talked together. He stopped momentarily to get his bearings.

  ‘What is it sir?’

  That was Thomas asking the question, in between sucking in lungfuls of air. Fury ignored him and crossed the street, knowing that they were nearly there.

  ‘We’re not far off now,’ he explained, keeping his pace to a brisk walk as he hurried down the street. They came to a crossroads and he turned left, breaking into another jog without looking over his shoulder to check that Clark and Thomas were still with him. Another hundred yards and they came to the alleyway on the left, running perpendicular to the street.

  The door to Sophie’s apartment was off its hinges and lying in the alley. Fury pulled his pistols out of his belt and plunged into the darkness of the lower hall, fumbling his way up the stairs. He could hear the grunts and curses of Clark and Thomas behind him as they struggled in the near pitch black.

  ‘Sophie!’

  His shout pierced the darkness but there was no response, Fury’s anxiety increasing yet further as it became clear the premises were deserted. He reached the top of the stairs and poked his head into the first room, which had a window on the far side allowing Fury to see a little better. Broken furniture was strewn about the floor, but, thankfully, there was no sign of any bodies. He bumped into Clark as he turned to check Sophie’s room.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,’ Clark muttered.

  ‘No matter,’ Fury replied, pushing past him down the hall. The door to Sophie’s room was half closed when he reached it, and he steeled himself before entering, attempting to prepare for the worst. He pushed the door open and went inside. There was no window in this room and he stood still for a few nervous moments, struggling to see as his eyes adjusted to the blackness within.

  It was much as the first room had been, the furniture broken and scattered about the floor, and signs of other belongings intermingled with it. Fury let out an imperceptible sigh of relief that there was no body there either.

  ‘There’s nothing here,’ he stated. ‘We’ll have to be getting back to the quayside before the city is overrun with Republicans.’

  They filed out of the building and back into the dark alleyway. Fury’s initial relief at not finding a body was now waning as he realised that he had lost her. Wherever she was, safe or not, he would never find her now. With their two countries at war there was every chance he would never see her again, and the knowledge of it tugged fiercely at his heart.


  They set off at a brisk walk, much to the relief of Thomas and Clark. The bombardment continued overhead but Fury paid no heed to it, in fact hardly even heard it as his mind raced with thoughts of Sophie – her eyes and lips, the touch of her skin, and the way her face lit up when she smiled.

  They arrived at the gate separating the city from the dockyard, the crowd of frantic people still desperate to gain entry. Fury began trying to push his way through, but there were too many of them. He pulled one of the pistols from his belt, cocked it and aimed it high into the air.

  The sharp crack as it went off startled the whole crowd, and as Fury pushed through they began to separate. He reached the gate and the soldiers parted for him when they recognised his uniform.

  It took only minutes to reach the waterside overlooking the inner basin of the new arsenal. Fury desperately wanted to check the agreed rendezvous point with Sophie one last time to see if she had made it, but he knew that time was running out.

  He began to lead Clark and Thomas over to the stone jetty when a shout from the darkness of the water stopped him in his tracks.

  ‘Here sir!’

  A boat came gliding out of the gloom to the dockside, with Francis half standing at the bow.

  ‘Mr Francis!’ Fury exclaimed in shock. ‘What are you doing here? I thought I ordered you back to Renard.’

  Francis looked slightly guilty, but Fury saw a flicker of defiance cross his face. ‘Sorry sir, but I couldn’t leave without you. We were safe enough away from the shore sir.’

  Fury opened his mouth to admonish him, but then closed it; now was not the time.

  Francis jumped on to the quay next to Fury. ‘All ready sir?’

  Again Fury thought about the rendezvous with Sophie, his heart pleading with him to check it one last time. He gritted his teeth; he would not risk his men’s lives over his own feelings any longer, no matter how strong they were.

  ‘Clark, Thomas. In you get.’ Fury gestured to the waiting boat and the two men climbed aboard, Clark still nursing his wounded shoulder. ‘After you, Mr Francis.’

  Fury waited for Francis to clamber on board before following. The boat was overcrowded, so it was some struggle to get to the stern sheets and uproot the man currently holding the tiller.

  ‘Shove off. Give way all!’

  The boat drifted away from the quayside and, when enough distance had been gained, the oars came down into the water and began gliding back and forth as the men bent to them. Fury swung the tiller over to send the boat in the direction of the narrow entrance which would take them through to the inner road, with the outer road and relative safety beyond.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The going was understandably slow due to the overcrowding, exacerbated by the rising wind blowing across their path from west to east and reminding Fury for the first time today of how bitterly cold it was, now he was sitting inactive.

  Shadows loomed surprisingly close on their right, and he could just make out the outlines of the four huge ships of war which they had passed on the jetty, lying at anchor about half a cable away and secured to the wharf. They would be the remnants of the French fleet which was in the harbour when the British fleet had arrived and which Lord Hood had ordered to be removed into the inner basin and stripped of all men, powder and stores.

  Faint sounds from up ahead drew his attention – the splashing of oars preceding another looming shape, darker against the black of the night sky.

  ‘Easy all!’ he hissed, the men ceasing their pull at the oars while Fury anxiously peered forward, waiting to see what the ship was. She was definitely moving, that much he could be sure of. Was she being towed?

  As she crept closer the sound of splashes grew louder and the smaller outline of boats in front of her came into view, confirming Fury’s suspicion. They would cross their path soon, heading straight for the group of line-of-battle ships which Fury had been studying moments previously. There could only be one answer and Fury was quick to identify it. The boats were towing a fire ship in to destroy the remnants of the French fleet lying in the inner basin.

  ‘Sir?’

  Francis was looking at him, confused by the sudden stop.

  ‘A fire ship, Mr Francis, being towed in to destroy the French ships there.’ He pointed to where the ships were moored up against the quay. ‘We will hold position here until they have passed.’

  ‘Aye aye sir,’ Francis replied.

  The fire ship was crossing their path now, her lighter sails clear against the dark sky, hanging down from her yards but not sheeted home to ensure the fire caught quickly. Even in the darkness Fury could see that she was a frigate, her single row of gun ports open to let in as much air as possible below decks with which to feed the hungry flames. Presumably she was one of the French frigates which had been found to be too unseaworthy to be attached to the British fleet.

  Fury heard the order from the officer in one of her boats to cast off the towline, obviously satisfied that the ship was in position to drift down upon her targets and wreak her havoc.

  He watched as she continued to drift slowly down towards the four ships, and after a moment he became aware of a small orange glow from within her hull where the officer on board must have just set light to her. The glow became slowly bigger as the flames spread, followed shortly afterwards by her fore course erupting in flames, lighting up a small area of the inner basin.

  Even as he watched, his seaman’s instinct, honed sufficiently even after a relatively short time at sea, became aware of a shift in the wind. The effect of it on the hull of the fire ship was noticeable, changing her course slightly so that she was now slowly drifting down towards the last in the line of French ships which were grouped together. Fury wondered whether she would miss them altogether.

  The officer on deck must still be at the wheel, turning it to bring her back on course for her target. He watched anxiously for some small sign that she was still under helm control, but saw nothing, forcing him into making a decision which he knew to be both dangerous and foolhardy. At least the activity would take his mind off Sophie, he thought.

  ‘Mr Francis!’ He raised his voice to make sure he was heard over the crackling of the flames. ‘I am going on board that fire ship, for if I do not she will miss her intended target. You will lead the boat back to Renard to embark the men.’

  ‘But—’

  Francis began to protest but Fury cut him short.

  ‘No arguments, Mr Francis. You have your orders.’

  Francis reluctantly acknowledged and Fury turned back to his crew, giving the orders which sent the boat surging forward after the fire ship. To the men’s credit, in spite of the number in the boat, they gave their all in pulling as fast as they could so that by the time they were approaching the larboard quarter of the flaming ship, there was still time.

  Looking up, Fury could see the rigging and sails were a mass of flames, but there was no sign yet of the flames within her hull spreading out of her open gun ports. The boat’s crew pulled him alongside the drifting ship and held her there below the battens leading up to the entry port above. Fury hurriedly pushed his way amidships and jumped without hesitation.

  He grasped the side ropes gratefully and found his feet on one of the battens before hauling himself up and through the entry port on to the deck. The heat from the flames as he gained the deck was tangible, like a wall in front of him stopping him going further. After the initial shock he braced himself and ran aft to where the wheel was, sheltering his face with his arm as he went.

  The wheel itself was spinning aimlessly. A loose rope attached to one of the spokes and dangling on the deck told him that the wheel had been secured, but the flames had burnt through the rope. Grasping the spokes he stopped the wheel turning and, using his best judgement as to which was the correct direction to steer, kept it steady.

  His eye caught sight of a bulk on the deck over near the larboard scuppers, and he was surprised to see from the epaulettes on the jacket that it
was the body of an officer. He made a mental note to check it before leaving and turned forward again to concentrate on the task at hand.

  Although no flames were actually upon him, he could feel his face and hands burning from the fire all about the deck, while forward he could see flames rising from out of the waist.

  Looking to his side at the lights on shore in the distance, he could discern the ship slowly changing direction as the bite of the rudder took hold. It was possible, by staring intently forward, to see the shape of the French ships ahead through the smoke, but even so it was a while before he felt the first soft jar of contact as they came alongside one of them.

  He heard the sound of scraping wood as the fireship continued her momentum down the entire length of the French ship, until a lurch of the hull told Fury she had come to an abrupt standstill.

  It was a miraculous stroke of good fortune that he had managed to run alongside rather than hit one of them head on, and it was even more miraculous that the yards overhead should manage to lock with those of the French ship on his right. One glance above showed that the fire in the rigging had already started to spread.

  Satisfied that there was no more he could do, and anxious to get away before being burnt to death, he left the wheel and started to make his way towards the unconscious officer. One of the other French ships was anchored about ten yards from the larboard side, so he must have managed to drift the fire ship between the last ship in the line and her neighbour.

  Unhappy with the thought of just the one ship destroyed, he fumbled about the deck looking for some combustible material. Finding several charred sections of rope, he picked up two.

  The flames were beginning to come up through parts of the deck now and he knew he didn’t have long. He thrust both bits of rope among the flames until they were well alight, before hurrying over to the larboard bulwark. The first he threw on the deck of the neighbouring ship, seeing it disappear behind the bulwark. He did the same with the second, but aimed higher in an attempt to catch furled sails or heavily tarred rigging.