The Patriot's Fate

by Alaric Bond

  Another stab of light, this time closer still; they must surely have them by now. His eyes were recovering from the flash but still he noticed movement out there in the dark. Yes, the British were closing on them. He could hear the splash of oars and the shout of someone calling the time.

  He sighed, still straining at his sweep. This was it: he was old and wise enough to know when a fight was over; there was no point in resisting a boat full of British seamen and marines. He and the others could make any manner of excuses, but their very presence would implicate them well enough. Walsh was probably a known member of the brotherhood. The boat would be searched, their stores discovered, and there remained the small matter that the British had obviously been waiting for them, and in all likelihood already knew what they were about. But even then, Crowley could not feel downhearted. When the French frigate he had been in was taken by Pandora, things had appeared bad, and yet it was by that very avenue that he first met with King and the other Englishmen.

  A brief lightening in the sky made him wonder for a second, then there was the sound of shot passing high overhead, and a series of splashes in the water to their stern. Crowley went to twist round on his thwart, but stopped when MacArthur from behind cried out in alarm. The man was right, he must keep the pace going, however much he might wish to turn and see.

  “It’s the fortress,” Collins grunted in a half whisper. “Over on the headland, near the entrance to Le Conquet. And they have their eyes open for once.”

  A French shore battery certainly altered the equation considerably. Heavy cannon mounted on a stable platform, their shot would be devastating against any size of vessel and should carry a considerable distance. Even the brig was dangerously close, and must pull back or risk being wrecked. A flash of light followed; the boat’s cannon was speaking again, but already it was farther off, and once more they could not detect the fall.

  Crowley felt the breath ooze from his body and he gripped the oar more firmly as his hands began to shake. He continued to row, but knew the pace to be slower, and that the tight order they had maintained until now was beginning to relax. There was no further sound from the British boat; even if the Irishmen were not rowing quite so hard, they must certainly be growing closer to the harbour entrance.

  “Nearly home, lads,” Collins murmured as if to confirm his thoughts. The man’s voice was once more fully controlled, and even a little jubilant. The French battery fired again, an uneven series of shots, one of which passed dangerously close, but the British boat must have been in greater danger, and a ragged, ribald cheer went up from the men around him.

  “Shall we carry on to Brest?” Walsh asked from the stern.

  “I’d say not,” Collins told him. “Our friends may have beaten the bastards back, but they knows we are about, and it won’t take much to send another after us. We’ll take her in to Le Conquet. There we can shelter for a spell and choose the night we finish the trip. What say you, lads?”

  Another tired cheer, and Crowley leaned back on his oar, raising the pace once more for the last leg of the journey. Le Conquet or Brest, it all made very little difference to him; he was just glad to be clear and looking forward to being back on land.

  Chapter Three

  “HMS Scylla, if you please.”

  The wherryman collected Rose’s sea chest, sweeping it up and onto his shoulder in one swift and easy movement. The midshipman went to follow him down to his boat when a voice came from behind.

  “Hey, belay that!”

  They both looked round to see another midshipman standing on the quay.

  “Appears we are bound for the same ship. There’s a victualling lighter about to set off,” the lad told Rose. “I’m taking that; you may as well join me.”

  Rose looked uncertainly at the man, still holding his chest. “Do you mind?” he asked, cautiously. The wherryman rolled his eyes, but dropped the chest back down gently enough and sauntered away.

  “Otherwise, you could have sent a signal to the ship,” the lad informed him as Rose lifted his belongings, far less expertly, to his own shoulder. “But this way will probably be quicker.”

  “What about your chest?” Rose asked him.

  The lad grinned. “Already aboard,” he said.

  The lighter was indeed ready to go; Rose just had time to swing the chest on, then jump after it, before they were leaving the quayside. The lads moved aside as the boat’s hands set sail, then perched themselves more or less comfortably on the low bulwark.

  “Name’s Barrow,” the second midshipman said, when they were settled.

  Rose gave his name, and wondered for a moment about offering his hand. But then Barrow, a fresh-faced lad who looked a few years older, didn’t behave as one to stand on ceremony. “I’d chance you are new to the ship,” he said.

  “First posting for several months,” Rose agreed. “Was in Pandora, with the same captain. She paid off in the fall of last year. There’s been nothing since. By the time Sir Richard sent for me I was all in hock and about to set a course for home.”

  “Hard times, that’s for sure,” Barrow grunted. “I passed my board in May but lieutenant’s berths are as rare as hen’s teeth.”

  “You’re commissioned?” Rose asked in awe.

  Barrow snorted. “I’ve passed, but yet to be employed; until someone sees my true worth, that is,” he added.

  Rose pursed his lips. His guess at the lad’s age was about right. No one can stand for lieutenant until they are eighteen – or that was the theory at least: he had met a couple who were a good deal younger. It would be two full years before Rose would be eligible and, as a relatively friendless soul, he doubted whether anyone would make an exception in his case.

  “What was your last ship?” Rose asked him.

  “Victory,” Barrow said with just a hint of pride. “I was helping Jervie out in the Med squadron. He was most grateful.”

  Rose grinned. “Clearly.”

  “I came back with a capture to sit my board; made friends with the prize master, a lieutenant called King who asked me along to this one.” He indicated Scylla, which was now less than a cable off. “Rather than starve, I thought I’d come. You must know a bit about her captain.”

  “Sir Richard? He’s the only one I’ve served under, but I was always treated well enough, and the men speak highly of him. Made me decide to stay in the Navy, if that be any guide.”

  “You had another choice?”

  “My parents’ farm; they’d have me back sure as a gun.”

  “Better grub, I’d warrant.”

  “And less chance of drowning,” Rose agreed, warming to both the lad and conversation.

  “So the captain sent for you?” Barrow reminded him. “Must have caught his eye then.”

  “Oh, we were famous together.”

  “Pandora,” Barrow said, as if suddenly remembering. “Wasn’t she the jackass at St. Vincent?”

  “Aye, then we transferred to Duncan.”

  “So, you were at Camperdown?”

  “I was.”

  “See much of the fight?”

  “Only what I could through a gun port.”

  They were nearing the ship now and their lighter was hailed as both lads stood to take their first close look at Scylla.

  “She’s bigger than Pandora,” Rose said.

  “Aye,” Barrow agreed. “But smaller than Victory. Let’s hope she sees as much action as both.”

  * * *

  King could hardly keep himself from smiling. He was dressed in seaman’s duck trousers and a plain cotton shirt, doing work that could not by the widest stretch of credibility be called enjoyable; yet, once more, he was a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy. More than that, he had been appointed to one of the best frigates the old boy possessed and was serving with men he knew, liked and respected.

  They had been hard at it since first light: seven hours with just a brief break for breakfast, and there was a wealth of tasks to finish before any of them slept
. But still the feeling of satisfaction and fulfilment was all but overpowering. With every hoy or lighter that came alongside, another important commodity was taken on board, be it beef, spirit, powder or men; and, as the ship settled deeper into the water, a new life seemed to develop within her.

  She was coming alive; more than that, due to the input in so many quarters, she was almost being born again. Whatever had been before would be forgotten, and a new HMS Scylla was appearing to start an unspoiled life under a fresh command. And King was part of that process – an important part. With every decision or order a piece of himself was being given to the ship and, in return, a portion of Scylla passed back for him to keep for always.

  The two new mids had just joined them and were already helping with the stowing of the bread that had captured the attention of the lading team for the last half an hour or so. King had not seen Rose since Pandora had paid off: the lad had grown several inches; and Barrow, the able second in command of the privateer they had sailed back from Lisbon, was now through his lieutenant’s exam. The midshipmen they had inherited from Scylla‘s previous crew were all pretty experienced, so even if they filled the remaining spaces with dolts and newbies, they would still have the makings of a first rate midshipman’s berth. And there was Adam Fraiser, calmly making notes on the manifest as each successive net of biscuits swung aboard. Fraiser was an exceptional sailing master, as well as being one of the soundest men King had ever served with. The lads could have no finer role model. Johnston had also joined them as boatswain’s mate; it was his first taste of authority and, as a known deserter who had changed his name on at least one occasion, King should have been concerned. But the man possessed all the skills and experience necessary, and he had responded to the call and promotion eagerly enough. In fact he was already proving himself worthy of both. The only slight cloud on the glorious horizon was Crowley.

  They had left on more than amicable terms; the Irishman had been keen to sail with King once more, and would be waiting, he promised, for the time when Vernon was ready. King could not be certain what had happened in the meantime; three messages sent to The Star, the Portsmouth inn which acted as an unofficial contact point for many seamen, had gone unanswered. He had even asked Manning to look for him in person, but no one there, or at any of the other usual haunts, knew of his whereabouts. Perhaps the delay in getting back to sea had been too much; maybe he had taken another berth, or chosen a completely different tack; but any of the myriad of possibilities that King had considered were wiped away by one consideration: it was unlike Crowley to break what both parties had clearly understood to be a firm undertaking.

  King shied away from the thought once more, and focused his mind on the current problem of the boatswain’s need for tallow. The man was in front of him now, respectfully waiting for either an answer or a miracle: it would be several days before the yard expected delivery.

  “You’ll have to make do with slush,” he told the man. “My compliments to the cook, and could we raid his store? I’m sure he is collecting enough, even on petty warren provisions.” The man touched his hat and moved away, leaving King to think once more about the Crowley situation. Yes, it was a puzzle, but not one that he was going to let spoil his mood. A chorus of laughter broke out from forward. One of the biscuit-filled nets had caught the wind and sent a hand bowling over onto the deck in a cloud of dust and flour. The man was not hurt and clearly appreciated the humour as much as the rest. Despite the hard work they seemed a happy crew, and King could really ask for nothing more.

  “Message from the captain by the bread barge, sir.” Rose had crept up on him unawares and went to touch his hat. Both were bareheaded however, and the midshipman was forced to rather foolishly knuckle his forehead in the seaman’s manner.

  “Thank you, Mr Rose.” King returned the compliment with a grin and opened the folded sheet. “Sir Richard has been invited to dinner,” he said, turning to where the first lieutenant was studying a watch sheet. “He won’t be with us until the evening.”

  Caulfield looked up. “I think we can manage, eh, Tom?” he said. “Though if he brought a dozen hands with him when he returns I would welcome it.”

  King strolled across and spoke more softly. “We are still light then?”

  “I’d say by about forty trained men,” Caulfield confided. “Chilton’s been gone on his recruitment drive a couple of days now; he may bring back a handful of landsmen; with the country as it is, we cannot hope for more.”

  “Besides, it is seamen we want, not a bunch of tin miners filled with dreams.”

  Caulfield snorted. “Hush now, most of the crew’s from round abouts: you’ll offend those that we do have.”

  “Come on, you blackguards, put your backs into it!” The voice of Sergeant Rice cut into their conversation. The marine NCO was in charge of eight privates who were working the mizzen fall. The men were stripped to the waist and clearly tired, but with the ship so short-handed, there was little chance of relief at present.

  “I suppose there is always the quota,” Caulfield continued. “Local assizes meets beginning of next week; we are first in line and should raise a few there. They might be fishermen, not proper seamen, but they’d do at a pinch.”

  “It all rather depends on when we sail.”

  “Aye, were there the time I’m certain we could raise the men eventually.” Caulfield shrugged. “But then that is just what Sir Richard is finding out. And if they’ve asked him to dinner, they cannot be in so much of a rush.”

  “That’s right, take a nap, why don’t you?” Rice growled. The last of the bread was now aboard, and the marines were standing down and drawing breath. The sergeant regarded them with apparent disdain. “The more I look at you lot, the gladder I am I had daughters.” The comment drew the expected response from the men; they had heard it, and many similar, countless times before.

  “Bob Manning coming soon, is he?” Caulfield asked, unexpectedly.

  “Aye, he should be on the next mail. And he’s bringing Lewis, do you remember, master’s mate from Pandora?”

  “Oh yes, Lewis, the tarpaulin; takes a lot to haul yourself up from the lower deck. He had all the makings of a first class officer as I recall.” Caulfield thought for a moment. “We’ll find a space for him for sure, but you’ll forgive me if I wish he were still a regular hand.”

  “It is a strange situation, a want of seamen and a surplus of officers,” King said. “‘Though not to be surprised at, I’d suppose.”

  Caulfield turned back to the watch sheet and shook his head. “Well, it is a problem I shall solve one way or another, though for the life of me I cannot say how at present.” He looked up and caught King’s eye as he continued. “‘Tis a pity you did not hear from that man Crowley; he would have been mighty welcome.”

  * * *

  Caulfield was not the only one to feel regret. Crowley was watching the small British brig as it ambled about the shallow waters on its endless patrol. He was standing on the southern shore of the harbour mouth. To his right, on the opposite headland, was the shore battery that had granted them safety, and behind, the small village of Le Conquet. It was there that Doyle, MacArthur and the others would be sating their long withheld desires on French wine, tobacco, and doubtless other pleasures that King George did not tax. They had reached harbour the previous evening, and the lugger was now safe from all but the most determined of landing parties. She would remain so until a particularly dark night or favourable wind made the close blockade the Royal Navy favoured more difficult to enforce. A short trip around St Matthew’s point, and they would finally reach Brest. The recent brush with the British had in no way endeared the race to Crowley, and he had heard enough stories over the past few days to totally re-think his view on the people in general. But still, as he watched the jaunty little brig, well set up and beautifully handled, and the graceful light frigate beyond her, so similar in line to his old Pandora, he could not deny a faint longing for the time he had spent in His
Majesty’s service.

  The night was growing dark; it would be foolish to remain longer, especially as the place was known to be a haunt for deserters. Crowley had already started for the dim lights of the village when he noticed a figure walking towards him. He slowed, instantly suspicious, then recognised the slender form of Walsh.

  “Taking a walk are you, Michael?” the young man asked, genially enough. “I’d have thought you to be with the others in the tavern. Sure I knew they could drink, but not quite to such an extent.”