by Alaric Bond
He paused in his thoughts; the fore topsail was snagged slightly near to its foot and Timothy bellowed for a boatswain's mate to attend to it, then watched while the job was carried out to his satisfaction. And if he whistled softly to himself as he did, and perhaps lingered for slightly too long when a gull caught the kiss of the sun on her wing, it had little bearing. He was an experienced officer, a fine seaman, and had been called a credit to the Service on more than one occasion. Did it truly matter if he also possessed a slightly more sensitive side? After all, it was something he kept well hidden and, even on the rare occasions when it did appear, no one seemed to notice.
* * *
Half an hour later the wind was increasing along with King's misgivings and, despite being crowded, the cutter had become a hive of activity. The rowers were setting a strong, steady pace, while whoever was able bailed clumsily at the water that flowed through a shattered strake that no amount of packing had been able to stop. King realised only himself, Adams at the helm, and Brehaut were actually still, and at that moment the sailing master looked up from his work and turned to him. “I think we could make a point or two to larboard, if you wishes,” he suggested cautiously.
Brehaut's words were barely audible over the splash of water and a regular grind of oars against rowlocks, yet every man in the boat heard, and there was a general air of expectancy. King, still in the sternsheets, peered back. The French boats, and there were two, lay to the west, more than a mile off, yet were drawing steadily closer with every stroke. Clearly Brehaut intended the cutter to clip the nearby coast of France as finely as possible, both in an effort to shake off their pursuers, and provide a means of escape should it be needed. King switched his attention to the shore. It seemed decidedly unwelcoming; a wide expanse of empty beach that ended in what appeared to be no better protection than light scrub. There would be a good two hundred yards or so to cover before reaching even this dubious shelter, and anyone attempting to do so would be cruelly exposed as they tried. He could also see no sign of habitation: no buildings, obvious smoke, or evidence of humanity in any form. King knew little of this area of France, but assumed it to be sparsely settled. Perhaps, if they made straight for the land now, they might cross that barren beach and be able to slip silently away inland before their pursuers could stop them?
But what after that? The nearest British forces were likely to be found to the east, off Toulon, which was a good hundred miles away by road. And even then they would have to be reached. If Nelson were still trying to lure the French out, his fleet would be considerably offshore while, should the enemy have already sailed, there would be no friendly presence whatsoever. Were King to lead the small party on such a trek, they must pass through several large towns and even a small city; was it really worth the effort, or would it be better to simply spill their wind now and resign themselves to captivity?
There was no way of conveying these thoughts to the other officers. King looked to Brehaut and then Hunt in the hope of determining their feelings, but both men gave little away other than their fatigue. As senior man, any decision lay with him and he would usually have found little difficultly in reaching one. But this was a rare occasion when an autocratic order might not be the best. Were he to lead the men on a course that was not to their liking, all would suffer, and already he felt they had been together long enough for something of the ethos of a crew to exist within his small command.
“We cannot outrun the French,” he said finally, and to the boat in general. “They have the measure of us and we shall be taken for sure. There may be a chance of escaping inland and it could be far enough from the wreck to avoid immediate capture. Nevertheless, reaching Toulon will take several days and, with no arms to speak of, it could still end badly.” He paused then, realising he had the undivided attention of every man aboard the boat, suddenly became foolishly self-conscious. But there was no time for such sensitivity; he was indeed the senior officer and must behave like one.
“For the present, we should still be considered shipwrecked mariners and liable to be well treated,” he continued. “Were we to try for land, it would be a different matter. And if any measure of progress were made, it would not look well. Boney's new regime may even consider us spies, in which case I need not tell you the penalties.” Once more he paused, and once more there was silence. “So what do you wish for? Do we strike our colours now and look forward to a late breakfast with the Frogs? Or is every man game to chance it ashore?”
The men stared back blankly as they considered the matter. Then a voice, a young one and probably belonging to the boy, spoke up from the crowded bows.
“I say we beach and make a try on land,” it said, the feeble treble sounding childish and nearly betraying any importance in its message. But the words were well taken and greeted by a rumble of approval that soon grew into a defiant roar.
“Very well,” King said, when the noise had finally dwindled. Then, to Adams at the helm: “We will make for the shore, if you please.”
Chapter Two
King was right: the beach turned out to be deep, flat and evenly covered in white, sharp sand; which might well have indicated an unusually low tide, should such a thing have existed in the Mediterranean. Their boat grounded, only to refloat immediately as every seaman not at the oars leapt out and into the surf. King eased himself forward as the cutter was dragged further up the beach and clambered over the side to find he could step on to ground that was almost dry.
“Anything of value in the boat?” he asked as Brehaut joined him.
The sailing master shrugged. “I have my charts, such as they are, and the more basic navigational instruments. Do you wish to burn her?”
“No, we must make for cover without delay,” King replied. Even in the bright daylight, and the sun had now risen to the extent that it could be called such, a fire would be spotted for many miles, whereas the only Frenchmen currently aware of their existence were likely to be those in the small boats that still lay a mile or so out to sea. “Mr Steven, reconnoitre to the west,” he said, turning to the nearest midshipman. “Mr Bentley, do likewise eastwards and I would be obliged if you could see what is over that ridge, Mr Adams.”
The three young men set off in front of their individual clouds of white sand, while King and the others began to stride purposefully, but at a more moderate pace, up the slight incline. Ahead, there was nothing to see apart from the first line of bushes that was actually further away than it had appeared from the small boat, and King's doubts returned. Brehaut's captured charts were vague at best and a doubtful blessing, but if they were to be believed, the port of Notre Dame de la Mer lay between ten and twelve miles to the east. There was no indication of its size, or if a military presence could be expected and King was aware the men would grow more weary, and empty, with every passing hour. He must find shelter and food before the day was out, although his first priority was to create the greatest distance between their small group and the pursuing French.
And there were other matters to consider. He was conscious of the long remembered pain in his shoulder; whatever he might have told Manning, the old wound had not responded well to the rigours of the last few hours, and this was not the first time it had been strained so. The last, when he led a landing party in the destruction of a French liner, had inflamed matters to the extent of demobilising him for several weeks. But there was little he could do about that now; Adams was returning at speed, and he forced his mind away from personal consideration to hear what the midshipman had to say.
“There's a ditch beyond the ridge that runs across the beach,” the young man spluttered as he slid to a halt. “It gives a little cover though nothing substantial. The first real hiding is about a hundred yards inland: a small house in a shallow, with a couple of sheds. Other than that, our only hope is about half a mile to the east.”
“And what is there?” King demanded.
“Woodland, but not much; I suppose you could call it a large thicket.”
Adams was red-faced and King felt a momentary relief that there were others as unfit as himself. “Hardly a tree above ten foot, but more than we sees hereabouts.”
“Very well, the house might shelter us for a while.” King glanced back to where the enemy's boats were steadily growing closer, before striding across the soft sand once more, setting as strong a pace as he could.
But when they topped the ridge and tumbled down into the ditch below, he had a change of heart. It was just as Adams reported; peering through the shrubbery he could make out a small cottage a hundred yards or so inland. The place was set amidst a low fenced garden and had three bare windows on the ground floor with one further above which was curtained. A thin plume of smoke was flowing from its single chimney and King's hungry senses told him it carried the smell of cooking poultry.
“It's like the tale,” Adams reflected vaguely as the rest joined them. “Three brother bears living alone until an old woman appears and ends up sleeping in their beds.”
“Aye,” Cooper, the master's mate, agreed from further down the line. “An' steals their breakfast, if I remembers aright.”
“I like the sounds of that last part,” Cranston grunted.
“It's Christmas Day,” Beeney stated with feeling. “There's probably a couple livin' there, an' they'll have just got their goose a roasting.”
“And now they'll have gone back to bed for a spot of blanket hornpipe, I'll be bound,” Wiessner added with a wicked leer.
“Do bears do that sort of thing?” Roberts, the boy, asked and there was the first round of laughter that anyone had heard for a while.
“That will do: stand to,” King ordered, breaking the spell. Whatever it might apparently offer in the form of rest and concealment, the cottage was also a potential trap. The French would be landing within minutes. Without any obvious option, they were bound to assume the British to be hiding there and, lacking sufficient weapons, his little party would be taken in no time. The wood Adams had spotted was a good way off and might hardly be worthy of the name, but at least it offered better protection than the scrub currently surrounding them, while there may also be an escape route beyond. King glanced at Hunt, who seemed ready to discuss the situation, but now there was no time for debate.
“We head east,” he said and, without another word, began to trudge along the rough ground of the ditch and away from their apparent refuge.
* * *
They met up with Bentley shortly afterwards. He was at the far end of the ditch, sheltering behind a patch of thicker undergrowth.
“The wood will give us cover,” he confirmed, as Hunt pushed past to look for himself, “providing we spread ourselves. And there's a river running through it,” he added. “Or a stream at least.”
“An' I'd say that were fresh water,” the lieutenant confirmed when he returned a few moments later. “Perchance there's something in this guardian angel nonsense after all.”
King's mouth was surely dry; apart from avoiding capture, fluid was probably their most immediate need, and the thought of an endless supply was enough to tempt him into ordering everyone forward without further consideration. Then, from behind, came another commotion. Steven, the midshipman sent to explore to the west, had caught them up and was pushing past those lining the ditch in an effort to reach the officers.
“The Frenchie's boats has landed,” he spluttered, as he approached King. “Frog marines are fanning out and heading inland; they've already surrounded an house near the beach.”
King nodded and drew private reassurance from a decision well taken. And there was more; every second they remained hidden meant their eventual capture became less likely. For all the enemy knew, his men could have turned west, rather than east, or even carried on beyond the house and be heading further inland. Chasing any quarry amid such territory was likely to be a drawn out affair; whoever commanded the landing party would need to divide his small force several times over, and the temptation of returning to their ship, and enjoying Christmas dinner, must already be strong.
“We make for the woods,” he said at last, and was almost surprised when the entire group immediately began to move.
The ditch ended abruptly with a rise of about four feet. It appeared impossible to mount in his present state, but King didn't hesitate, and tried again when his first effort sent him reeling back into the arms of Cranston. The heavily built seaman caught him easily and, with a further push, King finally stumbled up and even began a slow trot as the entire British force made for the far off shelter.
It was, indeed, the smallest of woods, but contained a good deal of ground cover and, once they had entered its dark embrace, King ordered every man to spread out and conceal themselves as best they could. Then he, too, settled into the crisp, bracken-like undergrowth and lay still, while willing his pounding heart to slow. There was a distant trickle of water that awakened his thirst, as well as other needs. But when the leading Frenchmen appeared at the mouth of their recently vacated ditch, all mundane thoughts were wiped from his mind and a deathly hush fell upon the entire group.
“It's an aspirant; their version of a midshipman,” Hunt whispered from a few feet away. “They'll have sent him to check out the wood; let's hope he's not so very diligent in his duties.”
The young man's features could be made out more clearly as he led a group of seamen closer to where the British sheltered. Clean shaven, with cropped hair beneath a bicorne hat, and wearing short boots and an oversized greatcoat. King had him in his late teens, but he was also aware that age was no indication of potential. For all he knew the lad had killed before and often, and was only looking for the chance to do so again. As he drew closer, King could see he was holding a formidable pistol, as did the three seamen following, who also carried drawn cutlasses.
“We can take them, Tom,” Hunt hissed, but King shook his head. He was right; even poorly armed the British would overpower the small group by sheer numbers. But four men would soon be missed, and must attract the rest of the landing party who would not prove such an easy proposition.
The Frenchmen soon reached the edge of their thicket and stood less than twenty feet from where King and the others lay. They watched as the lad glanced about, then he muttered something to the seamen, who immediately turned and began to head back towards the ditch.
King held his breath. The other men were soon lost to view, but the aspirant continued to stand, gazing apparently at nothing. Then he began to walk, and walk purposefully, in their direction.
* * *
Aboard Rochester, Timothy's watch was grinding relentless towards its end. He was not alone in looking forward to his meal: already the galley chimney was scenting the upper deck with a series of delightful aromas that included plum duff and spotted dog. One of the ten ration bullocks they were carrying to the blockading fleet had been killed and butchered three days before and, though the frigate's ovens were too small to roast enough to feed her crew, a fresh beef stew was currently boiling in her coppers. And all about him men wore expressions of good natured anticipation; some to the extent that Timothy wondered if their moods had been fortified with what could only be illegal spirit, as it was half an hour until the first official grog issue. But he chose not to notice; it was Christmas Day, the enemy coast might be less than ten miles beyond the horizon but, such was the power the Royal Navy wielded, Rochester could sail on regardless.
Then, with a single call from the main masthead, all was changed. Every man froze, and a murmur of discontent that would have annoyed the duty corporal, had he not been equally responsible, rumbled about the deck. But Timothy chose to ignore that as well, just as he did the pangs of hunger and anticipation from his own stomach.
A sail had been spotted off the larboard bow. It might prove to be friendly; Prometheus, a British seventy-four, was several days ahead of them and may also have been alerted to the French ships' presence. Or it could be the enemy squadron itself: that or a part of it. But whatever the sighting turned out to b
e, Timothy should set his mind totally on that, and forget all thoughts of an early Christmas dinner.
* * *
Their shelter would conceal them from a distance but, as soon as the aspirant drew closer, King knew they must be found. He eyed the lad dispassionately; his fresh face lacked the look of one expecting to uncover a nearby enemy, in fact the young man was probably only wishing to answer a call of nature. But once the British were discovered the alarm would be raised: he must be stopped before then, and stopped silently. Without the use of two sound arms, King knew himself to be useless; it would take a degree of manoeuvring to even raise himself upright, by which time the Frenchman would be halfway back to his shipmates. For a moment he considered ordering one of the others into action, but that would only draw attention to their presence. Then, while he was still wrestling with the problem, there came a movement to his left and Cranston sprang up. Within two bounds he had reached the startled officer and knocked him to the ground.
Clambering up, King staggered forwards and towards the pile of bodies. Cranston's massive frame completely smothered the youth's, and the seaman was casually holding one hand tightly around the Frenchman's throat. King looked about, momentarily uncertain of the next move, and there, mercifully, was Brehaut.