by Alaric Bond
“Tell him to be quiet,” King snapped. “Tell him one word and this fellow will tear his head off.”
The sailing master, who was a native Channel Islander, rolled his eyes for a moment, before duly translating while Cranston treated both officers to a smug grin. Then, at a nod from King, the seaman relaxed his hold and the young man closed his eyes in relief.
“Well this is a proper fix,” Hunt grumbled, joining them. “We'll have to tie the cove up and leave him here, but it won't be long before the rest come a lookin'.”
“I can finish him off, sir,” Cranston offered. “Won't take a moment.”
King shook his head; slaying an enemy in battle was one thing, but he could never cause deliberate harm in cold blood, especially when the victim appeared to be slightly built and barely out of his teens.
“They won't look for me.” The comment came from their prisoner and was doubly unexpected as he spoke in clear English.
“Is that so?” King asked, his voice gruff to hide the surprise.
“It is Christmas Day,” the young man explained through deep breaths. “My commander had no wish chase your boat, and will be angry when he finds you were followed so far. And I am not so very senior an officer – or popular,” he continued wryly. “It is my first posting, and I have hardly taken to the life of a sailor.”
King glanced about in despair. It was, as Hunt had said, a proper fix. They might still secure the lad, and hope enough distance could be placed between them to evade capture, but even that must take time, and would be an indication of their intended route. Which reminded him: they really should be moving on towards Toulon without delay.
“We'll take him with us,” he sighed. “Cranston, keep him under your care – he makes a move or even a sound, I'll have his hide. And yours into the bargain.”
* * *
The call from Rochester's masthead was still causing ramifications amongst her crew. Even some members of the watch below were starting to appear on deck, and all were clearly nettled, although Timothy found it surprisingly easy to close his mind to their annoyance.
“Where away?” he called, while nodding at the duty midshipman to summon the captain. She might have been small for her class, but Rochester remained a potent warship. And they had been searching for an enemy battle fleet; the masthead's sighting could be part of that, although the likelihood was something far less challenging and possibly a waste of time. But it might equally be their second prize of that commission, which was surely worth postponing Christmas dinner for.
“Off the larboard bow and steering east,” the lookout replied. “Three masted; she'll be a sloop, or somethin' similar,” the man went on to explain. “And carrying a fair spread of canvas.”
Timothy glanced up; they were still under the reduced sail ordered for Christmas morning service. With the wind almost on her quarter, a further two or even three knots could be wrung out of the old girl. The sighting might be nothing more than another neutral, or even a despatch vessel equally intent on meeting up with Nelson's fleet, although Timothy knew of none bound so. And few light British craft would choose to hug the coast so close, yet a Frenchman was unlikely to take any other course. In fact the more Timothy considered the matter, the more certain he was that they were looking at potential booty.
“Sighting's altering course,” the lookout continued, as Captain Dylan appeared on the quarterdeck with his companion close behind. “Making to close the shore and settin' more canvas while she does.”
“A sloop, Mr Timothy?” Dylan demanded. “Did I hear correct?”
“You did, sir,” the lieutenant confirmed, raising his hat to the captain and, by a subtle glance, including the woman in his salute. “Or something light and of three masts,” he added.
“Then we must certainly take a closer look,” Dylan grunted, as he touched his own brim in reply. “Summon the watch below and bring us a point to larboard, if you please. And more sail. I'll have the t'gallants on her.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Timothy replied. “And shall I ask them to prepare the royals?”
The captain paused, then looked up at the existing canvas, which was hardly straining, before shaking his head.
“No, I think the t'gallants will suffice for now, thank you Mr Timothy.”
* * *
The woods that Adams had found might have been little more than a large coppice, but the small river that ran through it was a definite bonus. The sun was well up by the time they had trussed up the prisoner and it was clearly going to be a bright, dry Christmas Day. Gradually the British seamen began to relax and, with their blinkered trust in the officers commanding them, started making too much noise as they approached the moss covered banks. Manning was one of the first to arrive, and viewed the dark waters warily. He would have preferred something fast flowing and clear, but there was nothing obvious to arouse his suspicions and, as the men rushed forward to plunge their faces into the cold liquid, he did not stop them.
“Have you a plan in mind, Tom?” Brehaut asked King, when the initial urge to drink had been sated and the officers were gathered under the shade of the spindly trees.
“Nothing specific,” King replied in a low voice. It was hardly the best place to hold a private conversation, although the group had already been together long enough for the bonds of discipline to be stretched. “I know what our friend here has said,” he continued, nodding towards the captured officer who was drinking from cupped hands under the wary eye of Cranston, “but still think the landing party will notice him missing, and arrange a search.”
“They will have to find us,” Hunt pointed out. “And we must have gained a pace on them already.”
“We might have already been spotted,” King remarked.
“By whom?” Hunt persisted. “There seems precious little activity hereabouts, the place is more or less deserted.”
“There is habitation to the east,” Brehaut again. “And a village is marked close to where Prometheus was wrecked.”
“But it is Christmas Day,” Hunt reminded them. “If I know anything about French officials, they will be deep into their scran by now.”
“So we must make the most of the holiday and strike out for Toulon,” King replied firmly. “We shall start as soon as the men have drunk their fill.”
“They'll need more than just water before long,” Manning spoke hesitantly. As a surgeon, it was hardly his place to comment on King's plans, although he did have a responsibility for the men under his charge.
“Very well,” King agreed. “I propose we continue making for the nearest village,” he looked to Brehaut.
“Notre Dame de la Mer,” the sailing master volunteered.
“Indeed. Once that is in sight we can find somewhere to rest for the remainder of the day, then attempt to pass through by night, and continue to do all our travelling in the dark hours.”
“And food?” Manning asked.
“We help ourselves to what might be available,” King replied vaguely. “But without proper weapons, I cannot promise much, or that any will be fed.”
The noise of a far off cannon alerted them all, and there was silence for a moment before Hunt spoke.
“That will be the corvette,” he said, and all eyes turned to the prisoner.
“They are recalling the landing party,” the lad confirmed readily. “It was the agreed signal if we were needed in a hurry.”
“Probably just want their meal,” Hunt grunted, although all knew there may be other reasons for a hasty withdrawal.
“Well, we shall not find out standing here,” King sighed. “How far to Toulon?”
All looked to Brehaut. “If we manage twenty miles a day we should make the outskirts by the end of the week,” the sailing master replied.
“No one is going to die of starvation in that time,” King smiled briefly. “And we may be lucky.”
“Aye,” Brehaut agreed. “Someone might take pity on a bunch of homeless sailor-men – and we mustn't forget our
guardian angel!”
“An' if we gets really hungry,” Cranston added cheerfully from further away, “we can always eat him.”
* * *
“She's a corvette – what we would probably class as a sloop,” the captain stated with heavy authority. “Three masted, but smaller than Rochester and not so heavily armed. And her sails are as white as my grandmother's handkerchief,” he continued with satisfaction, adding, “that makes her a Frenchman, my dear,” to his woman. “You see if I'm not right.”
“And she now appears to be putting up her royals,” Heal, the first lieutenant commented, as all aboard the frigate began to settle down to an extended chase. “So I'd say she were a warship for certain.”
“But not as powerful as us, surely, señor Heal?” It was Estela, the captain's mistress, and the first lieutenant gave her a cautious glance before replying.
“No indeed, ma'am. A craft like that won't be carrying nothing heavier than nine-pounders. And nowhere near as many as our main guns – maybe eighteen or twenty – no more.”
She seemed reassured, although that gave Heal little pleasure. He was a family man with a wife he loved who was currently safe, well and in England. But then the captain was also married; the poor woman had been taken on a tour of the ship before they left Portsmouth and even introduced to her principal officers. But that had not stopped Dylan meeting this Estela person in Gibraltar, or shipping her straight aboard, where she had taken up in his private quarters like any regular hussy. Heal was aware of other officers who were equally lax in their moral standards, and knew such a thing should not surprise him. Even the acclaimed Admiral Nelson regularly exhibited similar vices and had openly taken mistresses in addition to the notorious Emma Hamilton. But he remained of the opinion that anything that distracted an officer from his duty was to be despised, and a dolly in tow certainly fell into that category.
“A point to starboard, if you please,” the captain muttered and immediately a series of shouts rose up to see the great man's wishes granted. Timothy, who was watching from the leeward side of the quarterdeck, had also noticed a subtle change in wind: Rochester seemed to take on an extra surge of power once her sails were properly trimmed. At first the frigate gained until the chase altered course. Then the two became more evenly matched with the Frenchman lying more than two miles off their larboard bow, and even extending her lead slightly.
Rochester had speed in hand and could have held the distance, and possibly gained. But to do so would mean setting stun sails, and Dylan was simply too cautious for such a move. He had only recently, and reluctantly, added the royals, yet, if this wind held, they might easily capitalise on their position, which was both to seaward and windward of the chase, and trap the Frenchman against the coast. But without the extra canvas such a thing was impossible; the enemy would steadily increase their lead and all the British efforts so far would have been in vain.
“She's leading us a merry old dance,” the captain grumbled to no one in particular. “Though we may be pleased that it is in our intended direction.”
There was no arguing that point, and Timothy felt his frustration grow. They had already wasted time searching for the French Squadron, all to no avail, although he felt matters might have been different had Dylan been willing to close with the French coast at night. Instead, two days had been squandered wandering about offshore, constantly retracing their steps, and sighting absolutely nothing until the hunt was finally called off. And now Rochester was speeding in the general direction of Toulon, which would have been the correct course, even if they had not been chasing an enemy. In effect, Dylan was being pressed into doing the right thing at the right time, which was fortunate for an officer accustomed to debating even the smallest of points.
“If I might observe, sir?” It was the voice of Chalk, the sailing master, and all on the quarterdeck waited to hear what the small and slightly retiring man had to say. “In less than two hours they will come upon a promontory.” Timothy noticed Dylan cock his head in interest as Chalk continued. “My chart has it as Beauduc Point. Once that is reached, they shall be forced to turn to starboard and make out to sea. That, or run aground.”
There was a buzz of speculation about the quarterdeck and Timothy suppressed a groan as he realised any chance of taking the enemy would probably be postponed until then.
“Thank you, Master; then it seems we must wait a little longer for our kill.”
“I fear so, sir,” Chalk concurred, and most began to relax. But not Timothy, who remained extremely tense.
Were he in the enemy captain's position, Timothy would never have risked a larger ship running him on to rocks, not when another option presented. If the Frenchman turned now, and came back close hauled across the frigate's bows, she would gain sea room admittedly at the cost of her lead, although such a thing should not deter a lithe little ship with a captain of spirit in command. She could then gain the windward gauge and continue, if not regaining her lead, then at least avoiding the nearby headland.
So sure was he of the likelihood, Timothy actually considered voicing his opinion, before deciding against it. Captain Dylan did not appreciate junior officers offering their views; besides, everyone else on the quarterdeck seemed convinced that the chase would eventually sail herself to disaster. But when the next ten minutes proved Timothy correct, he did draw silent satisfaction from the fact, and even wondered if their Christmas dinner was not to be ruined after all.
* * *
The change of course had presented the corvette's beam to those aboard Rochester, and allowed them to inspect her more carefully. “She is a warship to be sure,” Heal told them, as he squinted through the deck glass. “I count ten ports, though all may not be filled.”
“Well, we are gaining on her now,” Chalk added smugly.
Timothy groaned inwardly; how could they do anything else, with the enemy crossing their bows? If Dylan had only used his canvas to the full, Rochester would have been far closer and the Frenchman could not have taken such a liberty. As it was the corvette would probably hold her present course until she had accumulated enough sea room, and then make straight for safety. And all the while Rochester plodded stolidly eastwards with at least a knot, maybe two, stored in her unused stun sails. Were the captain to order more canvas, they would certainly catch her in open water; as it was, matters were more likely to end with their prey disappearing into the nearby harbour. Timothy felt his irritation grow until he finally broke his self-imposed silence.
“Perhaps if we set stuns'ls, sir?” he asked, with tension and nerves making his voice sound strained.
“What was that, Mr Timothy?” Dylan roared as he swung round to face his second lieutenant. For a moment Timothy wondered if he need repeat the question, but it seemed Dylan had heard correctly after all.
“Do you presume to offer me advice upon my own quarterdeck, sir?”
There was only one answer to that, but Timothy kept it to himself, while the heat of a blush began to grown on his face. The voyage had lasted long enough for him to realise the old man was prone to these sudden changes in mood; he really should have known better.
“Attempting to advise his captain of the correct course of action?” Dylan bellowed, while turning to the Spanish woman as if for confirmation. “Damned impertinence I calls it.”
“I am certain Mr Timothy did not intend anything of the sort, sir,” Heal murmured softly nearby. “And was only speaking out of concern.”
Timothy was grateful for the first lieutenant's intervention, even though they both knew it would do no good.
“Concern for himself, I'd say,” Dylan snorted. “Too busy thinking about his Christmas dinner!” Dylan smiled grimly to himself. “Set stuns'ls in a breeze such as this and we should carry away a major spar,” he continued, looking up at the large spread of canvas. “And that would be the end of any chase – is that what you wish, gentlemen?”
Timothy noticed Heal make as if to reply and was relieved when he de
cided against it. The wind was firm for sure, but any seaman would know there was little risk of damage. Yet every man on board also knew no good would come from arguing, and an awkward silence fell upon the quarterdeck.
Dylan seemed oblivious to this and turned to his companion with a sickly smile. “I am sorry, my dear,” he cooed. “This is a pause to the festivities but no more, though I fear you would be better taking shelter below for the time being.”
The woman inclined her head graciously, but said nothing.
“We shall have our bird, and duff for sure tomorrow,” he called after her. “And may even have some French officers to entertain as our guests. That is providing we do not take too much advice from Mr Timothy...”
* * *
On shore, King and his men were also postponing their meal although, for them, the sacrifice was far harder. None had eaten anything substantial for an entire day, but were yet to reach the stage when the pangs became numbed and could almost be disregarded. Yet, despite the fact the river was far behind them, no one was suffering from thirst. They were walking through an area inclined to flood and had encountered a seemingly endless succession of draining ditches while already having crossed a far larger waterway by means of a weir. Most were now used to the shared novelty of being both on enemy soil and apparently ignored, and even King was aware of a strange feeling of invulnerability that seemed to permeate the group. The men's chatter actually grew to the extent that he had needed to call for silence on several occasions, while the two midshipmen detailed to alternate as forward scouts were drawing increasingly further ahead, and finding less reason to return with news. It was tempting to believe no one lived in these parts and the French boat's crew had indeed given up their search, while King could not ignore the ridiculous feeling they might continue to walk, unhindered, across the barren fields until the war itself came to an end.
“Tis a monotonous landscape, to be sure!”
He turned to see Hunt had caught him up and was walking alongside as they trudged up a mild incline.
“Indeed,” King agreed. “Though we shall have company shortly; a mile or two more should raise the village and I wonder if that may even be smoke up ahead.”