by Alaric Bond
* * *
The small amount of bread Brehaut and Lesro were able to secure turned out to be slightly stale. It was also sold at an exorbitant price by an elderly man who wanted only to return to his bed. But, once they brought it back to the pig pen, every crumb was swiftly devoured by the rest of the group. And even such a meagre meal lightened their spirits, which were raised still further when the sound of footsteps signalled the arrival of Beeney, Cranston and the boy.
The three had been able to give the pursuing French the slip, only to spend the rest of the night stumbling about the countryside before spotting Brehaut and Lesro, and following them back to the hiding place.
“If they could find us, why not others?” King murmured to Hunt while the rest were yarning with the newcomers.
“Aye, and they could as easily have been followed themselves,” the other lieutenant agreed. “Wiessner is still missing, do you think he might be expected?”
King shrugged. “We'd know more if anyone had seen him go.”
Wiessner's lack of friends meant his absence was not noticed until they passed out of the first village.
“Well, whether we find him or not can make no difference to our plans,” King continued. “From what Brehaut reports, there are boats available to get us out of the harbour; we just have to decide when.”
“It's a pity we could not take that corvette,” Hunt pondered.
“What the Frenchman?” King was genuinely surprised. “Why, there are not even thirty of us, and we have no weapons to speak of,” he laughed. “Taking a lugger is going to be hard enough. As for a warship – you may forget that this instant.”
* * *
Actually, Wiessner was not so very far off, and knew exactly where the British were hiding. He had also encountered Cranston, Beeney and the lad on several occasions during the night as they blundered aimlessly about, blissfully unaware of his presence. It had been no effort to find them again and watch from a hidey-hole as they followed the officers to their shelter, while making enough noise to wake all in the surrounding area.
But even though he knew there to be friends and security nearby, Wiessner needed neither. He had a snug little den in a corner of a field not two cables off. It was a proper hut as well, with a door which had been locked, and a small iron fire that he was not so foolish as to light. And there were the remains of his fowl, which turned out to be quite a sizeable bird. It had fed him well last night and provided an ample breakfast, with even enough for later: Wiessner had no intention of sharing it with anyone else. After that he might deign to join the others, but he was in no rush.
Chapter Five
One of the first requests Timothy made was for Rochester to remain out of sight of land. To him it was nothing more than common sense, even if the captain considered his concern to be unnecessary and verging on the obsessive. But this was now decidedly his expedition – he assumed full ownership from the start, with Harper, the lieutenant of marines, an enthusiastic second in command. And if it had any chance of success at all, surprise would be a major factor.
The offshore wind meant the men would be tired from several hours of rowing prior to the attack, and there was always the chance that an error in navigation might have placed them many miles from the small port that was their target. But still Timothy would never have countenanced any other form of approach. With Rochester out of sight, it would be as if they had sprung from the very sea itself. That, coupled with those on land coping with the after-effects of their Christmas celebrations, should more than compensate for a bit of a stretch, while making up for the small force he was being allowed.
However, Timothy was less certain on that point: forty hands and half as many marines was a paltry number when sent to seize a warship designed to carry more than twice that many. The seamen ranged from trained topmen, who were very much in the minority, to heavies from afterguard, as well as a few who were destined to remain landsmen for the rest of their time in the navy. But all were spoiling for a fight, and some of the less able, though lacking perhaps the rudimentary skills of seamanship, were positive experts in the free-for-all of a physical brawl, which was probably more important on that particular night.
“Cummings thinks he can make out the larboard headland.”
The loud whisper came from Harper in the second cutter, which was slightly ahead and to the west of Timothy's.
“Very good,” he hissed in reply. “Time to change the men at the oars.”
It would be the last chance for such an alteration before the attack, something that was understood by all and, once the new men had taken up their positions, the tension began to mount. Soon Timothy could also see the stark outline of the low coast, and had noted a slightly flatter area that might indicate one of the shore batteries. There were at least two of these, as they had discovered when chasing the corvette the previous day, and both covered a goodly sweep of water, as well as the wide channel that led to the harbour itself.
With no moon and few stars to be seen, only the faintest lifting of the darkness showed where the land began, so Timothy was relatively confident of being able to pass by undetected. But to seize a ship that was not much smaller than a frigate would be another matter, and difficult to accomplish in secrecy.
Once the alarm was raised, any land-based artillery would become a very real and definite threat. He might temper his anxiety by telling himself the French would be in their cups, while speaking lightly to Heal and Captain Dylan of the anticipated offshore wind that was bound to carry them safely away. But canvas must still be set, and they would be fortunate to release more than a couple of topsails while taking the ship from its rightful owners. With the wind as it was, he could not expect more than steerage way at first and, even with just the two batteries to contend with, there would be a considerable period when the corvette was in range: time enough for the groggiest of gunners to find their mark.
Timothy wriggled uneasily in the sternsheets of the small boat. There was little point in such thoughts when they had been committed as soon as the reassuring bulk of Rochester was lost to the night. And with no provision for turning back should some terrible need arise that called for the mission to be aborted; the best they could do was head out to sea once more and await the frigate in the morning. But chances remained strong that his small force would reach the corvette and at least be able to board her; after that, much would depend on luck and, more importantly, the on the spot decisions that only he could make as officer in command.
Never before had the responsibility of leadership rested so firmly on his shoulders, yet neither did it discourage him: quite the reverse in fact. As each stroke of the oars brought them inexorably closer to both the enemy coast and danger, Timothy became more settled in himself. Lines from a poem came to him, and they were not from his favoured Cowper or Pope, but a piece of doggerel penned by that upstart Coleridge:
“Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid: and it was he,
That made the ship to go.”
He would be surprised to find snow within a hundred miles, and had no idea of the depth, while it was brawny, sweating men that powered the crowded cutter on. Yet the words seemed to fit his mood exactly and, reciting them to himself once more, Timothy found that he was smiling.
* * *
“We go in small groups,” King stated firmly. “Three or four seamen to every officer.” It was one of the advantages of his unbalanced command that they could afford such a ratio. “I will lead with Harris and Stokes,” he continued. “Mr Hunt will take the last party along with Mr Lesro.” Recent experience had shown him the Maltese could be trusted, but still King did not wish to expose the man more than was necessary. “All will set off roughly thirty seconds apart.”
The others nodded in agreement. Such an arrangement would not draw the attention a crowd would create when entering a small town, although little activity had been noticed in the place thro
ughout the day and King was still hopeful it would be all but asleep when they made their move.
“And we go at midnight,” he added. It was already dark, and had been for two hours. Waiting would only draw the process out, giving time for men to grow fidgety and nervous. But midnight had a far deeper significance, in King's mind at least.
It was the time when evening was truly finished and the deep expanse of night began; a time that only ended with dawn, a good six hours away. Sentries would be less likely to suffer the attentions of officious officers of the guard, and more inclined to allow themselves to dream or even doze, while the town itself must surely be at rest. From their covert observations, there had been little activity throughout the day. Not a single market stall had been set up for trade, and the streets remained quiet right up to the late afternoon. Some might venture out later, the taphouses and taverns could expect some evening custom, but after the binge of the day before, there should be peace by the time the clock struck twelve.
“Very well, we shall continue with our watches,” King concluded. “All of you get what sleep you can, and try to stay hidden.” The last remark was addressed to Cranston and Beeney, who blinked innocently at the back of the group. “And remember, if successful we will be at sea by morning, and may even have joined up with the British fleet the following day.” His words brought a general rumble of approval as King guessed they would, while he was only too glad no one asked what the situation might be if they failed.
* * *
Summers sat next to Timothy in the cutter. He was thirteen and a first class volunteer; a rank usually referred to as midshipman, although only through courtesy. And he had control of the rudder, but very little else. Rochester was his first ship and this, the first time he had truly been exposed in battle.
They had cleared for action a number of times in the past of course, and only the day before had actually been under fire; something already mentioned in the letter he was in the process of writing to his parents. But facing long range bombardment from shore batteries, or even the broadside of a corvette, from the security of a fifth rate frigate was a very different matter to entering an enemy harbour in little more than a rowing boat. To his right, the reassuring bulk of Timothy, a commissioned lieutenant of many years' standing, was a comfort, but soon he would be alone, and leading men into battle himself.
His task was to climb the main mast of the corvette. Berry, in Harper's boat, was taking the fore, and between them they were to release as much canvas as was possible. A couple of topsails should see them clear of the harbour, although he knew Timothy was hoping for more.
They were entering the lee of the nearby headland now, and Summers' grip tightened on the cutter's tiller. The battery to the west could be made out. It would probably be half a mile off by the time they rowed past; a good distance, but one that could be covered in seconds by the round shot the enemy would soon be firing. He was young enough to remember the horrible expectation of that jack-in-the-box his uncle had made for him a few years back. However much he tried, the shock was always greeted by a childish squeal that drew as much laughter from his family as the toy itself. And if the battery was to open fire now, he could not be certain his reaction would be any different, although no one would be laughing.
* * *
It was time to go, Wiessner decided. He had already watched the shadowed figure of Lieutenant King and some of the others leaving their hideout. They obviously had a plan and, although Wiessner held few ambitions other than to be warm and well fed, he knew nothing would be gained by remaining alone in the French countryside. Another group was moving off just as he approached, and it was no effort to catch them up and mutter a low call. They were headed by one of the midshipmen. He stopped and turned to look in Wiessner's direction and, despite the poor light, the seaman could see fear written plainly upon the youngster's face.
“W-Where the blazes have you been?”
“I got lost, Mr Bentley,” Wiessner replied as he drew closer. “Been looking for you all the day, so I have.”
“Anyone see you?” the midshipman asked in return.
“Oh no, I've been most careful,” the seaman assured him. “Like I always am.”
“Very good, then you had better come with me.” Bentley had seen the door of the pig pen open, and knew the next group were preparing to leave. “But keep up, and don't get lost again,” he warned. “As it is, we've all had a fine breakfast, and I'm afraid you've rather missed out.”
* * *
The harbour carried the scent of fishing ports the world over, Timothy soberly decided as the boats drew steadily closer, although it was a different world to the one he knew. Even the neat row of lobster buoys, just visible off the small island to the east of the entrance, spoke of a place where men might draw a peaceful living from the water, with a war at sea being nothing more than a nightmare with which to frighten small children. Then he noticed the stark outlines of the first battery which brought him back to reality. The structure had appeared solid and businesslike from the main deck of Rochester: close up, and even in the depth of night, it was little different, for there could be no missing those huge stone parapets, nor the shadowed embrasures that hid deadly artillery within.
“Larboard your helm,” he whispered to the midshipman at the helm. Timothy's boat was now leading, with Harper's a bare fifty yards behind. The entrance was slightly less than half a mile across; if both cutters kept to the middle channel they would be roughly two cables from either shore, and slightly further from the nearest habitation. Such a distance would not grant them invisibility, but it would take an alert sentry to sound the alarm and one not afraid of making a mistake. Timothy sat back in the boat and listened to the water rushing past; there were no lights showing on either battery, but a few individual pin points indicated the harbour beyond. And then, almost with a shock, he noticed the corvette.
She was anchored just off the central channel, something no British harbour master would have countenanced, and appeared as deserted as the surrounding area. Not even a riding light shone down from her main mast, and there was darkness and silence below.
“Like as not, they're all ashore,” the midshipman whispered, but Timothy hissed for quiet. The lad was probably nervous and only intended to reassure himself, although it was small matters like that which caused missions to fail.
“Lay us alongside,” he murmured far more softly, and turned back to see that the slightly darkened mass of Harper's boat was following. They were both to attack from the seaward side, that had been agreed, but no provision was made for the ship to be facing so, with her bows pointing obstinately towards the shore. “And make for the larboard fore chains,” Timothy added to the lad, while hoping Harper would have the sense to take the main.
The boat began to turn and, for the first time, activity could be seen ashore. A lantern was moving, and there was what might have been a shout, although both were a good distance off, and could be of no immediate danger. But the corvette was now undeniably close, and Timothy cleared his mind of all other distractions as he decided how she should be tackled.
This was the time when an alert lookout should have issued a challenge, but still the cutter was allowed to approach, apparently undetected. Now that they were nearer he could just make out a slight glow towards the stern of the ship, and another further forward, probably the galley, he decided. And then the main channel was right in front of them, and almost begging to be climbed. But they continued; the intention had been for his boat to board at that point, but such things could always be changed and Timothy reassured himself that Harper was bright enough to note the ship was moored differently, and would understand the change of plan. Then, with the softest of orders, the oars were unshipped, and the cutter's rubbing strake began to draw against the hull of the Frenchman with a groan that seemed to echo all about the port.
“Okay, lads, let's be going,” Timothy ordered in as near to a normal voice as he could muster, and the cutter bega
n to rock as the first of the seamen took hold. He rose from his position and pushed his way forward, then, reaching up for a chain plate, Timothy clambered onto the smooth wood of the main channel, before pulling himself up on a shroud. The view over the bulwark was reassuringly still and, even though he could see little detail of the deck itself, he felt confident it was empty. Others were also boarding to his left and together they scrambled over the corvette's top rail to stand, uncertainly at first, on the enemy's territory.
And it was then that Timothy felt a sudden surge of confidence. Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought; perhaps they might even carry the corvette off with minimal resistance. The wind was blowing firm and strong; Summers was behind him and would lead the men to loosen the sails, while he supposed it would be up to him to see the anchor cable was cut. A jib might be necessary to bring the bow round, and Timothy was just beginning to consider other moves when the nearby discharge of a pistol rang out loud and strong, and he knew the time for secrecy was over.
* * *
King was making for the harbour wall when he heard the shot. He had been inspecting the assembled craft and already identified two luggers suitably large enough to carry all his men. But he would need both for a lengthy sea passage and only one appeared ready to sail; the other, which was slightly smaller, needed her masts stepped while there was no sign of canvas. But even before the sound had ceased to ring, his mind was made up.
The larger boat was moored at the seaward side of the harbour wall and it would take no time to get her on a wind. At little more than twenty-five feet in length, it would be a squash to fit all his men aboard, but she should at least see them clear of the port, and that was as far as King's plans extended. Bentley was behind with four seamen, and he frantically waved for the lad to join him.