by Alaric Bond
“There's something about to seaward,” he said, indicating vaguely south to where a darker patch of night was lit suddenly by the flash of light, and identified where the corvette lay at anchor. Bentley paused to look as the sound of the second shot reached them, but King's mind was already racing on. More shots followed, and there was a scream which he was sure had come from the direction of the moored warship.
“The corvette!” Bentley cried as realisation struck.
King nodded. “I'd chance boats from the frigate have come to cut her out.”
“What do we do?” Bentley asked in a stupidly low whisper.
“Do? Why we join them,” King snapped. “And in that lugger.” He pointed at the nearby craft. “Go back and meet with each party; tell them to hurry, there's no need for silence now.”
* * *
Summers' cutter was almost empty; only two of the seamen were left, the rest having already boarded the anchored corvette, and he really should follow. But there was a desperate fight in progress on the Frenchman's decks: he could hear it in detail – imagine the scenes of carnage that must be playing out above him and suddenly the small open boat did not seem quite such a dangerous place after all.
“Are you going, or what, Mr Summers?” a rough voice enquired, and the lad looked round to see Miller, a heavily set server standing next to him. The man was grasping a chain plate and clearly waiting for Summers to clamber up first, before following. And as he looked, Summers was surprised to notice a complete lack of fear in the man's face; he might have been waiting in line for an issue of slop clothing, or the chance of a drink from the scuttlebutt.
“No,” Summers told him instinctively. “No, I'm staying here. You carry on.”
Miller considered him for a second, before looking across to his mate.
“Weren't he meant to lead the topmen?” he asked.
“That's how I remembers it,” the other man replied.
Summers shook his head in misery. “We were supposed to go up the main,” he said, pathetically.
“Well it's the foremast now, matey,” Jones, the seaman behind him, grunted. “Ain't that much of a difference.”
But there was to Summers. To the boy even such a slight alteration had given him the excuse he craved: a reason to stay where he was and be safe.
“Got a right one here, Clem,” Miller said levelly as realisation slowly dawned. “Keen enough to get us runnin' about on watch or off, but when it's down to a fight, as lily-livered as they come.”
Summers felt a slap to the back of his head, and turned to see Jones' toothless grin.
“Then 'e won't mind us messin' him abart a bit,” the second man snorted, before pushing the midshipman firmly between the shoulders. “That's for calling me up to the first luff for a slovenly hammock.”
Summers fell forward without a sound, and lay motionless on the burden boards of the cutter. The men laughed some more, Miller made a crude comment and then, mercifully, they were gone. Gone, and leaving the boy alone, but safe, in the otherwise empty boat.
* * *
It was as King had suspected; the lugger could only have returned to harbour in the early hours of Christmas morning, and much of her gear remained unstowed.
“Wiessner, raise the mains'l,” he ordered, while moving forward to cast off the bow line himself. He struggled with the knots for several seconds before a pair of skilled hands deftly eased him to one side and took over. Then the lugger was free and more British seamen began to leap aboard her stern. The filling craft wobbled alarmingly under their combined weight, but soon all were aboard and she began to ease away. King peered forward to where a dozen small flashes of light told him a fight was in full course aboard the corvette.
“Make for the Frenchman!” he called back. He had no idea who was at the helm, or if he was right about a cutting out expedition, but whatever was taking place didn't seem to be going to plan.
“The batteries will be awake,” this was Hunt, pushing through the crowd on the lugger's deck to reach him as he stated the obvious.
“Indeed,” King agreed. “So we can expect a measure of attention from the shore.”
“Unless we use the confusion to our advantage,” the younger officer suggested.
King was taken aback; was Hunt proposing they use the attack on the corvette as a distraction? Tactically he might be correct, they may be able to make a safe escape themselves, but could they really leave British seamen to slog it out when their intervention might mean the difference between success or failure?
“No, we must assist,” he said firmly, and looked harshly at Hunt for even considering such a thing.
“I should not say otherwise,” Hunt assured him hurriedly. “Just that two targets are better than one.”
“Do you mean we retain the lugger as well?” King asked.
“Indeed,” Hunt confirmed, as if it was the simplest thing in the world. “The corvette is secured forward, bring us alongside and we'll free her, then board at the bows. But we retain a scratch crew in this vessel. Then, if we follows her out, we shall divide any fire from the shore.”
King considered the idea for no more than a second. It would, as Hunt suggested, split the enemy fire as well as sending aid to those fighting aboard the corvette, and he wondered how he could have missed such an obvious embellishment.
“Very well,” he said. “But I shall need you to lead the men boarding: I will remain behind.” King was coming to accept that the lack of two sound limbs made him a poor fighter. “Try not to delay too long on deck; it is vital that the ship sets sail. Consider that to be your main objective,” he added, while handing over their one loaded pistol that was captured from Lesro. “Secure the wheel if you are able, then make for open water even if the ship is not fully taken.”
Hunt muttered a hurried assent before heading for the bows.
“Mr Steven, be ready with a couple of able men,” King continued to the midshipman beside him. “I want that anchor cable cut as soon as we touch.”
The lad, who had lost his hat some while back, knuckled his forehead seaman fashion while King clambered aft to the lugger's stern.
“Be ready to take the corvette,” he told the others while pressing his way through. “Mr Hunt is leading and shall need all the topmen we possess.”
So much had happened in the last few minutes that the orders were barely keeping pace with his thoughts, but it was as if he had a fire within him, and King could truly never remember feeling quite so alive.
“Cooper, you shall lead a team up the foremast, Bentley, take the main. Release all the canvas you can. Beeney, Cranston and Roberts, stay with me; we will remain in the lugger and turn the Frenchman about.” Then his eyes fell upon Lesro and he suddenly remembered their goal was his former ship. “I think you should stay also,” he added, and the Maltese nodded in silent agreement.
Now the moon was rising above the rim of land and they could see the corvette in greater detail, while a clattering of cutlasses and an occasional shout told them the battle to take her had yet to be won. King knew that the continuing fighting may be a good sign; at least the British were not beaten, even if the element of surprise were truly lost. And he supposed it fortunate the corvette was moored in the harbour itself: reinforcements must take that much longer to arrive from the shore, although the ship would hold a sizeable crew of her own. These would also be fighting men: used to combat and unlikely to go down without a struggle, while not all could be expected to be on land, or drunk.
“They're waking up ashore,” Hunt shouted from the bows. He was pointing at the western battery where a light could be made out from deep within the emplacement.
“But we can expect them to remain quiet,” King called back. “At least until they know who has the corvette.”
Two ship's cutters were secured alongside the Frenchman, and King guessed them to have been used by the British boarding party. They would be a nuisance in the manoeuvre he had in mind but, as he snatched the tille
r from Bentley's reluctant grasp, he felt his confidence grow further. The wind blew strong and the lugger's canvas was stiff and correctly adjusted – as it should be with so many trained seamen aboard. He found himself grinning at the notion while his mood lightened further; physical injury might have robbed him of any future as a fighter, but he was still effectively leading his men into action. And the loss of an arm had not taken his innate seamanship.
“On my word, men,” he called as the corvette's bow came closer. He could just make out Steven amidships; the lad had discovered some form of heavy gutting knife and was brandishing it like a child might a toy sword. Beside him, a pair of seamen were ready with boathooks and, as one of the moored cutters bounced off the lugger's prow, they both reached up and dragged the corvette closer.
The small boat rocked violently as a positive wave of men swept off her larboard side, while the series of loud cracks told where Steven and his team were hacking at the mooring cable.
“Beeney, clap a line onto the Frenchman,” King called, as he pressed the tiller. Their breeze remained strong; with luck they should be able to draw the warship to starboard and allow the wind to reach any canvas Cooper and Bentley were able to release.
The lugger smashed into one of the frigate's cutters, and there was a confused cry from within that might have come from a child. But the tow line was set and already starting to strain - already starting to wrench the anchored ship across the channel. And then the corvette was free, and even without power from her own sails, the plucky little lugger was proving strong enough to move the warship alone. He looked about; Steven and his team must have followed Hunt into the Frenchman as soon as the cable was cut: only Lesro, two seamen and a boy remained with him in the small boat.
The corvette's freeboard was far higher, so King could only guess what would be happening aboard, and hoped the fresh influx of men would sway matters. If not, if the British were overwhelmed, he might take some off and escape in the lugger. The batteries would be fully alerted by then and a direct hit must make short work of his little vessel. He supposed it might survive long enough for him to surrender, although that would mean all the exertions of the last day or so would have been in vain. But it would still be a far better ending to matters than simply giving up by the wreck of Prometheus. The odds were undeniably stacked against them, but at least a small chance remained that they would succeed.
Chapter Six
However, to Timothy on the deck of the Frenchman, success still felt a long way off. They had been fighting hard for a goodly while although it was not an all out brawl – that time ended some while back. Since then both sides had retreated to seek shelter behind cannon, masts or the many shipboard fittings that cluttered a warship's deck. An impasse followed, with the French mainly grouped towards the forecastle while the British had charge of the wheel and quarterdeck: only when one or other tried to move into their opponent's territory was there any actual action. Once, Harper led a group of his men towards the bows and actually seemed to make headway, before the French rallied and set about them. It had taken a further attack from Timothy to effectively free the marines, and now an uneasy truce was in place.
But it was a truce that did not favour the British. Both parties detailed to release the corvette's sails had failed, and the ship was still as firmly at anchor as when they first boarded. Even if the British had been able to cut her free and set some canvas, there were still the two batteries to negotiate, while their time in the enemy harbour was running out, with every passing second increasing the threat of reinforcements arriving from the shore.
“It's a deadlock,” Harper hissed from his position at the opposite end of the quarterdeck pin rail. Timothy could say nothing positive in reply and felt the situation was actually far worse. Both boats were secured further forward: if he wished to reach them and withdraw, he would have to encroach on what was effectively enemy territory, then hold the French back long enough to see his men off. It was a course of action he had initially discounted, but one that now seemed horribly inevitable. If they were unable to take the Frenchman, he could only retreat or surrender, and Timothy grimly accepted that either course would need to be followed as soon as possible.
In his pocket was the silver whistle he must blow to order a recall. His force was experienced enough to know when it were better to leave than stay, although he was still concerned that some hot heads might not follow straight away, while there were a fair number of wounded that would need assistance.
And he also knew that, once the British made a move, they could expect no mercy. No man can defend himself whilst running; a good few were bound to be cut down by Frenchmen sensing victory and even those that made it over the side and reached the cutters would not be free of danger. Cold round shot went straight through the bottom of a small boat; it would only take a couple thrown correctly, and their final means of escape would be destroyed.
But if they were unable to take the ship, there was no option other than to leave, and Timothy was fingering the whistle as he peered forward in the darkness, willing himself to make a move. Then there was movement further forward: something outside the ship had caught the enemy's attention – a few of the Frenchmen were actually standing. Several loud snaps from Harper's men followed as they picked off at least two, but the enemy remained distracted, and Timothy guessed it better to move now, and take advantage of the fact.
“Come on,” he shouted, pulling himself to his feet and staggering forward. His hanger was still apparently locked within his right fist, and he paid no attention to the quarterdeck ladder, preferring instead to fling himself down to the main deck, a mere four or five feet below. He heard the sound of others following as he moved forward in the darkness, then a bullet whipped passed his head, and there was a cry from behind as it found a mark.
Further movement over the larboard side caught his attention and he guessed it must be what the French had noticed. He knew of nothing below, apart from his own moored cutters, yet there was definitely something about. Then he noticed the masts of a small boat close by, and suddenly figures were clambering over the corvette's top rail.
Even in the poor light, he could see the seamen's checked shirts and white canvas trousers, while the blue tunics of two RN officers were unmistakable. Yet Timothy refused to believe his eyes: apart from his own men, there could hardly be any British for miles. His mind briefly ran along the course of reinforcements from the shore, but there was no confusing those uniforms, nor the clean shaven faces of the seamen who were flowing onto the corvette's deck.
He ran towards the newcomers, his sword still foolishly bare, and had to parry a blow from the smaller of the two officers who took him for an enemy.
“British!” Timothy shouted, and the unknown midshipman dropped his blade in horror. “The French have the forecastle!” he continued, addressing the taller officer while gesticulating wildly with his hanger. The man, who appeared to be a lieutenant, gave him an off hand salute, before calling to his own force that were rapidly assembling.
“Arm yourselves!” he shouted, pointing to the nearby mainmast that was ringed with cutlasses, and his men greedily grabbed at the weapons. Then Timothy noticed another midshipman boarding and, without reference to anything happening on deck, the lad began to lead a team of topmen up the main shrouds.
The rapid turn of events was totally baffling, yet Timothy was sensible enough to guess the French must be equally surprised. But they were not slow to react; several more bullets whistled past and, as the two officers turned and made for the forecastle, he followed.
* * *
The British force met with the remaining French in a pitched battle every bit as furious as it was deadly. For several seconds, Timothy found himself fending off blows from two men at once, then miraculously broke free and paired up with one of the newly arrived seamen. Together they despatched a stout, moustachioed officer followed by a rather weedy seaman, and were looking for further prey when an unexpected blow struck
him on the crown.
It was still quite dark, yet a bright light seemed to burn through Timothy's brain, and he failed to notice the subsequent stroke that almost took off his arm. Then his assailant disappeared as if he had never existed, and he was able to withdraw and seek shelter.
His head felt as if it had been split in two, even if a quick check told him the skin was hardly broken. But his right hand was sticky with blood, and more was flowing freely down his arm. He could flex his fingers, although movement was painful and Timothy knew he was effectively discounted from further action. It would now be down to the remainder of his force, and the newcomers, to see an end to things. Nevertheless, he could sense the additional men had already done much to quell the fighting forward, and the ship herself was undoubtedly moving: he could see the masts of the lugger standing off to larboard and felt the deck tilt under his feet as the corvette was hauled round.
“Are you wounded, sir?” a young voice asked as its owner joined him behind the scuttlebutt, and Timothy found himself staring into the eyes of yet another unknown midshipman.
“My arm,” he replied, foolishly. “It is nothing.”
“The French are sending reinforcements,” the mystery officer told him; even in the poor light Timothy could see the boy was barely in his teens. “There's a couple of long boats crammed full of men and heading our way.”
“Haul tight, there!” a voice called out. The new men must have been successful in releasing at least some sail on what was fast becoming a prize, and were taking control of her braces. There was the sound of a single flap of canvas, then the corvette began to catch the wind and became a living entity. Command seemed to have been taken from him, but Timothy could only be relieved. The pain in his arm was starting to numb although the wound still bled, and he was quite content for others to assume responsibility.
“We have the ship,” a lieutenant told him as he approached. “My name is Hunt. You appear to be wounded; might I offer assistance?”