by Alaric Bond
Timothy shook his head but allowed himself to be helped to the deck.
“There is another lieutenant aboard the lugger,” Hunt informed him. “We propose to leave together, and divide any fire from the shore batteries between both vessels.”
“But where did you come from?” Timothy finally asked, and the unknown officer grinned and raised an eyebrow.
“Ain't it obvious?” he replied. “We're your guardian angels.”
* * *
But whatever his origin or identity, King did not feel particularly blessed. With the assistance of a strange midshipman who had appeared as if by magic from one of the cutters, they had brought the corvette round and she was now easing out of the harbour under her own canvas. But once released from the tow, the lugger was proving less easy to sail. During their manoeuvres, Cranston had managed to mangle the main boom gear, leaving the main lugsail half raised and resisting all attempts to free it. They were still making fair progress using the power from their fore sail alone, although the corvette was starting to pull ahead.
And of conditions aboard the ship, King knew little, except for the fact his men had been able to turn her about. If the French were still in total command, such a thing could have never been achieved, and the lack of sound must surely mean fighting was at least temporarily suspended. But there would be action from another front before long. Two boats had put out from the harbour and could be dimly made out as they rowed in deadly pursuit, while both the corvette and the lugger must be getting close to the effective range of the shore emplacements. And it was then that the western battery erupted in a series of bright flashes that hurt the eyes and left all aboard the lugger reeling.
Fortunately the shots were not aimed at them, or the corvette, or indeed anywhere discernible: as the rumble of gunfire reached them, a series of deep splashes rose up that must have covered most of the middle channel, with none rising less than a hundred feet from another.
“Hedgin' their bets,” Cranston snorted from further forward, although no one laughed. The enemy's marksmanship might have been doubtful, but it could only improve, and the actual power of the barrage had been daunting. It was common for shore batteries to be equipped with the heaviest ordinance available; large guns that were too cumbersome or outdated to be carried at sea. But be they old or unwieldy, such ordinance could still pack a punch, and all aboard the lugger knew it would need no more than one lucky shot to account for their craft.
“Try it again!” The unknown midshipman from the cutter had shinned halfway up the main mast and was attempting the clear the jambed block. Cranston, below, duly heaved at the halyard and there was a high pitched squeal, followed by the rush of moving tackle that ended with the thud of a light body landing on the deck.
“That seems to have done the trick, Mister,” Cranston said, as he helped the youngster to his feet. “Sure, she's catching the wind already.”
King noticed Beeney had brought the brace tight and the twin lug sails were already pulling them through the water at a fair rate; then he saw Lesro. He was standing amidships and looking at his former ship with apparent interest.
“Feeling homesick?” he asked, and the younger man turned.
“For the ship, no,” he replied. “Though there are doubtless some aboard who would wish to speak with me. What do you propose, now she is taken?”
“We propose to leave,” King stated firmly, although he was still deciding the best way to get both vessels safely out of the harbour. The westward battery had already spoken; from his experience of French artillery it would be several minutes before they could expect further attention from that quarter. The emplacement to the east was marginally further to seaward, and would probably take longer to open fire. But then he had made that mistake before and, as before, it was then that the battery burst into life to prove him wrong.
King's eyes were not so blinded this time, and he could draw comfort from the fact that, yet again, the enemy's marksmanship had failed to impress. But one shot did pass close by, and he missed seeing it land.
“I think the Crécerelle was maybe struck,” Lesro spoke hesitantly and King looked to the corvette; she may well have taken a blow to the hull, although nothing was obvious. Her tophamper remained his main concern and that appeared untouched. But, whether by design or accident, the corvette now seemed to be favouring the east, the nearer battery, and King was reluctant to come closer if he could help it.
“Very well,” he grunted, in as non committal a way as he could manage. “We shall remain off the corvette's windward quarter, to be better able to resume the tow, if she be wounded aloft.”
Lesro seemed to consider that a good idea, as did the midshipman, although King could not help wondering if the opinion of a foreigner in an enemy uniform or an unknown youngster was worth terribly much. But in any case his precautions were soon proved redundant. For when the damage came, it did so from the west, and was truly devastating.
* * *
It was two barrages later, and the two vessels were almost beyond the point where the shore defences were at their closest, when a series of heavy shots passed directly overhead. All aboard the lugger physically ducked, although their frail spars remained mercifully unscathed. The same could not be said for the corvette's taller rig, however, and, with the sound of shattering pine and ripping canvas, the small ship's main and mizzen were brought down in a single swipe.
Immediately the vessel lost way, and her hull began to slew to starboard. “Stand by the tow!” King bellowed, while hauling back on the tiller and trusting in whoever was looking after the braces to react. The turn would give those aboard the corvette time to clear the damage, then accept the damp coil of single hawser that Beeney, standing next to King at the stern, was already preparing to throw.
“Belike she were hit fair and square,” Cranston mumbled, and it did appear that the French had done a workmanlike job. Two or possibly three shots had struck the spars and left little to clear away, but at least the corvette was not unduly encumbered by wreckage. Providing the tow could be made fast and held, King would be able to bring his command back to the wind. Then they might start the long job of hauling the larger ship out of danger. It would be slow going and the two vessels must make an easier target for the gunners on shore. But still the game was in play, with at least a chance of winning remaining.
The lugger sat far lower in the water and, as they passed down the corvette's hull, none of King's men could see what was about aboard her. But the tow line was caught by an unseen hand and, as the helm came across, began to be payed out by a thoughtful Beeney.
“Spill the wind there!” King ordered to whoever had charge of the braces, and noticed, with surprise, that it was Lesro. The young man gave a cheerful wave in his direction, and King could not help but grin in reply, before setting his mind to more serious matters.
It was essential that they took up the tow as gently as possible; something Lesro might not be aware of. But he controlled the sails to near perfection, and there was barely a creak from the lugger's stern cleat when the line grew taught. Then there came the hiss of the hawser rising up from the sea, while the corvette's bows began to be persuaded back to their proper course.
“We just have to wait for the other side,” King muttered, half to himself, as he looked across to the darkened battery on the eastern shore. He had not bothered to consult his watch, but sensed it time for the cannon on that bank to speak. The guns were nearer and surely could not miss two targets close together and moving so slowly. And then, again before he fully expected it, the coast was lit by the combined flash of six powerful weapons as they discharged their deadly cargo directly at him.
There was even time for King to wonder if this might be his last moment of conscious thought, yet he could do nothing but stand with his one good hand on the tiller, and wait for the shots to arrive.
* * *
Aboard the corvette, Hunt had been in control for some while and matters were falling into pla
ce so readily that he was in danger of becoming cocky. The uninjured French had been herded together on the forecastle and now sat under the watchful gaze of a dozen Royal Marines, while his men had worked with others of the original boarding party to trim what sails they had already set, before adding topgallants and jibs. And the injured of both nationalities were safely below and being cared for by Manning. Amongst the wounded was the lieutenant who had led the initial attack; someone Hunt had been particularly pleased to see go. His wounds did not appear great: a bashed head and a cut to the upper arm. But Manning would truss him up soundly enough, and Hunt had no wish to share the command of what he was already beginning to consider his capture.
The batteries were a problem yet to be solved of course, and had already released a number of barrages in their direction. But the French aim was poor, while his little ship felt so lithe and willing. Besides, he and the others from Prometheus were finally free: gone was the constant threat of capture. Soon they would be clear of harbour and loose on the open sea once more.
And it was then that it happened. Hunt hardly registered that the western battery had even fired, and when the first shot struck their main mast it came as a shock. The spar was ripped from the cat's cradle of rigging that also dragged the mizzen topmast with it, and then another shot struck the lower mizzen trunk. Chaos replaced order as a third slammed into their hull, and suddenly there were screams, shouts and splinters, while the ship yawed to starboard and began to slow.
He was standing aft of the main, with Brehaut nearby; just by the wheel, in fact. Both survived without a scratch, yet Cooper, who had been steering the ship, as well as Midshipman Bentley immediately next to him, were both killed outright by falling timber. But Adams and Steven seemed miraculously unhurt, along with at least a dozen seamen on the quarterdeck, and all immediately set to hacking through the trailing lines that tied the corvette to her former tophamper.
Hunt grabbed at an axe and was about to join them when he heard the crack of a musket shot from forward. At least one of the French prisoners must have tried to break free of their guard, but there was a marine lieutenant in charge there and he could trust the Jollies to deal with it; he had other matters to attend to.
“Lugger's passing us to starboard,” Adams, the older midshipman cried. Hunt swung round to look and could make out two large quadrilateral sails approaching their prow. Forward he could only see the white and red smudges of marine uniforms as they rose up to counter the attack from their prisoners.
“A hand there, if you please!” he bellowed, as the French subsided to the threat of a dozen bared bayonets. “We are to take a tow; one of you men catch the line and clap it on!”
Few, if any, of the sea soldiers knew more than the rudiments of seamanship, but he trusted that even a mindless fool could secure a line. Their officer seemed competent enough, and waved a hand in confirmation while Hunt turned back to the problem of clearing wreckage. The men were working with the energy of lunatics, already the mizzen had been freed and any drag from the main was gradually lessening as more shrouds parted to the bite of axes, boarding cutlasses and knives.
“It were fortunate that Mr King were to starboard,” Adams grunted as the last fell away, and the ship came under the full control of the lugger.
“Fortunate indeed,” Hunt agreed, and it was at that point that the eastern battery exploded into light.
Hunt was also conscious of waiting for the shots to arrive: in his case, it was from the relative safety of a warship's quarterdeck, but after having been so recently, and soundly, struck, he could not help but grow tense. The first hit the water a cable off their larboard beam, to be followed, almost instantly, by a series of splashes further forward. That was poor shooting; at such a distance he would have expected at least a couple to have passed overhead. The French gunners must have totally misjudged both range and speed and Hunt felt sudden and inexplicable feelings of hope.
“Brace up there!” The foremast still stood: its sails would give a modicum of help and the corvette was already moving perceptibly under her tow. He ran forward, passing through the wreckage that littered the main deck, and reached the forecastle where the French were once more cowering under their marine guard. In the dim light he could see the lugger, with King at the helm, as he would have expected. Beyond was the open sea and they were already half way to reaching it.
There would still be a few barrages to endure before they were truly out of danger, but Hunt instinctively felt they had done enough. If the gods intended them to be caught, there had been opportunities a plenty; as it was, and even in their damaged condition, he could only consider them as good as home already.
Chapter Seven
Morning found them cold, tired and hungry. Aboard the lugger, King had finally given the helm over to the competent hands of Lesro, a man he now accepted as friend rather than enemy. He then allowed himself two hours of total oblivion, only to wake with a feeling of anxious guilt that did not pass until he discovered the others were either sleeping, or had recently rested. Summers, the midshipman they had taken from the cutter, had chanced upon a supply of coffee along with the boat's spirit stove, and was making himself busy, while Beeney, though officially on watch, sat to leeward and smoked a decidedly unofficial pipe. King stretched in the first rays of the winter sun and suppressed a yawn as he looked back at the corvette. She was still under tow and, as the sunlight fell upon her, he realised there was more damage than he had first thought.
Besides her wrecked tophamper, and the absence of both main and mizzen masts which made the ship seem considerably smaller, she had received a glancing blow to her starboard bow. The mess of splintered timbers was far enough above the waterline to keep her dry in the current conditions, although a heavy sea would be a different prospect, and King wondered if there was further damage elsewhere that he could not see.
Beyond the prize he could just make out the thin line of land that told him they had travelled a considerable distance during the night, but nothing else; no shipping of any variety and certainly not the reassuring sight of a British frigate awaiting them. A movement on the corvette's forecastle caught his attention; it was Adams, the midshipman, and King had no hesitation in calling Lesro to luff up.
The tow slackened and the corvette continued far more slowly until she was just abeam of the lugger. Then Beeney and Cranston caught a hold and brought the smaller craft closer with their boathooks, before deftly securing her fore and aft. King stepped awkwardly up to the higher craft, and allowed himself to be hauled aboard by Wiessner and another former hand from Prometheus. Once aboard he stood for a moment and surveyed the scene.
Hunt had done well. The corvette was still in a sorry state, but much had been attended to and she was in no immediate danger. Fresh shrouds and temporary braces were rigged to the foremast that now carried both course and topsail, and King could see that two jibs and even what appeared to be a staysail were ready for use should they, or the wind, decide to turn. Beneath the mast, a group of prisoners sat huddled together under the unwavering stare of six alert marines while the watch on deck were at their stations next to the improvised braces. And further aft it was good to see Brehaut standing by the wheel, which was being manned by an unknown midshipman. There was even the reassuring scent of wood smoke in the air that must come from the galley chimney, and King fancied he could detect the scent of frying bacon, although his stomach was still quite empty and he knew his senses to be distorted.
“Coming to see what's about, Tom?” It was a familiar voice and King turned to see Hunt, dressed in the remains of his broadcloth tunic, approaching.
“Indeed, and I note you have not been idle.”
“Ah, but we have men a plenty,” Hunt replied cheerfully. “Sure, over thirty are fit from the original cutting out party, while we only lost Cooper, Bentley and five hands from our own. There are seventeen wounded British below, and maybe a couple of dozen French. All are quiet and as sound as we can make them,” he adde
d quickly. “Most will certainly wait until we meet with the frigate, or make it to join Nelson.” A look of doubt came upon his face, “If that is what you intend, of course – I did not wish to presume...”
“We must join with the nearest British shipping without delay,” King said quickly. “And if the frigate ain't about, that had better be the Med. squadron. Are there senior men amongst the first force?”
“Couple of mid's and a lobster officer,” Hunt told him. “It was being led by a navy man: a lieutenant by the name of Timothy, though he were wounded and is below.”
“Timothy?” The name struck a chord; King had served with an officer of that name several years before. “Is he badly hurt?”
Hunt pursed his lips in thought. “Bob Manning's caring for him. Says he's lost too much blood for his liking, but should come through even so.”
“Very well, then I should probably visit,” King replied, and made for the companionway.
* * *
And Robert Manning had done a good job as well. The forward part of the corvette's berth deck had been partitioned off and two lines of men lay in relative order on sheets of fresh canvas. A further column of marines stood at the far end with expressions as fixed as their bayonets, but there was no sign of hostility from the wounded; indeed all was quiet and King found it difficult to distinguish the nationalities of many of the patients.
“Ah, Tom. You'll be wishing to see where the work is truly done,” Manning told him, as he stood up from his current charge.
“You seems to have everything under control,” King replied. Since his wound, he had acquired a healthy dislike of matters medical and hoped the visit would be short.
“It is one of the advantages of my trade,” the surgeon beamed. “Bodies are much the same whatever their allegiances, and the tools to fix them do not vary so very much. Why we even have a common language!”
King was not in the mood for Manning's philosophy; sweat was starting to prickle beneath his shirt and he longed to be free of the place.