by Alaric Bond
King said nothing. Rochester had presumably been stationed to the west, which would explain the flames being noticed, but this was hardly the moment to comment. His time in the navy had been more than sufficient to identify Dylan's type, and he had no intention of providing an opportunity for the man to pick him up by speaking out of turn.
“We investigated the fire, then sighted two French line-of-battleships, so had to withdraw, and were fortunate in doing so without being spotted ourselves, though that obviously delayed our arrival.”
King had been in the act of swallowing, and found the subsequent cough almost impossible to suppress. For a frigate to flee from the sight of two liners was rare indeed. They were powerful ships for sure, yet would not be capable of the speed or manoeuvrability of a single decker.
“When we reached the rendezvous point there was no sign of our boats so I naturally assumed the attack to have been unsuccessful,” the captain concluded. “All in all you have wasted a great deal of my time.”
“But did you not notice the corvette to be missing, sir?” King found himself asking, and drew back as Dylan's expression began to cloud.
“Do I need to remind you, Mr King, that it is considered impertinent to question a superior officer?” he puffed. “You seem to have already forgotten that the harbour entrance is heavily protected by shore batteries. If those leading an external assault could not be bothered to meet me at the appointed rendezvous, I had no intention of exposing my ship to find out why.”
At this, King actually began to relax. It might even have been fortunate the captain chose to give such an answer: were there room for argument, he would have felt the need to raise one. As it was, Dylan had summed up his own lack of enterprise perfectly.
Frigates were small but extremely potent fighting ships and expected to enter dangerous situations willingly and on a regular basis. They were the eyes and ears of the fleet and would be sent to spy on superior forces wherever they were found. Reporting on a hostile squadron or bearding the enemy in their den should have been nothing more than part of the working day for Rochester, and anyone who spoke of shying away from such tasks was condemning themselves by their own mouth.
“But that all can wait until I report to Admiral Nelson,” the captain continued importantly. “Mr Timothy, you may take charge of our prize. I will send across a team from the carpenter to supplement those of the bo's'n. They can carry out what repairs are possible while those from the cutting out expedition remain as your crew – along with the British we rescued, of course.” His eyes then settled on King once more. “The lugger has little use for us, but may be retained for now. You will remain in command,” he informed him. “And have men enough to man her, by all accounts, although I require my midshipman returned forthwith.”
King gave a muttered assent; it was unusual for a senior lieutenant to be relegated to the command of a fishing boat, and might be seen as an insult by some, although he had no wish to stay aboard any vessel where this man was captain.
“We shall make for the Med. Squadron as soon as a jury mast has been rigged,” Dylan continued. “The Master informs me they might be raised in less than ten hours: the prisoners will be retained aboard the Frenchman until then.”
Dylan's reluctance to bring captured men aboard Rochester might have stemmed from laziness or even fear, but the French were obviously to remain other people's responsibility for the foreseeable future. He then adopted a mildly speculative look. “Were there senior men amongst them? My Lord Nelson would look favourably on any enemy able to provide information.”
“Most were ashore, sir, it being St Stephen's Day.” King's reply was cautious; he was remembering Lesro, and suddenly fearful that this fool of a captain might spoil the young man's chances of returning to Malta. “A junior officer had been left in command of her anchor watch.”
“And he is amongst the prisoners?”
“He was killed, sir,” King admitted.
“No one else?” Dylan persisted.
“There is an aspirant that my men were able to capture earlier,” King continued hesitantly. “I have him aboard the lugger.”
“Aboard the lugger?” the captain repeated in disgust. “How do you keep an enemy officer secure in such a vessel? You had better transfer him to Rochester straight away. I shall present him to the Admiral myself, after extracting any information he may have, of course.”
King gave the only answer possible when a post captain issues an order to a lieutenant, but remained doubtful. “I may say, sir, he is a Maltese by birth,” he continued, “and has no allegiance to the French. Why he even fought with us during the attack, and has proved both useful and loyal in many ways.”
“If he wears an enemy uniform, he should be treated as such,” Dylan snapped. “Bonaparte is recruiting agents on a daily basis and it is not unknown for French officers to come up with all manner of Royalist nonsense before stabbing us neatly in the back. Have him sent aboard: I will see him confined and interrogated forthwith.”
* * *
“Steady with that line, there,” Summers directed in his childlike tenor. The jury main, which had been a fore topmast taken from the skid beams on Rochester's spar deck, was in position against the stump of its predecessor, and only needed to be hauled into position. Summers was in charge of the larboard team, whose halyard reached up to the heights of the remaining mast: with the help from Berry at the starboard traces, it would provide the final lift that should set all in place. And timing needed to be perfect. There had been a slight easing in the wind, but the sea remained decidedly choppy, with an occasional rogue wave that came every thirty seconds or so, and was more than capable of seeing the whole affair wrecked.
“Steady,” he repeated, while glancing across to where the boatswain and Lieutenant Timothy were directing operations from the break of the corvette's quarterdeck.
“Steady, he says,” the seaman at the head of the line repeated, as he looked back to his colleagues. “An' if Mr Summers says so, we got to listen,” he continued, “'cause officers like 'im is worthy of respect...”
Summers, who had been concentrating solely on the task before him, dropped the hand that had been emphasising his order, and actually took his eyes off Timothy. It was Miller, the seaman he had encountered during those terrible minutes in the cutter – could it only be the night before? The man was looking back at him now with what was clearly contempt, although Summers knew that little could be said regarding his behaviour.
For there was nothing actually wrong; Miller was simply emphasising his officer's command. He might be cautioned for speaking out of turn, but if he were encouraging the men was it really an offence? Besides, Miller and his cronies – he could see now that the second man in line had also been in the cutter – possessed something far more powerful than mere right on their side.
During the action there had been more than enough confusion on the deck of the corvette for anyone to notice either his absence, or later magical re-appearance aboard the lugger. But both seamen had, and in the greatest possible detail. They saw his backing away from boarding the corvette, knew him for the coward he was, and despised him for it.
“Are you with us, Mr Summers?” The question came from far away: Mr Timothy was on the quarterdeck and, even in the poor light, Summers could tell he was far from happy. “Look alive, there, we are waiting on you!”
Summers' face reddened, and he returned to his team. They were ready: eight strong men, each old enough to be his father, yet his to command. But there was something subtle in their manner, something in the way they held themselves and the stupid grins a few had adopted; something that worried him greatly.
“On my word,” Summers ordered. Let them dispute that, he thought, although the men were ready enough to obey. The sound of a whistle cut through the night, and the halyard grew taught. Then, taking his time from both Timothy and Berry opposite, Summers brought the team back until the mast was rising from its bearers.
Then t
hey reached the pivotal moment. Timothy had to anticipate the correct time, judge when at least fifteen seconds of relative calm could be expected; a period when they might raise the mast to near vertical. Summers felt the tension and, for a moment, forgot about those around him. And at that point, just as the second lieutenant's hand came down to start the final lift, one of his team broke wind.
Such a thing was not an unusual occurrence aboard ship, especially during manual labour. But Summers was a sensitive lad and gave full value to the seaman's insult.
“Haul larboard!” he stiffened. Timothy, on the quarterdeck, had noticed their line was behind, even if he had not, and he hurriedly brought the men back. Another earthy sound split the air, and this time there was sniggering, but Summers could not afford to look round; the masthead had passed the all important angle of forty five degrees, and all its weight was being carried by his and Berry's tackle.
“Handsomely, handsomely,” he muttered, his eyes following the swinging lantern mounted atop the spar, and the speed decreased slightly.
“Andsome is as 'andsome does,” Miller informed them all in a low voice, and the laughter increased.
“Mr Summers!” Timothy bawled, as the midshipman realised they were behind once more. And then finally, impossibly, the mast was upright, and being lashed against the stump, while a team from the boatswain took over their halyard, and secured it.
“Fair pushed that one beyond the mark, laddie,” James, the boatswain, informed him. “I knows the fancies you young men fill your minds with,” he continued, not unkindly. “But you got to keep your eye on the job, or it's everyone else what suffers.”
* * *
Dawn came slowly and was veiled in a thick mist that looked likely to turn into fully fledged fog. But by four bells in the morning watch it had cleared sufficiently for the headland off Cape Sicié to be identified, and the search for the British fleet could begin in earnest. They proved elusive, though; by the time Up Spirits would normally have been piped, and despite the mist clearing further, none of Nelson's ships were in sight and Timothy, for one, was starting to grow impatient.
The pain in his head had lessened and now only bothered him if he moved suddenly, but the wounded arm throbbed with all the charm of a chronic toothache and he longed for the chance to rest and be properly warm. No such luxuries were allowed the temporary commander of a damaged prize, however. He had to supervise the prisoners; see that the thirty-three unhurt French seamen were secured and reasonably fed, along with seven women, some of whom claimed to be wives. And the last group were proving more of a worry than the men.
Throughout their training and Service life, Harper's marines had been instilled with hatred of all things French. They found little difficulty in treating the men firmly; enforcing their demands with the butts of their muskets if the need arose although the women were proving harder to control. As far as physical violence was concerned, few of the sea soldiers would have shown any reluctance in treating them in the same manner as the men, a fact that was quickly understood by their self-appointed leader. So while the French seamen responded to the marines' orders with insults and verbal abuse that were unintelligible to their captors, the women used a more universal language which was far easier to interpret.
So far, Harper had been forced to discipline three of his men who proved too easily distracted by the sight of bared skin or a come-hither look, and there had been at least one occasion when one of the women was mysteriously released from their temporary accommodation in the gun room, and almost succeeded in freeing some of the men.
And if the supervision of captives was not enough, Timothy must also make sure his damaged corvette remained in contact with Rochester. In the deep of night this was not the problem it might have been, as the taffrail lamp Dylan was persuaded to keep burning gave him some guidance. But, come morning and the mist, it became a different matter.
Even the brightest of lights would have been extinguished by the thick haze and for almost an hour they had been out of touch with all other vessels: only a single lookout and the hope they were sufficiently clear of land kept Timothy from turning to starboard and the open sea. That terrible time ended when a lightening sky promised day, and no one greeted the first few shafts of pure sunlight with greater relief than him.
Nevertheless, Timothy did have much to hearten him. A great deal had happened in the last few days and at times it was difficult to remember his plan had proved successful. Under his personal command, a French warship had been taken from her moorings and sailed away. The very deck he now walked on, scarred and stained though it might be, belonged to the enemy not twenty-four hours before. True, there was help from an unexpected quarter. although even without King's intervention, he told himself, his men might still have pulled it off. And it could even be argued that, in addition to taking the prize, he had assisted a group of escaping British seamen to freedom.
Such a feat could easily take him on the next important step to commander. He might be given a ship – the one he sailed in now would seem appropriate – become his own master and take the lion's share of any prizes while saying goodbye to Dylan and his nettlesome ways for good. The idea heartened him and did much to keep any dark thoughts at bay, although at that moment Timothy actually wanted very little. Maybe something hot to eat – the meal provided just before dawn had been rushed and, by the time he came to eat it, stone cold. But most of all he craved a chance to rest, to lose himself in the oblivion of sleep, then wake not needing to move again for the foreseeable future. Such a thing could not come before they sighted the British fleet though, and for as long as Nelson's ships remained invisible, it would be nothing more than a far off dream.
King, on the other hand, was almost enjoying himself. By the time he returned to the lugger, Lesro had gone. For a moment he wondered about pursuing the matter further; he might return to Rochester and speak, if not to Dylan, then at least Heal, her first lieutenant. He was a far more reasonable prospect and twice the man the captain pretended to be. But King could foresee little positive arising, and accepted that he may well make matters worse.
And he was also deadly tired. Summers, the midshipman they had found aboard the cutter, had also left. He would see to it that the lad was replaced by Adams or Steven; there was still a fair distance to travel and he would be happier with another officer aboard, even on such a small boat. But while the corvette lacked a main mast no one would be going anywhere, so he decided to make the best of it, and catch up on some sleep.
He woke less than two hours later but feeling better in both body and spirit. The boy, Roberts, was awake, although Cranston and Beeney still lay curled up at the bows and exercising the British seaman's ability to sleep in any situation. A shout instantly raised them, and within minutes the small boat was underway.
King had not sailed a lugger of such a size for a good while and it took several tacks before he felt he was getting the best from her. But after a couple of turns about the two larger stationary ships, he began to realise the craft's full potential, and quite what fun such a rig could be. As soon as the jury spar was in position aboard the corvette, they set sail in earnest, and King took station to windward of the small fleet. But when the morning mist descended, Heal, on the quarterdeck of Rochester, bellowed for him to close.
“This fog is a curse,” he said, when King had brought his charge within proper hailing distance. “Captain Dylan wishes you to take a look further ahead. If the fleet is on station you may advise them of our presence; if not, return, and we will think again.”
King waved in acknowledgement, then summoned to Beeney and Cranston. For the past three hours the lugger had barely been making two knots, and it felt good to increase sail and let what wind there was fill his canvas. The craft began to accelerate gently, and soon King was off, leaving his two, slow moving companions to wallow in the mist.
The fog began to fade as he left and a quick turn about the approaches to Toulon assured him the French fleet was st
ill very much in residence. Even without the advantages of a high lookout position, their masts could be seen in the inner harbour. It must be comfortably over a month since he was last on this particular station, but King knew the area, and its defences, well and the agile little boat proved ideal for dodging shots from the shore batteries who were annoyingly quick to guess their identity.
But the lack of a British force was far more worrying. Nelson, he knew, was in favour of a loose blockade; only a few months before he had left Prometheus, King's previous ship, to keep watch on the enemy, with merely a pair of fifth rates for support. The chances were strong Sardinia, or to be more specific, the protected inlet of Agincourt Sound, would be sheltering the British Mediterranean Squadron, although it remained a mystery why the French had not seized such an opportunity, and fled. And then he saw something that confirmed his thoughts, although the sight was both heartening and depressing at the same time.
Chapter Nine
It was Narcissus, a fifth rate King knew well. She emerged from the remains of the mist under easy sail, quickly bearing up and adding topgallants on sighting his lugger. King had encountered the frigate on more than one occasion during his time on the Toulon blockade and regarded her captain, Ross Donnelly, as an exceptional officer. Almost ten years before he had been first lieutenant of a two decker at the Glorious First of June when her captain, James Montagu, was killed in the opening hours of the action. Donnelly took Montagu's place and went on to carry out his duties with a skill and competence that won a commendation from both the Admiralty and his fellow officers: many still felt it a crime he was not given the rewards allowed to other captains at the battle.
Although officially of the same rate as Rochester, Donnelly's current command was far more powerfully armed, carrying twenty-six eighteen-pounders on her main deck, with a further ten thirty-two-pound carronades and four long nines to quarterdeck and forecastle. King could easily see how Nelson might leave such a combination of man and ship to shadow the French over Christmas. At the first sign of movement, Donnelly should be able to raise the might of the British fleet within a couple of days, and King doubted if the Admiral's desire for the French to sail, a wish that was bordering on obsession, had dwindled in the time he had been away.