HMS Prometheus: The Fighting Sail Series, #8

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The cover shows a detail from Combat de la Poursuivante contre l'Hercule, 1803 by Louis-Philippe Crépin (1772 – 1851) The original is in the Musée national de la Marine

Publisher's Note: This is a work of historical fiction. Certain characters and their actions may have been inspired by historical individuals and events. The characters in the novel, however, represent the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Published by Old Salt Press. Old Salt Press, LLC is based in Jersey City, New Jersey with an affiliate in New Zealand. For more information about our titles go to www.oldsaltpress.com

For Norman and Pat

HMS Prometheus

Prologue

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It was luck of the worst possible kind, although Acting Lieutenant Hunt had already told himself so at least a dozen times and the repetition in no way eased matters.

Starboard guns are ready, sir, the elderly master's mate reported and, at a nod from Hunt, the brig's paltry battery of six four pounders spat defiantly back at the oncoming enemy.

But the shot was light and would do little damage, Hunt was as sure of that as he was the other factors stacked against him. Nothing would help; his was a hopeless case.

Bring her to the wind, Mr Carston, he ordered in an artificially firm voice as his prediction was proved all too correct. There were barely enough men to fight and sail his small command. Those allocated to the guns were already serving their pieces while the few left to man the braces followed the brig round as her helm was put across. And all he could do was strain to see the fall of shot against the rising sun's increasing glare, that and curse the misfortune which had placed him in such a position in the first place.

With luck they might get another broadside in – possibly two, before the xebec came alongside. Not so much as a musket shot had been received in reply from the graceful but deadly vessel, although that was not the advantage it might appear. Hunt knew he was facing Barbary Pirates, probably the most ferocious and merciless enemy expected in the entire Mediterranean, and their mode of attack was all too well known.

In this current battle they were superior in almost every quarter, and the fact that no shots had been fired did not mean the xebec was unarmed. Across the narrow stretch of water his opponent was likely to mount a veritable arsenal of nine, twelve or possibly eighteen pounders; formidable fire-power that would not disgrace a frigate. But all the pirate ship actually needed was to come alongside to do the business. She would be crewed by over three hundred fearless fighters – no match for the twenty or so British seamen at Hunt's command. His small force was bound to be overwhelmed within seconds, while the brig would make a far better prize if she were unblemished by gunfire, and contained a full crew of strong, sound and, primarily, saleable Europeans.

The lateen rigged, three masted vessel had first been spotted an hour or so back, as dawn began to break. And with an outline so extreme, so well known, the British crew’s suspicions were immediately aroused. Until then, Hunt's hundred ton charge had been making reasonable progress and would soon have found safety in harbour. She was a capture, taken while trying to run the blockade off Toulon, with Hunt given temporary charge to see her to Gibraltar. But as soon as the deadly silhouette came into sight, swooping down from the east with the rising sun behind her, he sensed his first experience of independent command was about to end.

I think we may have done some damage after all, sir, the master's mate suggested cautiously, and Hunt looked again at the hateful vessel. Yes, Rutherford was right; a good chunk of the enemy's slender prow had been knocked away by the last broadside, and Hunt acknowledged the fact with a cursory nod. But it would take more than a four pound round shot to stop such a sleek and warlike craft. There were still two hundred miles separating them from Gibraltar with no friendly territory between, and what time remained was fast running out.

Of course they might yet run. Unusually for the Med., the night breeze had not been swallowed by the sun, and still came from roughly the same direction. They were carrying all plain sail when the enemy was first sighted, and Hunt immediately ordered the helm across, so every ounce of the precious force might be taken on their quarter. He had learned much during his brief command. Despite winds which changed from light to non-existent, the brig was fast for her size, a fact that inevitably endeared her to him: Hunt had even hoped they would maintain their lead, if not extend it.

But the change of course also benefited the xebec; the wide, high, triangular sails were made for sailing the Med., as was that distinctive and gainly hull. Her frame might be light when compared with the far more durable structure of the brig and, placed together in the midst of an Atlantic storm, there was no doubting which vessel would last the longer. But these were peaceful conditions: the soft wind and gentle sun of a pleasant Mediterranean summer's morning, and the enemy continued to close on them. Hunt supposed stunsails might still be added, but that would take men from the guns, and even their meagre broadside was likely to be of more immediate benefit in the next few minutes.

She's a pirate, sir. Sure as eggs is eggs, Rutherford, who was second in command, grumbled, and the young, fair haired officer could only agree. A pirate indeed, although that should not come as a surprise when the area was plagued by them. And Hunt was equally aware that, however much he might blame ill fortune, the whole sorry situation was really his own stupid fault.

For it had been vanity: nothing less. When entrusted with despatches and a well found brig to carry them, Hunt had been prepared to risk anything in search of a swift passage, and the pursuit of a solid wind had taken them perilously close to the African coast. At the time Hunt was sure there was little need for concern: the brig showed a fair turn of speed and was armed: in effect a minor warship: he really should fear nothing. But it was a foolish decision: one based on a young and unknown officer's desire to impress, and they were paying for it now.

Or rather, they would be very shortly; the Barbary Pirate's treatment of prisoners was as well known as their fighting tactics. If, or to be pragmatic, when they were taken, the brig and her stores would not be the full extent of their booty: Hunt, and his fellow men, could expect to spend the foreseeable future as slaves.

So they must waste no time. To fire another broadside it was necessary to yaw, and preferably now, despite the fact that several of the servers were yet to signal their pieces ready. At his shouted command, the brig fell off to starboard and began to wallow as the men he had so casually designated gun captains peered over the weapons' crude sights. To Hunt, who only a week before had been second in command of a third rate's battery of thirty-two pounders, the guns appeared ludicrously small although, once despatched with another ear-splitting clatter, he hoped they would still have some effect on the enemy.

Holed her fore that time, Rutherford announced with satisfaction, and indeed a dark patch in the vessel's forward sail showed where she had been hit. But there was no split; the sail continued to draw to some extent, and neither had the mast, nor any of its supporting lines been struck; something that might have bought more time, and perhaps altered the odds in their favour. Hunt turned away from the sight, conscious that the aloof and confident persona expected of even a young commander was becoming hard to maintain. His brig was coming back to the wind and already picking up speed, but the enemy now lay hardly a cable and a half off, and the next broadside the British fired would be their last.

He tried not to think about what was to come; to the months, probably years to be spent as a captive. Algiers was the nearest port; should the enemy hail from there it was a dismal prospect. There would be no honour in being a prisoner; none of the mutual respect or reciprocal arrangements usual in European conflict. He supposed amongst people who held scant regard for their own lives, those of defeated unbelievers were bound to figure low. The British would be put to work, and work hard; his men probably being sent to serve in just such a vessel as the one that was shortly to capture them. There they would find the hardships of Royal Naval service nothing compared to what was demanded. Stories abounded of men being put to the oars for hours at a stretch; many died of exhaustion or malnutrition, and the Barbary nations were no respecters of rank or position: even as an officer, Hunt would be lucky not to join them.

He gritted his teeth and tried to clear his mind of further dismal thoughts, concentrating instead on what every captain should do during the last few minutes of command. In the binnacle drawer lay Admiral Bickerton's despatches which he had brought up from his cabin as soon as the sighting was reported. He collected them now, and held the tarred canvas bundle tightly against his chest. Rutherford was apparently watching the oncoming enemy, but Hunt knew the older man had noticed his action, and would agree the end was close. When capture became inevitable, the parcel must be consigned to the deep, its ballast of small shot ensuring all sank well beyond enemy reach.

Indeed, there seemed little point in delaying longer; Hunt took two steps towards the lee bulwark before tossing the bundle over. It fell with barely a splash: Hunt had no idea what the local Dey would have made of communications from Sir Richard Bickerton, but he was not going to get the chance now. And then there were the three sacks of general mail that lay ready by the taffrail. Some might conceivably contain items of small commercial value but, even if not, no one liked the thought of personal messages falling into enemy hands, and one of Hunt's last responsibilities to his colleagues was to see they did not.

By the time all were disposed of, the brig's guns were almost loaded once more. On this occasion when they yawed, Hunt knew there would be little point in turning back. The xebec was making good speed and lay less than a cable off their stern. The British would get their broadside in before the collision, but could not prepare another before the inevitable rush of boarders. He caught the eye of the quartermaster who clearly waited for his order, and was actually drawing breath to give it when a call came from the masthead.

Deck there, I have a sighting to the east.

The young officer froze, his mouth comically open, but the report was creating far too much excitement for anyone to notice.

It's a frigate, or at least something substantial, an' no more'n three mile off, the man continued, over the babble of excited comments. She were hidden by the enemy but I have her now. Under all plain sail an' settin' stuns'ls.

Any colours? Rutherford asked, but it was a futile question. If the sighting was indeed a frigate, it was likely to belong to a friendly power, although even a Frenchman would be welcome at that particular moment.

Hunt glanced back at the oncoming pirate; there was now no point in their yawing, they must maintain the chase for as long as possible. For a second the terrible thought that the enemy might also have failed to spot the newcomer flashed through his mind, then he noticed the xebec's yards move slightly as his pursuer altered course.

They're going to pass to starboard, the master's mate murmured softly. It would be foolish in the extreme for the pirate's commander to continue attacking the brig when any delay was likely to see his own ship captured. Instead, with the situation neatly reversed, he was now altering course to place the xebec in the optimum position for a stern chase, and a lateen rig would be more effective with the wind a littler firmer on the beam.

Soon it was clear the subtle change had indeed increased their speed. The pirate was going to pass close, but not so as to allow them to board, although Hunt might expect attention from their cannon. And a vessel of such a size would be expected to produce a broadside substantial enough to sink his little brig with a single dose.

Looks like we're to exchange one drubbing for another, the master's mate snorted, as if in agreement with the younger man's thoughts. Hunt did not respond; what Rutherford said was correct although he, for one, preferred taking his chance against enemy fire to facing the prospect of a lifetime's bondage.

Sightin's a Jonathan! the lookout called in glee. An' a big one!

Hunt accepted the information without comment. The Americans were currently fighting an intense campaign on the nearby North African coast. It was something the Barbary States were pleased to call a holy war, or Jihad, and the British Navy stubbornly ignored, in the face of a bigger conflict that threatened their own shores. He was fortunate to have chanced upon one of their larger ships, and that his attacker had taken notice and was doing the sensible thing by running. But before he could welcome the change in luck, there was the small matter of a parting broadside which, Hunt guessed, the xebec would deliver and was likely to be significant. But if that were the case, the young man was determined to get his shots in first.

Ready lads, aim at her spars and make 'em count! Rutherford cautioned as the xebec's brightly painted hull crept into the brig's arc of fire. There was no point in delaying; should the pirates beat them to it, some British guns could be disabled, whereas a lucky hit might wound the enemy's tophamper sufficiently to allow the Americans a chance to deal with her properly.

At a call from Hunt, the guns were discharged in a series of staccato snaps that covered several seconds. One shot fell disastrously wide and two merely punctured the mainsail but Hunt was reasonably sure the xebec's mizzen was also struck. Then the pirate's full armament was being run out, and Hunt found himself looking straight into the mouths of twelve heavy cannon. They were significant pieces; eighteen pounders by their look: more than enough to annihilate his command.

And then, even as he considered the prospect, the enemy opened fire.

Chapter One

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So this was Gibraltar. Kate Manning stood on the quayside basking in the hot sun as she took in the sights and smells of a busy harbour. Besides the general packet that had carried her so far, several other traders clustered together in the centre as if for security while, to the north, a line of supply hoys, uniformly painted and moored with precise regularity, lay ready for work. The Royal Navy was also in evidence, with a two decker, pristine in fresh paint and apparently polished to perfection appearing ready to sail. She was anchored a respectable distance from the private shipping with just a few of her type, but smaller and not so magnificent, allowed near. A variety of light craft under oddly shaped and gaily coloured sails passed between, and a heavily laden lighter was in the process of being unloaded at a nearby wharf. But one ship and one ship alone captured Kate's attention and she was probably the least impressive of any on display.

Soundly secured to a mole at the southern side of the harbour, and sheltering under the protection of several canvas awnings, the aged third rate looked more fit for a breaker's dock than the open sea. Kate had seen her before, but the last occasion had been many months ago and under very different circumstances. Still, she recognised the lines immediately, and knew for certain her journey was at an end.

Actually it had been a remarkably fast passage from England. So much so that it seemed the decision to join Robert was hardly made before she arrived, and with his ship in plain view. She was in no hurry, however. In a time when to have anything other than the whitest of skin was frowned upon, Kate held no petty inhibitions and took her pleasure wherever it could be found. The summer sun was agreeably hot; about her the stones positively glowed with warmth, but they merely emphasised the coolest of breezes, and she was content to stand a while longer, enjoying the pleasing contrast. Her journey that far might have been brisk, but it would be finished in a more leisurely fashion and there was no possibility of her arriving in a fluster. When she met with Robert, their reunion would be as dignified as possible.

And it was strange that she should be so concerned; Kate was nothing if not pragmatic; abstract or groundless worries rarely bothered her. Their parting had been perfectly genial, after all; Robert was even keen for her to accompany him to sea, as on earlier commissions. But there were more subtle reasons why Kate preferred to stay in England, not the least being she felt herself in danger of becoming a professional sea-wife: one of those worthy types whose life apparently centred about her husband, and the ships he served aboard. More than a few such creatures had crossed her path and, in truth, she did not despise them greatly. But Kate knew herself, and that she could never be satisfied with such an existence.

Then there had been the letter. Due to the somewhat erratic nature of Prometheus' commission, post had been sparse while little of great sensitivity can be trusted to a note sent over a thousand miles which was to pass through many tar-stained hands. But one had come, the last, which concerned her greatly. And it was not so much what it contained that worried her so, rather what had been left out.

Kate's concerns increased steadily as the small craft headed across Biscay and down the Portuguese coast, until they now reached the point when, even though she stood at what must surely be her journey's end, a considerable part of her wished it might never be completed.

But if they were unable to discuss more personal matters, Robert had certainly told her of the battle. His ship, Prometheus, was one of two third rates that took on three French liners, sinking one and capturing the others. Word of the action had arrived in England just as she received that last letter and, as her packet sailed from Falmouth, all talk was of the brave Sir Richard Banks and his remarkable achievement. Naturally the opinions of a few Fleet Street journalists did not impress her; Kate was glad the British had been victorious of course and, more so, that Robert was unharmed. But all the jubilations and flag waving hardly affected her at all. Her concerns were far deeper.

Shall I find a hackney for us, ma'am?

The young voice broke into her thoughts. Kate was still unused to having a maid and being called so, although ma'am was a distinct improvement on 'mum' which had been the girl's original form of address, and one she could never tolerate.

Yes, Poppy, do, she said, breaking her mood. And ask the driver to come for our luggage.

Whatever her reception, Robert would not be over pleased at finding his wife in company with a maid. Were they both to ship aboard Prometheus, it would doubtless cause problems, and he was yet to learn that she was even in Gibraltar. So be it; if Robert was that distressed they would simply pay for Poppy to return in the next home bound merchant. And if she herself were as unwelcome, then the two of them would travel together.

"Buen día, señora."

She gave a neutral smile as the short, stocky man bent down and lifted her sea chest onto his shoulder, before scooping up another bag with his free hand. Kate draped the new uniform she was to surprise Robert with over her own arm, then collected her personal portmanteau. Poppy dealt with the rest of their luggage and soon the three of them were making steady progress towards the open carriage that awaited them.

And then it was just a matter of minutes before they rounded a corner and began to trundle along the quay and towards the New Mole. Kate understood this to be quite a structure; something between breakwater and harbour wall, but was unprepared for the actual size. The spit of artificial land extended deep into the bay and even carried a respectable wooden roadway. There were a collection of assorted vessels secured alongside including Robert's ship, and it was then that she finally saw the liner's tattered sides in greater detail.

Prometheus' bows were facing the open sea and Kate drew a deep, unconscious breath as she reviewed the damage. Much work was being undertaken, three separate stages lay against her hull, and fresh wood was being hammered into place even as she watched. But when last seen the magnificent warship had been in far better order, with gleaming paint, new cordage and fresh canvas. Robert had grumbled about the sick berth not being finished to his total satisfaction, but one look at her wickedly scored and punctured sides and the tangle of old and new line hanging from strangely foreshortened masts told her story adequately enough. Even at such a distance the very air, rich with the scent of hot pitch and marine glue, spoke of a fierce action. That the ship remained afloat was remarkable in itself, and considerable time would be needed before the magnificent beast could be let loose upon open water again.

And the battle must have been all of six weeks ago, Kate reminded herself with a start: probably more. The carriage stopped by a small barricade guarding the entrance to the mole and, for a rare moment, Kate was at a loss.

Turn back, she told the driver briskly, her mind finally made up. You can place my luggage over there, in the shade of that warehouse. Kate reached for her purse as the carriage swung round and began to clatter back towards the nearby buildings. There had been no change of heart: the low wooden structure was simply a far more suitable place to leave Poppy and her possessions. Little comfort would be found from the sun at such an hour but it was a good distance from the Royal Marine guard at the mole, and Kate knew the girl would be keen to make a close acquaintance with any likely male.

Wait for me here, she told her after they had alighted and the driver was paid. I shall not be long; if my husband is aboard you will be sent for immediately, otherwise we can seek him out elsewhere together.

Poppy settled herself on the sea chest readily enough, and proceeded to flash her dark eyes at a nearby group of seamen. Kate considered her for a moment before deciding she might be trusted for a while at least. Chances were high Robert would be aboard, and all then could be sorted relatively quickly. Either she was at fault, and had taken the tone of his letter in completely the wrong way, or whatever problems he felt unable to discuss had healed during the time spent travelling. In which case they could continue as before, and she may well complete the commission in his company. And if not: if, as she secretly suspected, something dreadful was to tear them apart, be it a woman, someone he met ashore – perhaps an officer's wife, or maybe some terrible ailment which he could not speak of, she would accept that as well. Then, rather than having just completed a journey, the women would find themselves at the start of another, with their destination very firmly set as England.

* * *

Clement had noticed the young girl as she sat amid the dunnage, as did Butler and Jameson, the seamen who walked with him. Actually it would have been difficult to avoid doing so, her thick, auburn hair caught the sun in such a way that it drew even the most indifferent eye, while the freckled face beneath was so young, so full of life, yet with an obvious element of mischief that it brought a smile to all three. But though she openly returned the compliment, neither man gave her more than a second glance. Clement was a boatswain's mate; a responsible position aboard any ship, and more so in one with a tophamper that was a veritable cat's cradle of confusion. And they were running low on half inch line; Knolls, the boatswain, had sent the three men ashore to collect two more sixty-fathom lengths which would be needed to finish serving the mizzen shrouds. It was a small requirement, and hardly noticeable amongst the many miles of cordage that supported and controlled the motive power of a third rate. But if Clement could see to those shrouds it was another job done, and another day closer to that on which their precious barky could return to the sea.

It was late morning, just shy of noon when their main meal was due, and they were keen to get a shake on. The food was not the incentive, however. Being a Wednesday, one of three banyan days in the week when no meat was served, little could be expected. And what they did get would be cold, for while the ship remained trussed up to the shore and with most of the regular hands in barracks, the slushy rarely bothered to light his ovens. But Up Spirits would be piped before the meal, and that gave more than enough reason to see this simple trip to the stores done with, and themselves back to the ship.

They turned off the main quay and made for a side road that ran past the nearby storehouses. Clement was ahead of the other two although this in no way indicated his seniority; the three would have been far happier walking in line abreast, as seamen ashore tended to prefer. But the narrow lane was filled with all manner of traffic heading against them, and to do so would have slowed their progress considerably.

Their journey wound through various tight turns that were the hallmark of the area, and past several side streets, but the three had followed the same route often and knew it well. As soon as the weather-boarded building came into view, their pace increased and when they arrived they did not hesitate, but walked straight into its cool and dark welcome.

The warehouse supplied most of the dockyard's smaller requirements, and its storekeeper greeted Clement respectfully enough. The requested line was soon routed out, and the requisition signed. Then, with the two seamen lugging a coil on each of their right shoulders, while the boatswain's mate remained unencumbered – a recognition of rank that was accepted by all – they set off both for their ship and that day's first allowance of grog.

And all went well on the return journey. The boatswain's mate was ahead once more and, once more, became lost in thoughts of the repair in progress. He knew the two men following better than to expect they would be doing the same, but was still not unduly bothered and it was only upon reaching the quay, when he finally turned back, that Clement realised one was missing.

Where's Butler? he asked, suspiciously, but Jameson simply looked back with a completely blank expression. Well come on, Clement demanded. You was walking next to the cove, you must 'ave seen where 'e went.

No, Mr Clement, Jameson replied earnestly. I didn't see nothing.

Did you not? the warrant officer challenged as he took a step towards his one remaining helper. This would not go down well back at the ship. Prometheus had a good record, with hardly any hands being lost since the ship was taken over by the dockyard mateys and he was bound to be held responsible.

Straight up, Mr Clement, Jameson assured him. I just looked round, and he were gone.

An' I suppose you 'ad no idea he was gonna try anything? Clement persisted.

Not an inklin', I swear to God, the seaman declared, and this time his voice even carried a trace of concern that he was not being believed. I only discovered he'd run when you did, the young man added.

Is that right? Clement questioned. Then how come you's carryin' 'is line?

* * *

I'm to see the surgeon, my husband, Robert Manning, she told the young private who guarded Prometheus' gangplank. But the man made no response; it was as if she had not spoken – did not exist and Kate was about to repeat in a louder voice when a second marine approached. He was equally bedecked in red and white but also wore shoulder knots and a laced hat.

He's not permitted to speak, miss, he told her. Not been on picket duty for more than a week or so, an' we don't like the younger ones having too much to think about.

I see, Kate replied, her gaze remaining on the sentry for a moment, before switching to what she assumed to be some measure of an officer. Well can you allow me aboard? she asked.

Indeed, the sergeant replied. It might not be totally level, but I am the last to keep a man from his wife. Though you should have a guide, he added thoughtfully. A ship in refit is not the safest place, don't you know?

I shall be perfectly safe, thank you, Kate answered stiffly.

Very well, though I'd be happy to provide an escort.

Kate looked briefly at the mute sentry. If they are all as quiet as this one, I should be better on my own, she said testily before bustling onto the wide plank that led to the ship's entry port.

But once aboard Kate regretted her decision. Though she had grown up around merchant ships and actually sailed in both sixth and fifth rates, Prometheus was by far the largest warship she had ever encountered. And her last visit had been many months back, when Robert was present to show her around. Still, she knew the sick berth was to be found on the orlop and to the stern so, after waiting for a pair of men carrying several planks of wood to pass, she set off for the aft companionway.

Below, it was even more confusing. The ship was a mass of activity, with workers hammering noisily at almost every station. The next stairway was in sight however, and Kate made for it without hesitation. And she was actually halfway down, before her path became blocked. Instinctively she stepped to one side to allow the two heavily built fellows by, but they were more intent on standing in her path, and apparently found the act amusing.

Why Tosh, one said, speaking to his mate. We seems to have the wedding garland hoisted, ain't that the thing?

The other simpered like any regular toad, and Kate had their mark immediately.

Have you a fancy man, my lovely? the first asked. Both were several steps below her, and it was no effort for him to reach forward and take hold of her skirt, as if examining the fabric.

Stand away there, Rogers! the voice came from behind and carried both authority and confidence. The seaman let go of the material in an instant before standing straight and staring into the far distance. Kate sensed a uniformed man stepping down beside her, but her own gaze remained on the seamen. If you're in a working party I suggest you return to it, the firm tone continued. If not I shall surely find you employment...

Kate finally glanced to one side, but the officer was unknown to her and, as she was surprised to note, no more senior than a midshipman. The two seamen knuckled their foreheads respectfully though, before turning back down the companionway and vanishing into the crowd.

I apologise for that, ma’am, the man spoke gruffly. He was well built, probably in his thirties, and definitely old for such a rank. Ship is not under proper discipline at the moment, and those two reprobates are scarcely the best examples of our people. He smiled, and there was the hint of a more gentle soul within. If you have business aboard, you would be better to have a youngster to guide you.

Thank you, Kate replied. I did think I knew the way but was mistaken. I am the surgeon's wife, and wished to find my husband.

Mr Manning will be in the sick berth, the midshipman replied. Here, we are so close I may as well show you. My name is Franklin, by the way, he said as they stepped together. I berth in the aft cockpit, just for'ard from here.

Well thank you, Mr Franklin, Kate said, smiling politely and offering her hand. It was good of you to rescue me, I am most grateful.

* * *

It might have come as a surprise to Jameson and Clement, but Butler had actually gone ashore with every intention of deserting. He first arrived aboard Prometheus several months back as she was commissioning. His ship, a transport, had been entering home waters after a lengthy voyage to New South Wales when a pressing tender set upon her. All bar the master, a mate and two ship's boys were taken, leaving ticket men in their places. At the time Butler was struck by an almost inexpressible anger; for all his adult life he had served aboard both Navy and merchant shipping and, whatever the law may decree, felt it a fundamental right to choose between the two. And with his woman ashore, and not ten miles from their Tor Bay anchorage hardly made matters any the easier.

But he had finally accepted his fate in the philosophical manner seamen were accustomed to, and settled aboard Prometheus, a ship he grudgingly recognized as being a relatively happy one. But all that changed within a few short hours. A general packet had come in bringing post which was distributed during breakfast. His contained news of home and there was little so very terrible in what he learned. Mary was well, and missed him greatly. His child, a boy, named William in his honour, was doing famously. An aunt had died, his best friend's ship was worryingly late in returning from the East, all the usual tattle-tale that made a seaman's life more bearable. Certainly nothing momentous, or likely to persuade a dependable hand and potential captain of the maintop to run.

But run he did; and it was the normality of the letters which had caused him to do so. The reminder that, however exotic and bohemian his life might have become, there was another, far more mundane existence that he was also a part of. And suddenly it occurred to Butler he wanted to be more than just a part. He wanted – needed – to be home, telling his wife, the girl whose face was in danger of fading from his memory, exactly how much he loved her, and hold his son in his arms while he was still able to do so.

You'll be regular Navy then, the master told him suspiciously as he stood on the deck of the same packet Kate Manning and her maid had so recently vacated.

I might be, Butler hedged, although his rig and lack of possessions said much about his status.

Well I won't pretend I can't use another hand, the man admitted. But I been bobbed in the past. There'll be no wages paid in advance; not a penny 'till we see England.

Fair enough, Butler agreed.

And a topman you say?

The seaman nodded and the master's face betrayed his pleasure. Then you'd better find yourself a berth, he said, without further hesitation.

Butler drew a sigh of relief. It had been much easier than he thought. Less than half an hour before he was one of Clement's party, and Prometheus still lay in clear sight to the south of the harbour.

If the Navy comes a lookin' we've places you can be hid, the master continued. The mate will show you where when he returns. And I won't say a word, not about you being aboard, nor how you comes to be so, if you're found.

That was fine by Butler; in fact it could hardly be bettered.

We're to sail at first light tomorrow, Butler's new captain was warming to the capable young man who could have come as a gift from the gods. Once we makes it clear of harbour, I'd say you're safe. We has one call on the Med. Squadron, then can start for glorious Albion.

Butler grew tense but said nothing.

We've a commission to carry despatches, but that shouldn't affect you none, the master assured him. "Sprite