HMS Diamond (12 page)

      
To starboard, and slowly dropping back, was a Spanish felucca. About 60 feet long, it had two masts. The foremast was oddly raked forward and both masts had lateen sails. Low and sleek, potentially it was almost as fast as the
Swallow
. The problem was that it was the last remaining Spanish ship and Smith had no idea how long it would stay around. All the others had fled just after the flotilla entered the inner harbor.

      
Directly astern of the
Swallow
and being towed by her was the
Vulcan
. This was Smith’s ace in the hole, for the
Vulcan
was a fire ship.

      
As they neared the dockyard, Walker came up behind Smith and joined him in surveying the city.

      
"Well, what do you think, Sidney?"

      
"At the moment I am wondering what the hell ever prompted me to volunteer for this mission."

      
"Scared?" He asked, not unkindly.

      
"Certainly. You’re not?"

      
Walker paused. "Yes, I am. I always am when I know the bacon is about to go into the fire."

      
"Good. If you weren’t scared, I wouldn’t want to go in with you.

      
"But, it’s more than that," Sidney continued. Look over there. The main gate is shut but no one is defending it and French troops are already starting to gather. And the people inside the gates. Notice anything unusual about them?"

      
Walker looked. "No, not really."

      
"Do you see anyone wearing a Royalist white cockade in their hats? Every one of them is suddenly wearing the red, white and blue of the revolution. And over there, look at the convicts! No one is guarding them so they’re striking off their fetters. I doubt if there are many folks cheering for the royal family in that lot."

      
By this time, all of the key officers were on deck standing by Smith and awaiting orders.

      
"All right, gentlemen. The time has come. Captain Hare, you’re in charge of the fire ship. After we leave, take a gunboat and tow the
Vulcan
over to that line of French 74’s over there. Signal me with a lantern when you get into position but don’t ignite it until I give the word. Take Lieutenant Gore with you to help.

      
"Lieutenant Tupper, you and your men are responsible for burning the general magazine, the hemp magazine and the pitch, tar tallow and oil storehouses. Lieutenant Middleton, you and Lieutenant Pater have the mast house. Lieutenant Ironmonger, I’d be obliged if you and your Royals would do the 12th Light proud by holding that main gate. After the fires had started, you are to then re-form at the quay and serve as our rear-guard. Lieutenant Birch, take the remaining men down the quay and set fire to everything that’s tied up there.

      
"The felucca has been told to sink, not burn, the
Iris
. She has over 1000 barrels of powder on board and to burn her would be suicide. Captain Hare, when you’re done with the gunboats send them over to our Spanish friends to see if they can help with sinking her. The
Swallow
will stay here with her guns broadside to the dockyard in case we need covering fire.

      
"Walker, you’re with me.

      
"Now, listen closely, gentlemen. You are to get in position, set your combustibles but do NOT ignite them until I give the signal. I will fire off a flare. That’s your signal.

      
"When the fires are well set, immediately get back to your boats and back aboard the
Swallow
. While we’re doing this, Hood is going to have every boat he can lay his hands on coming ashore to pick-up refugees. I don’t want you caught up in the confusion.

      
"Are there any questions?"

***

      
Smith made his way rapidly to a location near the dockyard’s mast house where he had a view of the major buildings. Walker was puffing along behind him carrying three large and surprisingly heavy rocket-flares. Some of the French troops had figured out that something was afoot and were firing into the dockyard at Smith and his men from a small hill just outside the gate. Fortunately, the distance made accuracy a problem.

      
"Sidney, do you have a place in mind to put these damn flares?"

      
"Yes, put them over there on that grassy patch, set one up and stand-by to fire." Walker could see Smith was now in what he would call "command mode" as he snapped, "And for Christ sake, Lucas, get that damn slow-match lit will you! How the hell are you going to fire a flare without a match?"

      
Walker understood the pressure Smith was feeling right now.

      
"There we go. There’s Lieutenant Tupper’s signal. They’re ready. Now, if the
Vulcan
is in position..." Smith snapped open a telescope and studied the nearly dark bay. "Yes, there’s his lantern."

      
Smith closed the telescope, paused for a moment, took a deep breath and said quietly. "All right, Lucas. Fire one."

      
The flare took off with a loud whoosh, fishtailed across the sky and exploded into a cloud of burning white phosphorous.

      
Back on the ground... nothing happened. Smith would walk a few paces with his arms behind his back, stop, and walk a few paces in a different direction. Still, nothing happened. Minutes marched by. Nothing.

      
Walker was just starting to feel the first stabs of alarm when from off to his left he heard a muffled WHOMP. He looked over at the dockyard’s combustible warehouse and saw that it had gone off almost like bomb. Over 250 barrels of tar and oil were burning in a torrent of flame that was quickly dissolving the building in which they were housed.

      
The mast house was now doing equally well, and Lieutenant Birch was moving his men from ship to ship along the quay, igniting them like demented children on All Souls Eve.

      
The pyro crews were returning from their respective buildings with grins and soot blacked faces, and Smith turned his attention to the
Vulcan
. The problem was that the flames from the dockyard had ruined his night vision and he could no longer make out the fire ship. It’s probably just as well, as he would not have liked what he would have seen.

***

      
The
Vulcan
began life as the
Emily Rose
, a merchantman. Now old and beyond her useful sailing years, she was bought into the British Navy for one purpose and one purpose only—to destroy herself. To serve as a fire ship, however, was not a matter of her crew igniting a few trashcans and abandoning ship. She was very specially prepared for her final mission.

      
Workers began alteration of the ship some weeks before. Lidded holes were cut in her hull to provide ventilation for the eventual below deck flames. Wooden chimneys were built into her main deck to capture the flames from the fires set below and transfer them upward to the highly combustible sails and rigging. Below deck also, several shallow wooden troughs were built that ran the length of the ship. These would be filled with flammable oil, and small canisters filled with gunpowder were wedged into place next to the hull’s ventilation holes. Above deck, men placed hooks at the end of all the yardarms so that when the
Vulcan
came near another ship the yard arms would catch in the other ship’s rigging and the hooks would hold the ships together in a final death embrace.

      
Igniting the oil in the troughs would eventually trigger the canisters of gun powder, which would blow open the lids to the ventilation holes, thus further fanning the flames set in the troughs. Within minutes, the lower deck would be an inferno with temperatures reaching fantastic levels. The superheated air had no place to go except up through the chimneys, taking with it flames to ignite the sails and rigging, not only of itself, but the other ship as well.

      
In short, the
Vulcan
was a triumph of incendiary engineering.

      
All was ready aboard the fire ship when Smith’s flare appeared high overhead. Captain Hare had positioned her neatly upwind of a string of French ships of the line that were moored tightly together. The yardarm hooks had caught in the rigging and his men had thrown several grappling hooks over from the main deck to further insure the two ships would not separate.

      
He had ordered his men into the escape boat that was tied alongside but, as captain of even a fire ship, he was duty bound to be the last man to leave. He disappeared below deck to ignite the three troughs of oil. Just as he appeared again on the main deck the unexpected happened.

      
No one knows what caused it. Some think it was a keg of signal gunpowder left by a careless gunner. But just as he reached the sally port to board the escape boat, an explosion occurred, spreading flames and burning oil all over the aft portion of the ship. Captain Hare, his clothes on fire, staggered around the deck until he eventually managed to topple into the sea. It was not the last thing to go wrong that night.

      
French troops, seeing the flames, redoubled their small arms fire from the hill, but still could not force their way in to the dockyard. Lieutenant Ironmonger and his troops had set up a withering field of fire directed at the main gate that no man in his right mind would challenge. But, that did not mean the French were being rebuffed. Quite the contrary. French troops had forced their way into the city from other points. Shouts, screams, gunfire and Republican songs filled the air as Smith and his men returned to the
Swallow
.

      
"My God," Smith breathed while looking over the quarterdeck rail at the dockyard and the bay. "Have you ever seen a sight like that?"

      
The harbor had erupted in a symphony of destruction. The glare of the fires reflected off the low lying clouds and a low roaring sound could be heard like an underlying pedal-tone. Several octaves above that, the crackle of the flames contributed an ongoing high-end arpeggio, and all of it was punctuated by the grace notes of randomly exploding ammunition. In addition to the dockyard buildings, ten ships of the line, two frigates and two corvettes were engulfed in flames, and Smith’s work was not yet done.

      
"Boat ahoy!" Came the call from a seaman along the
Swallow’s
main deck.

      
"
Britannia
!" Came the reply, meaning that Captain Hare, the captain of the
Britannia
, and his men were returning. All seemed well until Walker heard the next sentence.

      
"And for God’s sake, ya lubber, git t’ surgeon. The captain’s ‘urt bad."

      
Walker ran to the side of the ship and looked over. Below several men were trying to position a body so he could be lifted on board. Fortunately, the main deck of the
Swallow
was not that high off the water and the transfer could be accomplished with relative ease.

      
Walker kneeled next to Captain Hare and knew things were serious. His clothes were so burnt that they were not identifiable as a uniform and his hands were covered in second and third-degree burns. But, the worst part was his head and face. The only light on deck came from the flickering fires of the harbor but, even so, Walker could not make out the features of the man he had spoken to only a few hours earlier.

      
"You men, get him below," Walker ordered. "Bosun, pass the word for Lady Whitney to meet me there." Several men looked up startled by Walker’s request but said nothing.

      
Two large trunks had been pushed together and a mess table laid over the top. Overhead several lanterns were hung. Behind the table and to the left was Walker’s prized medical chest sitting open on a small table. This was Walker’s makeshift operating room.

      
It was obvious right from the start that there was no hope. Captain Hare’s face was a ruin of charred flesh. His hair was burned off along with one of his ears, part of his nose and his lips. The rest of his face and his hands were blackened like a steak that had been left on the grill too long. Walker didn’t even bother to cut away his charred uniform to see what burns might lay underneath.

      
Amazingly, the captain was still alive, conscious and trying to speak. Walker looked into his eyes and knew immediately what he was trying to say.

      
Walking slowly to his medical chest, Walker pulled a key from his pocket unlocked the face of the chest and lowered it. He reached in and pulled out a large bottle with a white label and the single word "Laudanum" printed on it.

      
Pulling out the cork, he poured a small quantity into a medicine glass and carefully, tenderly, slowly, poured the liquid a bit at a time past what remained of the captain’s mouth. In a few minutes, the pain lines around his eyes began to ease. Walker gave him some more and the pain lines slowly went away.