The Patriot's Fate (17 page)

“The French fought well, as did the United men. And bravely too, it has to be said. They made at least one bayonet charge that put the chill up our boys, and the next anyone knew the British were in all out retreat. Lake had several units of local militia under his command; I’m afraid some went over to the enemy: a hundred and forty of the Longford regiment betrayed themselves to the French in one body.”

Banks closed his eyes. It sounded like hell on earth.

“Once an army runs it is all but impossible to halt,” St John continued despondently. “The enemy chased them for no more than two miles, but Lake’s troops did not stop until they reached the Shannon. They abandoned guns, equipment, ammunition, but more importantly, they left behind a successful and victorious army. Within days a further four or five thousand men had joined, and it took Lord Cornwallis and a force of nearly thirty thousand to finally stop them.”

Dublin Castle was in plain sight now, and from Banks’s first impression it was the very model of military excellence. The high stone walls and decorative castellations were imposing enough without the crisp sentries and two patrols of marching men that they encountered as their carriage approached.

“That was a few weeks ago, and the action was over in less than an hour,” St John continued. “The French could see they were heavily outnumbered and did the sensible thing. Sadly, some of the Irish decided not to follow their example, and I am afraid all honour and sensibility was rather forgotten.”

The carriage stopped but neither man showed any signs of leaving.

“The Irish lost over five hundred men to our twelve,” St John said, his eyes focusing somewhere far outside. “It was carnage.”

“What happened to the prisoners?” Banks asked.

“The French were brought back here by canal.” He gave a short laugh. “We have since been told in no uncertain terms that our food is not to their liking.”

“And the Irish?” Banks persisted. He was fearing the worst.
 

“I understand that those who are not already hanged soon will be.” The civilian’s face had lost all trace of humour.
 

But surely they are prisoners of war?”

“Some may say so,” St John avoided Banks’ eyes. “Amongst them was Wolfe Tone’s younger brother.”

“The name is familiar.”

“I should think it is, though it often pleases him to be known as Adjutant-General Smith. In truth he is nought but a Dublin lawyer, but trouble; though I chance you might say the same about any of his profession. He was present on the Bantry Bay expedition; I believe you were involved in that?”

Banks nodded; St John was remarkably well informed.

“If he ever ventures into our clutches we will hang him for sure, but for the time being Cornwallis has made do with the sibling.”

“He is executed?”

“At this very castle. Traitors must be dealt with, and there were traitors a plenty.”

Banks remained impassive. He was a naval officer and had no right to judge the policies of the military. Still, it did not seem to be the act of men wishing to calm an already heated situation.

“So,” St John said, his previous energy returning. “I trust you are now more
au fait
with the state of affairs.” The man was clearly keen to go, but Banks stopped him.

“There is one more thing,” he said, as the words were still forming in his mind. “Whatever started this?”

St John looked mildly surprised. “Started it? Why that is very hard to say. Though in essence I suppose it comes down to petty tyranny. Oppressive landlords whose chief interest is the pursuit of pleasure, and magistrates completely void of both integrity and courage. First they goad the peasantry into rebellion, then cry to the military for rescue. The British Army under Abercromby was at least organised and, though it might not have been thought of as such at the time, the old Scot had the right idea. Now Lake has entered the equation it is anyone’s guess where it will end. Though I am certain it shall not be well.”

“I understand Admiral Kingsmill is still at Cork,” Banks said, as they finally clambered down from the carriage. “
Scylla
is attached to his squadron, I was surprised to be ordered to Dublin.”

“The admiral may be at Cork, but he has only a worn out flagship. All other naval vessels are at sea.” St John waited while the captain caught him up, then took up his customary pace. “As you will be, no doubt, within a few hours.”

“I was not expecting to sail so soon.” When Banks had left the ship the boatswain’s crew were replacing some running rigging and the caulkers were having yet another try to seal the forecastle deck.

“I think this may be your last taste of land for a while, Sir Richard.” They were approaching the main gate of the castle, and St John acknowledged the challenge and salute of the guard with an assured wave. “If, as we expect, the French are intending another campaign, your little ship is certain to be busy during the next few months.” They passed through and into the darkness beyond. St John looked sidelong at Banks. “And there will be action, sir, you need have no doubt of that. Action a plenty.”

* * *

 
It was the coveted exercise hour, the time when those stationed on the orlop deck were allowed up and into the blessed daylight of the waist. Crowley may well have been better off joining the others as they strolled about the deck; in a ship as crowded as the
Hoche
space, fresh air, and a chance to stretch the legs were benefits not to be declined. But he was fascinated by the far off ships, and usually spent all of his time in the daylight staring through the same empty gun port.

The British had been following almost from the moment they had set sail. There was only one today: a heavy frigate that was just in sight off their starboard quarter. Whatever moves the French made, however hard they tried to shake them away, the same ship, or a small brig, and occasionally both, would be trailing them whenever he looked. Doggedly following their path, too far off to be caught, but close enough to let them know that they were under observation.

Crowley sat back on the deck, hands behind him, legs crossed at the ankles and his face enjoying the gentle rays from the afternoon sun. He could still just see the British ship, and not much was going to happen, but he would rather spend his time sitting there and watching than wandering about the place with men he was fast becoming painfully familiar with. The accompanying French frigates were maintaining poor order. Sometimes his ship, the
Hoche
, a seventy-four and the most powerful in their small fleet, was leading, on other days she was very much the tail ender, and no one seemed terribly bothered either way. But then this could partly be put down to the regular sail drills.

He had forgotten how little time the French spent out of harbour and had grown to accept the high standard of seamanship aboard British vessels. From the moment they had left France he was concerned; the hands, though in the main seamen, were woefully out of practice, and fumbled even the most simple of tasks. All those in his group besides Walsh were sufficiently competent to be rated able, and to find themselves in the care of such men was decidedly disconcerting. That was one of the reasons the British had caught them so soon; a simple passage like the Raz should have been negotiated in half the time; as it was, they had wavered and blundered about for so long the British would have been fools not to spot them.
 

But at least the captains of each ship apparently shared his dismay, and for all of the voyage to date several hours a day had been devoted to exercise. The constant training was starting to pay off, although Crowley knew that much more would be needed before any of their fleet could tack or wear like the British.
 

And that was just the seamanship. He had not witnessed either of the two gun drills held aboard the
Hoche
, but could tell from the shouts and disorder that filtered down to them that they had not gone well. He remembered watching the crew of
Pandora.
Admittedly she was a frigate, with only one main gun deck to serve, but still the coordination and timing was so fine that all the carriage guns moved as one, and her practice broadsides sounded off at least twice as fast as anything the French could manage.
 

No, the British bettered them on both counts, and
Hoche
and her companions were now firmly fixed in their sights. There were only a couple of them; but should more join, and they chose to force action, Crowley knew the French would not fare well.

* * *

Scylla
sliced through the swell, her sails set stiff in the steady breeze. The wind, though not particularly strong, had been holding in their favour throughout and the faint chill that it brought made the late afternoon sun especially welcome. Since leaving Dublin two days before they had made a reasonable passage and spirits in the ship were high. On the foremast several of the hands were skylarking while Barrow and Rose had taken young Parfrey up the mizzen, traditionally the first mast for any man or boy to climb. Chilton looked up from his station on the quarterdeck; the trio were resting securely enough at the cross trees, and Barrow was pointing at the nearby mainmast, clearly instructing the kid. Parfrey was still slightly swollen from the mumps, but they had been so keen to go that, as officer of the watch, the lieutenant could hardly have refused.
 

He took two turns along the deck only to stop once more next to the binnacle. The run north against the wind to Dublin had been as frustrating as it was long, but since then they had been ordered back south and enjoyed sweet sailing. Now the energy was certainly returning to the ship; at any moment they expected to raise the Irish coast once more, and might even be anchoring in Cork that very evening. But somehow Chilton doubted they would be doing anything quite so placid. Nothing specific had been said, although the captain had impressed upon them all the importance of a good lookout. That could only mean that the French were probably at sea and likely to be in their vicinity; Chilton could not imagine
Scylla
staying meekly in harbour while that remained the case.
 

There had also been talk of a flying squadron joining them. For such a venture to be worthwhile it would have to be of sufficient force to deal with a major enemy. Then, with luck, they would meet, and there would be a fleet action.
 

A fleet action, and one that his ship would be involved in: for all his time in the Navy, Chilton had yet to experience combat on that scale and he felt his pulse race at the thought. The bell rang out three times; in half an hour the first dogwatch would come to an end and he could claim a few hours rest. Ahead two men began to climb the weather shrouds, one at the fore and the other the main. Banks had ordered the lookouts doubled, with each man being relieved hourly, a bell apart. That meant that at any time there would be one who had been on duty for less than half an hour, and another to confirm or question anything he might see. It was about as much as they could do, and even then a ship, be it friend or enemy, could easily slip by beneath a cloud on the horizon.
 

“Sail ho, sail off the larboard bow!” Just as he was thinking, Chilton heard the cry. He made no move for a moment. For a sighting to be made this close to Cork was no surprise; the likelihood was strong that it was nothing more than a small coaster, or maybe even another warship. There were known to be several in the area, all scouting for the French.
Scylla
could have run into any one of them, or even another from England, despatched to join the hunt. “She’s a brig, or a snow,” the lookout continued, “beating up against the wind with all sail set.”

The lieutenant glanced at the midshipman standing attentively nearby. “My compliments to the captain: tell him of the sighting.”

The lad was off before Chilton had even finished, and he was considering another turn up and down the deck when Banks appeared.

“Where away?” he asked, as he buttoned up his shirt. His hair was awry and it was clear he had been sound asleep.

“Off the larboard bow, sir,” Chilton said, pointing at the empty horizon.

“What do you see there?” Banks bellowed up to the masthead.

“Brig, sir,” The answer came back almost immediately, and Chilton wondered how long the lookouts had been watching to be certain before announcing the sighting. “Close hauled on the starboard tack. And I’d say she were Navy, though it’s still too far off to be sure. We’re closing on her fast, though.”

“Steer two points to larboard,” the captain snapped, and Chilton called out the orders.
Scylla
took up speed as the wind moved further on to her quarter. Banks turned to the midshipman. “Masthead for you, lad. Take the glass and let me know what you see.” The boy slung the leather bound brass telescope about his shoulder and made for the shrouds.