The Patriot's Fate (38 page)

Of all the questions asked of them that morning, his was certainly the strangest. And it was spoken in another Irish accent, although this was softer, and there was clearly no malice. Parfrey bent down to him.

“
Scylla
,” he said. “She’s a fifth rate.”

“A frigate?” The man considered the fact for a moment.

Parfrey nodded. “Captain Sir Richard Banks,” he added.

“Banks?” The name seemed to cause physical pain, and he closed his eyes. Sarah touched Parfrey on the shoulder; there was little that could be done and they were needed elsewhere, but the lad stopped for a second, as if conscious that more was required of him. Then the eyes opened, and the Irishman’s expression softened.

“So what happened to the liner?” he asked.

Parfrey shook his head. “I’m sorry, I know little of the battle.”

“It matters not,” the man smiled again, this time as if in resignation. “Let it remain a mystery to us all,” he said. Then they left him.

* * *

King knew his hands were shaking. He glanced about; everywhere there were casualties: many lay moaning and grasping at an injury, while others were sprawled in the varied abandoned attitudes of death. Some of those still standing were staunching minor cuts with neckerchiefs and shirts. There was Barrow, lying up against the starboard bulwark with Chilton tending to him. And Johnston, the boastwain’s mate, was standing quietly while Surridge tied a strip of canvas about his wounded left arm with uncommon delicacy. King went to return his cutlass to its scabbard and noticed, with a wave of disgust, that the blade was running red with blood.

“Steady there!”

He turned to see an unknown marine lieutenant at the head of a group of men that were currently filing down the larboard gangway. The man reached the quarterdeck, then stopped to order a sergeant to secure the prisoners.

“There are wounded that should be dealt with as well,” King said, interrupting him. The officer looked up; he was roughly of the same age, although his face appeared unnaturally pale.

“They will be accommodated, sir,” he said. “You will be from
Scylla
, I’d chance?”

“I am.”

“Name’s Masterson, of
Robust
,” he said. “Your captain took one deal of a risk, did he not? A frigate to board a battleship is a rare feat indeed.”

“We managed well enough,” King replied stiffly. “Though your help would have been more welcome a touch earlier.”

Masterson smiled. “We was concerned the Frenchie might blow. As still she could. Come, we had better see that order is restored.”

There was a Captain and a Commodore to deal with. Neither could – or were willing to – speak English and King knew his French to be limited. For an unaccountable reason he found himself reminded of Crowley, and how useful his ability with language had been. A vague image of the man suddenly came to him, as if he was actually close by, or they had recently met. But the effects of the battle were still with him, and doubtless affected his thoughts. He glanced down; he was still holding the soiled cutlass in one hand. And there was his pistol in the other; it had been fired, although for the life of him he could not remember when, or at what. The red coated lieutenant was speaking in an unnaturally loud and clear voice as the two French officers were taken under the care of a marine guard. There was much to be done and wounded aplenty to care for, as well as ensuring the ship was not suddenly re-taken by the unsecured crew below. He should also report to Banks as soon as possible. He started as Chilton approached, and rather formally extended his hand.

“A fine show, Peter,” he said, noting that the younger man’s grasp was surprisingly firm. “Tell me, how is Barrow?”

They both looked back to where the midshipman was being helped to his feet by two seamen. “It is a wound to his upper arm,” he said. “I dare say not serious; the bullet appears to have passed through and the bone is unbroken, though it pains him deeply.”

“Best let the surgeons take a look,” King grunted. Barrow was made of solid stuff and would be more than capable of surviving a minor injury. Providing there was no infection he might even return to general duties within a week. And within a week they should be back in harbour; in dock as well, if there were any justice. There was bound to be much to put right in
Scylla
; but it would be strange if some shore leave were not allowed him, and when that time arrived he would send for Juliana, of that he was oddly certain. Whatever it took, and however much the cost in effort, time or money, he wanted her beside him.

As far as he was concerned it was just a matter of chance that he was alive; alive and completely unhurt, when he could so easily have been wounded like Westwood, Barrow and Johnston, or even dead like many others. The brush with death had unleashed such a barrage of irrelevant thoughts that he had difficulty in organising the remains of the boarding party, and when Caulfield came across to assist and congratulated him on his success, it was hard to find suitable words to respond. But in his own mind he was quite set. He had been at sea for all of his adult life; now he was owed a little time ashore. Time to organise a world beyond that of the Royal Navy. Time to get married, to watch while Kate and Robert’s child grew up, and maybe seek out the few friends he had made. And it was odd that, once again and for no apparent reason, he found himself thinking of Crowley.

* * *

The Irishman was still alive by the time they took him to Manning’s operating table, even if it was clear to all that there was little strength left in him. Betsy deftly removed Parfrey’s bandage, revealing a bruised and weeping mark below the left shoulder. The surgeon pressed gently on the wound that had already started to swell, and Crowley winced. Manning glanced at his face and visibly started.
 

“Michael? Michael Crowley?” he asked, amazed. The last time he had seen the man was almost a year ago on the deck of
Pandora
.

Crowley nodded slightly. “Aye, it’s me,” he said, his tone one more of resignation than surprise.
 

The surgeon stepped back and brought his hands apart. “I don’t understand, how did you..?”

“That would be a long story,” the Irishman replied. “And I don’t think I have the time left to tell it.”

The words reminded Manning of his duty, and he hurriedly returned to the wound. “I shall have to probe, and it may hurt.” He hesitated as a thought occurred. “Tell me, were you on a French ship?”

“I was,” Crowley murmured. “And you can save your time looking for the shot, we both know it to be badly placed.”

“I would chance it worth the effort, if you are willing.” Manning noticed Betsy was ready with probe and bullet retractor. “There are many old Pandora’s aboard,” he said, almost conversationally as he wiped a swab across the wound, “Tom King amongst them. We shall get you through this and then you may meet up.”

Crowley sighed. “Mr King and I have already met,” he said. Then his body tensed suddenly as the probe was inserted. There were several seconds of intense pain, before Manning mercifully removed the tool.
 

“I shall send for him,” he passed the probe back to Betsy. “You were friends, and he would wish to know, I am certain.”

There was a finality in his words that was not lost on anyone present. Betsy accepted the probe, along with the retractor. Clearly the surgeon had no intention of trying further.

“It were Tom what set the bullet so,” the Irishman muttered. “And I don’t think we shall be meeting again.”

Manning paused, guessing much. Despite his time in
Pandora
, Crowley had clearly sided with the enemy. After all, he was present in a ship bound to retake his home country, and had been mortally wounded actively fighting against the British. He found it hard to believe of one who had been so sound, but clearly Crowley’s patriotism was greater than any feelings for his former comrades. “Was he aware?” he asked, despite himself. “I mean did he recognise you?”

“I don’t believe he did,” Crowley’s eyes flickered. “It were a mite confusing.”

“And I am sure he would not have done so if he had,” Manning said, strangely eager to reassure himself as much as anyone. “You two were such good friends, and…”

“Aye, we were that,” Crowley agreed; there was little more to be said.

“Let me send for him.” Manning repeated. “There has been scarcely any gunfire for some time, the battle must be all but over.”

“No.” Crowley spoke the word quite loudly, even though the effort clearly gave him pain. “No, you will leave him be, and not mention our meeting.”

“I am to say nothing?” Manning regarded him doubtfully. “But he would wish to know, and be sorry, I am sure.”

“It is better that he does not,” Crowley replied firmly. “Better that he remembers me as a friend. If he should have any regret, no good shall come of it.”

“Not a single word?”

“Not one.” His eyes flashed over to Betsy suddenly. “And you as well, miss. I am dying; you would not deny me that.”

“Very well,” Manning conceded. Crowley was quite right, he was done for, and already too much time had been wasted when there were others requiring a surgeon’s attention. “We will move you to a place where you can rest,” he said, looking up for a loblolly boy.

“And you will say nothing?” Crowley insisted.

“I will,” he replied. “If that is what you wish; though I think it to be a mistake.”

“Do you swear?”

Two men were approaching, ready to carry Crowley off. “Do I what?” Manning replied.

“Swear.” Crowley repeated, his voice now noticeably softer. “I would hear you do so and be content.”

Manning watched sadly as they collected him. “I swear,” he said clearly, while they carried him away. He glanced across to Betsy who had been a mute witness to all that had been said. “What else could I have done?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, and laid a reassuring hand upon his arm. “You did what was right.” Her eyes seemed suddenly bright. “As I was told once: the truth can be dangerous. It must be handled with caution, and sometimes is best used sparingly.”

The End
 

Author’s notes

The Battle of Tory Island took place on the 12
^th
of October 1798, and in reality Sir John Warren managed quite well, even without
Scylla
‘s intervention. At the time there was some speculation as to why he delayed attacking Bompart’s fleet and attempted to form his ships into a line of battle when a general chase might have seen a swifter and more complete resolution: certainly his tactics were old fashioned. It should be remembered, however, that the more aggressive stance favoured by Nelson and other contemporary commanders had yet to be widely accepted. The Battle of the Nile, probably the best example of what can be achieved when individual captains are trusted to make decisions, had only been fought a few months previously. Besides, many commanders would remain disciples of the old fighting tactics until the end of their careers. And Warren’s victory was decisive, with nearly all of Bompart’s force captured and more than two thousand men taken prisoner, even if the original fleet action dissolved into a series of single ship engagements that carried on for a considerable time afterwards.

Wolfe Tone was indeed captured on the deck of the
Hoche
, where he had been serving a cannon. He was taken in irons to Derry gaol and tried, in Dublin, on the 10
^th
of November. Using his own admission, combined with overwhelming evidence against him, conviction, followed swiftly by a death sentence, was inevitable. His wish to be shot was not granted, however, and he was due to be hanged two days later. A rebel to the end, Tone cheated the executioner by cutting his own throat with a razor left behind by his brother when he had been held in the same cell. The wound was not immediately fatal, but he finally died on the 19
^th
of November.

 
The
Windbüchse
air powered rifle was moderately successful and saw service with the Austrian Army for many years, although difficulty in manufacturing the reservoirs, (which also took considerable effort to charge) and a general vulnerability in action finally caused it to be withdrawn. It has been credited with being the first repeating rifle to see military service, and a version was carried by the Lewis and Clark Expedition of 1804.