The Patriot's Fate Read Online Free
Author: Alaric Bond
Tags: Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, British, Genre Fiction, War, French, irish
moved back from the bars, grinning once more. “You’ll be there by Set’ember, and dead by Christmas.”
Crowley looked away. He longed to smash his fist into the clerk’s fat face and had the reach and space enough between the bars to make a credible job. But there were two gormless louts sitting in the gloom not six feet away, and he knew that any satisfaction he may draw would be more than outweighed by the punishment they would dole out. Instead he looked away and caught the eye of MacArthur, who had clearly been studying him.
“So this would be the splendid British Navy you’re so soft on?” he asked quietly.
Crowley snorted. “You ain’t seeing the best example,” he said.
A tap came from the front door, not loud or demanding, just enough to attract their attention.
The clerk turned. “They’re back early, must ‘ave got lucky.” He gave a slight chuckle, winked at his two companions, and sauntered out of the room.
“Looks like we have company,” Crowley grunted, but the other men’s eyes were alight and eager.
“That’s just what we was hoping,” Doyle muttered.
Crowley was about to ask further when there was a shout, closely followed by the sound of the door being pushed back against the wall. Then the outer room was suddenly filled with the bulk of several heavy men, all carrying short wooden staves and advancing towards the cell. A brief fight broke out, but it was decidedly one sided, and in no time the two guards lay senseless on the floor.
“Where’s the Oirish?” one, a lightly bearded brute, shouted in a broad accent.
“Irish be damned, Jackie,” a smaller, slightly better dressed man with strangely cropped hair told him brusquely. “We’ll let ‘em all go, there’s none of them that wants to be here.”
The clerk had lost much of his swagger and was being held against the back wall, while one of the men pulled at his belt. His trousers slipped and a bunch of keys fell clattering onto the stone floor. Within seconds the cell door was opened, and Crowley and his friends began filing out.
“Give us a moment, lads,” the smarter man told the others. “We gets clear and you can make you’re own way as you wish. Press is a good three streets off b’now, an’ not expected back for a spell.”
The other prisoners muttered their thanks, and one took a purposeful kick at the prone body of a guard as Crowley and the Irish were bustled out into the dark night.
“Stick together, lads,” they were told, and the men slipped their clubs back into their clothing. The bearded man winked at them in the soft evening light. “We got a bit of a walk ahead of us, an’ don’t want you fallin’ in with no trouble.”
Chapter Two
Lieutenant Peter Chilton had not held a commission for more than a few months and yet already was in charge of one of the finer frigates in His Majesty’s Navy. Admittedly it was a harbour command and an unofficial one at that; he knew he would relinquish her as soon as a more competent, or at least a more experienced officer was appointed. But for the moment, all one hundred and forty-six feet of her hull, each of her twenty-eight, eighteen pound carriage guns, plus the additional twenty-four pounder carronades, and every one of her fifty or so regular seamen and junior officers that remained of the crew were his to direct. He strode about the quarterdeck, revelling in the space that was entirely his for the prowling. Forward, at the break of the forecastle, a group of men were busily engaged cleaning and polishing the bell. Once that was done they could turn their attention to the galley chimney, which was due for a sweep, and should be cool enough by then: a good officer checks on such things. Part of the main deck was being re-caulked and a team of painters were working on a stage over the larboard side, touching up the broad yellow-ochre
Crowley looked away. He longed to smash his fist into the clerk’s fat face and had the reach and space enough between the bars to make a credible job. But there were two gormless louts sitting in the gloom not six feet away, and he knew that any satisfaction he may draw would be more than outweighed by the punishment they would dole out. Instead he looked away and caught the eye of MacArthur, who had clearly been studying him.
“So this would be the splendid British Navy you’re so soft on?” he asked quietly.
Crowley snorted. “You ain’t seeing the best example,” he said.
A tap came from the front door, not loud or demanding, just enough to attract their attention.
The clerk turned. “They’re back early, must ‘ave got lucky.” He gave a slight chuckle, winked at his two companions, and sauntered out of the room.
“Looks like we have company,” Crowley grunted, but the other men’s eyes were alight and eager.
“That’s just what we was hoping,” Doyle muttered.
Crowley was about to ask further when there was a shout, closely followed by the sound of the door being pushed back against the wall. Then the outer room was suddenly filled with the bulk of several heavy men, all carrying short wooden staves and advancing towards the cell. A brief fight broke out, but it was decidedly one sided, and in no time the two guards lay senseless on the floor.
“Where’s the Oirish?” one, a lightly bearded brute, shouted in a broad accent.
“Irish be damned, Jackie,” a smaller, slightly better dressed man with strangely cropped hair told him brusquely. “We’ll let ‘em all go, there’s none of them that wants to be here.”
The clerk had lost much of his swagger and was being held against the back wall, while one of the men pulled at his belt. His trousers slipped and a bunch of keys fell clattering onto the stone floor. Within seconds the cell door was opened, and Crowley and his friends began filing out.
“Give us a moment, lads,” the smarter man told the others. “We gets clear and you can make you’re own way as you wish. Press is a good three streets off b’now, an’ not expected back for a spell.”
The other prisoners muttered their thanks, and one took a purposeful kick at the prone body of a guard as Crowley and the Irish were bustled out into the dark night.
“Stick together, lads,” they were told, and the men slipped their clubs back into their clothing. The bearded man winked at them in the soft evening light. “We got a bit of a walk ahead of us, an’ don’t want you fallin’ in with no trouble.”
Chapter Two
Lieutenant Peter Chilton had not held a commission for more than a few months and yet already was in charge of one of the finer frigates in His Majesty’s Navy. Admittedly it was a harbour command and an unofficial one at that; he knew he would relinquish her as soon as a more competent, or at least a more experienced officer was appointed. But for the moment, all one hundred and forty-six feet of her hull, each of her twenty-eight, eighteen pound carriage guns, plus the additional twenty-four pounder carronades, and every one of her fifty or so regular seamen and junior officers that remained of the crew were his to direct. He strode about the quarterdeck, revelling in the space that was entirely his for the prowling. Forward, at the break of the forecastle, a group of men were busily engaged cleaning and polishing the bell. Once that was done they could turn their attention to the galley chimney, which was due for a sweep, and should be cool enough by then: a good officer checks on such things. Part of the main deck was being re-caulked and a team of painters were working on a stage over the larboard side, touching up the broad yellow-ochre
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