The Patriot's Fate by Alaric Bond

loud. Barrow was ready with the log; Scylla might be smaller than his last ship but it was already clear she would be no slouch. King marked off the traverse board and replaced it in the binnacle. The spray was rising, giving a sting to the air that was at once both painful and stimulating, and the ship’s motion began to relax into something more regular and almost rhythmic. But all on the quarterdeck were oblivious to such insignificances; the ship oozed strength and power, she was well armed, fully manned, and would be perfect for the job in hand. There was still a good deal of summer left, and clearly a battle to be fought: none of them could ask for more.
     

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter Five
     
     
     
     
     
    Theobald Wolfe Tone was not an especially impressive individual. The son of a protestant coach builder, or so Crowley had heard, his pale skin and fragile frame spoke little of manual work, and more of time spent in the courtrooms of Dublin where he had practised at the bar. Their paths had almost crossed several times in the past. Once, just over two years ago, Tone, under the auspices of Adjutant-General Smith, had sailed with a fleet that mounted an invasion of Ireland. Crowley only saw him twice in passing before their departure. It later evolved that Tone’s ship Indomptable had actually anchored in Bantry Bay and came very close to landing troops, whereas Crowley’s frigate was amongst the many separated from the main fleet in one of the worst storms of the century. Crowley finished up in the hands of the British aboard Pandora while Tone returned to France where he continued with his quest for revolution.  
     
    They were to come close to meeting once more the following year, this time at the Texel. By then Crowley had become a regular and trusted member of Pandora ‘s crew, and Tone waited with the invasion fleet that Pandora , alongside Admiral Duncan and two worn out liners, stubbornly blockaded. The Scottish Admiral’s bluff and a decisive battle eventually saw the end to Tone’s plans, and the much vaunted army that had been ready to free Britain from the yoke of Monarchy was absorbed into other forces.
     
    And now here he was again, this time in a small and rather shabby village hall, preparing to speak to men who had volunteered to join yet another attempt on behalf of Ireland. Men who were in the main Irish, and all doubtless already inflamed with the desires and ambitions that Tone was about to further arouse. Crowley shuffled uncomfortably on his wooden bench: there was, he knew, little for him in such an endeavour. The past two years had changed him greatly; he now held scant feelings for his home country, and hardly cared if it were under English or French domination. But fate had taken him thus far, and he was reconciled at the least to hearing what the man had to say. If, as he suspected, it was just a bundle of empty rhetoric, he would leave it at that. MacArthur and the rest could carry on alone; he would bide his time in France, where at least there should be a better chance of avoiding conscription. Then, come winter, he might make his way back to England and discover if Vernon was ready for him to return to the sea.
     
    The buzz of conversation began to subside, and men started to grow attentive as Tone stepped up to the small platform and stood before them. There was no announcement, no introduction; every man present knew who he was and what they were there for, and all were content to let the process begin. For a moment Tone paused and surveyed the room as if it were an obstacle to be overcome, then his shoulders dropped, he relaxed, and began.
     
    “Gentlemen, I thank you for coming here tonight, when I am certain there are greater pleasures awaiting you close by.” There was a murmur of laughter from the front of the audience; the hall was situated between a brothel and a tavern, and Tone smiled briefly. “I certainly do not intend to waste your time,