HMS Aurora: A Charles Mullins Novel (Sea Command Book 3) by Richard Testrake

weapons had a vicious recoil, being fired with an over-sized ball in a smaller bore, but with their sights, were the most accurate short guns Mullins had ever fired.
    In the end, HMS Aurora’s captain elected to go along with Dooley’s plan, having no good ideas himself. Mullins still believed Dooley’s mission was folly, but perhaps some good might come from it by accident.
    They cruised along the Brittany coast, eventually locating a small cove, protected by a four-gun battery. This site was on the schedule the French First Consul was to visit within the next few days. Mullins doubted this would actually happen. Schedules were made to be broken, but he would do his part. Besides, this could be profitable. A fat brig lay in the tiny harbor, protected by the guns. Even if they missed their target, the brig could bring in a pretty penny at the prize auction.
    Without evincing any interest in the prize or its protective battery, Aurora continued on down the coast, eventually veering out to sea. That evening, she doubled back, coming up offshore in a black night, moon and stars hidden by a low overcast. The landing party loaded into the boats, which made for a beach a mile to the east. The party, after disembarking, formed up on the coast road and marched toward the battery.
    As the force closed on the gun position, there was some flurry in the landing party which alerted the defenders. There was a crackle of musketry, and the landing force gave up the attack and made their way back to the boats, carrying a bundle, which might be a body, with them.
    While the defenders celebrated their victory, two other boats silently approached the anchored brig and their men swarmed aboard. The anchor watch was overwhelmed in seconds, and a minute later, her cable cut, the brig was under sail, out to Aurora. A few shots from the battery came aboard, causing some damage, but the prize made it out to Aurora handily enough.
    When the hands were counted, one man was missing. Seaman Dooley had not returned with the party. Also missing was Mister Daley’s old coat. Somehow, this coat had been stained with sheep’s blood the afternoon before when an old ewe had been butchered for the wardroom. From all appearance, a man could have been murdered while wearing that coat.
    On shore, Dooley waited hours for someone to collect him. When this did not happen, he boldly approached a party of horsemen that was surveying the countryside. With his pistols prominently visible in his sash, he held his arms high. A pair of cuirassiers trotted up to him, their sabers gleaming in the morning sun.
    His pistols were confiscated, and he was led up to the guard commander. During the brief questioning, the French officer learned his captive spoke French fluently and freely admitted to be an Irish deserter from the British Navy.
    A picket line was looped around his neck and one of the troopers pulled him back to the battery. While he was under guard, eventually a short, elaborately uniformed officer was escorted to him and addressed him politely. Dooley went over his story again, purporting to be an escaping Irish seaman from his British captors. It was obvious to him his questioner was none other than General Bonaparte himself, but there was little he could do about it at the time. His pistols had been confiscated, with even the powder-filled cartridges in his pockets that he had meant to renew the priming on his weapons missing.
    One of the questions put to him was where a British seaman acquired a pair of expensive hand guns. He made up a story about assaulting a British officer and taking his weapons. A search of the site revealed a torn and bloody British naval officer’s uniform coat.
    Bonaparte examined the weapons closely. After finding the weapons were not primed, he called for one of his aides, who supplied the needed powder. Bonaparte cocked a weapon and put the sights on a small boulder a few tens of yards away. Firing, his arm jerked upward from the