by Alaric Bond
* * *
Some of the others actually tried to sleep but either empty bellies or the novelty of their surroundings prevented it. And when the scent of cooking meat began to waft on the breeze, the majority of King's party felt they might try anything if it would distract their thoughts sufficiently. But most finally resigned themselves to yarning; the gentle talk amongst their peers that all, from the most junior hand to senior commissioned officers, were accustomed to. It was how tiresome watches were spent, or any of the frequent periods of inactivity their calling attracted, and came to them as naturally as breathing.
In King's case, chance had placed him next to the prisoner and, when Cranston disappeared for a call of nature, he, Manning and Adams found themselves to be his temporary guardians. But it was not an onerous duty; after a short while King began to like the lad, and it was early into their conversation that he discovered him to be very different from the French officer they had assumed him to be.
“My family's name is Lesro, and we have lived in Malta for many centuries; even before the time of the Knights,” he told them in a soft voice that lacked any identifiable accent. “For the last two generations we have been involved in importing the corn and other produce from Sicily, and it was intended that I should continue in that trade.
“Then the French came in 'ninety-eight,” he continued. “At first we were pleased; there had been a time when the Knights governed my home well, but the last generation were nothing but lazy drunkards who abandoned even an outward show of adherence to their vows of chastity. General Bonaparte seemed eager to make things the better for all inhabitants of Valletta. A series of proclamations were made that freed any slaves and made all men equal, but in a little time most of their proud boasts turned out to be empty words.
“They claimed many advantages for themselves and took anything of value from our holy places. Then it was ordered that a number of young men were to be sent to Paris, and I was one of those selected.”
“For what reason?” King asked.
“Why were we sent, or why was I chosen?” Lesro sighed, before answering both questions. “They said it was for training as naval apprentices, though it seemed more likely that we were nothing less than hostages. Those taken were from the richest and most influential families in Malta, so I suppose there was something of an honour in it, though the distinction did not come cheaply: my father had to pay an annual allowance of eight hundred francs, and a further six hundred for the expenses of my journey. And once we were all within his power, I am sure the General Bonaparte found any further demand to be more swiftly granted.”
“So you must have been serving in the French Navy for several years?” King reflected, and the lad laughed.
“Not quite so long, my studies did not go well. I am not the natural sailor and needed to complete the course three times before they would allow me near a ship.”
“But now that you are in it, how do you like the life?” Adams asked.
The young man scratched his head in thought before replying.
“It is not so bad, although I miss my family. And I am not a Frenchman, so do not wish to fight their wars.”
“So you want to return?” King asked. “To Malta, I mean.”
“Oh yes,” Lesro replied with obvious sincerity.
“Well the French have been gone some time; your country is now in British hands,” Manning reminded him.
“I am aware of that,” Lesro nodded slightly in acknowledgement. “It is for the better, I am thinking.”
“Why were you not sent back during the peace?” King asked, and the prisoner smiled.
“Much was not done as it should have been – why, I understand my home was to be returned to the Knights, but somehow the British failed to leave...”
There was the slightest of pauses, before all four began to laugh.
“Somethin's about at the feast, sir!” Steven's voice came from further away and King turned to see the midshipman posted to keep watch hurrying towards them, his back bent and head well down to avoid detection.
“What's about, Dick?” Adams asked, but King sensed the worst and was already clambering to his feet.
“Looks like some of the hands decided to join the party,” the boy told them as he arrived. “Cranston, Beeney and Roberts; they're heading towards the French now, you can see them plain as day.”
King pushed past the younger officer without a word. It was just the sort of thing he should have expected, and cursed himself for not placing a guard upon his own men.
“I saw them as soon as they broke cover,” Steven continued when they reached the edge of the undergrowth. “Though it were too late to do anything about it by then.”
There was Cranston sure enough; his beefy body unmistakable even in the half light, and that was undoubtedly Beeney, with Roberts scampering alongside. More people had arrived at the party; the bonfire was burning brightly and a small band consisting mainly of fiddles and a persistent drum had struck up with couples setting to partners. King turned back to see the other officers were close behind.
“What does that dumb ape think he is doing?” Hunt asked of no one in particular.
“Whatever it is, he'll see us all taken,” Manning replied. The seamen were now approaching the farm itself and would be noticed by the French at any moment.
“We must move on,” King turned to Steven. “Gather the men together and head down towards the village on the far track.”
“What about the prisoner, sir?” the midshipman asked.
King was taken aback; he had actually forgotten that Lesro was a prisoner. Although the fact he came from Malta, and owed no allegiance to the enemy hardly changed matters: he remained a member of the French Navy and, for as long as such a situation continued, could not be trusted.
“You will take charge of him, Mr Steven,” King said, ignoring the boy's surprise, as well as the sidelong glance from Lesro. “And be sure I shall hold you responsible, should he try to run.”
The two were shocked into silence and King told himself that one problem at least had been solved. But there were more and here was Manning, like the voice of his conscience, to remind him.
“We can't just leave here,” the surgeon protested. “Supposing Cranston and the others are not caught; they could even get hold of some food. But if you order us to move on we might never meet up.”
“I have no intention of losing track of them,” King told him. “Do you have a tinderbox?”
It was Manning's turn to be surprised. “I regret, I do not,” he admitted.
“I have, sir.”
It was Cooper, the master's mate, who passed across a small leather pouch.
An idea had been forming for some time and, as King weighed the incendiaries in his hand, it gradually gained shape. “And I shall need your help,” he added to Hunt.
“You have a plan?” the lieutenant asked in mild surprise.
“Of a sort,” King confessed, “but it will call for another – Adams, will you join us?”
The older midshipman grinned readily. Mr King's ideas were never the most polished, but usually worth following and he was only too pleased to be counted amongst the willing.
* * *
“We should go back and cut her out,” Timothy finally announced. His words had been stored for some while although, once spoken, caused little reaction. It was several hours later. Rochester's gun room was dark and extremely stuffy; its atmosphere rich with the smell of roasted goose which mingled unpleasantly with that of the spluttering candles. And the faces of those present, from the captain down to Summers, their freshest volunteer, were uniformly flushed and, in some cases, slightly bloated.
“It would be when they least expect it,” Timothy persisted, adding, “catch them napping, while still in the fud from their Christmas pud,” before realising the irony in his words.
“They have shore batteries, Mr Timothy,” the captain told him wearily, whilst reaching for his glass of port once more.
“And a deal of military, more'n like,” Heal, the first lieutenant agreed. “Although the Dear knows that should be no hindrance.”
“Indeed it should not,” Timothy agreed, glad to have at least one ally. He felt strangely alive as his eyes swept about the drooping assembly. The dinner had been tolerably good, even though all four of the geese were quite dry when finally served, while the wine, which Timothy had sampled before and greatly enjoyed, appeared to have gone off and tasted dull, with an odd metallic tang. His fellow officers proved less critical, however, and were now benefiting from the after effects of their indulgence.
And the strange thing was, Timothy would never have considered himself eager for action. He had already been in the thick of battle far too many times for it to hold any attraction, and was more or less resigned to becoming a career officer: one who spurned heroic deeds and relied on time and good fortune for promotion. But something in that afternoon's engagement had left a feeling of emptiness within him. It was the wasted opportunity perhaps, or maybe that his hand had been forced, and the full potential of Rochester's broadside wasted. Whatever the reason, Timothy felt cheated of a victory rightfully his and, as the evening wore on, had been growing increasingly determined to do whatever he could to see the wrong corrected.
In the present circumstances, such a prospect did seem rather unlikely, though. All present were filled to capacity with both food and wine and now appeared content to slump into a mutual stupor. The captain's mistress had long ago excused herself, and it was clear the party would be breaking up shortly. But, be it the right time or not, Timothy was set on putting forward his plan. Rochester might still be heading east, but her wind had failed, and the frigate was hardly making steerage way: it would take little to turn and drop back. And she carried a crew of just over two hundred, most of whom would be as deep into their cups as their officers, although even that need not be a deterrent. Dylan had been lucky in securing a fair number of fighting men: the result of taking a draught from a ship-of-the-line that had been paying off while they were commissioning. To many, the chance of actually getting to grips with the enemy would have been a capital ending to their Christmastide festivities; if only Timothy could get past the current wall of apathy that his elderly commander seemed determined to erect.
“And were we to do so, to take her, intact; what would she be worth?”
This was from Harper, the marine, and was not such a negative question.
“In terms of prize money?” Timothy pondered. “I'd say three or four thousand – perhaps more. But she may also be bought into the Service,” he added. “And with our current shortage of frigates, Admiral Nelson would look kindly on anyone who provides him with another.”
“A corvette is hardly a frigate,” Dylan declared, although Timothy noticed a flickering of interest in the older man. “A sloop at best,” he continued thoughtfully. “Never a post ship.”
“She could be every bit as valuable as a scout,” Timothy persisted. “And the government would pay top dollar were such a vessel presented to them in the right place, to say nothing of the prestige it would give her captor.”
There was a pause as all about the table considered this, and suddenly it was not the slothful silence of a few minutes before.
“How many men would you need?” the captain asked eventually, and Timothy felt a surge of excitement as he realised he would be leading the attack himself.
“No more than a hundred,” he replied. It was the number he had decided upon when considering the prospect during his meal. Ask for too many, and the project would be deemed untenable, whereas not enough meant it ending in disaster. “Twenty could be Jollies,” he added, with a glance to the marine lieutenant. Twenty was almost Harper's entire force, but sea officers were inclined to consider marines expendable, so their inclusion might make the plan more acceptable to Dylan.
“And boats?” Heal this time, and now the atmosphere was definitely lifting. Timothy could detect alert looks from some of the mid's and even the smutty haze seemed to have cleared.
“Two cutters and the long boat,” he was ready with the information as instantly as before, and silently pleased his words were being given serious thought.
“We shall be late in meeting with my Lord Nelson as it is,” the captain pondered.
“So were we to arrive with a prize in tow, it must make our appearance the more acceptable.” Timothy knew that this might be going too far. Making a suggestion to a commanding officer was one thing: appealing to his personal vanity was something very different. For a moment Dylan seemed to acknowledge this, his face cleared and he treated his second lieutenant to a particularly harsh stare. And then he finally spoke.
“Very well, young man, if you are certain.” Dylan paused again, and seemed to assess him afresh, and it was then that Timothy had a sudden flash of insight.
Cutting out an eighteen gun ship, even under the protection of shore defences, was well within the capabilities of a fifth rate frigate and her crew. Such a feat might even be expected of an active commander, while the fact that Dylan could never be thought of as such must be well known to him. Yet here was the chance to shine: to enhance his reputation at no risk to himself or his ship while claiming a valuable prize into the bargain. Suddenly all enthusiasm and feeling for his plan began to dissolve, and Timothy was left feeling empty and mildly betrayed. But the bait had been cast, the captain was biting and only needed to be hauled in and landed.
“We shall turn and make our way westwards once more.” Dylan's words were spoken without a trace of his recent indulgence, and Timothy began to stiffen as he realised their significance.
“Rochester will continue to beat back until we are opposite the harbour.” Dylan's gaze switched to Timothy. “You shall take two cutters and forty hands, add marines by all means, but I'll not allow more seamen. And you must be sure of taking her whole; as you say, a ship that can be used will be considered more valuable than one simply destroyed. Now what do you say?”
Timothy considered this for several seconds. Sixty fighting men was a small number, especially when a corvette might carry a standing crew of perhaps twice that many. And dividing them between just two boats was raising the odds still further; it would only need the sinking of one for the whole episode to collapse in ignominious failure. And he was not committed: it would need little more than a light answer from him for all to end in laughter. The party would resume as before, with his words being regarded as no more than drunken banter and soon forgotten. But despite his recent insight into the captain's character, Timothy still thought he could do it; in fact he was certain. And, quite abruptly, what had promised to be a disappointing Christmas looked likely to change beyond all measure.
* * *
By the time King, Adams and Hunt reached the end of their cover it was quite dark, although enough reflected light remained from the fire to silhouette the farm and its surrounding buildings. Of the British seamen there was no sign, but the music was still playing and they could hear the faint sound of voices, mainly female, calling out and laughing. King's focus switched from the buildings to the fields beyond. A solitary horse was standing alone and uncovered, and there were several low pens that presumably held pigs or other small animals. But he could also see the outlines of three haystacks, and it was these that interested him the most.
“You have the firesteel?” he looked to the midshipman, who nodded, and patted the small pouch that hung from his belt.
“Shall I go in with Adams?” Hunt asked, but King shook his head. He was still the senior officer and the lack of a pair of matching limbs would never deter him from leading an attack.
“We go together,” he said, rising to his feet with remarkable ease and was already heading across the open countryside before either of the other two expected it.
Chapter Four
As he drew closer to the first haystack, King realised the thing was raised off the ground by over a foot, and rested on a wooden platfor
m which was, in turn, supported by several heavy stones. But apart from denying them a degree of shelter, it made little difference; the French would soon know of their existence and what they were about.
Hunt joined him, followed by a slightly breathless Adams. King looked at the farm once more, but nothing appeared to have changed; the fire was still blazing and making a brilliant backdrop to the dancing figures silhouetted against it.
“Very well,” he whispered, “we can get started.”
The midshipman opened the small pouch and laid its contents out on the platform. The firesteel was almost new and produced a fine line of sparks that seemed unnaturally bright amid the darkness. In no time a proper flame had been tempted onto the charcloth, and Hunt was standing ready with the first strands of hay. King nodded, and the flames grew; by the time the midshipman had withdrawn the tinder they were climbing half-way up the side of the stack, and causing all three to half close their eyes against the glare.
“Come on,” King ordered, and began to head away from the incriminating blaze. He had thought to linger, maybe start further fires on the other haystacks, but the French would notice this as easily as any, and it was suddenly more important that they made a safe escape themselves.
The three ran for the dark line of hedging that marked the path. This led around the farm and, they assumed, into the village itself. Brehaut, Manning and the others should be waiting for them there, and ready to move on. Whether Cranston and his lot would be able to take advantage of the diversion and join them was yet to be seen, but King felt he had done enough. And then he found himself tiring; the other two were drawing ahead. It needed all his will power to dig out sufficient energy to keep up. Hunt noticed and began to slow, but King waved him on as he cursed silently. He was a fool, and knew himself to be less than fit, yet had been determined to go with the others – to lead his men in the way he had been accustomed to before the injury. Well now he must surely realise such intentions carried a goodly amount of responsibility.