The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  As the ship grew nearer, two further frigates could be seen off her stern, but a small cloud of smoke from Narcissus' forecastle, followed by the dull boom of a blank shot, took his attention, and he ordered the lugger to heave to.

  It was not uncommon for French fishing vessels to be intercepted and occasionally searched by ships of the inshore squadron. The practice had all but stopped the enemy sending small cargoes along their coast, but was maintained by the British in the hope of obtaining any snippet of espionage, as well as the occasional catch.

  The French coastal defences had been quick to realise the true identity of King's boat but those aboard Narcissus took longer. As the great ship drew nearer, her crew backed the main so that she drifted to a near halt exactly opposite, before hailing him in French.

  “Lieutenant Thomas King,” he bellowed in reply. “Late of His Britannic Majesty's ship, Prometheus.”

  It was a simple statement, but one King found almost embarrassing to make, and he listened to the excitement it caused aboard the frigate with glowing cheeks. Soon the quarter boat was lowered and King glanced back to where Rochester's topmasts were becoming visible over the horizon.

  Donnelly would doubtless wish him to come aboard, and King could tell all he needed to know, even if, by rights, Dylan was the senior officer and should be granted the privilege. But the chance for him to give a concise and accurate account, one not distorted by embellishments, seemed too good to waste. Besides, Rochester and the corvette would take an age to reach them, and Narcissus' quarter boat was already halfway across.

  * * *

  “It is good to see you again, Tom,” the midshipman told him as he emerged from the great cabin. King was momentarily irritated that the warrant officer who apparently acted as Donnelly's secretary should call him anything but “sir”. But then his head was still spinning from speaking with Narcissus' captain, and it actually took him several seconds to recognise the lad.

  “Jimmy Mangles!” he gasped, as realisation finally struck, then shook him warmly by the hand. “Forgive me, I did not notice you in there,” he said, nodding towards the closed doors behind them. “We've not met in an age: how is it with you?”

  “Better than yourself, I'd chance,” Mangles answered, with a significant look at King's empty sleeve. “I'd heard of the wound of course, and was glad to know you were recovering.”

  “All is mending nicely,” King's reply might have been automatic but as he made it he realised the statement to be surprisingly true. There was now little pain from the stump; it was as if leaving French soil had helped it to heal. “Though to speak with Bob Manning, you'd think I lived at death's door,” he added as the two walked easily together through the coach and out into the sunlight of the main deck. “You'll remember our surgeon, I am certain?”

  “Indeed so,” Mangles replied, brightening further. “He gave me a black draught when I misjudged the punch at a Convent reception and have not felt so brave since. Is he with you in the cutter?”

  “I fear not,” King replied.

  A darker expression came over Mangle's face. “Were he lost in Prometheus?” he chanced.

  “Oh, not so,” King assured him. “Though many good men went with her. He's aboard the frigate.” The lad followed King's gaze to where Rochester, in line abreast with the damaged corvette, was hull down and making slow progress as she headed to join them. “And that's the Frenchman we cut out yesterday even'.”

  “A fine prize,” Mangles agreed, adding in a lower voice, “I can see why Captain Dylan has no wish to go snacks and lose a share.”

  “Do you think that likely?” King whispered, and the young man pursed his lips.

  “I could only say that my captain is fair,” Mangles replied, “and would judge he felt your story well told. But he also suggested you take some breakfast while aboard us,” the midshipman continued, brightening. “The gun room would be happy to entertain you, or we could visit the cockpit together; there is a bite of ham left that is still edible. Both courses would mean your repeating your tale, though.”

  “But it has only just been told!” King sighed, before noticing the look of disappointment in his friend's eyes. The British squadron might be heavily outnumbered but, for as long as the French stayed in harbour, there was little for them to do, and the arrival of a fresh face with a story to tell would be welcomed throughout the ship. “But the cockpit sounds fine. If you can find me a place to perch, and maybe some of that ham, I am sure I might make the effort.”

  * * *

  Three days later much had changed. Timothy was gone, returned to Rochester to have his wounds properly attended to, and King had been given command of the corvette, with Hunt to assist together with Manning and the majority of the wounded. They also had most of the corvette's former crew as prisoners, a fact that would have given King greater concern had not Captain Donnelly ordered Dylan to give up his marine contingent to see they were properly guarded.

  And Donnelly had proved King's saviour in more ways than that. Though marginally younger than Dylan, he had been a post captain for much longer and could, by rights, have commanded a three decker. He remained silent after listening to King's account, and no action was taken until Dylan arrived to give his report. King had not been present at this second meeting, but later learned the gist from Mangles.

  “Captain Donnelly were a sight for sure,” Mangles told him with ill concealed glee. “You seem to have made a good impression; that, or he knows an honest tale when one is told. Fair led old man Dylan into shoal water he did, it were all I could do to stop myself from laughing out loud.”

  King was amazed; Dylan should surely have realised King had been aboard and was likely to have given his side of the story. As it was, his later elaborations only made Rochester's captain appear even more of a fool than King already thought him. But there was more to tell, and Mangles had enjoyed the act with all the irreverence of youth.

  “The silly old dolt made much of the Frenchman,” he grinned. “Said how she were taken by Rochester's men, who also rescued a party of escaping seamen, and considers her his prize. Donnelly said nothing, but you could see him thinking. Then he asked about any captured men and, after a bit of prodding, the name of your Maltese cove came up.”

  “Lesro?” King had been pleased, though worried. The young man's position as both Maltese national and a serving French naval officer was doubtful at the very least. King had already made up his mind about his true loyalties, but then so had Dylan, and he feared the latter's view would be the one taken by those in authority.

  “That's him. Dylan tried to pass him off as a Frenchman, but our captain pressed further until he finally admitted he might be Maltese. Then a few more choice questions and Dylan admitted it were men from Prometheus that finally won the day cutting out the corvette. Donnelly made it clear that, if Dylan tried to claim the prize for his ship alone, he would move heaven and earth to see he were stopped.”

  At the time, King had been doubtful a mere frigate captain could wield so much power, but had since looked him up on the captains' list. Donnelly was made post in 'ninety-five, so could expect his flag before long, and might find himself a commodore at any time. And his exploits at the First of June would have forged some good connections with both Admiralty and Parliament. If anyone could ruin Dylan it was him, although King was equally confident that Rochester's captain would do it for himself in time.

  “You should have been there,” Mangles continued. “Poor old Dylan, sitting in stunned silence while a senior captain gave him what for. He were shaking so much I though his swab would bounce off; never did see a sorrier case, or anyone quite so keen to quit the ship.”

  The fact that Donnelly had come to a decision so swiftly only confirmed King's good opinion of him and when, later the same day, Dylan had been directed to seek out the rest of Nelson's fleet off Sardinia, while King was given command of the corvette with orders for Malta, he felt he owed Mangle's captain a good deal.

  An
d now he had the wide Mediterranean to himself. It was morning, and the clearest one encountered since he took command. They had followed Rochester for the first day but Dylan was clearly sulking and made no attempt to remain in contact even before their paths separated. King could not have cared less, however; the jury rig was proving sound. Little sail could be spread on the foreshortened main mast but they were in no hurry. And he had a limited crew; besides the marines and those who had come from Prometheus, there were only the fifteen hands allowed by a miserly Dylan, and he suspected they would not be the best of the crop. But the corvette was also well armed and, short handed though they were, there could be few ships about who would cause them harm.

  The one small fly in the sauce was knowing that Lesro was still aboard Rochester and currently heading for a meeting with Nelson. King had no doubt his Commander-in-Chief would see the foolishness of holding an ally prisoner, but was still concerned, especially as Dylan was likely to be involved and would be bearing a grudge. But there was little he could do about the matter, and it was too fine a day for pessimistic thoughts, so when a friendly face peered up through the aft companionway, King welcomed the interruption.

  “Good morning, sir!” Hunt grinned, as he clambered up and touched the rim of his battered hat. One benefit of having limited numbers aboard the prize was the space this allowed, certainly as far as officer accommodation was concerned. Hunt was sharing the gun room on the deck below with just two other senior men and a pair of mid's, while King had the three-roomed captain's quarters entirely to himself.

  Hunt collected the traverse board and glanced at it carefully.

  “It's slow progress,” King commented softly. “Though the Master reckons we should raise the southern coast of Sardinia some time this afternoon.”

  Hunt nodded, both knew that at their current rate it would be a further seven days or more before they could expect to reach Malta, and safety.

  “How is it with the prisoners?”

  “They're quiet enough, sir,” Hunt replied. “I asked Mr Harper if he had plans for exercise, but he seemed reluctant.”

  It was a sentiment King shared with the lieutenant of marines. However loyal and trustworthy the military contingent might be, there were barely twenty of them. Not all could be on duty at the same time, and he was still concerned about the unknown seamen given by Dylan.

  “And the women?” he asked, only to receive a dismissive shake of the head from Hunt.

  “The women are up to their old tricks,” he replied, pulling a face. “But confining them in the aft cockpit was a wise move; the Jollies are having problems as it is. I would not care to let them within speaking distance of a regular Jack.”

  “I really should inspect,” King sighed.

  “I am to relieve you at eight bells,” Hunt reminded him. “If you cared to wait until the end of my trick, we could go together.”

  But King dismissed the idea. Unappealing though it might be, he preferred to get his rounds done early in the day. If there was trouble brewing he would rather know about it sooner than later, and the new men would be that much more sensible before the noontime wine allocation.

  “No, I shall take Adams,” he said, in a louder voice, and the midshipman, who had been sheltering behind the weather bulwark, stiffened at the sound of his name. King felt momentarily relieved; at least he was not the only one who found a strange ship carrying enemy prisoners and an uncertain crew daunting. “You needn't look so worried, lad,” he assured him, “I won't let the women near you.”

  * * *

  But in fact their prisoners of both genders proved relatively docile. The men, most of whom were probably conscripts, seemed to have resolved to make the best of being held captive in their former home, and acknowledged King with a measure of civility. And Marine Lieutenant Harper, who appeared as if by magic on his arrival, was proving himself to be a capable man and on top of the situation. No one had attempted to break free for some time and a schedule for feeding and cleaning quarters had been established. Even the women were less vocal than on previous occasions. King approached the penned off warrant officer's berth with trepidation, but there were none of the strange mixture of insults and allurements he had been subjected to in the past. One of the older captives complained about the lack of fresh clothes, and King agreed to check the ship's slop chest, but the anger and frustration apparent before seemed to have dissipated.

  So when King and Adams left the cockpit and made for the forward companionway, they were both enjoying the feeling of relief. There was just the berth deck to inspect, and possibly the galley; then King would investigate the clothing problem, before finding time for a late breakfast himself.

  Even a first rate ship-of-the-line's orlop would have a low overhead: the corvette's forced both officers to bend nearly double. They also struggled to stay upright when the deck itself gave way to single planks above the hold, but continued forward and were soon standing under the muted shaft of light that led to the deck above. King was about to ascend when he sensed something strange about his companion and stopped.

  Adams was a senior midshipman; he must have been all of twenty and deserved a spell as acting lieutenant before sitting his board for promotion. King considered him loyal and he was trusted as much as any officer aboard the corvette, although suddenly, in the half light of the orlop, there were doubts.

  The lad was looking back into the darkness of the ship's nether regions, and seemed to be raising a hand, as if in silent acknowledgement. In the usual course of events, King would probably have taken no notice, but his senses were primed from the meeting with their prisoners, and there was something about what could have been a secret signal that raised his suspicions.

  “Who's there?” he asked, but Adams turned away from his glance. “I said who is there,” King repeated, now fully alert.

  “No one, sir,” the midshipman replied, although his tone was unconvincing and still he would not meet King's eye.

  “Come on,” King directed, and began to head back along the orlop. He had no idea what he might find; all the prisoners were towards the stern. There must be something closer that had caught Adams' attention. They had headed perhaps thirty feet when King stopped and regarded the young man once more. It was by the break in the deck, where two stout planks stretched over the corvette's main hold. “Now, what did you see?” he demanded.

  In the poor light it was impossible to gauge Adams' expression, and with them both having to bend to avoid the low beams there were few other clues to his feelings, although King remained convinced the warrant officer was hiding something.

  “It's nothing, sir; no one is there,” the young man repeated, but King could not be satisfied. He stared down into the dark hold; it was relatively full yet contained many potential places where people, or things, may be concealed. He could not think what Adams was hiding down there; maybe booty liberated from the corvette, or perhaps a woman for his own use, were such a thing in his nature. But any prisoner so concealed would have been noticed, and no one need signal to a store of plunder. Then there was a distinct movement from below, and Adams gave out a deep sigh as he realised the game was up.

  * * *

  “Of course I remember,” King snapped as he glared at the fair-haired boy in front of him. “You were amongst the cutting out party from Rochester. And discovered in one of her boats, as I recall; we never did find out how you came to be there.”

  Summers found himself blushing deeply at his earlier shame, even though the current predicament seemed potentially worse.

  “Well, what are you doing aboard my ship?” King demanded from his seat at the captain's desk. The sun was up and shining through the stern windows of the corvette's cabin. It lit the flushed face of the boy standing before him, and also gave a strange cast to that of Adams as well as the marines who stood to either side.

  “I – I did not wish to stay in Rochester...” the lad admitted finally.

  “You did not wish to stay?” King r
epeated incredulously. “And you think this a Service where you may simply decide such matters?”

  The boy closed his eyes and seemed to be on the point of crumbling. King shook his head; he had enough to consider without tormenting a child who might still have been in the schoolroom.

  “If I may, sir?” this was Adams who, alone of all in the small room, seemed to have something to say, and King supposed he should listen. “Mr Summers was having problems with members of Rochester's crew,” he stated stiffly. “Certain hands had been proving unwilling to accept his authority, and playing him for a cake. There were several instances, and all would have been hard to report.”

  “You should still have spoken to your divisional lieutenant,” King's reply was almost instinctive, even though something of the mystery was now solved.

  “If you please, sir, Mr Heal was his superior,” Adams explained. “The first lieutenant is not a man who would understand such matters.”

  King would readily believe that. Heal could have been commissioned thirty years ago and was as solid as they came, but probably lacked imagination. He would have forgotten all about the power grown men could hold over young boys. King had no idea what Summers had been subjected to, but could imagine the numerous and subtle ways a group of older and experienced hands might make a young boy's life hell, should they so wish.

  “Mr Summers was desperate to quit the ship and... and I felt he might have taken any measure to do so,” Adams added quickly, while colouring slightly himself, and again King appreciated far more than either lad would have credited. “It was me who suggested hiding aboard the prize,” the midshipman continued, in something of a defiant tone. “I felt it the best course for all.”