by Alaric Bond
“But what about Dylan and Rochester?” King asked, and Timothy's face split into a joyful grin.
“Far in my wake now, I am glad to say. I sought an exchange at Gib. and found myself posted to a similar ship, though her captain is a very different proposition. But what of you?” he asked. “Do you have a berth?” and it was King's turn to smile.
“I do, but not a sea going one,” he admitted. “For the time being I'm just another shore-based Johnny.”
* * *
Maidstone was still a good way off, although the lure of Malta had already reached her, and Wiessner, the seaman who had stolen a hen on Christmas Day, was amongst many looking forward to treading solid ground again. He had been drafted aboard the frigate after delivering the damaged prize, and still had a pay ticket covering his service in Prometheus, together with actual coin that was now burning a hole in his pocket. Being an island, there was little chance of escape, so shore leave was granted more readily, and the starboard watch's turn was long overdue.
For most, this meant a busy last few hours at sea with their messmates. Tiddly-suits would be hauled out and attended to and perhaps an extra seam of lace added, or freshly embroidered ribbon attached to straw hats with the nett result that no one could be in any doubt of the owner's occupation or ship. And once ashore they would stride out together, gaining courage and bravado from the company of their fellows, fully prepared to take all that the strange port offered, and usually a little more besides.
But Wiessner was not like a regular hand and, while accepting that others indulged in such fancies, he wanted nothing to do with them.
One major difference was that he did not require drink. Besides being the ship's only Jew, Wiessner was also a seven bells man, one of the few aboard permitted to take their meals half an hour before the main body of crew. While most were indulging in their first tot of rum, wine, or whatever alcohol was being issued on that particular station, he would be enjoying his scran with no stimulant stronger than tea. And when the situation was reversed, with Wiessner and his type released to take control of the ship while the mildly fuddled crew mopped up their grog with their main meal, Maidstone would be in competent hands.
For this he received additional pay but, to Wiessner's mind, the reward lay elsewhere. From noon until a little after the second grog allocation four hours later, he would be one of the few totally sober hands on the lower deck. Gambling was officially banned, but such restrictions could always be avoided by seamen intent on a game of Crown and Anchor, Crib or Fox and Goose. Wiessner found most first dog watches ideal for increasing his already substantial pile and it was something he did with impressive regularity.
So it was that, while most liberty men would be relying on the pittance they could get for old pay tickets, or articles of clothing, Wiessner was going ashore with an agreeably heavy purse which he was quite prepared to spend in its entirety during a few heady hours on land. And it would also be spent alone. During his first few weeks aboard Maidstone, the more genial amongst her crew had tried to form an acquaintance, with one even offering to tie his queue in exchange for the same service. But they soon learned what others had before: Wiessner was not the sociable type.
No, he would go unaccompanied and come back in a similar manner. None of his coin would be spent on drink, smoke, or any of the gewgaw souvenirs that most seamen seemed to crave, and neither would he stain his body with crude tattoos that almost all found so appealing. But still Wiessner would return as close to happy as one of his temperament could expect. There was nothing malevolent in this; he did not exactly despise his fellow man for their fancies, but tobacco, drink and company were simply things he could do without. And he undoubtedly had desires of his own; indeed, Wiessner was looking forward to his spree, but would be quite content to enjoy it on his own, and needed no one else's assistance.
* * *
“It was one hell of a trip from the Rock,” Timothy told King breathlessly as the two of them climbed the hot streets. “Reckoned we'd make it in a week, yet it ended up taking four times that.”
“The weather?” King asked, mildly surprised; it had been remarkably clement in Malta.
“That was part of the problem,” Timothy conceded. “If it weren't blowing a gale we had no wind to speak of, and managing a convoy of drifting ships whilst almost in sight of the Barbary Coast was not heartening. But we also had a curious passenger.”
King waited. Even during his brief period on Malta he had learned the island attracted unsavoury characters; those wishing to flee England for a number of reasons that usually involved the law or jealous husbands, as well as a few scientific types. The latter had been encouraged by the French in their Egyptian expedition, and were inclined to regard the Mediterranean as simply a place for research, giving no thought for the bloody war in progress there.
“Fellow by the name of Coleridge,” Timothy explained. “You may have heard of him, he's made quite a name for himself of late.”
“What Service?” King asked, and Timothy laughed.
“No, I believe he might have held rank in the Militia, but you would never call this one a military type,” he said. “He's a poet.”
The name had meant nothing to King, and the occupation even less as he had little time for ditties. Timothy seemed enthused however, and began recalling some of Coleridge's work, and even repeating odd lines.
“So he is a favourite of yours,” King asked, when they finally reached the sanctuary and relative coolness of the building where he worked.
“No, I should say not,” Timothy replied forcefully. “Far too modern and flowery for my taste.” He might even have been about to say more, and took a determined check on himself before he did. “But it was not his talent I referred to, the fellow is ill.”
Again the news seemed of little importance, and King began to wonder quite why his friend was so obsessed by the health of one civilian. “Not infectious I trust?” he asked.
“Nothing of such a nature, I assure you,” Timothy, who had already handed in the convoy's medical certificates, was emphatic. “But too fond of the poppy, I fear. It were why he decided to travel to Malta; felt the sea air and a change of regime might rid him of his passion, though if anything, the storms and a threat of pirates seemed to have made matters worse. Poor fellow were near death, or so I understands, which is why Surgeon Hardy was sent for. I'm not sure what were done, but he seems to have pulled through. It is a shame,” he continued reflectively. “I would not say the fellow is without talent, just that it be misplaced.”
King shrugged and continued up the staircase to his small office. Between them they had discharged Timothy's duties with regard to the convoy; in addition to the medical certificates, all bills of lading were now lodged with His Majesty's Customs, while the ships themselves still lay some distance off. Lesro was meeting them at Angelo's in less than fifteen minutes; he simply wished to change his coat for something lighter, and then they could head that way, and take an enjoyable meal. And as for some poet who didn't know when he had taken sufficient tincture of laudanum, King could not have cared less. The fellow could fill himself to the limit, as far as he was concerned; he was just surprised that Timothy, a professional sea officer after all, should take him and his doggerel quite so seriously.
* * *
King's expectation of Adams and Summers finding posts had been optimistic. On reaching Malta both were handed straight into the care of Commander Duff, the elderly and painfully thin officer whose reputation for discipline was renowned throughout the Service. Duff was a product of the navies of Keppel and Howe, with a rank that owed more to his formidable time in uniform than actual seamanship. He was, however, an excellent disciplinarian and, despite a report from King that was later supported by his personal application, Duff proved to be unusually obstinate.
In his opinion, both young men had behaved deplorably; Summers by not exercising the authority expected of one holding warrant rank, and Adams in hiding the fact and, worse
, aiding a fellow in a dereliction of duty and abandonment of his post – something that might be considered cowardice. When King spoke with him, Duff had been on the verge of sending both for court martial, and it had taken all the diplomatic powers he possessed to persuade the aged officer otherwise.
But although both were reluctantly retained on the list, neither was offered employment. Summers soon discovered himself unlikely to fill a post as a volunteer of the first class, and could only expect to find a third class berth as a potential seaman, and even Adams, though old and experienced enough to sit a lieutenant's board, could find nothing other than service as an ordinary hand. Apart from a small amount owing, both were also denied any form of wages. This was not an additional punishment, as only those holding commissioned rank were permitted half pay, but it did make any extended stay on Malta extremely difficult.
They were free to seek employment elsewhere, though to do so, and make themselves unavailable for a posting, would have been foolish. Their best chance of resuming a Royal Navy career was to find a position as quickly as possible. Consequently, the prospect of sailing with the East India Company was closed to them, as was any form of merchant berth, while the chance of finding permanent shore-based work in Valletta remained slight indeed. And they might also apply to a home-bound ship; throw themselves on the mercy of its captain or first lieutenant in an effort to secure a working passage back to England. But once there the prospect of a Service posting would be even smaller: neither had influential friends or anyone who could explain or remove the black mark that had been placed against their names. Even their previous captains were of little use; Dylan being as insignificant as he was crabby, while Banks lay in some French prisoner of war gaol.
The two stayed together both for friendship and mutual support and, on the day the convoy was sighted, spent much of the time trudging round their usual haunts of small warehouses and businesses that occasionally wanted temporary staff. No clerks, writers or manual labourers were in demand, however, but news of the expected convoy had filtered down to them and Adams, at least, was encouraged. There were rumours that ten escorts had left England; were that the case, one of their captains may have need of an additional pair of young gentlemen, and might take them on without bothering to check past histories. But both knew how long it took to see a vast collection of ships into harbour, while the number of manifests and certificates needed to satisfy the authorities on shore would be considerable, so it would be three days at least before they could even think of presenting themselves for employment. Three days, when the rent on their shared room was already a month overdue, and neither had eaten a proper meal in over a week.
And so they had gone for a position that would not normally have even been considered. They both knew what it entailed, and how far beyond the line of legality they would be treading. But the pay was good: enough could be earned in one night to keep them alive for ten, and it also meant they were on hand during the day in case a proper position became available.
Adams led the way, as had been the habit throughout their time together, except this was not the normal place of business they were accustomed to calling upon. The small building sat at the older, cheaper side of the city and did not inspire confidence. What appeared to be an Englishman, young in age but with tired eyes, opened the door to Adams' knock, and they were quickly ushered in to a room smelling of vinegar and mortification.
“Mr Riley?” the older of the two enquired, and the man's pale skin flushed slightly.
“Indeed,” he replied, although Adams thought he might be lying. “And you must be British officers, naval, I presume?” He eyed their tattered uniforms quizzically.
“Yes, sir,” Adams confirmed. “I have served for three...”
“It is no matter,” Riley interrupted, and seemed strangely agitated. “But from good homes,” he continued. “And, if I may suggest, gentlemen?”
The two youths looked at each other uncertainly, then, once more, Adams spoke for them both. “I believe you could say so, sir.”
Riley nodded his head quickly. “Then I can expect you to be able to keep a secret,” he said.
“We are King's officers,” Adams reminded him. “And would not wish to undertake anything that might harm the Crown.” It was something they had agreed upon earlier, and a brave stance for two starving lads. But the statement seemed to anger Riley more than either expected.
“And I would not expect you to,” he almost shouted. “I'll have you know that I also am not without honour,” he paused, as if out of breath, and then continued in a softer tone. “But I need men; men I can trust. And yes, they must be honourable,” he emphasised, glaring at them again. “If you are truly of that cut, I can surely offer regular employment.”
For a moment there was silence while both parties eyed each other cautiously. And then Mr Riley explained further.
Chapter Eleven
It was several days later that Ball sent for King. When the call came he was alone in his office and trying to concentrate on the work before him. But it had been a losing battle: in the cool of that morning's walk to his work, the shimmering Mediterranean had seemed more alluring than ever as it lay so tantalisingly close, yet still beyond his reach. And now Grand Harbour housed the spring convoy, which was currently in the throws of being unloaded. Ships from England, carrying news of the war and gossip about his fellow officers, yet all he could do was intern himself within the stone walls of his office and worry about the cashing of pay tickets with regards to the Relief of Discharged Soldiers and Sailors Act of 1803.
King guessed the summons would be in some way connected with the convoy's arrival; information may even have been received that affected his career, although he dared not wonder what. And, if the Civil Commissioner had received news, it would mean the general post must soon be released, although King wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. His personal matters were something of a tangle with Juliana alternating between tugging at his heart strings and finances. He already had sufficient accounts outstanding that had been run up by his estranged wife, whose allocation of half his wages was not proving enough to fund her current lifestyle. At the last assessment he could just about keep the wolves at bay, although there may be more in the pack by now and, despite the tremendous help received from the Lesro family, there could be no doubting that living on land was more expensive than at sea.
But what worried him most was any official communication from the Admiralty. They would know all about his wound by now and, while a one armed lieutenant might be permitted to retain an existing post, the Board may have decided to exclude him from further service, and this probability bothered him more than anything else. But King delayed for no more than a second; whatever the news, it would not be improved by him being tardy, and he gave a cursory brush at his uniform tunic, before hurrying from the room.
As soon as he had been shown into Sir Alexander's more spacious office, all doubts began to fade, however. This was the position of power. A cautious government might have denied him the official title of governor, but there was no doubting that Ball was in total charge of this tiny kingdom. All military and civil matters needed his instigation or approval, and even major political decisions that could not wait the weeks required to refer to Nelson, Gibraltar or London rested entirely upon his shoulders. In past times the room in which he stood must have seen many important decisions taken, and there would be more in the future, yet for now King was to be the subject of attention and, for a brief moment, he wallowed in the feeling of reflected importance.
The great man was seated behind his mahogany desk and still appeared intent on the previous task, although he did find time to glance up and give King a welcoming smile, while indicating the row of plain wooden chairs that faced him.
“Ah, King,” he said finally, before ringing a small bell. A dark youth in civilian dress entered silently and collected the folder of papers from the desk, but Ball seemed not to notice, and gave King his entire
attention. “You will have seen the returns from Captain Elliot,” he said, referring to yet another pile of documents. “I wanted to make sure all was in order, and that they are passed on as soon as is possible.”
King's heart fell slightly. That was all the interview was about: checking the paperwork was correct. The fact that King had been taken away from that very task would have been lost on most commanders, although Ball was of a different type, and might even appreciate the foolishness of such a situation. But King let it pass; he apparently remained on the Navy List, and neither had his current position as an undersecretary been disallowed. But still he felt mildly disappointed that this was the entire reason for Ball to have sent for him.
There was more, however: a lot more. King sensed this almost straight away when the Civil Commissioner regarded him in silence and what might almost have been humour.
“I am asking you to do so because your services are needed elsewhere,” he said, and King's spirits dropped further. Elsewhere meant another department, when he had only just grown accustomed to his current position and work. And he was struggling as it was; supposing this new position was one he could not handle? He may have to give it up, which was as good a way to finish his naval career as any. Then Ball said the words that made his head begin to spin.
“I am delighted to inform you that My Lords of the Admiralty have confirmed my recommendation, and you are to be promoted. My hearty congratulations, Commander King.”
For a moment neither man spoke; King through confusion and shock, Ball because this was one of the few tasks he was entrusted with that held an element of pleasure, and he wished to enjoy the moment.
“Do you not want to know more?” he asked finally.
King came out of his trance and nodded mutely.
“The Admiralty regard your action in bringing men away from Prometheus as commendable,” Ball announced, obviously paraphrasing from a paper in front of him. “The date of your commission has consequently been set as December the twenty-fourth, so you have accrued almost five month's seniority, as well as a fair amount in back pay,” Ball continued, his eyes twinkling slightly, before adding, “We shall ask your colleague Mr Martin to calculate the latter, as such things are not exactly your forte.”