by Alaric Bond
Then there were the guns which had just been delivered. In addition to the changes required to deck and bulwarks in order to house them, eighteen-pounder carronades were weightier than the French long guns they replaced, although having two weapons less gave a degree of flexibility when it came to positioning. Their shot was twice as heavy, though, and the ready-use supply would have to be augmented quickly in time of battle. King had never considered himself the master of mathematics, and Hunt was no better, so it was doubly fortunate when they were aided by a very important addition to their number.
It was Brehaut. King had hesitated before asking Prometheus' former sailing master to join them, the Jerseyman being far more experienced than any of the new ship's officers and used to the conditions, and pay, of a rated ship. But Brehaut had been only too pleased to come and applied to his current captain for an immediate release. That he was successful, and joined them as the ship was being towed round to moor in Grand Harbour, was one of many small pieces of good luck, although each seemed to be countered by an equal amount of bad.
Some came in small measures; the simple error by the ordinance yard that saw twenty-four pound round shot being delivered instead of eighteen. And the fact that, however hard he looked, King could not find a man willing to take on the position of purser. But the most important problem he had to solve, and the one that seemed to haunt his waking hours, was manpower.
Kestrel was a new ship, and King a fresh captain; there were no hands to inherit from her previous commander, and neither could he bring any from past vessels. Several of the men who escaped with him from Prometheus had appeared, and presented themselves for service, but that little episode was several months past and the rest had either found employment elsewhere, or did not care to ship in such a small vessel. Using promises of prize money and an easier life that came close to outright lies, Hunt had been able to tempt twenty-seven experienced men away from the merchants currently anchored in Grand Harbour, and they could expect at least a dozen more from the naval hospital at the end of the month. But that still left a lot of hammocks to fill, and King was gloomily aware that failure on his part to raise a crew would ultimately result in the loss of his command.
But as May gradually gave way to June and the first true heat of a Maltese summer made itself known, he could not be downhearted. His crew might be small, but it was continually being augmented by a trickle of hands who had heard that a tidy little sloop was commissioning. And in the main these were true man-o'-war's men, to whom the prospect of fighting with enemy privateers and defending convoys was a riper prospect than stewing in harbour, or the mind-numbing routine of a blockade. King liked to think that word was getting around but, whatever the reason, they came forward in steady numbers. As June began he had fifty-four trained hands: not enough to fight the ship, or even form two proper sailing watches, but at least the nucleus of a sound crew, and one with exceptionally few landsmen amongst them.
So when the first stores started arriving, and those aboard Kestrel began to fall into the routine so necessary when most were responsible for a dozen separate tasks, King was starting to feel his new command had a future. And it was in that frame of mind that he began to inspect the ship one Sunday morning.
It was not the first time such a thing had happened; King had been carrying out regular inspections ever since taking possession of the sloop, but Sunday rounds were by far the most important. It was the traditional day for any ship to be brought up to the highest standard and, even though she had yet to set sail, the absence of any remaining dockyard workers, together with scant possibility of stores being delivered, meant the small community currently becoming established within Kestrel's hull was pretty much isolated. It was the closest they could come to being at sea, with the added advantage that he would have the full attention of all on board and, as King clambered down the quarterdeck ladder and on to the main deck he was feeling optimistic.
Nothing was amiss on the main deck: the carronades had all been correctly installed and rigged since the previous Sunday; Pocock, their Scottish gunner, was preparing for the arrival of two long nine-pounder chase guns on the forecastle, the new capstan head was also in place and, after a few teething problems when the bars were found to be a poor fit, now deemed to be working correctly. Satisfied, King led the small retinue of Lieutenant Hunt and two midshipmen down to the berth deck, only to receive his first surprise of the morning.
It was Wiessner; the name came to him instantly, even though it must have been several months since he had last looked upon that distinctive face. The man had been in his division aboard Prometheus and, although he never caused any official problems as such, King always suspected his presence to be at the centre of a good few he knew nothing about. And there was something about the seaman, be it his race, attitude, or simple inability to conform, that faintly worried him. Even during their escape from France, Wiessner had felt the need to exhibit his independence by going missing for almost an entire day and night. Quite what had happened to him since was a mystery; King could certainly have found out, but Wiessner was not the kind anyone cared enough about to follow. The last hand from the small escape party had been admitted aboard Kestrel more than two weeks before, so it was doubly surprising to see him that Sunday morning, and, what came as even more of a shock, behind a display of kit that was not only complete, but totally immaculate.
“That's a good turn out,” King said to Farmer, the head of the mess, adding, “your division does you proud, Mr Summers,” to the divisional midshipman.
“Thank you, sir,” the lad replied. “Though I have been ably supported.”
It was an additional credit to Summers for complimenting the men in front of their captain; something even experienced officers were reluctant to do, although King could not help wondering if Wiessner was fully deserving of such praise. His kit was in excellent order, but that might not have been all his own work.
“When did you join us, Wiessner?” he asked, turning back to the seaman.
“Last Friday, sir,” Wiessner answered smartly, and King remembered the slight trace of an accent. “Mr Summers and Mr Adams applied to Captain Elliot for my release.”
“Why was that, Mr Summers?” King asked, and the boy faltered for a second.
“Mr Adams and I ran into Wiessner when he were on shore leave, sir, a few weeks back,” he replied at last. “W-we asked if he'd care to join the new ship, and he agreed, though Captain Elliot wished to retain him for one more trip to Sicily.”
“I were glad to come,” Wiessner said, then realising his error, added, “Beggin' your pardon for speakin' out of turn, sir.”
So, Wiessner had gone to Maidstone; there was nothing so very strange in that, King supposed. For Elliot to have released a perfectly sound hand was more unusual however, and King wondered if the frigate's officers regarded the man in the same way he did. And the fact remained that Wiessner was a known loner: one who had never shown an ounce of loyalty in the past, so to have volunteered for Kestrel while being on good terms with two warrant officers was exceptional in the extreme and totally out of character. He appeared to have made a sound enough start with his kit and was obviously giving Summers the respect his position deserved, although King had a long memory and remained unconvinced. It was not impossible for the man to have turned over a new leaf; something King had seen several times during his Naval career. But such changes were usually brought about by a significant event; perhaps a particularly heavy and drawn out storm, or a bloody fleet action, and surely nothing quite so significant could have occurred during Wiessner's brief time aboard Maidstone?
“Well it is good to have you aboard, Wiessner,” King told him finally.
They were trite words, and the same ones he used whenever a new hand was admitted. On every other occasion they had been sincerely meant though, but this time King was not so sure.
* * *
Sir Alexander Ball always arrived at his office in order to start each working day at the
crack of dawn. So it had been almost dark when his coach passed Kestrel as she lay moored in Grand Harbour. From that distance little detail was obvious: he could not see the areas of fresh wood that still needed painting, nor that some of the standing rigging required serving. But the skill of her French designers came through boldly; Ball judged her the prettiest vessel currently at anchor and, if he was right about his assessment of her captain, she would soon be one of the smartest.
Ball had first come to Malta some six years before, when the French were doggedly entrenched in the fortified city where he now worked, and been pivotal to their eventual expulsion two years later. In the intervening time, a period that saw the Maltese people declare a National Assembly, followed by a declaration of rights that brought the island under the protection and sovereignty of King George, Ball went on to play an active part in the island's development. He had been appointed Civil Commissioner once in seventeen ninety-nine, and again, following a brief spell as Commissioner for the Navy in Gibraltar, three years later.
It was a post he felt capable of, even though it demanded much. With a stark landscape and inhospitable climate, Malta could not produce anything like the provisions needed to feed its inhabitants, and Ball had also to consider the vast number of military and naval personnel that came under his charge. Grain could be sourced from nearby Sicily, but for how long? Should he send forth further emissaries to investigate supply from the East, or trust the experiment currently running on the nearby island of Lampedusa? Either way would mean having to rely on secure sea transport, and with every rated ship jealously coveted by Nelson at Toulon, that was something he could not guarantee. Meanwhile, the Russians were rumoured to be sending a fleet in his direction. They were allies, but dubious ones; he could not place much trust in their direction when they might easily turn on the Turks, another nation he must not offend. And underlying it all was the certain knowledge that this would be his last important posting. After Malta there could be no return to the sea, that life was now closed to him, and neither would he be trusted with another foreign territory to manage. As far as careers were concerned, he was surely nearing the end of his.
But despite all that had happened, Ball could not disconnect himself from the navy that had been his life and, as his carriage passed on, the image of the sloop was allowed to remain in his mind.
She was a saucy little ship to be sure, but would sail well; his professional mind had told him that after a single glance at her lines and spars. And he could empathise so easily with the officer who was about to take command of her. It was his first such posting, and the young man's enemies would be other such vessels, instead of entire navies, with responsibilities numbering a hundred odd souls, rather than the many thousand that rested upon Ball's broad shoulders. He may also fail: lose his ship or his life, maybe both, in one unlucky encounter, or from a momentary lapse of concentration, whereas Ball had already achieved a knighthood and could expect to be granted a flag in the next year or so. But still the older man envied the younger; whether he won or lost, King's battles would be far more straightforward. A successful cruise might set him up for life, either financially, or with a promotion to post captain rank. So he could easily find himself an admiral one day, and one in charge of a fleet of liners, rather than a barren piece of land in the middle of a tideless sea. Or it would be equally possible that Kestrel ran in with an Algerian corsair, and King ended his days a slave. But the young man had a future, and that was something Ball envied far more than his age.
* * *
“Course I remembers you,” Beeney assured Wiessner as both he and Cranston were introduced to the mess. On reaching Malta, the two seamen managed to avoid being turned over to another ship, and had instead taken berths in a trader that made two trips to Gibraltar and back. It was at the end of the second that they heard of their old lieutenant's promotion and that he was now in need of a crew. Naturally they expected to meet with a few old shipmates in the new vessel, but it was clear some were more welcome than others. “You're the smous from Prometheus,” Beeney added, pointing disdainfully at the seaman.
“Aye,” Cranston agreed. “Escaped with us in the cutter, so you did, then did a runner when we was in Frog territory – though you came back again smart enough as I recall.”
“Perhaps we did not always see eye to eye,” Wiessner agreed, leaning back on his bench and adding a smile to show how reasonable he could be.
Cranston looked about. There were six seamen seated at the mess table but, besides Wiessner, nobody else he knew. “So are we in your mess then?” he asked, turning back to his former shipmate.
“No, you are in mine,” another voice answered, and they turned to see the well built figure that had joined them.
“Name's Farmer,” he announced. “I'm head of the mess, and it's a good one,” they were assured, and neither Cranston or Beeney felt like arguing.
“I never found Prometheus to be a particularly happy ship,” Wiessner continued steadily. “And judge this to be better.”
“There were nothing wrong with the barky,” Cranston objected, and began to look about to the others for support. “It's those what cheat their fellows an' can't be trusted in a team, them's the problem.”
“He's right,” Beeney confirmed. “You got a bad apple here, even if you don't know it yet.”
“Steady there,” Farmer cautioned. The seaman was older than most, and had a presence that commanded respect. “That were a different ship, and this is a different mess,” he continued in a firm voice. “We start again with clean slates, ain't that right, mateys?”
Without waiting for a reply, Farmer swung his leg over the bench and sat himself down next to Wiessner.
The two newcomers looked to each other for a second, before joining him on the bench, and gradually the mood lifted.
* * *
“We now number sixty two on the lower deck,” Hunt announced, with the newly drawn up watch bill in his hand. “In addition we have a boatswain's mate from that American schooner that came in Tuesday.”
“Is he a Jonathan?” Brehaut, who had yet to meet the newcomer, asked, but Hunt shook his head.
“Born in Bristol, and shows no wish to change,” he confirmed. “Served in a handful of warships, and was missing the life. Name's Allen, and I'd say he were straight.”
Hunt went on to detail a few minor alterations in rating that King knew all about, so he allowed his mind, and eyes, to wander.
They were a good set of wardroom officers, he decided. Hunt was proving an excellent premier. There was still a lot for him to pick up of course; the lad was barely in his twenties and had only recently been promoted to lieutenant. But being second in command of a sloop was a capital way to learn, and King felt oddly guilty about not following a similar course himself before achieving his first command.
However, Hunt seemed totally smitten with the girl Sara, something that King was not so happy about. She had visited the ship on several occasions during their fitting out, and even dined on board. Most times it was with all the senior officers present, but the last had been just Hunt and King alone, and in the very cabin where he now sat.
It had been an awkward occasion and, to King at least, frustrating in the extreme. Being just the three of them, King had not been able to allow the conversation to pass him by, which was his usual habit if she were present. Instead he was forced into saying more than he intended, and even allowed some quite personal disclosures to slip out. But, strangely for a private person, this did not alarm him, rather the reverse: he found talking with Sara beguilingly easy; the only difficulty lay in not saying too much. And the sad fact was that the more they talked together, the more alluring she became.
“Which brings me to the standing rigging.” Hunt was still rumbling through his report and King was pleased to note the other officers were listening intently.
This included Cruickshank the surgeon, late of the Sacra Infermeria in Valletta, who seemed to be adjusting to the autonomy of
running his own medical department at sea well enough. King still retained slight misgivings about him; being a medic and backed by other professionals with all the facilities of a modern hospital was a very different matter to running a sick berth aboard a sloop of war, while the poor man had the additional challenge of living up to Robert Manning's example. However, King trusted that, given time, he would prove worthy. Brehaut was also settling well, and currently in high spirits after securing a number of charts both he and King felt might be particularly useful. But he was not so certain of all the junior officers.
He was officially entitled to two young gentlemen, who could be midshipmen or volunteers, depending on what was available. As aspiring officers, they might begin with little or even no knowledge of their duties, but were expected to learn and so earn their place on the quarterdeck. But King had been more fortunate; Adams was an experienced midshipman who he had served with before. The lad was only a year or two younger than Hunt, and due to sit his lieutenants' board shortly, so it was logical to appoint him acting lieutenant for the experience, as well as making up for their lack of a second officer. And Steven, the other midshipman was only a year or two younger and almost up to his standard. But then there was Summers.
The boy was formally a volunteer first class who had come to them from Rochester, and by a highly irregular route. In truth, he was not officially part of their officer team: King having rated him on the ship's books as a regular hand to avoid appearing overmanned. Summers was also younger than all by far, but learning fast, and should soon be more than ready to be made midshipman if and when Adams' promotion was confirmed. But there remained something about the lad that caused King concern and, if he were honest, he had similar feelings about Adams.