by Alaric Bond
His doubts began following the incident when Summers had been found aboard Kestrel, shortly after she was taken from the French. Adams had helped to hide him and it was clear, even then, that the two were firm friends. Later, when King sent for them, they had jumped at the chance of returning to sea, but he remained concerned that their loyalty might be to each other, rather than the ship and, ultimately, him.
But all that was bound to come out in the future, and probably with much else. Kestrel might be his first command, but King had served aboard many vessels, and knew how a crew changed once they left harbour. Action or heavy weather might make or break a man, and they could expect plenty of both during the current commission. A few shots fired in anger and maybe a taste of the Sirocco; then he would know the true quality of his officers. And, he was forced to concede, his own ability to command.
“Then I have a piece of additional news, and it is something even our captain is unaware of.”
King's subconscious mind had been following Hunt through his diatribe and the statement dragged him back to reality.
“It was regarding the subject of manning,” Hunt continued, and there might have been a slight twinkle in the first lieutenant's eye. “I have just received the following from Thompson at the Admiralty office,” he continued, bringing a small piece of folded paper from his tunic pocket, “and it concerns our allocation of hands.”
There was a pause, and now King knew this was important news. And it would be good: for Hunt to have engineered such a dramatic announcement only to reveal they were about to lose a good proportion of their men would not go down at all well.
“They are giving us another forty,” he said, the triumph evident in his voice. “From Jaguar, which has come in for extensive work on her frame. It appears she were unusually well provided for, and the Civil Commissioner has asked especially that a suitable number of trained hands be turned over to us.”
There was a muttering of comments from about the table but King did not say a word. Even if they did not take on another man before they sailed, an additional forty men would still give them a more than adequate crew. And coming from another warship meant he would have an unusually high proportion of trained navy hands. He swallowed as the thought occurred that now there would be no excuse. Kestrel was undoubtedly a fine ship, and soon would be as good as the dockyard could make her. And, despite any foolish misgivings, he had a band of officers who were committed to seeing that she worked. Add to this a crew rich in fighting men, and the Malta station, which was known to be a busy one for small vessels such as his, and all things spoke in favour of a spectacular commission. The only factor he was not quite so sure of was himself.
Chapter Fifteen
Nevertheless, when he was summoned to Ball's office the following afternoon, King managed to suppress any lingering uncertainties. The Civil Commissioner had already proved as good as his word; Kestrel's crew was augmented by forty prime seamen that morning, and there had been word from the victuallers that the hard tack, which was not to have been delivered for another week, was now available. The water hoy had also been booked for the next day's afternoon watch, and this was traditionally the last supply to be taken on board. Apart from a lack of sugar, by eight bells tomorrow afternoon his ship would be ready to sail and, King strongly suspected, the next few minutes would tell him where.
But Ball was in no hurry to impart this information; instead he seemed genuinely pleased to see King, and hear his report of the ship's fitting out and provisioning.
“You would obviously appreciate some time to get to know your vessel,” he said at one point, and King noticed the older man was looking at him very closely. No captain would willingly take his ship on active service without some degree of working up, although he had been given a crew of exceptionally experienced men, and King was equally aware that the final provisions had not been rushed through just so Kestrel could carry out a few basic exercises.
“I would sir,” he began, hesitantly. “Though if we are needed immediately I should be happy to oblige.”
Ball's face softened. “You are certain?” he asked, and there was a look of understanding.
King swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he replied, and suddenly knew he was.
“Very good, then I have something that I think you will appreciate.”
King settled himself into his chair, as Ball collected a small piece of paper from the desk in front of him and read in silence for a moment before beginning to speak.
“Our confidential agents have already confirmed there is grain in the Black Sea ports,” he began, in his customary slow drawl. “My private secretary, Edmund Chapman, is at Odessa at present and has filed a preliminary report which sounds promising. Indeed, he hopes to have already secured a considerable quantity of wheat, which alone will save us twenty thousand guineas. I have to seek approval from London for him to go further and, as usual, time is very much the enemy.”
King said nothing. He knew well the importance of food in general to Malta; the island could barely provide enough to feed a third of its population.
“I assume you will appreciate why this news is of the utmost urgency,” Ball continued, while his fingers began to drum on the polished surface of his desk.
“Yes, sir,” King responded: there could be few on the island who would not.
“We are currently receiving sufficient supplies from Sicily, but that could end at any moment,” Ball told him seriously. “If it did, we would be forced to draw from the west and our transports would likely fall victim to pirates from the North African coast. Were Russia to become a major provider, it would alleviate that risk, as well as lessening our dependence on Sicily in general.”
Again, King agreed, although his mind was running on. A reliable supply of food would also place Britain in a position of power when it came to dealing with the Barbary States, should they experience a famine. Currently the Bey of Tunis was in league with the French, but all that could change. England would be able to dictate terms, meaning the release of many seamen currently held as slaves, as well as the probable ending of all further pirate attacks.
“You will be carrying despatches, so I do not intend this to be turned into an unofficial cruise. Defend yourself, by all means, and take an enemy if it will not delay progress, but do not go looking for trouble.” Ball's expression relaxed, and there was the hint of a smile as he continued. “If you do, you shall surely find it upon your return.”
“I understand, sir.”
“And I take it you would have no objection to your first command being independent?” he enquired, although now the older man was definitely grinning. King was being offered a round trip of over two thousand miles through waters that might contain anything from corsairs to a hostile battle fleet, and at least half must be covered at high speed. He would be sailing alone, but in a vessel that was absolutely perfect for the task.
“None whatsoever, sir,” King replied.
* * *
“Well, Mr Summers, as I live and breathe!”
The new hands had been signed in and Summers was in the process of allocating messes when he realised the awful truth. The list of names meant nothing to him, but suddenly one had come alive right there in front of him, and it was a surprise of the worst possible kind.
“See who it is, Clem?” Miller sneered, nudging the topman who was his mate. “Midshipman Summers, him what we served with in the dear old Rochester.”
“Silence there!” It was the voice of Adams, who was equally surprised to see the two men aboard Kestrel. “You will speak when you are spoken to!”
“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” Miller said with exactly the right amount of respectful regret. “Jus' recognising a former shipmate, so we were.”
Neither Adams or Summers made any comment: there was nothing either could say. Miller and Jones were amongst the last forty hands allocated to Kestrel, and the two warrant officers had previously decided a good deal of pressure must have been placed on the
captains of other ships to give even the most awkward types up. They had already disciplined three hands barely minutes after they made their mark in the muster book.
“You can be for Farmer's mess,” Adams told them sternly, and the two seamen knuckled their foreheads appropriately. It was a snap decision, but Farmer was definitely the best choice. He was well built and known to stand no nonsense; if anyone was going to keep Miller and Jones in check, it would be him.
Adams tried to ignore Summers' look of both gratitude and admiration. Try as he might, he could not always be around to see the youngster's authority was respected. In time there would be a showdown, and he had a sneaking suspicion which side would win through. And later, in private, Adams wondered if Farmer really had been the right choice for two known troublemakers. He was a sound leader to be sure, but the head of a mess was also expected to stand up for the men under him. And if it came to a choice of supporting Miller and Jones, or a young officer barely in his teens, Adams felt he could guess the outcome only too well.
* * *
King's concerns were of a different level and magnitude: being his first time in command of a warship, he had been astonished at the countless returns and remits he was asked to sign before Kestrel could leave harbour. Some were relatively simple and, being as they were addressed to former colleagues at his old department, he felt confident minor errors would be overlooked. But others, such as the bond for over one thousand pounds against slop goods and tobacco that was usually the purser's responsibility, were far more foreboding.
Despite having almost a full crew, Kestrel still lacked several key officers and one of these was the only official man of business carried aboard a Royal Navy ship. King knew such matters should not concern him; he had very able support in the form of Davison, his secretary, who had previously run several small enterprises. And there were captains a plenty who refused to take on a purser, as the financial rewards in doing the work themselves were considerable. King had no such interest though, and would have preferred to leave such matters to those of a more enterprising mind. He was a seaman first, and almost to exclusion: let any who enjoyed mental exercises do so, as long as he was left to sail his ship.
But as soon as the first patch of gloriously fresh canvas was allowed to fill, all mundane thoughts were left behind. The wind was blowing strong and carried with it the heat of Africa. Before they even passed the fort on Saint Elmo Point, Brehaut had set top and staysails and, as the full force hit them, the sloop began to heel steeply. She had clearly been made with just such weather in mind, and was responding beautifully. King felt the quarterdeck tilt further as topgallants and jibs were added until a cloud of white spray was steaming back from her bows, soaking all on deck and bringing a look of pure satisfaction to his face.
For a moment he wondered if Sara would be watching such a dramatic departure, and decided she probably was. The previous night they had spent a few precious minutes alone together – the first time such a thing had happened, although King was now oddly certain it would not be the last. Nothing specific had been said, and yet he was more sure than ever that the girl held a deep affection for him. Quite how that would be revealed was something only the future would tell; while she was officially stepping out with his friend and first officer, he could do nothing, and yet King remained convinced that their futures were somehow linked. He freely admitted his private life had been a disaster so far, and the fact that there was finally someone he felt he could trust, who would wait for him and give the security and comfort he craved, was as much a cause for celebration as any promotion, or appointment.
This was not the time for thinking of such matters, however, and neither could he discuss the matter openly – certainly not with Hunt. He could see the man now, standing next to Brehaut at the binnacle. Other than Robert Manning, the young lieutenant was probably his closest friend, and there was certainly no other officer he would have preferred as his second in command. Feeling his captain's eyes upon him, Hunt looked back and gave King a smile, which was instantly returned. Then they were deep into open water and the ship began to buck to the regular swell; it was a motion that woke all manner of memories inside King, and he breathed in the heady, warm air with utter pleasure.
Stepping forward, he passed the wheel and stood for a moment at the quarterdeck rail. Duncan, the boatswain, was making some minor adjustment to the fore stays, and the larboard anchor seemed to have come adrift slightly and was being secured. But despite this, Kestrel was behaving magnificently, and actually seemed to be increasing her speed as she dug deeper into the swell. A clear day and a sound ship with all to look forward to: King felt his life had undoubtedly changed for the better, and only the slightest feeling of doubt reminded him that things might still go dreadfully wrong.
* * *
In common with most ships of her class, Kestrel's aft cockpit was dark, low and stuffy. But despite these attributes, the space had to accommodate the midshipmen, as well as two master's mates, plus six other junior warrant officers and a parrot. And being situated directly above the bilges, it also stank, both from the accumulation of smells natural to even the soundest of vessels, and the fact that two staircases must be tackled before reaching fresh air and a cleansing wind.
At most times up to half of its occupants were on watch, but that did not make the place any less crowded. Those below would take their meals at the one, battered table, or get what sleep they could in hammock spaces that were every bit as cramped as those allocated to regular hands. Some were even shared with a man from the opposite watch although Summers had been lucky, and drawn one to himself. This meant that Crowther and Collins, the marine privates who served as mess stewards, could rig his hammock early and, as soon as Summers came off watch, his bed would be waiting for him.
And on that particular night, sleep was all he wanted. He had just stood the first watch, which ended at midnight. It had not been particularly taxing, but Miller and Jones had been up to their tricks earlier in the day. The pair reported that rats had encroached onto the berth deck, and had gone to the extent of pointing out droppings as well as other evidence of infestation. Summers notified the first lieutenant, who in turn summoned Vasey, the carpenter, although all concerned knew little could be done, and such things were to be expected in a ship of war. Even Miller and Jones finally appeared resigned about the whole affair, although Summers knew the two were somehow laughing at him.
But there were almost four hours ahead that would be free of such nonsense and, as he had already eaten during the first dog watch, Summers intended spending all of them wrapped tight in his hammock, and oblivious to the world in general.
He had been late coming off watch, so the hammock next to his was already filled and its occupant sleeping, while the master at arms and a carpenter's mate were playing a quiet game of cards at the table. There was the one statutory dip burning which gave enough light for him to find his hammock, and only when he pulled the blanket back did he notice something out of the ordinary.
It was small, and stood out in a darker shade against the hammock's biscuit mattress. Pausing for a second, Summers peered closer, before reaching out with his hand. The thing felt soft, warm and slightly wet, and it was then that the awful truth hit him: someone had placed a freshly killed rat in his bed.
* * *
They spotted the strange sail on the morning of the sixth day. And it was a clear one, in contrast to the squall that had hit them during the night. The maintop reported her just before the turn of the forenoon watch, when Up Hammocks was about to be piped, and the hands were preparing to go to breakfast. Two masts and on the same heading, although Kestrel was rapidly catching her up. King was called as a matter of course and came immediately, even though he was still weary from the disrupted night, and was only half shaven. And at first neither he, nor Adams, the officer of the watch, gave the sighting any importance.
Two masts could mean anything from a merchant schooner to a brig of war. The latter might
do them a deal of harm, but it was far more likely that the vessel concerned was either British, or from a neutral nation. They were currently seventy miles off the North African coast, so there was the chance of it being a pirate vessel, but still King felt no need for concern. Even in the short time he had captained Kestrel, she had impressed him with her sailing abilities, and the crew were proving equally professional. Since leaving harbour there had been three official gun drills as well as numerous exercises aloft and that previous night's storm had proved to everyone that his topmen were more than capable. There would always be room to improve, of course, but he was generally satisfied.
Some of the hands might not be quite so refined as he would like; in the early days there had been a good deal of both swearing and spitting which he was quick to clamp down upon, as well as one potentially serious altercation when a couple of men being sent aloft objected to a boatswain's mate wielding his starter. But Allen, the warrant officer concerned, had stood his ground, and a few stoppages of alcohol had sorted the others. So a little later when the lookout reported the sighting as possibly being hostile, King remained undismayed.
As he was a few hours later, when the brig, for by then they had been able to make a proper identification, came into view for those on deck and King was able to study her for the first time through his personal glass.
“I'd say she were a foreigner,” Hunt, who stood next to him, commented. The sighting was just off their larboard bow and appeared to be on a similar course as Kestrel continued to forereach on her. And Hunt may well have been right; the canvas, though well worn, was not of a Service cut, while the forecourse was showing a high roach that suggested a warship. But if she did turn out to be an enemy, neither was holding the windward gauge. Besides, King could already tell from her rig that the other vessel would be slow in stays, while there was wind and room a plenty for his little ship to run rings about her.