by Alaric Bond
The bell rang seven times; Up Spirits was due shortly, then the hands would be sent to dinner. The sighting was maintaining her course and speed, while there was still half the day remaining, which would be enough to deal with any problem she might cause. And if the worst happened, and the brig turned out to be the scout for an enemy battle squadron, he could stretch things out until darkness came to give him the chance of a proper escape.
And so it was that King felt totally at liberty to leave the deck. It was the first time in the voyage he had allowed himself such a luxury which would, to some extent, make up for the three occasions he had been roused during the previous night. And, as a captain's dining hour was traditionally set at three, he planned nothing more than spending the intervening time resting comfortably in his cot.
* * *
But fate had a different arrangement in mind, and he was back on the quarterdeck even before the hands' dinner had been eaten.
“Turning, so she is, sir,” Broome, the master's mate who had been sharing the watch with Midshipman Steven, reported.
King said nothing, although he had noted the warrant officer's look of relief when he first appeared. He had left his personal telescope in his quarters and was about to send for it when Steven handed him the deck glass.
It was a bulky instrument which was hard to control with one hand, and there were several scratches on the lenses. But Kestrel had gained considerably and King was able to see the brig far more clearly than before. Her hull was also visible now, and she may well be armed, although he could still detect no firm indication of nationality. But Broome and Steven were right: the brig was definitely altering course – not dramatically, maybe a point or two to starboard, but he could see her creeping steadily across their prow, and she would soon be almost hidden by their bowsprit.
It was hardly an aggressive act, however, and King wondered for a moment if he need respond in any way. He glanced about the quarterdeck; neither Hunt, nor Brehaut were present. The other senior officers dined at two, and he wondered if they had also taken the opportunity to catch up on some sleep.
“Very well,” he said at last. “Call me if she makes any further moves.” Again he noticed as the look of concern returned to Broome's face.
But he had got no further than the door to his quarters when the master's mate gave out with a cry of surprise, that was quickly followed by a call from the masthead.
“They're turning further,” Broome said, nervously repeating the lookout's report.
King peered forward. Even without the aid of a glass, and despite almost losing her in their forward rigging, he could make out the brig well enough. And there could be no doubt that she had indeed come right round to starboard, and was now lying almost beam on, while her flapping canvas suggested she might also be heaving to.
“Send for Mr Hunt and Mr Brehaut,” King snapped. It was highly likely the brig was indeed British, and may well be stopping with the intention of inspecting Kestrel. But he thought not: in fact all premonitions about her being friendly were fast disappearing, and he began to grow tense.
From such an angle, Kestrel would be hard to define; she may appear anything from a fast merchant to the sloop of war she was. And King was in a similar position, the brig may be nothing more dangerous than a trader, or there was the very real possibility that they had come across a French privateer.
Such vessels were often found in the Mediterranean where they caused no end of problems preying on convoys and generally disrupting the British lines of supply. To have chanced upon one would have been fortunate indeed, although King had never turned down such flukes of luck, and he wondered for a moment about disguising his own command.
It would be little trouble to hide their gun ports behind canvas, and alter their rig subtly. But Kestrel had such graceful lines that no subterfuge could succeed for very long. Besides, if the other captain was bold enough to apparently offer combat, he was hardly likely to run were Kestrel discovered to be another warship.
Hunt and Brehaut bustled up from below, and began to take in the situation while the bell clanged once to mark the first half-hour of the afternoon watch.
“Can you see ports?” Hunt asked anxiously, as Brehaut was first with the deck glass.
“Not yet,” the sailing master replied, handing the instrument to the first lieutenant. “Though I'd say that were a bold move, and not one likely of a merchant.” He glanced up to the sails, then the weather vane, and was ready when King asked the obvious question.
“We could add royals, sir,” Brehaut replied. “Though I would prefer not to go further; the wind is strong, but likely to grow fickle with the afternoon.”
“Very well,” King grunted. “We shall hold the extra canvas in reserve for now, but see what our friend does when we move. Take her three points to larboard if you please.”
A squeal of pipes sounded throughout the ship, and those officially on watch began to scramble up from the berth deck where they had been finishing their mid-day meal. Kestrel's deck levelled as her braces brought the yards round, although the alteration in angle also meant her speed dropped off slightly. But the main change was far more important. They were now heading to pass the brig's stern, and by quite a distance. If her captain was serious in wanting them stopped, he would have to order his vessel about; something that was sure to annoy anyone intent on an official search.
“Hoist our colours,” King ordered, adding, “and be sure today's code is made ready.”
The brig was growing more distinct by the second; she had still not moved, although King thought he could see a change to the backed main. Sure enough, the sails came round as he watched and the brig began to ease forward. Then, just as she was getting underway, the British ensign broke out at her gaff.
“Very well, the recognition signal...” King muttered, and they waited while the four flags for that day's number were hoisted and swiftly answered by a similar collection of bunting from the brig.
“That's the correct response for today,” Steven, their signals officer, announced, and all on the quarterdeck breathed out in unison.
But King was still not happy. The answering of a recognition signal was usually the opportunity to add another message; perhaps a request to heave to, or some other comment. He had also noticed the brig was not flying a commissioning pennant, and there were other small details that did not hold with the behaviour expected of a Royal Navy vessel.
Her sails were discoloured for sure, but also cut in the continental fashion, and her topsail yards hung lower than was usual in British craft. There were captains a plenty noted for their sloppiness in flying commissioning pennants when on an independent assignment, and for all he knew the brig might be a capture, and had yet to be re-rigged. But equally he might be facing a Frenchman hoping to trick him into believing them British.
He glanced across to Brehaut and Hunt. They were men he had served with in the past and this would normally be the time when he would discuss such implications. Actually King would have liked nothing better, but since being appointed to the command of Kestrel, those days were long gone. Now he must maintain the composure and reticence expected of a captain, although it soon became clear his fellow officers were under no such obligation.
“She's steering further to starboard and wearing, or so it would appear,” Hunt commented softly, and began sucking at his teeth as he thought.
“Though not adding sail,” Brehaut murmured in reply.
King said nothing but, if the other two were content to talk over the situation within his hearing, he had no objection.
“And is that significant?” Hunt queried. “Why, she is well enough set, and shall be closer when she comes about. Besides, we carry despatches, so it will be clear we may not linger.”
All that was true, the brig was under topsails, forecourse and staysails; she could certainly set topgallants in such a breeze, as Kestrel had herself. But though they might currently be heading towards her, King could alter course a
t any moment, and then the other vessel would certainly notice her lack of speed. Even if Kestrel bore no threat, and the brig merely intended to request help or information, she would find it difficult to do so, and while the despatches flag flew proud, King had every reason not to slow for even a second. If he were in the other captain's position and wished to speak, he would certainly be adding topgallants and, like Brehaut, he wondered why the brig did not.
“If she wishes to speak with us, she would be adding sail,” the sailing master persisted, unwittingly mirroring King's thoughts.
“Maybe so,” Hunt conceded, although he was starting to lose patience. “But I fail to see what difference the setting of extra canvas does or does not make.”
Brehaut sighed. “The fact they are not, when we all agree they should be, may mean they are indeed an enemy and intending combat.”
“How so?” Hunt demanded, mystified. “Perchance she has no wish to detain us.”
“Then why did she heave to across our path?” the sailing master replied.
“I have no idea.” Hunt was apparently close to a sulk.
“Perchance she were clearing for action?” Brehaut suggested. “And if so our friend may not have time, or manpower, to do anything else, let alone set extra sail.”
King smiled to himself, and wondered how many other captains had benefited from such quarterdeck conversations.
“Gentlemen,” he said, conscious of the dramatics of the situation. “If I may interrupt, I believe we may have smoked an enemy...”
Chapter Sixteen
Whether or not King's announcement had been solely prompted by Brehaut's theorising, it was soon proved correct. The brig, which was now assumed to be hostile, finally showed her topgallants when Kestrel was half way through preparing for battle herself. They were still more than two miles off however, with no other vessel or land in sight, and King felt he had the entire Mediterranean at his disposal. There was time as well; it would be six hours at least before nightfall; by then all would know if he were truly entitled to wear a commander's swab and call himself Kestrel's captain.
Hunt approached and touched his hat. “Cleared for action, sir,” he said with due solemnity. “Shall I send the hands to quarters?”
King paused; all had been fed and watered within the last hour, while those off watch and officially below remained on deck, straining to keep abreast of affairs. And, as he fully intended to be in action within the hour, there seemed no benefit in waiting longer.
“If you please, Mr Hunt,” King grunted, and was rewarded by a look of eager anticipation on the younger man's face.
As a sloop, Kestrel only rated thirteen marines, together with two NCOs, but one of the privates was classed as a drummer and beat out Hearts of Oak in a credible manner as the hands went to their battle stations.
“I believe her now to be tacking,” Brehaut commented when the last man had taken his place, and King was focusing on the enemy once more.
The sailing master was right. The brig was a good way off their starboard bow and steering into the wind, although King was surprised to note the inordinate time she took to complete the manoeuvre. Nothing apparently went wrong, but it took several minutes longer than he would have expected to take up speed on the opposite tack.
“What would you say she were carrying?” Hunt asked of no one in particular when the brig had settled on her new course. Brehaut shrugged his shoulders; as sailing master, he would have little knowledge of artillery. The nearest officer other than King who did was Adams, now acting lieutenant, who had overall charge of the carronades on the main deck. “I'd say nines, or maybe twelves,” Hunt continued, answering his own question. “No match for our eighteens.”
King said nothing, as befitted his position, but the question was an important one. Kestrel might throw a heavier broadside, but weight was not everything: the enemy could be expected to carry conventional long guns, which would out range his own stubby carronades by a considerable distance. To correct such an advantage he would have to get in close, and remain there for as long as it took. The brig was on the larboard tack now and creeping steadily towards their bows; were both vessels to maintain their present course, Kestrel's prow was in danger of being raked, although King had no intention of allowing that to happen.
“Take us to starboard,” King ordered, while pointing at the other vessel. Brehaut reacted immediately and, amid the scream of pipes and the thunder of bare feet on deck, the ship was brought round to take the wind more on her quarter.
Now they were truly travelling; the breeze must have increased while Kestrel was close hauled, and she fairly bit into the swell as her masts and spars strained in protest. King felt he was sprinting along the edge of a cliff, an exhilarating experience, if one that might end in disaster at any moment. But the thrill was like a drug to his keyed up senses, and he looked across to Hunt. The first lieutenant had been considering the tophamper with concern, but was intelligent enough to notice his captain's expression, and grinned in reply.
The enemy were now almost beam on and less than a mile away. Closing as Kestrel was, they could be expected to open fire at any moment. By heading straight at them, King knew he was taking a risk. A single shot might take away their foremast, jib boom or even the entire bowsprit, leaving his command easy meat for the brig to knock to pieces at long distance. But caution won few battles and King preferred to chance his luck early.
Kestrel could turn on a shilling: he was already certain of holding the upper hand as far as manoeuvrability was concerned. If she could weather one, maybe two broadsides and close sufficiently to let her heavy guns speak, all should be over relatively quickly.
* * *
Summers, on the main deck, was also hoping for a quick end. He was responsible for the forward battery; the first three heavy cannon to either side. Stationed barely yards away, Adams looked after the remaining carronades, as well as having overall charge of all the ship's guns. The acting lieutenant had proved a friend more times than Summers could remember, and become the young man's first call for both comfort and support.
Yet there had been little either of them could do in the case of the dead rat. All the occupants of the berth had been questioned, along with the two marine stewards, who seemed mildly offended that they were somehow implicated. Nevertheless, exactly how a dead rodent had found its way into his hammock remained a mystery. In the end, Adams had advised him to say no more. Summers could see why; without witnesses or corroborating evidence, no charges could be brought against Miller or Jones, and attempting to trump something up would not only be unfair, it must surely escalate matters and invite more ridicule. But still the anger brewed inside him, and he wanted more than anything else to wipe the smirks from both seamen's faces.
“Feeling a little cow-hearted, are we Mr Summers?” It was Miller once more; the man worked the flexible rammer on number three carronade, and for all the time they had been at quarters his gaze seemed to have been following the youngster about like a bad smell. Only the day before Summers had asked Adams to move both him and Jones out of his battery, but they were yet to go, and with action imminent the lad felt he had enough to worry about without his nemeses making their presence known. “You don't want to worry,” the seaman assured him. “There's plenty here to do the work in your place, if you comes over queer.”
The comment drew a rumble of laughter from others in Miller's team, and a blush to Summers' face.
“Silence there!” he yelled, but his voice cracked slightly and the smiles remained. He knew that, were Kestrel a larger ship, there would be more warrant officers present, as well as at least one full lieutenant. Even if he lacked the presence to stop the constant baiting, it could hardly continue with a senior man on hand. A more mature crew would also have made a difference; no seaman liked being under the charge of an ignorant boy, but most understood that order was necessary, and every officer must learn his craft. That was no answer, though; Summers might be little more than a child, b
ut he still wore the King's uniform and they had no right to bully him so. “Any more from you, Miller, and I'll see you up before the captain.”
They were bold words, and took courage to speak, but once more Summers' voice broke while he did so, giving them an inflection that was almost humorous. The threat seemed to be enough, though; Miller stared at him for a moment, then muttered something under his breath that made his mate laugh, but no one else could hear. And that was all he wanted – Miller could think or say what he liked, Summers simply didn't want to know about it. He had other matters to consider.
* * *
“They've opened fire!” Hunt announced in a voice filled with excitement, and King found himself nodding in agreement as a line of flashes ran down the Frenchman's larboard side.
For French they were; the British colours had come down, to be replaced by a tricolour that had broken out barely seconds before. But the enemy was still more than half a mile off Kestrel's prow – a fair range for the accurate shooting necessary if they were to damage the sloop's tophamper. The brig had not changed course and was actually passing across Kestrel's bows as her broadside was discharged.
There was silence while all aboard the British ship waited for the shots to tell, then a rumble of relief, interspersed with not a little laughter, as the first splashes were noted well short of their target.
“Poor shooting,” Hunt sniffed, and again King concurred. Any gunner could make a mistake and fire either side of a mark, but falling short, and consistently so, sounded like bad direction from whoever had charge of the battery. And the more so, when the enemy should surely have been aiming at the sloop's masts.
“We could open up with our chasers, sir?” Hunt suggested, but King shook his head. They could indeed, though little damage could be expected from a couple of six-pound balls thrown at such a distance. Far better to hold their fire, and let the French anticipate what was to come.
“Not yet; we shall bide our time,” King replied gently, not wishing to crush his second in command. He had thought the enemy would have altered course by now. In the French captain's position he would probably have retreated to starboard; that, or tacked and come up on Kestrel with the wind on his beam. But the brig seemed determinedly unadventurous and sat solidly on the larboard tack.