The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

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The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9) Page 22

by Alaric Bond


  There were at least fifteen of them: some were probably officers armed with swords, and others carried muskets. But had there been twice that number, Adams would have been more than a match for them. Blasting along the deck, he slashed his cutlass sideways through the air, then, raising it once more, brought the weapon down heavily on the first unprepared seaman. Others were beside and behind him, and seemed spurred on by his efforts. An officer fell to the muscular arm and deadly blade of Richardson, a man more used to battling with heavy casks and stores in Kestrel's hold, while Farmer, another who took obvious delight in dealing with a softer enemy, ploughed into the crowd with an energy that almost matched Adams'. And there was a marine, running forward with his Bess held out straight and bayonet gleaming. Someone was crying out in French; Adams wondered if he might be offering surrender, but his blood was up and the man stopped shouting long enough to leap back and avoid his flashing blade.

  And then it all seemed to be over. The French had withdrawn to the dubious safety of the taffrail, and were raising empty hands as they called for quarter. Adams lowered his cutlass and, panting heavily, reviewed the situation. The men before him had no fight left in them while, behind, he could tell the main deck was also in British hands. It might take a while to flush out any below, but that could be done almost at their leisure. The brig was theirs, that was the crucial element.

  At which point Adams remembered the reason for his sudden surge of energy and anger: Hunt had fallen. The image of his body came back to him and suddenly their victory lost all importance.

  * * *

  Kestrel was charged with despatches, so King could not afford to delay long. But the captured brig's captain must still be interviewed, and this was carried out a bare two hours later. And he did so in the shambolic surrounding of his own quarters that were yet to be restored from being cleared for action. Brehaut was there; King had asked for the sailing master's presence as the Jerseyman was a fluent French speaker. Besides, despite his recent victory, King felt in need of support. And Hunt was unavailable.

  But Brehaut's translation skills were not needed: the French captain spoke excellent English, the papers that licensed the brig to act as a privateer were all in order, and he even appeared reasonably cooperative.

  “You put up a brave fight,” King told him. The three men were seated in relative comfort, despite the clamour of a ship returning from action stations. It was a lie, but in line with the rules of etiquette, and King had no wish to antagonise a fallen enemy.

  “We had few men,” the captain replied evenly. He was by far the oldest present, with a grey beard that would have looked distinguished in other circumstances. But there was still a degree of dignity in defeat, and he was not to be deceived by flattery. “My ship has been in action many times in the last few weeks, and has taken seven of your merchantmen,” he continued. “Though when we discovered your ship to be armed, I feared we must be beaten.”

  “Seven is quite a haul,” King conceded.

  There was a glint of humour in the older man's eyes. “Yes, but I was not always hunting alone, and hope you will not embarrass me by asking of my consort,” he replied. “I shall say this, however: we have recently taken a warship which was escorting one of your convoys, which is why we were so short of hands.”

  “You captured a warship?” King was surprised; the only likely Royal Navy vessels smaller than the brig would be cutters, and they were considerably faster.

  “I did say we were travelling in company,” the Frenchman reminded him, still with a faint twinkle in his eye. “And the warship we captured was not big – no larger than your own command, Captain.”

  “What ship did you take?” King asked.

  “Otter,” the Frenchman replied after considering the question for a moment.

  Otter was indeed a sloop, although one that mounted long guns rather than carronades. She had sailed from Malta with Rochester a week or so before Kestrel left. For her to be taken by a brig was a bad mark against Matthews, her commander, while the shame should probably be shared by Captain Dylan, who still had the frigate. The Frenchman had not mentioned the size of his accompanying ship, but it was unlikely to have been larger than a fifth rate.

  “We were not blessed with men as it was,” the captain lamented. “After taking our prizes, I was left with two officers, and less than half my original crew.”

  There was nothing to say to that; King's earlier suspicions might have been confirmed, but it gave him little pleasure. Already he had started to berate himself for not handling the action differently. He could have turned at the last moment, yawed sufficiently to offer his larboard broadside to the enemy ship's stern. The French may even have struck without his needing to open fire, but would have done so for certain if he had. And, either way, Hunt would be with him now to share in the victory.

  A tap came at the door and King called for whoever it was to enter. The internal partitions had yet to be replaced and he could see the activity on the main deck behind Steven as he entered.

  “We've discovered a British officer,” the midshipman told him, while eyeing the French captain cautiously. “Man by the name of Burke, and a Royal Navy lieutenant it would seem. He was being held in the brig: Mr Adams has sent him across.”

  “Very good,” King said, then, to his prisoner. “You will excuse me, I am certain: I must see to this. Mr Brehaut will remain with you.”

  “I am sure I shall be in excellent company,” the Frenchman replied, bowing slightly in his seat. “But I would say this one thing before you leave, Captain.”

  King waited.

  “The ship I sailed with is a far larger vessel than my brig. And she is not a privateer, but a French national, with a full crew and many guns.” He paused, and the slight smile returned again. “You are a young man, and this is probably your first command. I would not wish to see you captured so soon.”

  King was surprised, both by what the Frenchman said, as well as his apparent truthfulness, and for a moment struggled for an answer. But his guest had more to add.

  “I have a son no older than you,” the privateer continued. “And, you will forgive me, but he has also been wounded in a similar manner.”

  “Is he serving at sea?” King asked. The Frenchman shook his head.

  “No, your country is holding him as their prisoner. In the last war such things did not happen; he would have been released immediately upon swearing not to fight until an exchange could be made. It is sad that our countries no longer honour such traditions, but then that is the nature of war, I suppose.”

  Once more his enemy's apparent sincerity took King aback. This time he simply nodded in reply. For a moment their eyes met, then King left the room as quickly as his dignity would allow.

  * * *

  The officer Adams had discovered was indeed a lieutenant. King would have placed him in his fifties, although the balding head and rheumy eyes might have made him look older. But there was nothing wrong with his mind; he stood up as soon as King entered the gun room, and told his story in full once they were introduced.

  “I was premier of Otter,” he began, in a powerful, voice. “We were taking a convoy of victuallers to Admiral Nelson.”

  “Toulon, or Agincourt Sound?” King interrupted.

  “The French coast was our official destination, sir,” Burke replied. “Though we were to pass by the north coast of Sardinia in case any of the squadron were to be found there. But as it happened we did not make it very far; a couple of French ships jumped us just north of Pantelleria.”

  King nodded; they had passed the small Mediterranean island a few days back, and could only have missed the action by a matter of hours.

  “The French had a twelve-pounder frigate in addition to the privateer brig,” he said, his eyes now settling on the deck of the gun room. “We could have dealt with them easy enough while keeping the merchants safe, but Captain Dylan of the Rochester decided otherwise. I fear we were rather abandoned to our fate.”
/>   There was an uneasy silence. Besides King and Burke, Steven, the midshipman, was present, as well as a couple of hands from the carpenter's team who were stopping a shot hole to the starboard side. And despite their differences in rank, all felt mildly awkward at the lieutenant's veiled criticism of a superior officer.

  “The enemy frigate made for us,” Burke continued. “And let off a couple of broadsides, one of which took down our foremast. We sent three back in reply, but there's precious little a sloop can do against a frigate – not without support,” he added, the bitterness still evident. “I'm afraid the end was quick, and we were unable to destroy the confidential papers.”

  That would explain the brig's correct answer to Kestrel's private signal, King supposed. “And Rochester, was she not involved?” he asked. The elderly man shook his head.

  “They were set on protecting the convoy,” he replied. “And there is nothing wrong in that; some may even argue stores are more valuable than warships, though it isn't a line I hold with. But I say again, between us we could have protected the convoy and seen off the attackers: one or even both might even have been taken, if only Captain Dylan...” The man halted, then seemed to recover his composure. “Whatever, it was growing dark, and I believe the rest of the convoy were able to make their escape.” Now the eyes raised, and Burke looked King straight in the face. “Though I should be interested to learn Captain Dylan's view of the proceedings.”

  It wasn't for King to comment either way, but nothing in the lieutenant's story surprised him. The rights and wrongs were for another time however; what mattered now was a powerful French frigate lay on their path to Gibraltar, while Kestrel would have to lose a fair percentage of her crew seeing the captured brig back to Malta.

  “You are unharmed?” King asked, and received a nod in reply.

  “Sound in wind and limb,” Burke confirmed. “Frogs treated us well, and cared for our wounded, though there was no one experienced in such matters to hand. Otter is probably on her way back to some French port with them on board – not sure why they kept me, probably because I was the senior man.”

  “What of your captain?” King asked, then instantly regretted it, as Burke's face now took on a look of pure anger.

  “Commander Matthews was killed in the second broadside,” he said. “He were a fine officer, and deserved better – certainly a deal more support from Captain Dylan.”

  * * *

  By nightfall progress had been made. The brig was as sound as Kestrel's carpenters could make her, and had been sent off with the remains of the sloop's marine contingent on board, together with the twelve hands King grudgingly allowed. Lieutenant Burke announced himself keen to take command, which was a blessing, but needed support, so King had also lost Broome and Adams. The latter was definitely a nuisance as, with Hunt severely injured, he now lacked any commissioned officer, and would have to stand a watch himself.

  But the wounding of his friend meant a good deal more than simply an adjustment to the watch bill. He had spoken with him as much as was possible, but Hunt was clearly in pain, while Cruickshank, the surgeon King had taken aboard in Malta, had turned out to be a bad bargain of the first order.

  Rather than offering any form of positive prognosis, the wiry little man could only shake his head and sigh. And nothing was good enough: there was insufficient light, space, and trained medical assistance, while even Hunt's injury, which was of the shoulder, and surely could not have been so very complicated, seemed to disappoint him in some way.

  “It's not just the simple matter of inserting a bullet probe,” the man had complained, holding a long rod of iron up for King to consider. “The ball is lodged within the joint, and can not be easily extracted. Were we on land, and in a room suitable for operations, I might attempt more, but at sea...”

  Clearly several attempts had been made as the slender tool looked unspeakably messy. King was unsure how much more he should insist upon, and found himself missing Robert Manning's reserved competence more than ever. He was no medic himself; in fact, since his own major wound, such matters rather turned his stomach. But still he knew enough to understand his friend's life was in danger, and was equally aware that, should the worst happen, he would never be able to forgive himself.

  King was no stranger to bereavement; during the course of his career he had lost many trusted friends from Crowley, the lunatic but strangely loyal Irishman, to Caulfield, first lieutenant of two ships he had served aboard. These, along with countless other former shipmates, would always be mourned and he had no wish to add to the list. But, were Hunt to die, it would hit him far harder than the others as he could not shake the feeling he was in some way responsible.

  He had already decided that ordering the boarding party had been both a mistake and a waste of lives; two regular hands had died, together with three men injured besides Hunt. Even if he had not threatened to rake the brig, he now knew the French captain to be an honourable man: King could not believe he would have held out for very much longer. And, though he accepted his reasons relied heavily on hindsight, they continued to grow, until he found it hard to think of anything else.

  Then there had been that last, agonizing, dilemma. The winds had not been kind so far: they were currently eight days out from Malta, when the entire journey to Gibraltar could have been completed in less. If matters did not improve it would be more than a week before they raised the British port, so there was little option other than send the captured brig back to Malta with Burke in command. And Cruickshank might not be a medical genius, but at least he had some knowledge: the temptation to include him, and all their wounded, with Burke was strong. But then he would be left with sixty odd men aboard Kestrel and absolutely no medical facilities whatsoever, while there were still several hundred miles of hostile waters to cover.

  Either choice might be a mistake, but if they spent a good deal longer reaching Gibraltar, and Hunt were to die, King would be doubly responsible – especially when he might have made Malta and received proper attention in the same time. And all the while the knowledge that Hunt was Sara's beau and, for all he knew, lover, hung in the background like a toothache he was determined to ignore. King told himself it had no bearing on the matter, but was no nearer to believing it then, as when he ordered his friend to lead the boarding party in the first place.

  Chapter Eighteen

  However, the morning of the tenth day brought news of a sort, and almost hope. Kestrel fell in with a convoy steering a similar course during the night and, when dawn broke, she was all but amongst them. There were ten ships in all; mostly merchants, including a brig King had noticed anchored in Grand Harbour on several occasions. And in charge of them all was a Royal Navy frigate.

  It should have come as no surprise to see such a ship: despite the famed shortage, several fifth rates regularly called at Valletta, and King knew all of them, as well as a good few of their officers. Some were used as convoy escorts, a task this particular one was currently engaged in, and he already had an inkling she was nearby. But still King could not suppress a slight gasp when the frigate responded to Kestrel's private signal, and her identity was confirmed.

  “Rochester,” Midshipman Steven announced, with more than a hint of astonishment himself. “Captain William Dylan.”

  And obviously he knew Dylan remained in command, but there was something of a shock in hearing it confirmed so publicly: almost as if the ship's very presence was an insult to those who had died aboard Otter.

  King was aware of the rumours circulating about her captain; even ignoring this recent incident, few officers had a good word to say for him. But Ball was merely a civil commissioner; whatever his feelings, he could not simply remove Dylan from the ship. For a post captain to be deprived of his command officially required a court martial, an act of parliament, or the vessel's loss, even if more subtle measures were often taken and usually proved sufficient. King had no idea if the wheels had been set in motion in Dylan's case, but they were bound to g
rind slowly and, for the time being at least, he still had charge of one of the prettiest frigates in the navy.

  “Signal from Rochester,” the lookout reported, and King glanced across. As luck would have it, their course was taking them straight past the convoy, and almost within hailing distance of the frigate. But Kestrel remained charged with despatches, so was carrying only slightly less than a dangerous amount of canvas, and passed by the small collection of ships at almost twice their speed.

  “To captain,” Steven began, over a muddle of code books. “Return to fleet and await orders.”

  King snorted. After the loss of Otter, Dylan obviously felt in need of support; consequently he was directing Kestrel to remain with him and take up escort duties. But the convoy was due to alter course shortly and call on Nelson's ships; King could not afford to delay and was fortunate in having a sound excuse to avoid doing so.

  “Make, 'regret, unable to comply. Am carrying despatches',” he ordered, adding, “Or however that can best be sent.”

  Steven noted the message on his pad and nodded wisely. “I can do it in two hoists, sir,” he said.

  King waited while the reply was made. He supposed there might also be a compromise. Rochester would be carrying a competent surgeon; one who may be willing to risk an operation on poor Hunt. When he had last seen him, the first lieutenant was holding out well, but everyone knew how quickly such conditions changed, and prompt action now might well see him recovering before they raised Gibraltar.

  He could reduce sail, ask for assistance, and send a boat across: Hunt might be in the hands of a competent medical department within the hour. But King dismissed the notion almost as soon as he considered it. He knew Dylan of old and considered the man every bit as wily as he was gutless. If Kestrel were to pause for even a moment, he would find a way to use the act against King, and was quite likely to hold Hunt as some form of hostage.

 

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