by Alaric Bond
“Rochester acknowledges,” Steven reported. “But she is making another hoist.”
King waited with interest, they were actually passing the frigate now, and he could see the activity on her quarterdeck. The black balls raced up her halyards, breaking out in an assortment of brightly coloured bunting that set Steven's pen racing. Then there was another, and another after that, until the midshipman was finally able to relay the entire message.
“You are directed and required to remain,” he began. The first five words, though part of the signal code, struck a cold feeling of dread inside King's chest as they were frequently used as an opening to Admiralty orders. “Non compliance shall be reported and action taken.”
At this King breathed out. The man was senior in rank, and ostensibly could direct him as he wished. But Ball had charged King with despatches, and nothing Dylan could do would override that fact. To actively disobey a superior officer did not come naturally though, and it was with a slightly trembling voice that he made his reply.
“Repeat, 'am carrying despatches',” he ordered, and Steven began to write. Dylan could do as he wished, King was sure his actions would be backed by those in authority. “Then make 'goodbye',” he added.
The act actually gave him a modicum of pleasure. He could imagine the scene on Rochester's quarterdeck – her captain exploding with anger, while the ever solid Heal took a more pragmatic view. And it was possible Dylan might find a way to make him suffer for what he would doubtless interpret as insolence – although King found he could not have cared less. Recent events had caused more than a few changes in his outlook. He could see now that the foolish infatuation for a woman he barely knew had been allowed to warp not only his sense of duty, but also the vital relationship a captain has with his first officer. Dylan could object to his decision as much as he wished: King's only real concern would come if Hunt were to suffer for it.
* * *
The absence of two junior officers had placed more responsibility on Summers' shoulders. Broome, the master's mate, was not a man he respected greatly; he might have been at sea for three years, yet knew little more than an ordinary hand, and what knowledge he did possess was jealously guarded. But Adams was another matter entirely.
Under his guidance Summers had grown tremendously, and was secretly hoping a few more months would see him rise to become a fully fledged midshipman. And then his mentor had been whisked away to return to Malta with the captured brig, and he was faced with the prospect of completing the rest of the journey to Gibraltar, then a trip home, without his support.
That would not have been so bad; even in the short time he had served aboard Kestrel, Summers had learned enough to make him a useful assistant to any watch keeper. And, as much of his time on the quarterdeck was now shared with the captain – a man Summers respected almost as much as Adams – his education had continued without a break. But there were many duties that must be carried out beyond the eye of senior officers, and one of these was the regular preparation for Sunday's Divisions.
It might have been thought that, following a recent action and with Kestrel's first lieutenant in the sick berth, such things would have been dispensed with. Evening Quarters certainly had, although the daily tradition of checking all hands were present was more regularly followed aboard larger ships and almost irrelevant aboard a sloop. But Kestrel remained a ship of war and, even if King had not insisted upon it, Steven, Summers and Kyle, the remaining master's mate, would still have made sure every mess under their care was cleaned, and the men smartly presented for Sunday morning.
Consequently, it was customary for the regular hands to fill the dog watches of a Saturday night with great activity. Every man was issued with two hammocks, one for use, and one in launder. The second would be rousted out, ready for show, along with a fresh blanket and pillow. Clean clothing was also prepared, with white duck trousers, bleached from a scrubbing with chamber lye, laid ready, along with a similarly treated chequered shirt, for the next week's use. The seamen's blue jackets, so often discarded in more temperate zones, would be brought out and pressed, using irons heated on the galley range, and those who sported a queue would comb theirs out, before entrusting the retying to their firmest friend, who inevitably became known as their tie mate. And the men would shave, sometimes on a Sunday morning, although most divisional officers preferred the practice to be carried out the night before, to allow for the cuts, inevitable when few possessed mirrors, to heal. Shoes, that were only worn for the Sunday inspection and going ashore, were waxed and it was almost a tradition that all was carried out in an atmosphere of good natured banter and general humour. Despite their cramped living conditions, there were few who did not wish to be clean, and most took special care to appear smart for at least a few hours every week.
But the ethos was not followed in every division, nor every mess and certainly not by every man. Two especially rowed against the stream, preferring to spend Saturday evenings at their leisure. They might make a rudimentary effort to see all was in order but, when it came to pressing clothes or shining buttons, they were more inclined to slink off for a crafty caulk in the linen store. Inevitably the offenders were in Summers' division and when a preliminary inspection brought their lack of attention to the lad's notice, he was not surprised to find the culprits to be Miller and Jones.
“All three of your working shirts are dirty, and you appear to have only one pair of trousers,” he told Miller firmly before turning to Jones. “As to you, your entire kit, it is a disgrace: you should both be thoroughly ashamed.”
Neither looked it; if anything the news seemed to give them positive pleasure, and Miller thrust his chest out in apparent pride.
“I were about to wash me shirts, Mr Summers,” he replied. “As to the trousers, they were ripped to rags in the recent action. Jones an' I was ordered to clear out them Frenchies who were hiding below in the brig. Hand to hand fighting below decks – terrible, it were. You should have been there...”
Summers swallowed dryly, then drew breath. “No shirt washed in seawater will dry before Sunday morning,” he said. “You will have to appear in a damp one, and I hope it is noticed. As to the trousers, the captain should have been consulted. He is acting as purser, and could have authorised a replacement pair if he saw fit.”
The mention of King seemed to have an effect on the seamen, as both lost their simpering grins.
“As to all of this,” he continued, waving vaguely at the rest of their kit, “it reflects badly on the entire mess, and I am only sorry Farmer is not here to see it.”
Indeed he was sorry: the heavily built head of the mess would not have been pleased. But he was also several hundred miles away and aboard the brig; it was a shame he had been chosen instead of Miller or Jones.
“Permission to speak, Mr Summers?” The boy looked round and was surprised to see it was Wiessner, the man he and Adams had apparently rescued from the grave. The seaman had been grateful at the time, and arranged to join them in Kestrel without being asked, although neither had exchanged more than a couple of words with him since.
“It don't matter that Farmer ain't about,” he grunted. “As you say, these two make the rest of us look bad – I'll see all is straight before tomorrow's divisions.”
Miller and Jones regarded Wiessner with looks filled with contempt and menace, and Summers swallowed again.
Wiessner was a strong man, but pitched against the hefty carcasses of the other two would probably not stand much of a chance, while any fighting within a mess automatically reflected badly on the divisional officer. But what the Londoner lacked in strength he more than made up for in presence, and it was equally clear to Summers that the favour he and Adams had unwittingly granted had not been forgotten.
“Very good,” he began cautiously, before looking at each of the men again. “I will expect all to be correct by tomorrow morning.”
And then he left. It was probably not the bravest move, and leaving a single seaman to f
ix the problem did little to increase his status as an officer in his own eyes. Summers could see little point in staying however, and he also had the odd feeling that Wiessner may well sort matters out more easily without him being around.
* * *
But, for King at least, the journey to Gibraltar continued without incident, and they actually made relatively good time, sighting the small outpost a mere six days after bidding farewell to the brig, then drawing up in the well remembered harbour just as night was starting to fall.
Hunt was still heavily under the influence of laudanum when the medical team came to visit. King was sure the drug had been administered as much for Cruickshank's peace of mind as any healing qualities it might possess, but neither of the visitors seemed to notice. There were two of them: one was several years younger than King who introduced himself as a surgeon. The other, a somewhat superior and well dressed grey-haired man, did not deign to give either name or qualification, but clearly put the fear of God into Cruickshank. They carried out a brief, but functional examination by the light of two lanthorns while King, Brehaut and Cruickshank looked on respectfully. Little could be learned however; the two medics insisted on speaking in Latin throughout, whilst even the most perfunctory questions from King were ignored. But he could deduce enough to tell they were divided as to the course of action necessary and later, when the older man abruptly quit the sick berth and the surgeon showed signs of wanting to follow, King blocked his way.
“What is your opinion?” he demanded, and the younger man coloured slightly.
“The officer has a musket ball lodged in the glenoid cavity,” he replied. “Whether it can be removed or not is yet to be seen, though we shall doubtless try.”
“So you will be operating?” King persisted.
“Lieutenant Hunt will be transferred to the hospital, where Sir Edward will examine him in conditions that are perhaps more conducive.” The surgeon looked about the dark room with obvious disdain. “More than that I cannot say – we shall collect him at noon tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” King asked, turning slightly and walking after the medic, who seemed as keen to leave the ship as his superior.
“Yes, tomorrow,” the man confirmed. “There is no necessity to take him now: he will be every bit as comfortable here as in the hospital, and moving a patient by night is not recommended.”
The surgeon had already mounted the fore hatchway and would be on the main deck in no time. “And tomorrow you will operate?” King called after him.
“Tomorrow we shall examine him in better conditions,” he repeated, pausing only for a second as he did. “I can say no more, Commander, and bid you goodnight.”
* * *
Wiessner did not hold much with rumours and the one currently doing the rounds, that Kestrel would be taken in for repairs, and they were all due shore leave, could not have interested him less. The ship had hardly been in commission a month and barely spent two weeks at sea; nothing like enough time to assemble the money he was used to spending on a spree ashore. Besides, he remembered only too well the last time he ventured on land, and had no wish to repeat the episode.
He had known similar incidents in the past of course; there were several times in his life when Wiessner had cheated death by a matter of minutes, or feet. But this last brush with fate had affected him far more than just another escape, and since then he knew himself to be a changed man.
That time spent in absolute panic, while he scraped redundantly at the lid of his coffin and felt the breath of life slowly being taken from him, had brought on fundamental changes in his very being. And the fact that he was rescued by two officers – young men he had previously held only in contempt, was the final clincher.
He remained a loner, mistrusting any form of human contact, and considering himself different from his shipmates. But now he saw them more as individuals, and could actually gauge their worth in greater detail than simply believing them inferior. Put simply, Wiessner now understood that some men were better than others.
There was Farmer, the head of his mess. Not the brightest penny in the purse perhaps, but the man was basically honourable, and had always treated him fairly and with respect. Cranston and Beeney were known entities, but even they revealed hidden depths on closer inspection. And then there was Miller, along with his toady, Jones. Ignoring the problems they regularly caused Summers, Wiessner would still have considered them a waste of space. But when they actively threatened the welfare of the boy, someone who had not only saved his life, but showed the wisdom to say nothing about it afterwards, he found himself reacting in a way that was totally new and novel to him.
And so it had been almost a pleasure to step in during the argument over Sunday morning divisions. Miller and Jones might draw amusement from making a youngster's life a misery but, like most bullies, the pair had wilted at the first sign of real opposition. He had stood over them both while they scrubbed away at their laundry, polished buttons, and cleaned out their mess traps until all were at an acceptable standard. And the following morning when they had stood in line, faces raw from shaving, and shivering slightly as damp shirts stuck to their ribs, it had been hard not to laugh out loud.
But Wiessner happened to know they were still up to their little tricks and, now that war had been declared on the pair, it would be more difficult to protect the lad in future.
So he was looking for a plan, and it had to be a good one. Something that would lift the boy's self esteem, while totally crushing the two men who aught to have known better. It would not be easy and, should everything go horribly wrong, the situation might become worse, although that did not mean Wiessner was not prepared to try. Years of looking after himself had given him an unusually sharp mind, and he found such exercises in human behaviour both a challenge and intellectually stimulating.
But however bright he might consider himself, and though he recognised the improvement in his nature, Wiessner was yet to realise quite how significant the change had been. Nor did he fully appreciate that the energy he previously directed against his fellow men was now being used in their favour.
* * *
After the medics' visit, King had several calls to make on shore, one being on the Port Admiral's office. It was early evening by then, and he had to wake up the duty clerk to hand over the all important despatches, before walking despondently back out into the narrow streets of the town. The last leg of the journey had been made at great risk to Kestrel's spars, yet the small package just handed over was not the entire reason for the haste. And now it seemed they had risked all for so little outcome. The warm night air felt close and made him almost breathless; he thought for a moment of calling on acquaintances made during previous spells on the Rock, but decided instead to head back to the ship, which would offer him a far more homely welcome. And it was then that he noticed what appeared to be the silhouette of a familiar figure walking up the hill towards him.
“Robert!” he exclaimed when there was no longer any doubt.
Light from a nearby tavern showed the smile on the man's face and King actually laughed out loud, while the surgeon's customary reserve was severely tested.
“But how did you get here?” King asked as he fleetingly embraced the man.
“I'm on my way to Malta,” Manning told him. “Friend of mine's been made commander and has a berth for me in the bright little sloop he's captain of – leastways that is what I am hoping.”
“You shall be more than welcome,” King told him with obvious sincerity. “Truth is, I could probably use your skills before then. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
* * *
There was: the tavern opposite turned out to serve an excellent steak and kidney pudding, which the two Englishmen had no hesitation in downing, even on such a warm and humid night. But the pleasure of being together once more was food enough for them both, and their faces were slightly flushed when the meal was finished, even though neither had taken a drop of wine.
“I c
an dismiss Cruickshank,” King told Manning for the third time in less than an hour. “And would be happy to take you on as surgeon.”
He watched his friend as he appeared to consider the prospect. On the previous occasions the offer had been made when they were both talking nineteen to the dozen. But now there was a definite pause and King had no intention of saying another word until the surgeon gave some response.
“I will indeed, Tom,” he began cautiously. “Sure, it was why I left Kate and Joshua in the first place. But I fear you may expect more than can be offered.”
King remained silent.
“I have not seen Hunt, nor examined his wound, but assume you wish for an operation, and me to carry it out.”
“I would prefer no one else, as will he, I am certain.”
“From what I gather it shall not be simple; the acromioclavicular seldom is.”
King looked blank, and Manning felt obliged to explain further.
“The human shoulder is what they are starting to call a synovial joint, and the most common amongst mammals, though complicated when it comes to repair. And such a delay in operating is equally regrettable. I surely do not have to explain the perils of mortification in such cases...”
Indeed, King needed no reminding.
“I would be happy to examine him, however – though cannot undertake to do more.”
“What say you visit him in the morning? If you feel it possible, I am sure the hospital will provide facilities for surgery.”
Manning sighed. “Would that it were so easy. I would suggest that any interference from me would not be welcomed – rather the reverse. I know naval hospitals of old; there will be procedures to go through, and a deal of eminent men ready to be offended were a common sea surgeon brought in at this stage.”
King could understand that, even though he instinctively felt Manning to be the only one who could save Hunt.
“When was he transferred?” the surgeon asked after a short pause.