by Alaric Bond
“Why he has yet to be,” King sighed, and began to fiddle with the remains of his dessert.
“So the patient is still aboard Kestrel?” Manning was surprised.
“For the time being,” King confirmed. “They will be sending for him around midday tomorrow – does that make a difference?”
“It means he has yet to be under the hospital's care,” the surgeon replied. “Officially, that is.”
“So you could still operate?” King asked, his hopes rising.
“I could,” Manning conceded. “Though, were I to encounter problems and need assistance, I doubt it would be forthcoming.”
“But you are prepared to consider such a thing?” King persisted, his voice now far stronger, and rich with expectation.
“I said I will be happy to examine him, Tom, and so I shall,” Manning corrected in a more level tone, “but make no further promises. From what I gather the prospects do not sound good, and I would not have you think otherwise.”
Chapter Nineteen
Even without an operation taking place on her upper deck, Kestrel would have been quiet. Cawsgrove, the dockyard superintendent and a well remembered face from the past, had been an early visitor and quickly assessed the repairs necessary. Mercifully they were minor, and would not require moving the sloop from her current anchorage. But still King was told to allow two to three weeks to see all complete. And as Kestrel was relatively well provisioned, there was no need for additional stores, or even a visit from the water lighter. They would be drawing petty warrant victuals whilst in harbour, so the only serious need was for a few tons of powder and shot, both of which would be taken aboard shortly before they left, and perhaps a few loaves of sugar. So it was that King felt able to allow the larboard watch ashore for the next eight hours, with the promise that the starbolines would follow the next day, providing their shipmates returned promptly and in the same condition as they had left.
However, despite the lack of stores required and the fact that two days were needed before the repairs could begin, King was not without work. Several messages had arrived for his personal attention; one being prompted by his written report. Captain Otway, the Naval Commissioner, wished to hear of the enemy frigate currently loose in the Mediterranean, along with additional detail about the loss of Otter. And even if he wished to remain in his cabin, with the ship so uncharacteristically still it would be an excellent time for him to catch up with his personal journal, or make a start on addressing the wealth of files associated with his duties as purser. But however hard King tried to set his mind on other matters, the thought that Hunt was undergoing surgery close by kept returning, until he had no option other than to allow the possible ramifications to fill his mind completely.
But even when he did, his fickle brain would not let him concentrate on the work Manning was currently undertaking on the forecastle. King's total concern was for his friend's health: if he had wished, he could easily have joined the group of interested spectators who had gathered to observe. But though he might fool himself that his thoughts were ostensibly of Hunt, in reality they lay with Sara.
The last time they met there had surely been no doubt. He remembered the exact way she looked and how she pressed her hand so gently upon his forearm. The three of them had been in the great cabin when Tony was called away to solve a minor problem aboard ship, and neither King, nor Sara, were sorry. Both stood when Hunt left, and for the first time they were alone together. It was then that she cautioned him to take care; a futile request to make of any fighting man, and she had done so with all the foolishness of a lover about to be abandoned. And those last words, when she urged him to come back to her: they were equally revealing and stayed with him still. He could have kissed her then, that much had been obvious at the time and, several hundred miles later, he found no reason to doubt it.
But he might be making too much of what truly amounted to nothing – a desperate mind distorting the facts to suit his wishes, although King thought not. However hard he tried otherwise, in his weaker moments he could not help but consider Sara to be the love of his life: the one he had waited for, wished for, even prayed for. And though he respected Hunt as a first officer, and loved him like any true friend, there could be no choice between him and Sara.
And then he remembered the incident with the brig, when King had directed Hunt to board the enemy vessel. Despite having recalled the event a thousand times, King could still not be certain what had lain behind his order. If it had merely been the product of logic, and sending the right man for the job, there was nothing to recriminate himself for. But a lingering doubt remained; the suggestion that something in his subconscious had deliberately placed Hunt in a position of danger. Were that to be the case, he had committed the cardinal sin of allowing personal matters to interfere with his duty.
He and Sara had actually met Hunt again as she was about to depart, when King could not fail to notice her farewell to him was far more platonic. And yet he knew the young fool was deeply in love with the woman, and had openly spoken of marriage, even to the extent of assuming King would be willing to stand as best man.
Given that Kestrel's repairs would take so long, and winds were inclined to be fickle in the midst of summer, it might be a month or more before he met with her again. By then Hunt would either be recovering, or dead – Manning had been quite blunt in his prognosis. And either option would pose problems for, even ignoring any part King might have played in Hunt's wounding, it would be no easier to court his friend and first officer's intended wife, as it would be his effective widow.
A sound rap on the door broke into his thoughts and he gratefully pushed his chair back from the table and called for the visitor to enter. It was the surgeon, and King could not decide if Manning's early appearance spoke for good or ill.
“How goes it?” he asked, and the surgeon gave a weak smile.
“Well enough, I think.” King noticed Manning had discarded his apron and washed his hands, although both forearms still bore faint smudges of blood. “The patient was very cooperative, though that is hardly surprising considering the amount of laudanum he has been plied with over the past few days. And the ball came out relatively easily,” he added. “All appears clear as far as I can tell; a bristle has been inserted to ensure drainage and I will see he has fresh dressings at least every other day. Other than that there is little to do but wait.”
“That is good work, Robert: thank you. I am sure no one could have done better.”
King's words seemed to spark a memory, and Manning looked up. “Oh, and a party appeared from the hospital whilst I was at work, but were turned away. I fear my name may be mud in certain circles, but it is something I shall doubtless learn to live with.”
“Once more, I am grateful.” And King supposed the words were true; certainly the news was the best either could have hoped for. But Manning was right; only time would tell how good the outcome would actually prove to be.
* * *
“Beggin' your pardon, sir,” the seaman muttered while his right fist knuckled his forehead.
“What is it, Wiessner?” Summers asked. Kestrel was a small ship with a correspondingly tiny core of officers. With Adams and Broome gone, their responsibilities had been divided amongst the other junior men, which meant Summers was finding himself extremely busy. And while Miller and Jones continued to stick their oar in at every possible occasion, his time was limited. But then he remembered that Wiessner was not an enemy; indeed, he had proved anything but in the past, and gave the man a little more attention.
“I was wondering if you needed a hammock man,” Wiessner told him.
“A hammock man?” That was a surprising question. Apart from the small matter of rescuing him from the grave, Summers knew remarkably little about Wiessner. And what he did was at odds with the man offering to be his servant.
“Have you been a hammock man before?” he asked. The seaman shook his head.
“No, sir. No, I have not. Thoug
h I am sure the work could be done easily enough.” Wiessner's eyes fell for a moment. “And I am rightly grateful to you, and Mr Adams, for what you did.”
“We agreed to say no more about that,” Summers reminded him. Indeed, both he and Adams had their own reasons to keep the episode a secret. Were it to come out that they had been active resurrection men, it would hardly forward either's career. “Crowther and Collins act as mess stewards,” he continued. “They look after all the junior officers.”
“But I could still attend to you, sir,” Wiessner said softly. “I should be glad to.”
Someone to look after him – Summers almost laughed out loud; in his weaker moments he had so often wished for that very thing. But the offer had been sincerely meant, and he had no wish to offend Wiessner.
“Then I should be most grateful for your care,” he said.
* * *
The work to Kestrel's damage took longer than expected, although their time at Gibraltar did finally come to an end. And while King tried in vain to find a man willing to take on the purser's responsibilities, the exchange of surgeons was far more easily undertaken, with Cruickshank gratefully accepting a position at the Gibraltar Naval Hospital before swearing publicly never to practice at sea again.
And all the time Hunt grew steadily stronger until the naturally pessimistic Manning was forced to admit they were past the point when the more usual complications should have appeared. The man also seemed better in himself; whenever King called at the sick berth he noticed a marked improvement in his physical state.
On the other hand, the wound, and his subsequent brush with death, had not altered Hunt's infatuation with Sara: rather the reverse. During most of his visits, King was treated to a diatribe of praise for the woman, along with intricate details of the plans he was making for them both, often to the extent that King hardly spoke a word himself. And as the young man's obsession grew, King became seriously worried as, once his friend discovered Sara was actually in love with him, the effect was bound to be devastating.
But Kestrel was pronounced fit in time and, when the stores were finally taken aboard and they could set her prow to open water once more, no one was happier than King. Their return to Malta, and subsequent meeting with Sara, might not solve every problem, but nothing could be sorted while lying under the Rock's giant shadow. And King, who had been making his own, more private, plans, was keen to see an end to all deceit.
* * *
The true heat of summer was now firmly in place; it was the fourth day of their voyage back to Malta and every bit as hot as the previous three, with a faint breeze that, though constant, hardly drew a ripple in their slack canvas. King stood on his quarterdeck breathing in the thick air that was rich with the scent of hot pitch and hardening paint, and decided things could be a good deal worse.
Breakfast had been three fried eggs and a chunk of bacon, while there would be cold roasted hen for dinner from the fowl he had shared with Brehaut and Manning the day before. He had barely been in command of his own ship a month, yet was already growing used to the position of captain, and noticed especially the lack of physical activity associated with the job. Not that he was ever idle, but it was strange how the majority of his tasks could be tackled in the seated position, while the slight increase in the girth of his waist fell neatly in line with the importance meal times had assumed during his working day.
Like any good captain, thoughts of his own food naturally brought King's mind round to focus on his crew, which was now a favourite subject for consideration. It was a Thursday, the hands would be getting salt pork at the rate of a pusser's pound per man. To that, they could add a pound of ships' biscuit, eight ounces of dried peas, and what they chose of the twelve ounces of cheese issued each week. Being on a foreign station and having just left port, there were also fresh vegetables. These replaced the bottled sauerkraut all Royal Navy vessels carried in an effort to combat scurvy, and King had been amused to note that there had already been one complaint. Erickson, an old shell back from the starboard watch, held that preserved cabbage was preferable, in the same way as some preferred salt beef to freshly killed. But peculiar preferences aside, after just a month of eating like a captain, King found himself wondering how the men could exist on such a mundane diet, which was equally odd, as it had been his staple fare for much of his adult life.
The bell rang six times; they would shortly pipe Up Spirits and grog would be issued. Being the Mediterranean, this would not be rum or beer, but rather a draught of strong and heady wine that the seamen were particularly fond of, and affectionately knew as “blackstrap”. King had been particularly pleased to secure ten pipes of the stuff in Gibraltar. The casks more than filled the spirit room and caused the carpenter to reinforce one of the other stores, although there was now enough to keep the ship pleasantly merry for at least six months.
A movement caught his attention, and he turned to see Hunt's head appear at the mouth of the aft companionway.
“Would you have a visitor on the quarterdeck?” he asked, while setting his attention on the last few steps.
King gave the lieutenant a quizzical look as he eased himself carefully up. He was dressed in seamen's duck trousers and a plain white shirt, although his chest and right arm were mainly covered by tight bandages. But he also wore a genuine smile, and the look of anxiety and pain that had once seemed a permanent fixture was now just a memory.
“Indeed yes,” King said, falling in with his mood. “If I can be sure they will not make a commotion or frighten the other watch keepers.”
“Oh, I should not commit to the latter,” Hunt beamed, although King noticed his voice was still not strong. “Why, I can remember watches a plenty when the midshipmen hid from my very presence.”
“And how is it with you, Tony?” King asked, his tone now serious.
“Well enough, thank you, sir,” Hunt replied. “My shoulder hurts like blazes, of course, and I long to move my arm.”
“Which you will in good time,” Manning, who had followed his patient, assured him. “Though it might not prove as supple when you do.”
“It is good to see you on deck, nonetheless,” King continued.
“Up and ready,” Hunt grinned. “I thought I would see out this watch with you, and perhaps the following.”
Manning snorted, but said nothing, and King guessed the officer was proving a lively patient.
“Well, we can certainly use your presence,” King told him, adding, “though not until you are properly well, of course,” for Manning's benefit.
“How long to Malta?” Hunt asked and King shrugged.
“Not as quick as I would like,” he replied. “We've made less than three hundred miles in the last four days, and the wind's given no sign of increasing.”
The younger man sighed. “Tis a pity,” he said, “I had hoped to be there by the beginning of August.”
“Well, we shall not be so very late,” King replied. “Is there a special reason?”
At this Hunt coloured slightly. “Indeed, it is Sara's birthday on the second. She will be one and twenty, and her father had promised a party.”
King raised his eyebrows in interest but remained silent as Hunt continued.
“It would be good to be there in time,” he said wistfully. “Even if I am not free of these damned bandages by then,” to which Manning gave another grunt.
“Well, I shall do my utmost,” King assured him. “Though we might be cutting it fine.”
“Never mind, Tom,” Hunt assured him, and it was proof of his blinkered thoughts that he used his captain's first name on deck. “A few days won't make much difference; not when it comes to a lifetime.”
“A lifetime?” It seemed an odd thing to say, and King wondered if his first lieutenant was starting to suffer from his exertions.
“That's what I am hoping,” Hunt assured him. “And a very happy one – together,” he added. “As I intend to ask her to be my wife.”
* * *
> After that King found it hard to say anything and, sensing he must have offended his friend and captain but with no idea how, Hunt eventually returned to the sick berth. But they met again a few hours later and shared the remains of the roasted hen in the great cabin while Hunt spoke excitedly of the girl, and the plans they had made. King was still feeling guilty for his earlier reaction and had sworn to himself to make amends, although the right words would not come. But Hunt had enough for the both of them: the ideas and plans seemed to bubble out of him like milk boiling in a pan, until King found he was barely listening. And then a few significant phrases did break through his guard.
It seemed that some of the suggestions had even come from Sara herself. This both confused and horrified King, although he also noticed the first signs of deceit. Post had been taken on just before Kestrel left Gibraltar. King had not been expecting anything apart from an account from Camilleri's for his uniform, and had been surprised to receive a small letter addressed in a feminine hand. It was from Sara, and was filled with her love for him and how deeply he was missed. And she had gone on with excited ramblings about houses they could take, and an allowance her father had all but promised them both, if he wished to take their relationship further.
At first he had been overwhelmed, then simply delighted; all his wishes and hopes seemed to have been granted at once, with only a slight doubt about the young girl's exuberance. But now as Hunt rabbited on in a similar manner it became increasingly obvious that what sounded like the very same letter had been sent to them both.
Sudden anger welled up inside, and King found it hard both to listen and finish his meal with any pretence of enjoyment. So when a tap at the door brought Midshipman Steven in with a report from the masthead, the interruption was welcomed. And if there could have been a better distraction, King was yet to know of it.
* * *
“We made the sighting half an hour back,” Brehaut, who had the afternoon watch, announced when King arrived on the quarterdeck. “I would have sent for you, but it were a long way off and we were barely foreclosing,” the sailing master continued. “But now our friend has turned towards us.”