by Alaric Bond
But as a captain he could not complain: Hunt was performing his duties in an exemplary manner and, for as long as they stayed in harbour, he only made two trips to the town. Each had been brief and with King's permission, so when overnight shore leave was requested shortly before they were due to sail, he could hardly refuse. The ship was to all intents ready to proceed, and Hunt had undoubtedly earned the privilege. But still King could not hold back the feeling that his friend was about to make a dreadful mistake.
It was something he tried to speak with him about a final time, but Hunt remained the epitome of the lovesick youth, and became extremely agitated when the conversation ended with King openly doubting Sara's commitment. Something of a chill still hung in the heavy night air when he left and, on returning unexpectedly early the next morning, Hunt did not report himself to his captain, as was the custom.
But that was the day before they were due to set sail, and both men had more than enough with which to occupy themselves. So it was even more of an annoyance when, late in the afternoon, and when he still had a deal of paperwork to finish, King was interrupted by a visit from Midshipman Steven.
“There's a boat alongside, sir,” he reported hesitantly, as his captain appeared anything but receptive. “Two gentlemen wish to come aboard and speak with you.”
“Who are they?” King snapped, guessing them to be officials: petty bureaucrats whose only wish would be to burden him with more responsibility.
“One is a Mr Lesro,” Steven replied. “But not your acquaintance, sir; this is a much older man – he must be all of forty.”
If he had to be interrupted, King supposed someone from the Lesro family was the best he could hope for, and he closed his current file before ordering the midshipman to allow them aboard. But when Edwardu Lesro entered his cabin, he was not the mild mannered and genial soul King had come to know.
“You will forgive me for interrupting so,” he snapped, eyes strangely bright as they stared about his quarters. “But this is a matter of great urgency – I have to speak with you.”
The second visitor was Guzi, one of the Lesro family's footmen and a man who had always treated King with respect and even affection. But he too appeared changed, and stood with his back against the door as if to block it.
King rose from his desk. “Take a seat, Edwardu, I shall send for some refreshment.” Throughout his stay on the island, King had come to know the man well, and even considered him as he might his own father. But it was a very different individual who stood before him now, and one he hardly recognised.
“I need nothing from you except your cooperation,” the older man replied harshly. “You have a weapon, a pistol that I had made for you and Nikola presented. You will show it to me.”
King nodded; the case was actually on the desk that lay between them, and he reached forward. But Guzi stepped nimbly across the cabin and snatched it from his grasp, while the lid was opened and the weapon removed before King truly realised what was happening.
“This has not been fired, sir,” Guzi announced curtly, and Lesro's father regarded King with an expression that might equally have been doubt or relief.
“No,” King agreed, speaking directly to the older man. “It was a generous gift, and one I value greatly. I intend to use it, but have no wish to waste shot or powder.” Neither did King want to tarnish the immaculate finish in any way, although it would serve little purpose to admit as much.
“I am glad,” Edwardu Lesro replied as he collected the pistol from his servant, and replaced it in its case. “I am glad, but I am also sorry, for now I do not know what has happened, or who is to blame.”
King waited: more was surely to come, and he was not disappointed.
“My son is dead,” Edwardu stated bluntly. “Pinu found him early this morning; he had been given the night off and discovered Nikola's body on returning to duty.”
“Dead?” King was stunned at first, although quickly reassured himself. It was nonsense, of course; the two of them had only met the day before. Nik had been extremely happy and the very picture of health. People don't just die.
“He had been shot, four times,” Edwardu Lesro was continuing with the same ridiculous story, and King forced himself to listen. “My family's physician has examined the body, and declares it to have been the work of a firearm of unusually small calibre. And for any single weapon to fire four shots is rare indeed.” He held the gun up for them both to see. “I should say one such as this was used.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
And then it did seem real. Horribly so, and unspeakably dreadful. On thinking about it later, King could not remember what words he had used to reassure Lesro's father, but the pain of his son's death seemed to hit him like an unseen blow, and he knew he was crying openly before the visitors were finally persuaded from the cabin.
He stayed in his quarters for several hours after that, dismissing his servant when he tried to offer food, and even ignoring a call from Holby, the man Nik himself had discovered and persuaded to enlist as Kestrel's purser. But finally King managed not only to control himself, but gather the strength necessary to send for Hunt.
And then he appreciated one of the advantages of being a ship's captain; not only was there a spacious apartment for the interview, but when King passed the word for the first lieutenant, he knew that Hunt must either come, or face a court martial.
No persuasion was necessary, however; Hunt appeared as quickly as ever, and actually seemed quite composed as King waved him to a chair in the main cabin.
“Nik's father has been here,” he began, as there seemed little purpose in avoiding the issue. Hunt said nothing and his face was totally expressionless, although King could see that such control was not being achieved without effort. “I expect you know why he came.”
“Did he wish to speak with me?” Hunt asked.
King shook his head. “No,” he admitted. “Your name was not even mentioned; he came because he knew I had a Spiteri pistol, and believes a similar weapon was used to kill his son.” On saying the words the foolish sensation that all this could not be real returned: that Hunt would say something to make everything right, or Lesro himself would suddenly appear and they would all go off and drink chocolate together at Angelo's. But Hunt said nothing; neither did he express surprise, and then it seemed that King's brief statement had actually confirmed the dreadful act rather than denied it.
“He examined mine, and was satisfied it had not been fired,” King continued. “And no one can be sure that such a weapon did kill Nik. But it seems likely, and you have the same pistol, as well as reason to use it.”
The last part was something of a supposition, but one that proved accurate.
“She would not marry me,” Hunt replied and, though the statement might be considered lateral, King was not thrown in any way. Instead he had been expecting it.
“She would not marry me,” he repeated. “And worse, she had her sights set on Nik,” Hunt confessed.
Which was exactly what King had suspected; even ignoring any aspect of personal charm, with his wealth and family connections, Lesro was a far better catch than any penniless lieutenant.
“Did you speak to him?” King asked.
“I tried to,” Hunt told him. “I went to his apartment, after I confronted Sara.” And then his face fell, and the terrible words were spoken. “Except I came back to the ship first.”
King closed his eyes for a moment. “To collect the gun?” he asked, and Hunt nodded in silence.
That such a thing could have happened in so short a space of time sent shivers down his spine. He could still see his friend's face from the day before. They had met when King went to consult with Martin at the Treasury, and barely exchanged more than a few sentences. But even then King had been surprised; Lesro was by no means a solemn man although he seemed unusually cheerful and even slapped King quite painfully on the back in his enthusiasm. The memory brought tears to his eyes once more, and he had to choke them b
ack, while the devil in his mind asked why Hunt had killed such a magnificent creature, and not the woman who was the route of the problem in the first place.
“What do you intend to do?” Hunt asked, and King dragged himself back to the immediate situation. It was a question he had asked himself constantly during his time alone in the cabin.
“As I recall, Nik added to the order placed with the gun maker, so his father may not be aware you own such a pistol,” he said. “But he will. He is currently looking for his son's killer, and the Lesro family will be certain of support from all in authority, including the military.”
Hunt nodded again, and King realised that he too had been thinking.
“When he discovers you also have a Spiteri, I think he will come to the obvious conclusion,” King continued. “And you will be sent for.”
“How long will that take?” Hunt asked, and King sighed. How long indeed – it was an impossible question. But even if Edwardu Lesro did not contact the gun maker himself, the man must surely send his account, and then it would be clear that two weapons were made rather than one. Lesro senior was a man of business, he would discover who his son had given the other weapon to, and draw the obvious conclusion.
“Will you hand me in?”
King had no answer for that either. Probably it would be his duty; with Timothy joining them, Kestrel could still sail without a first lieutenant, and doing so would probably save Edwardu Lesro a modicum of anguish. But it must also condemn Hunt to the gallows; the crime was a civil one, so he would not even be given the dignity of a firing squad.
“I think I probably should,” he said at last.
“But we are due to sail in the morning,” Hunt was pleading now, and the act made King physically wince. “We can surely do so with me on board?”
“To what end?” King demanded. “As you know, we are bound for Sicily, the French Coast, and then Gibraltar, but shall surely return to Valletta eventually. And when we do, there can be no doubt that you will be required to stand trial.”
“I could leave before,” Hunt barely whispered, yet King heard every word, and it was one of the scenarios he had also considered. Hunt might put himself up for exchange with an officer in the Mediterranean squadron, although such a move would not thwart the authorities for long, while leaving the ship at Gibraltar would hardly be any better. But Syracuse, their first port of call, was another matter. It was a foreign port but, were he to find his way ashore, Hunt should be able to disappear without trouble.
What would become of him then was anyone's guess; he might possibly find himself a new life, but a friendless British officer with no knowledge of the language was not likely to prosper and he could meet death in any number of ways.
“It would be a chance,” Hunt said, sensing King was not totally decided. “If I could only get back home I should be safe. My father owns property in Ireland; were I there, no one would ever reach me, or send me back if they did.”
Now that was an option King had not considered. Hunt may well find shelter in Ireland, even if getting there would be difficult. It was possible that he could quit Kestrel when they reached the blockading squadron off Toulon, then seek transport back in a supply vessel. But that would draw attention to his leaving, and by then Hunt may even be known as a wanted man.
And a journey across country would be equally dangerous: most of Europe was under the control of Bonaparte. Such a thing was possible, but Hunt was liable to be captured and, if the French got wind of his reason for fleeing, King did not like to consider the propaganda that must surely follow.
There had to be another way; he could not simply consign his friend to death. But Hunt was still talking, and King forced himself to listen.
“I know what I did was wrong, and regret it more than anyone can tell. Nothing I do will bring him back though and, if you hand me over now, I will die. And you will be every bit as responsible for my death as I am for Nik's.”
* * *
If anything was to take King's mind from the tragedy of the whole affair it was the news that greeted him at first light. The convoy was due to depart at ten: four bells in the forenoon watch, which would give them almost twelve hours to assemble and make a start on the short journey to Sicily before darkness descended. Preparations had originally been made with Maidstone as escort leader, although her being called in for refit prevented this, and Amazon was later earmarked as her replacement. But on the morning of departure another substitution was made. King might have learned of it by a hastily scrawled note from the shore received the night before but, with the distraction of the drama that later unfolded, it had gone unread. But there was no ignoring the later, and far more detailed, order that followed the next morning. Little had been changed; King was still requested and required to conduct the ship and her charges to Sicily, but now he would be at all times under the command and direction of Captain William Dylan of His Britannic Majesty's ship, Rochester.
Despite his threat, Dylan had not reported King for failing to stay with the earlier convoy and nothing further was heard of the incident. But even though their paths had not crossed since, the rumours circulating about both him and his command were hard to ignore. These had recently been added to by news of Otter's effectual abandonment being made public, and King was genuinely surprised to learn Rochester was still under Dylan's charge.
But that was just one of many irritations that morning; the water hoy was late in coming alongside, delaying Kestrel's departure, and five of the liberty men due back the previous day had still to show when she finally sailed. The convoy proved reasonably biddable, though; they passed out of the harbour entrance without incident and were taking the prevailing southerly on their starboard quarter by noon.
And once clear of the land, Kestrel seemed to take on a different personality; dipping and bucking as King and Brehaut guided her through the collection of ships, whenever a merchant strayed from their station or required attention. The new main topmast was far stiffer, and King found himself revelling in her slick manoeuvrability. Not all were enjoying the sensation, however: a number of hands, some quite seasoned, gathered at the leeward bulwark while land was still in plain sight and began stolidly throwing up over the side. For the hundredth time, King blessed his cast iron gut, and then noticed a familiar figure amid the line.
It was young Ball, Sir Alexander's son. The boy gripped the top rail with whitened knuckles while passing through the regular spasms of misery, but what surprised him more was seeing Hunt alongside.
The first lieutenant was not affected, but had laid a hand upon the lad, and was clearly comforting him. It was as if Hunt recognised another in distress, and was a cheering sight: one that helped dismiss the cloud of gloom that seemed to have descended since the previous night. Lang, the boy's tutor, was also aboard and shared a cabin in the gun room with his charge. But if the youngster had found an additional friend, it could only be for the good, and King was not blind to the fact that it also made the responsibility of having the Civil Commissioner's son aboard a little less demanding.
And Dylan was not proving to be the annoyance King feared. Apart from an order to take station to windward, Kestrel had been ignored, which suited King perfectly. Rochester was leading, which was reasonable enough as her higher masts would give better warning of trouble ahead, while the sloop played sheep dog, keeping a watchful eye on the pack, and bearing down on any who looked like straying. So by the time the hands had been fed, and when all the merchants were correctly in position and looked like staying so, King started to think about his own dinner. Malta was fast disappearing below the horizon, and the convoy itself had settled down to a steady speed of just under three knots.
His thoughts remained with Hunt, however. There had been little chance of speaking with the first lieutenant since the night before; both had been on deck most of the day, but he had been heavily involved with the sorting of last minute stores, as well as adjustments to the watch bill, and with Kestrel's earlier manoeuvr
es taking much of King's attention, there was no time for what might be considered idle conversation. But even when Brehaut was taking the sloop dangerously close to a wayward transport, or King himself attempted to wear ship a deal faster than most would recommend, he still found time to glance sidelong at the sorry figure who was hardly a shadow of the bright and alert young officer he knew so well.
And King was still thinking about what future he might find in Sicily. There was a British consulate there: Hunt might seek employment within it, although that would only bring his name to the attention of the authorities more quickly. Other than that, he supposed he might ship in some foreign merchant, and pray never to be inspected by a Royal Navy vessel. And yes, he may, eventually, reach Ireland where he could go to ground, but it would not be an easy trip... while staying in Syracuse was hardly the existence he would have chosen. Then he reminded himself that Hunt had not chosen this outcome either, and underlying it all was the senseless killing of Lesro, a man King knew he would miss until his own dying day.
Sara was not to blame of course, even if, in his darkest hours, King had done so. She was young: playing fast and loose with men's feelings was probably nothing more than adolescent amusement, and it had not been her hand that squeezed the trigger. The whole affair was a tragedy: one nobody intended, or would benefit from. Yet the worst of it was that the disaster seemed doomed to continue, with fresh misery to come, along with a good deal more suffering. And King had the uncomfortable feeling that he would be totally unable to do anything about it.
* * *
Much had improved for Summers, though. Since the incident with the French frigate, the lad appeared to have aged several years, and matured intellectually in the process. He now stood erect, and gave his orders with clarity and confidence, while those under his control responded accordingly, and sometimes with relief. Miller and Jones had attempted to intimidate him, of course, but he was having no truck with either, and a few stiff words were all that proved necessary to put them firmly in their place. There might still be resentment brewing, but Summers felt prepared to deal with it and, such was his growing confidence, even looked forward to doing so.