by Alaric Bond
And he was certainly appreciating Wiessner's attention as hammock man. When the seaman offered, he had been doubtful. The man had something of a reputation for being aloof and, despite their paths being forced together, he would not have been Summers' first choice for a sea daddy. But he was proving excellent in both roles: tending to the lad's kit and comfort with the attention, if not of a professional servant, then at least of a caring father, while passing on a good deal into the bargain. And the unofficial lessons were not just centred on the lore of the sea. Observing how Wiessner dealt with others aboard Kestrel was as much of an education to Summers as the countless assortment of knots and hitches he was regularly instructed to tie, while the seaman, knowing he had become the subject of scrutiny, was equally learning how to get the best from his shipmates, and actually forming true friendships.
Then there were additional benefits. Like most sailors, Wiessner was skilled with a needle and thread, and accustomed to making and mending his own clothes. He had shown the boy many of the skills necessary while attending to the lad's meagre wardrobe. Only that morning, Summers had noticed a fresh button had been added to his shirt. It was a worthless piece of bone, but meant his stock could now be properly set and he took the trouble to thank the man especially, for both noticing its absence, and providing a replacement.
And that was the funny thing; Wiessner had been unusually short when the matter was brought up, telling the boy, quite harshly, that he should take more care of his possessions, before setting him to tying bowlines with one hand behind his back. But Summers was now used to Wiessner, and took his strange attitude in good heart. Which was another lesson he had learned: that with some people you never knew quite what was going on.
* * *
Despite all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours, the day continued for King as normally as any could so early into the voyage. This particular leg should not last long: it was a short hop of less than eighty nautical miles to Syracuse. A grey line that was Sicily came into sight during the late afternoon and from then on all were expecting a signal from Rochester to announce a discernible point in sight, so it would be strange if they were not putting into harbour by the following evening. Then Hunt would be allowed to slip away; King might get into a modicum of trouble, although his conscience was clear. The only person he felt he might be betraying was Lesro's father, and even he, a man King respected far more than most, was not without heart. King was sure he would eventually realise that little could be gained from putting his son's killer to death.
However, it was much later in the evening that he found a true distraction, and surprisingly it did not come from a signal from Rochester, or trouble within the convoy itself. It was the hour when the regular group of miscreants that it was a captain's duty to try were summoned into his presence. Most minor infringements of duty or behaviour were easily settled, and usually by the first lieutenant before they even got as far as the great cabin, but some were still deemed worthy of his attention. Persistent offenders were the most common, and King was already becoming accustomed to both charges, and the variety of excuses that would be offered up in mitigation. But the last pair brought in that evening were slightly different. Neither seaman had been in serious trouble in the past, but what surprised him more was the officer who brought them.
King looked from one man to the other; both carried expressions that managed to combine seriousness with confusion, and anyone not knowing the pair would pity them as victims of a travesty of justice.
“Miller and Jones...” Summers announced. His voice was firm, almost adult in fact, with no trace of the vulnerability that had been so prominent in the past.
“And what brings them here, Mr Summers?” King prompted.
The boy paused for a moment, and then seemed to draw strength. “Article two, sir,” he said.
That literally covered a multitude of sins, King mused, including as it did a vast number of anti-social habits, some of which were listed, and others referred to simply as 'scandalous acts'. Miller and Jones could have done anything from spitting to – well he did not like to consider the extremes – and with a crew that seemed to be biased towards the baser elements, this was not the first time he had been asked to pass judgement under that particular clause.
“So, what have you to say for yourselves?” King asked, before turning his attention on the first man. “Miller?”
The seaman stared back, to all intents thoroughly wronged.
“Nothing, your honour,” he murmured. “I keeps myself clean, and my quarters: we both do. And there's been no trouble at any of the divisional inspections.”
That was an important point, and one King should consider when passing judgement.
“Jones?”
The man mumbled something which was repeated after the master-at-arms exploded into a torrent of instructions for him to speak up.
“Nothing to add, sir!” he repeated more clearly, and King now turned to the young warrant officer.
“What evidence do you present, Mr Summers?” he asked, and the lad delved deep into his tunic pocket.
“This, sir,” he said, bringing out the corpse of a dead rat, and King thought he heard a gasp from Davison, his secretary.
“This were found in Miller's ditty bag,” Summers reported firmly. “Along with several others. And there was more in Jones' possession,” he added.
King regarded the seamen again. The animal was too small to be considered good eating, although he did recall a complaint from the pair of vermin infestation. Then he remembered something Adams had said, both about Summers finding a rat in his hammock, as well as Miller and Jones apparently baiting the youngster, and finally everything fell into place.
“Do you deny that Mr Summers found this in your possession?” he asked, only to receive a surly shake of the head from each man. “And have you anything to add before I pass sentence?” he added.
Both men remained silent, even if Miller showed the first flicker of concern.
“Two charges,” King said slowly, “fourteen days' stoppage of alcohol for each, with double that for any man who attempts to aid them.”
Summers gave a deep sigh of relief that King ignored, although Miller seemed to be imploring him with his eyes.
“Is there a problem, Miller?” he asked.
“May I ask the offence, your honour?”
King's reply was instant. “Charge one: keeping pets without permission from your divisional officer. Charge two: failing to feed them. Dismiss.”
* * *
The following morning brought news. Identifiable land had been sighted during the night and, when dawn finally broke, the low lying coast of the Isola delle Correnti – the island of currents – was in plain view from the deck, with the darker hills of Sicily proper just behind. That was not the only excitement of the day, however. Two hours later, while the hands were at breakfast and Kestrel's decks still steamed from their regular holystoning, a call came from the masthead.
“Sail ho!” It was Wiessner's voice, a man King was now coming to trust. “In the south and running in to meet us.”
Like most aboard the sloop, King did not give it much importance. They could hardly be more than fifteen miles off the Sicilian coast, with the port of Syracuse a further thirty or so beyond. Unless the sighting showed considerable sail or was fortunate in wind, it was unlikely to catch them before they reached harbour. And once there, even if it turned out to be an enemy, the convoy should still find safety. But the wind for the British ships at least, began to lessen with the approach of land, while the sighting continued under a full sail, and soon the royals that suggested she was a warship were in plain sight from the quarterdeck. With Maidstone in dock, and Amazon sent to the west, no Royal Navy vessel was expected to be in the vicinity, while Russians more commonly travelled in squadrons, and Spanish and Americans were rarely seen thereabouts.
“I'd say she was a foreigner,” Hunt stated firmly, after King invited him to inspect. “A
nd if I'm not mistaken, we have run into her before.” He closed the glass and handed it back to his captain.
“You mean the French frigate?” King asked, taking the instrument.
“The sails are slightly reddened,” Hunt explained, “while she has a stunted fore topmast – probably a jury rig, and one we may well be responsible for.”
It was a sound enough theory, King supposed. The powerful enemy frigate had been reported on several occasions since their meeting. They need not worry, however; even if it were the case, and despite a falling wind, the convoy should still be safe by nightfall, if not considerably before. Besides, a fifth rate, backed by a sloop, was strong enough to cope with even a large French single decker.
“Make to Rochester,” King ordered. “Enemy in sight to windward.”
He had wondered about using such an emotive term when 'strange sail' would have sufficed, but remembered only too well the frigate's captain's previous reluctance to fight. If he were given cause to doubt a French ship was bearing down on them, Dylan might simply retain his present station, and not send Kestrel to investigate.
“Rochester acknowledges,” Steven reported after a spell.
“And what does she say?” King enquired, when no further message followed.
“Nothing, sir,” the midshipman replied innocently. “Just an acknowledgement.”
* * *
By midday, King was starting to grow concerned. The convoy's wind had almost failed entirely, leaving its merchants to drift aimlessly in the current, while the oncoming ship seemed to be benefiting from lighter airs in the west. But whatever the reason, she had grown close and was now positively identified as a frigate, making Hunt's previous assessment look increasingly likely. King had signalled this to Dylan on two occasions, but the man was yet to make any constructive response, while Rochester herself had actually set further sail, and was drawing ahead of the vessels she had been employed to protect.
“What do you make of this wind, Master?” King asked Brehaut after he had taken his noon sights. The Jerseyman shrugged.
“I'd say it will freshen, sir, and probably back,” he replied. “It might even herald a storm; the glass has been playing tricks for some time. Though not before nightfall, if I'm any judge.”
Nightfall – King had hoped to be snug in harbour by then: now the prospect was not so certain.
“And the frigate, you are still convinced it to be our old enemy?” This was to Hunt, who was on the quarterdeck and had joined with Timothy, the officer of the watch, in deep conversation.
“We were just discussing that very matter, sir,” the first lieutenant replied. “I maintain that she is, though either way it makes little difference.”
That was a good point – an enemy was an enemy after all. King would have liked to ask more, but there was his dignity as captain to consider. Of one thing he was certain, however – unless Rochester dropped back and took a stance alongside them, or at least made some pretence of protecting the convoy, the strange ship would continue to close. And, though he might have wished it otherwise, Kestrel would be within range long before evening.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It was three hours later that the wind backed several points and began to rise for Kestrel and those in the convoy. By then they had drifted roughly ten miles nearer to their goal, although what had always been an untidy collection of merchants now seemed to sprawl over half the Mediterranean. To make matters worse, some of the latter ships had spotted the oncoming frigate and independently increased sail, so breaking the convoy rule of keeping speed with the slowest member. And one, a poleacre, promptly ran aboard an older brig that had been finding it hard to keep up throughout the journey. The subsequent accident, taking place as it did with excruciating predictability, could almost have been comic, had not damage to the brig's gaff slowed her further.
And now the enemy was in clear sight of all: she lay off Kestrel's stern, and was showing French colours, as well as sail up to her topgallants, despite a wind that continued to grow and was now firmly set in the south. Aboard the sloop, King had given up on Dylan. Rochester was considerably ahead of the convoy and apparently content to ignore any signal from him. There remained a strong chance that at least some of the merchants would reach safety, and he still would not discount seeing the entire convoy home without loss. But it would be no thanks to Dylan, while Kestrel, as back marker, was the least likely to avoid action.
The Admiralty were not so very foolish; considering his performance so far, King was sure reports had already been made about the man. It might be difficult to remove a captain from his ship, but not impossible and, whether the convoy made Syracuse in safety or not, this would be one more bad mark against what must already be a shameful record. But that hardly helped King in his present predicament: he was being forced ever nearer to a course of action that, though undoubtedly protecting the merchants, could cost his own ship dear.
Hunt, Timothy and Brehaut were still on the quarterdeck and, such was the situation, King had no hesitation in drawing them close.
“Gentlemen, we shall clear for action.” That was a reasonable precaution despite being so close to safety. The enemy were still out of range, but combat was likely before they reached harbour. None were ready for King's next statement, however. “And then I propose to turn back and face the Frenchman.”
Nothing was said for some time, and King could almost see the individual brains working as each man considered the implications. It had already been proved that Kestrel had the heels and manoeuvrability to avoid the frigate. They might spend no more than an hour, maybe two, distracting the larger ship, and possibly exchanging a few long range broadsides, but that would delay the Frenchman long enough to see the convoy home. It would have been easier if Rochester assisted: King remained certain that together they could have chased off the unwanted attention without risking damage, even if Dylan declined actual combat. But he could only play with the cards that had been dealt.
The problem would come if Kestrel were injured. She was well armed with heavy cannon, but her hull remained thin – no match for a frigate's solid broadside. And, as had already been soundly demonstrated, it would not take much to disable her. The sloop's main defence rested on her speed, but masts and sails were equally vulnerable: even minor damage would leave her a drifting hulk that could do little other than await capture.
“Beat the hands to quarters when we are cleared,” he said to the first lieutenant. “And see that young Mr Ball is found a place of safety.”
“We could put him with Mr Manning on the orlop,” Hunt suggested.
A sick bay in the midst of action was hardly the environment Alexander Ball envisaged for his son, and was unlikely to sway the lad towards a naval career, but there was little choice. “That would do nicely,” King agreed.
“And you intend to fight, sir?” the first officer continued hesitantly.
“I intend to delay,” King corrected. “It will take some fancy sailing, but I believe us more than capable of such. And it isn't as if we have not faced her before.” The last sentence was said with a smile, and King was glad to see Hunt respond in a similar manner.
And even while the hands were breaking down bulkheads and clearing away the guns, there was almost a light heartedness about it, as if they were playing at fighting, and no one was actually in danger of getting hurt. The ship was so close to safety, their destination almost being in sight – how could they fight a desperate action now? But when the Frenchman closed further until her well remembered bow chasers began to speak once more, all was changed. And then being in a single ship duel against a vastly superior enemy did not seem quite such a jape after all.
* * *
“Mr Steven, make a signal,” King ordered when the confusion from clearing for action had subsided and Kestrel was once more a dedicated fighting machine. “To Rochester, 'am engaging the enemy'.”
The midshipman repeated his captain's message, before calling out the flag n
umbers to his two assistants.
“Be certain to note that in the rough log,” King added. Rochester was more than a mile off and slightly less than the distance the enemy lay to the south of Kestrel. If the British frigate were to turn now, she must beat into the wind in order to reach them. It would be a slow journey, even without allowing for King's intention to close with the enemy, or Dylan's probable reluctance in joining the fight.
The merchants were still making steady progress, and now lay almost level with the coast of Sicily, on a course that was roughly north westerly. With the air firmly in the south, they were benefiting from the wind on their quarter, and even the slowest must have been making more than three knots. But the Frenchman was coming up faster; unless King intervened, some would be taken, and to lose even one so close to home would be a bad mark against both escorts. The enemy frigate fired off her chase guns yet again; one shot fell short, but the other drew a splash that was level, and only missed Kestrel's starboard beam by half a cable. They would be in comfortable range in no time and, if King was going to act, he should do so now.
“Any message from Rochester?” he asked.
“No sir,” the midshipman replied. “And she has not acknowledged our signal – shall I keep it flying?”
Not acknowledged – that was almost unheard of when both ships were in plain sight. Dylan could hardly claim not to have received any of King's messages as records were automatically taken aboard both ships. Even if Rochester's were later doctored, Heal was a solid second in command. King was confident he, or one of the other officers, would back him if it came to an enquiry.