by Alaric Bond
King reached into his tunic pocket and brought out Lesro's gift to him. The gun was light in calibre for its size and would probably not stop a determined attacker. Now that it would be put to serious use, he was hardly sure he trusted a lock charged with anything other than gunpowder. It was a system that seemed to have worked adequately enough for Hunt, however, and since the loss of his left arm, King had not performed well with a sword. Thinking of the incident naturally brought his mind round to the first lieutenant. He was still standing next to Brehaut with a far away look in his eye, while his right fist held nothing more radical than an ordinary seaman's cutlass.
So much had been said between them in the last day or so, yet it was as if they had never exchanged a word, and King longed to speak with him now, although even the thought was fanciful. And there was the enemy's forecastle drawing level. He could hear the French crew cheer, see their guns run out and pointing directly at his ship, and realised then that it would soon be over.
* * *
The enemy's broadside hit them shortly afterwards and it too was double shotted. The French also had the presence of mind to delay until both ships were almost exactly opposite, and the maximum effect could be achieved. Kestrel was pressed sideways as the immense weight of iron fell against her, and a good half of the guns that Timothy had been about to fire were knocked out of action. But even through the wave of destruction, those carronades that remained were released and carved deep grooves into those preparing to board. And then, for a brief few seconds, there was relative peace; the two ships were still too far apart for men to cross, although it was clear the frigate would run aboard Kestrel somewhere close to her wounded forecastle.
Sergeant Black, the officious NCO who had mainly distinguished himself by a liking for bull, then came into his own. He directed what men he had left in a stirring fusillade of musket shots that smacked into the waiting French with impressive regularity, while the standing servers of the larboard battery were ready with boarding pikes, swords and pistols. Then the two hulls touched: Wiessner, Miller and Jones were amidships, alongside Farmer, and others of their watch, while Summers and Adams stood further forward. They had armed themselves with cutlasses and were behind Timothy, who favoured the ornate hanger his late father had given him. And, such was the crowd on the British ship's forecastle, that the first of the Frenchmen who leapt from their ship found it hard to find a square inch of deck to take them.
But in no time space was made, the fighting began, and it was fierce. Timothy was one of the first to fall. Being near to the front he had barely fended off a single lunge from a seaman with a pike when he succumbed to a wicked slice to the shoulder by an officer who appeared to be armed with a hunting sword.
He dropped to the deck, and was immediately trampled on by the boot of a British marine, but was able to crawl to the dubious safety of their wrecked fore pin rail. Summers and Adams fared better: they fought together and, protecting each other like the friends they were, dealt with several determined attacks from French boarders, although Miller, nearby, was neatly run through by a pike even though both Farmer and Beeney tried to save him.
And Wiessner's luck finally ran out: he had come across a black bearded brute with white teeth and a coutelas. The two sparred inconclusively for a few seconds before the Frenchman struck. And this time there was no child of an officer or simple bone button to save him, and he silently fell to the enemy's fury.
Soon the British were being pushed back by the very numbers of men coming across, and by the time they reached Kestrel's main mast the situation appeared bleak indeed. A further draught of defenders who had grown tired of waiting their turn came forward from the quarterdeck, and for several minutes the battle seemed to hang in the balance. On all sides men were falling, but the British fought desperately enough to cover their losses, while the invading French came on in a seemingly unstoppable stream. And all the time the dreadful din of combat continued: the screaming, cursing and praying of men being almost overcome by an oddly agricultural sound of metal striking metal and, all too often, flesh.
Pistol in hand, King had moved to the break of the quarterdeck and it wasn't until he had fired the thing for the fifth time and found it to be empty that he realised he had even been involved in the fight. Familiar faces were wherever he looked, some cheerfully exuberant, others desperate and a good few wounded or dead, while a dozen individual battles seemed to be taking place at every quarter. Even Brehaut, known for his reluctance for combat, was standing at the larboard quarterdeck ladder, manfully striking down any who tried to encroach, and yet King, a commander in the Royal Navy and captain of HMS Kestrel, felt unable to do anything but stand and watch. And then he saw Hunt.
The first lieutenant must have moved down to the main deck some while before and was fighting amongst the men with all the murderous abandon of a lunatic. Even as he watched, the young officer accounted for two French seamen, and then almost took down a Royal Marine in his lust for blood. It was a sight both terrible and sad: even to a casual onlooker it appeared he was trying to kill himself, yet King could only remember the carefree, enraptured young man of a few days back, and had to look away.
And much was provided to distract him. The fight appeared to be favouring the French; two small groups of British fighters were being systematically broken up, and even Sergeant Black's men had been forced to withdraw, and now fought a desperate action by the capstan. King glanced about: apart from Brehaut, there was only Erickson, the old shellback, on the quarterdeck, and suddenly he felt terribly alone. He stepped back to where the British colours were still flying from Kestrel's mizzen gaff, and was about to reach up to release them when something further off caught his attention.
It was Rochester. The gloriously untouched bulk of the British ship was close hauled and creeping steadily towards the Frenchman's stern. Within minutes – seconds – she would be able to deliver a devastating broadside right into the very heart of the enemy frigate. And King was not the only one to notice: his opponent's quarterdeck was less than twenty feet away from where he stood and he could hear the cries of alarm from its officers whose attention must have been elsewhere. A series of whistles screamed out, and many of the boarders who had been fighting on Kestrel's main held back, and even began to withdraw.
But nothing anyone could do would stop Rochester's steady approach, or the slow, ripple of fire that erupted from her starboard battery as each cannon in turn came into line with the frigate's taffrail.
Watching, King felt he must have misjudged Dylan; to have crept in so stealthily, and not announced his ship's presence by a long range bombardment must have taken both nerve and resolve. And he had also shown the foresight to organise his boarders into two separate groups: the first, amidships, did not wait for their ship to stop, and were already swarming over the Frenchman's stern, while a forward party would be joining Kestrel as soon as Rochester ran alongside.
King thoughtfully stepped back as they came aboard – a rough, tough bunch of rowdies who seemed hell bent on death and destruction: he had to remind himself they were on his side as they thundered past, and crashed eagerly down into the fray on the main deck. And there was an officer: the man seemed almost elegant as he strode calmly towards King, his gold mounted hanger drawn, though unused.
“Good day to you, sir,” he said, raising his left hand to his hat and even raising it slightly in salute. “Lieutenant Drew, HMS Rochester, I trust I find you well?”
Even in the confusion, King realised this must be their second lieutenant – Timothy's replacement. A welcome sight indeed and, if he had had anything to do with their rescue, doubly so.
“I am grateful for your attention, Lieutenant,” King replied with equal formality. “As I am your Captain's – and should like to present my compliments to him at the earliest opportunity.”
At this Drew's eyebrows rose in apparent surprise, although he bowed low and muttered something that could not be discerned amid the madness that still raged
about them.
Then Brehaut was there: he must have withdrawn from his position and now seized his captain by the tunic and began to haul him away from the unknown officer.
“The French are surrendering,” he said, pulling King forward to the break of the quarterdeck.
King peered down at the mayhem below. Some still fought, but there were several groups of Frenchmen who had clearly lost the will, although that did not stop the British from taunting them with viscous jabs from pikes and cutlasses. Even as he watched, a man offering surrender was cruelly slapped down with the flat of a blade.
“Belay there!” King roared from the quarterdeck with all the majesty and command of his position. “Sergeant Black, Mr Curry, kindly control your men – I will not have any prisoner mistreated.” All below wilted visibly at the sound of his voice, and order was instantly restored. King turned away, too tired to be pleased with the effect his words had caused; he could understand how fighting madness could take over any man, and distort an otherwise sound mind. And then he realised he might have been just as guilty; the French ship was yet to strike, and he had effectively stood his men down in the thick of action.
But a quick look over the hammock netting assured him otherwise. Kestrel's freeboard was lower than the Frenchman's; nevertheless he could tell there was no longer fighting aboard. And, as he watched, the tattered tricolour was lowered, and he knew for sure the day was indeed their own.
* * *
They did not continue to Syracuse. The port had repair facilities of a sort, and even a small construction yard, but neither came up to the exacting standards of the Royal Navy, while there would inevitably be confusion and delays if a captured French warship were brought in. Instead it was decided that all three vessels were capable of the trip back to Malta.
Kestrel had suffered the most damage. Besides the fallen masts, her thin hull had been punctured in several places and there was over a foot of water in her well, with the level steadily rising. But Vasey, her carpenter, insisted all could be dealt with and, assisted by a team allowed him from Rochester, the work had already begun. There were even plans to rig a jury fore although, as the sloop was to be taken under tow by the British frigate, that might not be necessary.
The French ship was far less damaged in fabric, even if the final raking from Rochester had wrecked much of her stern, and an alarming number of her crew were casualties. Some had succumbed to the splinter wounds inevitable when wooden ships fight, although an unusually high proportion appeared to have fallen in the hand-to-hand combat on Kestrel's main deck. From the start of the action, Manning had been working solidly in the sloop's cramped and crowded medical quarters, with his colleagues in Rochester and the captured frigate doing likewise, and it looked like none would be getting any peace until the three ships were brought into harbour.
But their actual destination had been decided by Commander King and Lieutenant Heal alone: Captain Dylan had no say in the matter. He was below, in Rochester's hurriedly restored great cabin, with two Royal Marine privates standing sentry at the door. The interview with Heal, Rochester's second in command, was hurried and to the point. Both he and Kestrel's captain had much to attend to; the time for explanations and justification would come later, although King had already guessed much.
“I felt obliged to relieve Mr Dylan of his command, sir,” the elderly lieutenant told him with a complete lack of emotion. They were seated in the remains of King's cabin: as private a place as any aboard the battered sloop. “In this I was assisted by Mr Drew, Rochester's second lieutenant, as well as Marine Lieutenant Harper and his men. And the act was not planned – it is important that I state that at the very beginning – I understand Captain Dylan intends to raise a protest, which will doubtless be investigated upon our return to a British port.”
King was silent as he digested this information. Like most sea officers, he knew the frustration of working under a commander he could not respect, but for Heal to have acted as he did spoke of far more than simply an unpopular captain.
“The man is a fool,” Heal continued, unbending slightly. “That I might tolerate, but a coward I can not. And when Kestrel turned to take on the Frenchman, it was the last straw. There had been more than enough occasions in the past when Captain Dylan had let down the honour of the Service: I could not stand to see him do so yet again.”
That might well be the case, but Heal had risked far more than his career and reputation in assuming command. For any man to challenge the authority of a ship's captain was tantamount to mutiny, and such things were governed by the same rules, be they a commissioned officer or regular hand. Heal was unlikely to be put to death, but a court martial could easily see him ignominiously dismissed and, even if he received a favourable verdict, the fact that he had behaved so would be remembered for as long as he served.
“I have no wish for promotion, sir,” the man explained, as if he had been following King's thoughts. “Should Rochester turn out to be my last ship, I shall be sincerely sorry. But to continue in a Service where men like Dylan are tolerated would be unacceptable, and I do not regret my actions one iota.”
And neither did King, although that was not the time to say so. There was, however, one further problem to address.
“We shall have to see the convoy home,” King said, and Heal nodded in agreement. Rochester would be carrying papers for every merchant vessel under her charge, and there would be other formalities that the officers of the lead escort were expected to undertake when entering port.
“I can send a cutter in with my second lieutenant, sir,” Heal suggested. “Drew's a sound man; I'd wager he has the sense not to let the Italians take advantage – or anyone else come to that.”
King nodded, it was a possibility, although he was wondering if there might be another.
“I am carrying Sir Alexander's son,” he said, even while the idea was forming in his mind. “He is on passage to England, and it would serve no purpose returning him to Valletta.”
“But he can be no more than a boy,” Heal objected. “Someone with a little more authority should surely be sent?”
“He has a tutor,” King continued. “A reverend gentleman who was to see him safely home though, after such a start, I think it wise to provide as much protection as possible. To that end I shall despatch Mr Hunt, my first lieutenant to accompany him.”
Despite his frantic efforts, Hunt had actually survived the action relatively unhurt and, when last seen, was channelling the same energy used to see off the French into securing the ship. “Hunt can also see the convoy home, though I would appreciate the loan of one of your boats; mine are all destroyed.”
“You may take your choice, of course, Commander, but Kestrel is badly damaged,” Heal reminded him. “Surely you will need every available officer at such a time?”
Now that was a question indeed. The journey back to Valletta would not be easy, but it was still no great distance, and he would have Rochester in company throughout. But ignoring his professional talents, in the last few months Hunt had become one of King's closest friends. They had fallen out of late, admittedly, but he could still not blame the foolish act on anything other than youthful passion. And though this might not be the ideal solution, it was the best he could think of.
If Hunt did not dawdle in Syracuse and secured a suitable craft, he and the lad should beat the news of Lesro's death to Gibraltar, before heading straight home in the next available transport. There would be plenty to choose from, and a Royal Navy lieutenant accompanying the highly esteemed Alexander Ball's son would be given every assistance. Once in England it would be up to him, of course, but King knew a resourceful man such as Hunt would find his way to Ireland without trouble.
He would have cheated justice, with King effectively acting as an accessory, although only those intimately connected with the facts could suspect him. And even then, King thought they would not: as far as the authorities were concerned, by ordering Hunt home he was simply ensuring
the lad reached safety. Besides, he had a suspicion all on Malta would be far more concerned with Heal's removal of Dylan from command.
It was not quite so simple with the Lesro family. Edwardu Lesro was bound to mourn his son, and King supposed the hanging of his murderer might have placated the old man in some way. But no real good would have been served: one young life had already been senselessly wasted – making it two could hardly improve matters.
“Mr Hunt's presence is surely needed aboard Kestrel,” King stated firmly. “But it seems entirely right that he should go. After all, we must consider the boy – he has already been exposed in a dangerous action: I think we owe it to Sir Alexander to see him home as quickly and safely as possible.”
“That is your decision, sir,” Heal allowed. “Though I would have thought your premier would be missed, at such a time.”
“Oh yes,” King replied instantly. “Make no mistake; Mr Hunt shall surely be missed.”
Author's Note
The Blackstrap Station is a work of fiction although, as with all the books in my Fighting Sail series, it does depend heavily on fact. There was no HMS Rochester, and neither was a French corvette cut out of harbour on St Stephen's day, 1803, but some of the characters were drawn from history and deserve a fuller explanation than that given in the pages of this novel.
Ross Donnelly. Mention is made of Donnelly's magnificent performance at the Glorious First of June. The officer also distinguished himself in other actions, including that of May 12th 1796 when he captained HMS Pegasus in an action against ships of the Batavian Navy. Following considerable service in frigates he was appointed to the command of HMS Ardent, a ship-of-the-line, and latterly HMS Invincible, before retiring with premature blindness in 1810. However the condition improved; he returned to service and was about to commission HMS Devonshire when hostilities ceased. He became a Knight Commander of the Order of the Bath in 1837, and a full Admiral in 1838, dying in 1840.