The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  “Well I spy company of a different sort, and a good deal closer,” Brehaut declared from further ahead. He had slowed and was looking to seaward where a three masted vessel could be seen with the wind on her quarter.

  “The corvette,” King muttered softly as the group slowed to a stop, adding, “our friend's vessel,” when realisation struck. All eyes turned towards the prisoner, who was looking at the craft with apparent unconcern.

  “She is the Crécerelle,” he said, noticing their attention. “Eighteen guns, and a full crew.”

  “Well they are making to clear that headland,” Hunt grunted. “She must have collected her boats in a hurry.”

  “Would there have been time?” King asked. “Last seen, she were a good way out to sea.”

  “But why should they be abandoned?”

  “I think I see a reason,” Brehaut replied. The sailing master was inspecting the horizon with his pocket telescope and the others began to look in the same direction. And, even without the use of a glass, they could all see the faint smudge of another – larger – vessel now that it had been pointed out.

  “That'll be an Englishman, more'n likely.” One of the seamen spoke from down the line with a trace of longing. “Why else should the Frenchie run?”

  “So, a man-of-war,” another agreed. “Could have used their help a while back.”

  “Well she's here now,” King replied softly. “And if the corvette has not collected her boats already, I doubt she will.”

  “All that we need do is make contact,” one of the midshipmen piped up.

  “And how might we do that, Mr Steven?” Hunt asked brusquely. “Hoist a signal? Light a fire?”

  There was no answer to that, although several of the seamen let out a collective sigh of frustration. Knowing that comfort and full bellies lay almost within reach only emphasised their lack of both.

  The sighting was drawing closer and taking shape even as they watched. It was soon seen to be a frigate. Were her captain to abandon the chase and make for them they could be picked up and aboard in little more than an hour. But Hunt was right, any signal they made would attract the attention of French forces long before those aboard the British ship had the chance to interpret it.

  “It will do no good to watch,” King told them gently as he turned back and began to walk once more, adding, “we must continue; maybe see where that smoke is coming from,” in an effort to raise the men's morale. But even a glimpse of a British ship had been enough, and he knew he was not alone in wanting to be free of the land.

  Chapter Three

  “Take us in as close as she will bear, Mr Chalk,” the captain's voice came from the quarterdeck while Timothy, at his station on the main, peered over the bulwark at the craft that was so very nearly in range. More details of their prey could now be made out. She was indeed a corvette and being handled competently enough, although Rochester had been able to keep up without the addition of extra canvas. She had sacrificed a deal of sea room in the process, however, and was now aiming to cut her prey off at the very mouth of the enemy harbour.

  The next few minutes would tell much. Either the chase would end up in British hands, with the day deemed a success, or she would make a dash for the nearby harbour to rest, safe in the protection of shore-based artillery, and all aboard Rochester would have missed out on their Christmas dinners for nothing.

  But the corvette was also well armed, as had been amply demonstrated; earlier she had yawed, before releasing two full broadsides in their direction. Both had fallen short and were likely to have been fired more out of defiance than hope, but all aboard the British frigate were now well aware that their opponent was not without teeth, and quite prepared to use them.

  With a bellowing of orders and the scream of pipes, Rochester began to bear down on the harbour entrance, with the corvette still a considerable distance out to sea. Clearly Dylan intended blocking her means of escape, which was a sensible ploy, although Timothy would have been surprised if such a port lacked significant shore batteries. He glanced at the enemy once more to notice she was starting to turn, and seemed intent on making her final run for safety, when a flash of yellow from the corner of his eye drew him landwards again. Sure enough, at least one least emplacement was targeting the British frigate. The shots fell short, but Rochester could come no closer to the harbour mouth without risking damage.

  “Captain's taking us out,” Berry, the midshipman assisting him, muttered as the thunder of a heavy barrage reached them.

  “Aye, I dare say he is wary of the French guns,” Timothy replied, trying to keep any trace of disappointment from his voice.

  Rochester continued to turn until her prow was facing the open sea and the Frenchman lay just off her larboard bow.

  “Will we catch her?” the lad asked.

  “We can try,” Timothy grunted.

  Then a shout came from the quarterdeck: “Run out your guns, Mr Timothy; we shall be taking her to larboard!”

  “Larboard battery, ready!” Timothy ordered; it had been Heal's voice, and it was strange how he felt far more comfortable obeying a command from Rochester's first lieutenant than her captain.

  The men were standing to at the line of twelve-pounder long guns that constituted the frigate's main armament.

  “Run out!”

  Tackles squealed and wheels rumbled as each weapon was brought into the firing position. The corvette had completed her turn and was now gathering speed. They would be passing on opposing tacks and it would be extreme range. Timothy felt a moment of satisfaction; his cannon held round shot which would be perfect for the task, and as all had been loaded with care after the last exercise there was little chance of a misfire.

  Rochester was now surging forward, and steering for a point just ahead of the oncoming enemy. But there would be almost a mile of water between the two when they actually passed. For a moment Timothy wondered why the captain had chosen to turn; staying as they were, Rochester could have headed off the chase, even at the risk of taking fire from the shore. But he had already learned that Dylan was nothing if not cautious and, aware that thoughts of resentment were near, set his mind solely on the oncoming exchange of broadsides.

  “You may open fire when you think fit, Mr Timothy!” Heal was now standing at the break of the quarterdeck and Timothy briefly raised his hand to his hat in acknowledgement before switching back to the target that was steadily creeping into his arc of fire. Every gun captain had signalled their piece ready, and each of the eight foot long barrels was set to maximum elevation. Timothy hoped a single broadside might do the job: if they fired at the hull, it would take significant damage to stop the French craft, yet only one major spar need be knocked away for the corvette to forget all thoughts of making harbour. Rochester could then turn to block any escape route and secure her as a prize. But a damaged spar was still necessary – without it the enemy would simply slip past, and be safe long before nightfall.

  “Steady!” Timothy cautioned, as he walked slowly along the line of poised servers. “On my order: fire as you will,” he continued. “There'll be no prizes for speed, lads, just make sure every shot counts.”

  The men nodded in silent reply, and none looked round, so intent were they on the approaching target. Timothy paused, then looked back up at the quarterdeck. Mr Heal was standing by the fife rail as before and watching the guns intently. But he had not commented, nor had he ordered him to fire, and Timothy was silently grateful.

  “I can probably reach her now, sir,” Dawson, the captain of number three gun, murmured, but Timothy ignored him. Reaching was fine, but they had to score hits, and ones that mattered. The two vessels were closing at speed; in less than five minutes they would almost be level, with the range at its shortest. At that point he should cause some damage and, hopefully, take down a mast.

  As soon as the broadside was despatched they would reload, a process his team were used to accomplishing in under two minutes during exercise, although a little more
should be allowed for in the current conditions. But a gun reloaded in the heat of battle was never as potent as that prepared without haste and with care. Besides, by then the corvette would have passed and be making her final run for harbour. Timothy was determined to settle the Frenchman's hash with a single barrage and make any such escape impossible. Then the captain's voice cut through, and his attention was snatched away as he looked to the quarterdeck once more.

  “The enemy is in range, Mr Timothy,” Dylan spluttered. “W-why do you not open fire, sir?”

  Timothy opened his mouth to reply, but somehow words would not come. The servers beside him were also itching to comply, with each gun captain holding his firing line high and ready. Then Timothy turned back to the target once more and, resisting the temptation to shrug, gave the order they all so desired.

  The guns were despatched far too quickly for Timothy's liking, with three at least firing as soon as the word left his lips. For a moment there was confusion as the smoke eddied about the bustling servers, then the first of the boys appeared with fresh charges of powder and the process of reloading began.

  Sodden mops were already being plunged into Rochester's guns when their shots began to fall. The enemy had been neatly bracketed, with none of the brief splashes being more than twenty feet from her bow or stern. A good few must also have passed through the tophamper, but the all important balance of canvas, spars and line, vital to every sailing vessel, remained unaffected.

  “Quick as you can now,” Timothy urged. “We'll get a second crack at her before she's gone.”

  The corvette was almost level with them now, it was perfect range for another barrage, or the first, had it not been rushed. But the servers were still tamping down the fresh charges of powder, and it would be a good minute, probably longer, before the battery could be fired again. A line of flashes showed where the French were sending a plucky reply, and Timothy watched, unmoved, as the nearest of the shot fell a good fifty feet from the ship's side. Then, finally, the first of Rochester's gun captains' hands was raised.

  He might order them to fire straight away but knew, only too well, how hearing another team had been faster would disconcert the others, and probably persuade them to rush or fire prematurely. It was only when he was sure that all were ready that he finally released the second broadside.

  This time the shooting was not so accurate. Two splashes were noted a way aft, suggesting insufficient allowance had been made for speed, while several more fell generally wild, and were clearly not properly laid. And, yet again, the enemy's precious masts went untouched. The disappointment gathered within him until Timothy felt he might physically explode.

  “That were poor shooting,” the captain's voice came from the break of the quarterdeck and Timothy winced at the public reproof. “I shall put the ship about, and we'll follow them to harbour, or at least as far as we are able. Mr Turrell might do better with the bow chasers.”

  * * *

  The second sighting of smoke was thicker than that from the cottage and did not come from a collection of chimneys, as all had been expecting. The village was still a good way beyond but before it lay a small farm. The slight ridge gave the British a chance to look down upon the scene and, to King's eyes, it appeared almost idyllic; one that might have come straight from a child's storybook.

  There was a timber framed farmhouse with neatly thatched roof along with various outhouses that were grouped about a central, flagstoned yard. And it was from there that the cause of the smoke emanated: a bonfire blazed high in the middle, burning with an intensity that hurt the eyes, even in the late sunshine. Its flames picked out the heads of a few scrawny cows that peered out from one of the barns, lit a collection of bustling hens as they fussed about in their straw, and highlighted a small group of people who seemed unusually busy on a Christmas afternoon.

  “Civilians,” Hunt said succinctly, and indeed no one was dressed in any form of uniform, while most of the group appeared to be women or young children.

  “Late for a Guy Fawkes celebration,” Cranston pondered. All the British party had now reached the ridge and were pausing in the light cover that topped it.

  “I think you will find that to be an English tradition,” Beeney muttered, then turned to the prisoner. “Any idea what they might be about, matey?”

  The young man shook his head. Cranston had used the officer's belt to secure his wrists, although there had been no attempt to escape and he actually appeared surprisingly comfortable in the care of his enemies.

  “I do not know this country,” he explained. “I think perhaps they are simply enjoying their Christmas Day.”

  “Well, it looks like some form of hop's in mind,” a topman piped up from further down the line.

  “An outside frisk is a brave plan for the season,” Wiessner grunted. “But I suppose this is the south – and France,” he added, glaring accusingly at the prisoner.

  The British continued to watch the domestic scene with unexpressed longing, then Beeney spoke once more. “So where you from, then?” he asked, apparently on impulse. The prisoner shook his head.

  “A long way from here,” he replied sadly.

  “Where exactly?” Cranston demanded.

  “I am from Malta,” he admitted. “It is a group of islands...”

  “We knows where it is,” Beeney interrupted. “So how comes you know our lingo?”

  “The English?” the young man seemed surprised. “Oh, it is widely spoken at home; I learned it many years before. And I also speak Sicilian and Italian, which are very similar.”

  “To English?” Cranston was amazed.

  “To each other,” Wiessner corrected sharply.

  “So just the four languages then,” Cranston grunted. “Is that your lot?”

  “Perhaps a little Latin,” the prisoner replied with a shrug.

  “They've got food,” one of the other hands volunteered, and all eyes switched to a small handcart that was being wheeled towards the fire by two young women apparently at the direction of an older one. In it was a freshly butchered pig's carcase that had been split in two and lay amidst a collection of plucked fowl.

  “And stingo,” another added, pointing to a platform set to one side on which two wooden barrels were perched.

  “I wonder what they're up to,” Roberts, the boy, mused, and immediately received a slap on the crown from Beeney.

  “Well, whatever it may be, you can be sure no British are invited,” King interrupted. “We shall have to pass around their little party.”

  “Though there is a good side,” Hunt mused. “Most of the village will probably be involved.”

  “Still, we will wait until dark,” King said firmly. “Until then, take cover, and everyone is to get what rest they can.”

  It was not a popular order but, despite mutterings, the group duly retreated into the bushes and began to find places to settle. Only Beeney, Cranston and the prisoner remained where they were; them and the boy, who had already become inseparable from the older men. Together they watched as the first side of pork was placed upon a spit next to the flames and began to rotate beguilingly above the glowing fire.

  “Not invited, he says,” Cranston muttered to himself, although they all heard every word. “Well, ain't that the pity?”

  * * *

  Wiessner was a loner; there was no single person in his life that he considered a friend, and certainly none who even approached the intimacy of tie mate. He was also a survivor and, to his logical mind, the one stemmed from the other.

  Born a cockney, he still spoke with a slight Germanic accent, which was more a tribute to the close family that brought him up in the narrow streets of Whitechapel than the country of his parents. But since leaving home, Wiessner had consciously rejected all forms of companion, preferring to steer a solitary course and trusting no other person but the one who had never let him down. And he had always been able to look after himself: with nothing to hinder or distract, yet a fundamental desire to
cling to life at all costs, Wiessner found a solitary existence to be remarkably successful.

  Once, when in action against privateers off Cherbourg, his brig had taken fire and promptly exploded. He had been on the crowded upper deck and was one of only three to be thrown clear by the blast, although, by the time rescue arrived, the other two were drowned. And on another occasion, Wiessner alone was plucked from the water when the crowded boat transferring hands from one ship to another was swamped by a rogue wave.

  On both occasions his ability to swim, combined with a disinclination to help any that could not, saved him, even if the bright eyed and extremely robust seaman was inclined to place the credit elsewhere.

  For Wiessner was also lucky, and it was a fortune that owed nothing to any spiritual belief, or even superstition in the accepted sense. He was Jewish, but had no time for religion, or those who practised it. The only exception lay in the small bone button that had been sewn on to his first pair of purser issued trousers. When the cloth finally wore away, it was saved in the accepted manner, and had been used on successive pieces of clothing up to the present. Wiessner was the last to attribute any spiritual powers to the thing, but would be equally sorry if it were lost.

  But, however his luck was obtained, there was no doubting Wiessner led a charmed life. This had been exhibited in small matters as well as large; in winning more hands of dice than any in his mess, or always seeming to get the largest portion during the transparently fair blind distribution of scran at mealtimes. And his talent had not let him down in the last few hours. Wiessner had no idea of the exact number aboard Prometheus when she struck the French shore, but for him to be amongst those saved and still at liberty almost a day later must have been odds of more than twenty to one.

  Still, it was one thing to be lucky, and quite another to profit from that fortune, and that was Wiessner's current task. Fortunately he had been on hand when Cranston and Beeney were discussing their plans to steal food from the farm. In his opinion, both seamen were fools of the first order, but that did not mean he felt unable to gain from their stupidity. When the pair lumbered off with the kid in tow, Wiessner made no move to go with them, but remained lying nearby and apparently asleep. He would bide his time, choose exactly the right moment to strike. And when he did it would be to his benefit, and his alone.