by Alaric Bond
“But I have not been working alone,” the surgeon continued, while pointing to where a middle aged man with a short beard was bandaging the chest of a British seaman. “I understand Monsieur Coombes here is a tooth puller by trade, but he has the makings of an excellent surgeon.”
The man, alerted by the mention of his name, looked up and nodded briefly, before returning to the matter in hand.
“Is the lieutenant who led the cutting out force present?” King asked.
“Indeed so,” Manning confirmed, while walking deeper into the dark space. “And I'd chance you will remember him. Fellow by the name of Timothy; we served together a few years back when he shipped for a spell aboard Pandora.”
King was about to reply when he noticed the familiar face lying on a pillow nearby. The man was clearly awake, and he knelt down to him.
“Tom King!” Timothy exclaimed after a moment's recognition. “Why, how is it with you?”
“Fair enough, James,” King replied. “But you seem to be a mite crook.”
“Deep wound to the upper-right brachium,” Manning interrupted. “Fortunately the bone is not broken, and it has stitched up well. Oh, and he has a shallow lesion to the head – falling tophamper, I'd say. The cut has been patched with diachylon tape, though there may be concussion. He will feel the better for taking fluids: I should prefer some portable soup, but there is none aboard that can be found.”
“I'm feeling better even without that muck,” Timothy told him bluntly, and was about to rise when the surgeon's hand stopped him.
“That is good to hear,” King replied, glancing at Manning. “But watch out for this one: he'll have your arm off as soon as look at you.”
“Is there news of my ship?” Timothy enquired. “She were supposed to be found a mile or so offshore at first light.”
“None so far, though we are further than that ourselves,” King replied. “Belike she was delayed, or may have run into trouble, though we can make the fleet without her if need be.”
“Trouble is something her captain usually wishes to avoid,” Timothy sighed. “And I would not put it past him to stand off, for fear of being too close to the batteries. But we are a good way out, you say?”
“Five miles at least and clear weather, yet there is no sign.”
“Then we must make for the fleet without delay,” Timothy decided, and King could not hide a sigh of relief. It was what he had in mind, although to do so, and apparently avoid an earlier rescue, might appear the height of foolishness. But Nelson and his ships could not be more than a day's sail away, and to allow any unprotected prize to remain so close to where she was recently captured would be equally absurd.
“Very well, I shall see to it, and hope to see you sound shortly,” he said, before smiling briefly at Manning, and making for the welcome light of the forward hatch.
On deck the sun was now fully risen and King had to half close his eyes as he drew in deep draughts of the fresh winter air. Hunt was still amidships and ostensibly inspecting the additional stays rigged to support the foremast, although King guessed he was more interested in finding out what had been agreed.
“Can you see if Mr Brehaut will spare us a moment?” King asked as he approached, and the sailing master was soon clambering down the quarterdeck ladder and making his way forward.
“I assume there is still no news of the frigate?” King asked.
“None, I fear,” Hunt told him. “She was to await her boats at the harbour entrance, but seems to be off station.”
“What ship?”
“Rochester,” Hunt replied. “William Dylan has her.”
Neither vessel nor captain were known to King, but if any vessel were not on hand to collect her men from a cutting out expedition it was hardly a recommendation.
Brehaut arrived and King turned to him next. “How far to Toulon?”
“No more than fifty miles,” the sailing master replied. “I'd say we might raise the fleet by tomorrow morn', providing they are there, of course.”
King looked back at the faint haze of land and sniffed. The breeze had remained strong throughout the night but he would expect it to shift now the sun was rising. “Then we should alter course and make for it without delay,” he said. “Though I would prefer to keep you under tow.”
“As would I,” Hunt confirmed. “We have secured the fore and she runs easily enough, but may not be so comfortable if it came closer to the beam.”
“Very well, I shall return to the lugger,” King said, and made to go.
“Will you not stay for a bite of breakfast, sir?” It was Steven, one of their midshipmen. He was coming from the galley with a wooden pail in either hand and King gaped openly as he realised both were filled with slices of steaming ham.
“We found a side of pork and some onions,” the lad explained. “No tommy, but there is sufficient hard tack.”
“Fresh bacon!” King sighed in wonder, and felt his mouth instantly moisten.
“Yes sir,” Steven confirmed. “Mr Hunt said he'd rather trust it than anything the Frogs had tried to preserve.”
The lieutenant blushed slightly, but King grinned. “You will have enough to feed my men as well?” he asked.
“More than,” Steven replied with the air of benevolence. “Erikson and Swindle have a prime fire going, and the pork will do for all, including our prisoners.”
“Then have some sent down,” King told him. “And we shall alter course directly.”
“If you're set for Toulon, steer east by sou' east,” Brehaut called after him, adding, “and I expect the wind to benefit us shortly.” But King had his mind set on breakfast and was already gone.
* * *
The sailing master's last prediction proved correct; their breeze backed several points during the morning, allowing both vessels to run before it. At no time was there more than a ripple from either stem, but neither did they sight a frigate, or any other significant craft and, by the time the sun was starting to dip towards the pink waters in the west, King was reasonably content. Whatever the whereabouts of Rochester, the might of the British Mediterranean Squadron was likely to be little more than over the horizon; once they were found he could indeed rest.
“That will be the Île de Riou,” Lesro, the Maltese, told him as a small and apparently barren headland appeared off their larboard bow. “It is mainly used by smugglers and perhaps privateers, but only infrequently and is probably of no threat to us.”
King, who was taking a turn at the tiller, said nothing. He knew of the island, but was more concerned that sighting it indicated they were close to several of the enemy's larger ports. Nevertheless, there was still no sign of any hostile sail, and he began to relax once more. Lesro was good company and he enjoyed learning more about him.
Despite being close to his former home, the young man had only stepped aboard the corvette once, and that was to retrieve fresh clothing, both for himself and others aboard the lugger. He had not asked to stay, or requested to meet with any of her former crew. King had long since accepted him as a benign foreigner, one forced into French military service. But still he would have expected a modicum of interest.
“We will not make Toulon this night,” Lesro continued reflectively. “But doubtless shall in the morning.”
“And when we arrive, what do you intend?” King asked. The deck was almost empty. Cranston, along with Summers, the midshipman from Rochester, was resting. Only Beeney and the boy Roberts were on watch, and sat further forward, with the older of the pair surreptitiously smoking a pipe that he thought King had not noticed.
“What shall I do?” Lesro repeated thoughtfully before quickly adding, “I shall not join your navy, if that is what you mean,” with a look of concern.
King shook his head. He had not expected him to do anything of the sort. Lesro was still, effectively, a prisoner of war, and it was even possible he would be taken into custody once they reached the fleet.
Although King thought not: after so m
any political changes, there were instances aplenty of French officers changing allegiance, and several were currently serving in the Royal Navy. Besides, Lesro was not French but Maltese; an ally, while his loyalty had already been proven in action with British forces. It was far more likely he would simply be repatriated, to take up his former position in his father's business. Transports were regularly sent from the Toulon station to Malta, where Alexander Ball, a Royal Navy Captain, acted as governor; with luck Lesro could be home and with his family long before the spring.
“You would perhaps be able to tell us much about the French Navy?” King began hesitantly, but the other man smiled and shook his head.
“I should have no objection in doing so, if there were anything your government did not already know,” he sighed. “But I have already told you of my dismal progress at the Academe, and those in the position of junior officer aboard a corvette are not trusted with a great many secrets.”
“So tell me about Malta instead,” King prompted.
“Ah, it is my home, so I am very biased,” he replied. “And there are many who think it nothing more than a collection of dry rocks that are not even sufficient to feed its people. Though, to me, it is the most wonderful place on earth.”
King remained silent as Lesro continued.
“I do not remember much about the time of the Knights,” he told him softly. “But they had charge for many years and for most, I understand, were good rulers. Towards the end much changed: to my eyes, they were simply a collection of fat drunkards only interested in themselves, and their desires.
“No woman was safe,” he added, in a slightly harder tone. “Even those with husbands or fathers were fair game, as far as they were concerned, and many were slain if they objected to the Knights playing court to their women. So when the French came in 'ninety eight, and our brave rulers gave up in a matter of hours, we were not so very sorry.”
“And the French improved matters?” King asked in surprise.
“Initially we thought they would, and some welcomed them as an alternative to the Knights,” Lesro agreed. “The right things were said, and there were more Notices and Articles published than anyone could read. Most proclaimed equality for all as well as many other idealistic promises, but they turned out to be empty words that were not honoured. The Knights' hospital, which was, in truth, the only worthy concern left from their reign, was made over for French use exclusively and then, in the following June, there came the Article that saw me sent to Paris; the rest you know.”
“Are you in communication with your family?” King asked.
“I write to them, and I am sure they do the same to me, but nothing is received, and I wonder if they get my letters. To be honest, your capturing me was the best Christmas present I could wish for. Now, at least, there may be a chance that I return to my home.”
King was about to agree when a shout from far off caused them both to freeze. The sun had yet to reach the distant horizon and it appeared the foremast lookout aboard the corvette had made a sighting. No one aboard the lugger moved as all strained to hear the words, but it wasn't until they had spilled their wind and allowed the larger ship to forereach, that King received the news.
“It's Rochester,” Adams bellowed from the corvette's forecastle. “Or, least said, a frigate. Sighted to the west, and coming down on us under full sail.”
Chapter Eight
After what King had experienced over the past few days, Rochester's great cabin seemed unusually well ordered and contained evidence of what might have been a woman's touch. The place was clean and tidy, as would be expected of any captain's accommodation, but there was something more, something almost homely about the room. In addition to the expected furniture, it boasted a pair of firm, leather armchairs. Thick red velvet curtains shyly concealed the entrance to both quarter galleries, while the canvas covered floor was adorned by woollen rugs and a line of small plants were placed to take advantage of light from the stern windows during the day. There may even have been the scent of a women's perfume in the air, although King's tired brain could have been imagining it.
For there was nothing in the least domestic about Captain Dylan, who had treated him to the briefest of greetings on the quarterdeck, and now sat at the head of a large, polished mahogany table. King was motioned to seat himself to one side and noticed each of the upright chairs was adorned with tapestry cushions. The overall effect was more a country house dining room than the great cabin of a fighting ship, and he wondered vaguely how long it would take to strike all below when they cleared for action.
“I gather you have spent an eventful Christmas,” the captain began in a low voice. “Perhaps you might elaborate?”
King gave a brief summary of the battle that had seen his ship wrecked, then told how he, Hunt and the others had escaped in the cutter, before ending with their seizure of the lugger and aiding the Rochester's boarding party in taking the corvette. Throughout it all, Dylan's expression switched between dull acceptance, amused surprise and frank disbelief, although at no time did he appear impressed, or offer any words of commendation.
“Well you must surely judge it the greatest of good fortune that we were on hand,” he commented dryly as King finished. “And so benefit from our taking of the Frenchman, though it is indeed the pity she were damaged so. There is little light to inspect her properly, but I would hazard to say such a ship will still fetch a fair sum,” the captain informed him with a measure of self satisfaction. “Certainly if bought into the Service, which I feel is likely. We have already taken a merchant and it will be most agreeable to add a warship to Rochester's battle honours before she even arrives on station.”
“Yes sir,” King agreed hesitantly. To judge the value of a capture, which the captain was assuming to be totally his, would seem premature when they had yet to make harbour.
And Dylan was certainly a queer fish; he had not offered his hand or risen when King entered, and now he considered the captain's slightly sagging jowls and balding head with curiosity. Aside from very obviously being a sour old puss, King had already heard tales from Timothy and Summers about an argumentative attitude and general lack of enterprise; such traits were not exactly rare amongst senior officers but it was unusual to find them all in one with the charge of a spirited ship like Rochester.
But whatever his disposition, King was determined not to let the man annoy him. The two good meals already eaten that day, along with several hours of snatched rest, had strengthened him and he straightened his back as a suitable reply occurred.
“It was fortunate for all that we met up, sir,” he began, “though I think my men would still have reached safety if not.”
“Nonsense,” Dylan responded instantly while adding a dismissive wave of his hand. “Without the corvette to draw their fire, your lugger would never have made it past the batteries.”
A shout and the clump of a musket butt from the marine sentry beyond the main door saved King from making a reply, and he at least rose as Rochester's first lieutenant entered along with a white faced and heavily bandaged Timothy. King had already met Heal on the quarterdeck, and was reassured by the impression of solidity the man emanated; but now he carried a wary expression, as if unsure of what his captain might have said. Both officers were waved to chairs, and the first lieutenant removed a sheet of paper on which he had been writing notes.
“I have briefly inspected the prize as requested, sir,” he said, his eyes momentarily rising to meet those of his captain. “The hull, though holed at the bows, remains inherently sound, and would certainly be repairable if docked. Apart from that, the main damage appears to be confined to the spars.”
“Very well, and what can be done about them, Mr Heal?” Dylan prompted.
“The boatswain thinks a jury main would be feasible, sir,” he began. “I have ordered him to begin work forthwith; he believes it might be able to bear a sail by morning.”
Dylan gave an off hand nod to the statement, then
turned to his second lieutenant. “The surgeon has pronounced you fit, I hope, Mr Timothy?” he asked and it was Timothy's turn to look uncomfortable.
“Mr Simmons has prescribed a diet of fluids and stock fish,” he replied, warily. “He recommends that I return to light duties after rest.”
“Utter bilge,” Dylan shook his head in disgust. “You would surely do better to be back in the yoke without delay.”
“Mr Timothy sustained a serious head injury, sir,” Heal protested, “and lost a deal of blood.”
“Which is best replaced by hard work and exercise, though a pint or two of port wine would not be amiss, what?” The captain treated them all to a sudden smile, which faded just as instantly and was replaced by a look of outright suspicion. “But now you are here, Mr Timothy, perhaps you can tell me why my prize was not present at the rendezvous this morning?”
“Perhaps I might answer that, sir?” King began. “We remained off the coast until full daylight. There was no sign of Rochester, or any other friendly vessel, although I had reason to believe the port carried gun boats. And as neither prize was in a position to face such an enemy, I considered it wise to make for the Toulon blockade without delay.”
“You took a lot upon yourself, Mr King,” Dylan informed him. “Were you not aware that Mr Timothy is the senior man?”
“I was wounded and with the surgeon,” Timothy, who still appeared far from well, replied. “But Mr King spoke with me, and I agreed we should make for the fleet.”
“I see,” Dylan had the semblance of a circuit judge about to pass sentence and, despite his innocence, King could not help but feel guilty. “Well it may interest you both to learn there were further developments at the wreck of Mr King's late ship.” He sat back and considered the two officers as if they might have been in some way responsible. “The French set her ablaze; it were doubtless an accident but a fortunate one nonetheless as it will have destroyed many valuable arms and fittings.” The look now changed to one of accusation and settled firmly on King. “Items that your captain had allowed to fall into enemy hands,” he added.
