The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  “Well you had no business in taking such a decision,” King responded. “There are ways and means for a man to request an exchange: taking such matters upon yourselves does neither of you credit.”

  But despite his words, and after having been given the barest outlines of the situation, King now felt he truly did understand. Adams and Summers would probably have shared accommodation aboard the corvette or, if not, the boy had obviously found a way to confide in him. And in the simplistic adolescent world of midshipmen and volunteers, King could see how simply hiding the boy aboard the prize would have appealed. In the confusion of repairing the ship, transferring men, and minding prisoners, no one would have missed one small boy wearing a man's uniform, and King was in no doubt that Dylan's mind would have been on other matters.

  “Well there is nothing to be done at present,” he grunted finally. “We are bound for Malta, I shall hand you over to the authorities at Valletta and they can decide what to do with you. Until then, we are not exactly blessed with warrant officers so you may as well stand watch with the rest.” He glanced at the two youths and was surprised to see looks of gratitude mingled with rank astonishment on their faces. Obviously they had been expecting immediate and devastating retribution: there were officers a plenty who would not have hesitated in having both seized to the shrouds, or some other equally humiliating punishment. But in an undermanned ship that was already sufficiently burdened with prisoners, King could see no advantage in such an action. Far better to retain both lads for duty and take advantage of an additional warrant officer. Once they arrived at Malta, the senior naval officer could decide their fate, along with that of all aboard the Crécerelle. And it was then that the truth hit him.

  So much had happened over the past few days that, for the first time since Prometheus had struck, King truly realised his own predicament. Valletta would not just be another harbour, a place to restock and repair before setting out to sea once more; for many, and him in particular, it could be the end of everything.

  The British seamen aboard the prize would find berths immediately, as might all junior officers, including the guilty pair currently before him. And with surgeons at a premium, Manning was also bound to find a position. The likes of Hunt and Brehaut would find it harder: even experienced officers were ten a penny, and sea going posts highly sought after. They may even be shipped back to England in the next homeward bound transport, then forced to spend months, even years on half pay ashore.

  But he would be in a far worse position than everyone; a one-armed lieutenant without friends, whose previous captain was currently being held prisoner by the French – King swallowed dryly as it came to him that he might never serve at sea again.

  “Thank you, sir.” It was Adams, and King's mind switched back to the immediate situation with difficulty. He could tell the midshipman's words had been sincerely meant and that both were eyeing him with gratitude, although it was probably the last favour he would be able to grant anyone. He had shipped with the East India Company in the past, and could doubtless do so again, but a berth in a John Company ship was nothing to service in the Royal Navy, and King felt an overwhelming sorrow rise up inside him.

  “Very well then, you may go about your duties,” he told them gruffly. The room was soon cleared and he found himself alone. Which was fortunate, for it was probably one of the worst moments King had ever known.

  Chapter Ten

  The morning sun hardly made it through his one small window, and King was bursting to leave his desk and find a place where he could see out properly. But despite being so close to both Valletta's Grand Harbour and the sea, the massive stone building was hemmed in by others just as large and felt both stuffy and remote. Besides, no good would come from looking. The signal station had reported sighting the convoy at dawn: it would be late afternoon before any ship took up a mooring, with probably a long wait after that for the first to disembark. Between then and now he had a wealth of what his fellow undersecretaries were inclined to call “bum fodder” to plough through, and King was uncomfortably aware that the life of a shore-bound office worker did not come easily to him.

  Not that he resented his position in Malta's Treasury: it had been a godsend. He was able to retain his rank, while keeping abreast of the situation at sea, even if the closest he came to getting afloat were the occasional trips across the bay in a dgħajsa. And his immediate superior, the mild mannered and elderly Alexander Macaulay, had more or less taken him under his wing. Until then, most of King's adult life had been spent aboard one ship or another; mostly at sea, and usually in the Royal Navy. Both the Service and its ways had become so much a part of him that living on land brought up countless difficulties. But all the irritations of shore life had been dealt with by the official Public Secretary in a calm and orderly manner that King could never hope to emulate. Macaulay might have been long overdue for retirement – rumour had it he was eighty, or possibly even older – but he remained a professional public servant to the core and, however much he might try to copy the example, King was of a different mould.

  However, for as long as he wore the blue broadcloth tunic of a Royal Navy lieutenant, he could regard his present position as temporary. Malta's Civil Commissioner, Sir Alexander Ball, was a senior RN captain himself, and knew the frustrations a nautical creature felt when denied his natural element. He had promised to find him a permanent sea going posting, and one would come about, King told himself... he only had to be patient.

  But patience was not in his armoury that day. King's current task of seeing those seamen detailed for work on land or in the naval hospital were receiving their pay was taxing his maverick mind to the limit. Were it simply a matter of defining rank and ensuring the appropriate deductions were made for slops and the Chatham Chest, he felt it might have been handled in a morning. But there were allowances for relatives at home, as each man was encouraged to allocate a proportion of his wages to support his family. And none of these was the same, varying from almost all of the twenty-three shillings and sixpence a regular hand earned in a lunar month, to a matter of pence that must surely cost more to administer than pay. Then some might have changed rank during the payment period, while a few became temperate after suffering at the hands of unscrupulous tavern owners. They opted for the extra threepence a day such resilience deserved, although usually only for as long as the after effects of their latest spree lasted. And all the while he knew that, though he dealt with men who could barely sign their names, any mistake made to their detriment would be spotted and complained about, while additional claims for loss of official kit, personal property or undeclared pay tickets seemed to multiply while waiting to be assessed. He could only be thankful the fifteen shilling charge for treatment of the pox had been revoked and that, while on land, there was no monthly groat for a parson, otherwise some would claim they had never been ill, or had an aversion to religion.

  And really his job should have been done by the Clerk of the Cheque; someone used to dealing in such matters, and who might even enjoy them, were the concept conceivable. But Great Britain had only held Malta a short while and her grip was tenuous. Even the ever active Sir Alexander was not officially Governor, and if Parliament were unable to decide who led the small community, what chance was there of an effective administration? Consequently, much of the work normally consigned to professionals had been palmed off on wounded or unemployed naval lieutenants, and the fact that King fell into both categories had not been lost on him.

  But neither did he dwell on it: he could still refer to himself as a sea officer and, for as long as there remained a chance of returning to active service, was prepared to put up with any amount of bureaucracy.

  A tap at the door made him look round just as the familiar face of a young man peered cautiously in.

  “Nik! Come in, do,” King said, rising from his chair.

  “You are alone?” Lesro asked as he entered and noticed Martin's empty desk on the other side of the room.

/>   “Yes, my colleague does not keep early hours,” King gave a wry look. “Or late, if the truth be told.”

  “I was wondering if you could be tempted out for a glass of Angelo's excellent chocolate,” Lesro told him. “There are ships due in shortly, we can sit in the sun and watch them arrive together.”

  King glanced briefly at his desk, which was piled with notes and correspondence. Like weeds, they would only grow if neglected, although the prospect of fresh air and exercise was undeniably attractive, and King had already developed a liking for the rich dark chocolate served at their favourite hotel. “I don't know,” he began, then spotted Martin's desk which was just as full, and had been unattended since the previous afternoon. “They were first sighted not three hours ago,” he continued, doubtfully. “It will be some time before the first ship even enters harbour.”

  Lesro shrugged. “Then maybe we should take dinner as well,” he said.

  * * *

  The sun might not have been high but, as King and Lesro turned out of the Auberge d'Italie and into the bastion lined street, it was only just bearable. Heat was already starting to rise from the baked earth pavements and would continue to increase throughout the day. Not until the chill of evening could any journey be made in comfort, yet it was still more than three weeks until the official start of summer. But despite the temperature, Valletta was alive with the shouts of street traders and the rumble of donkey carts, bells from three separate churches were ringing in apparent competition, and the sound of barking dogs became so constant and unvarying that it soon ceased to be noticed. Within a few hundred yards they had passed two wagons delivering beer in anticipation of the convoy's arrival, and King guessed the doxies and bumboat owners would be making similar preparations. By the same time tomorrow at least half the merchant ships would have decanted their passengers and begun unloading cargo. But other government departments could look after them, King's prime responsibility was to the escorts.

  Ten had left England to protect the convoy. Most, including Leviathan, would only have stayed as far as Gibraltar, but more Royal Navy vessels may well have joined along the way. And even if not, even if Maidstone were the only warship escorting, changes would have been made to her people. Tomorrow he would be faced with applications for pay tickets by men transferring into the ship, as well as wage calculations for those who had died en route. At least King would not be saddled with paying the entire crew; fruit, tobacco or small souvenirs might be bought by the seamen, but such luxuries were paid for by bartering their possessions, as no man would receive any actual coin until they reached England once more.

  He had been on the island just over four months and, at first, there was much to do. After arranging the removal of all prisoners he had handed the prize itself into the capable hands of the dockyard, then reported in person to Sir Alexander Ball, the Civil Commissioner.

  King had not met Ball before. His exploits had gone before him of course but, after being commanded by the likes of Jervis, Duncan and Nelson, he was not ready to be impressed. After all, the man was a mere post captain; a senior one, for sure, and due for his flag in a year or so's time. Nevertheless it would be hard to respect any sea officer who now served in a purely administrative role. But he was soon proved wrong; the moment King was shown into the large, whitewashed room he was captivated.

  Few men could inspire without exuding considerable energy themselves and, despite his desk bound status, Ball was no exception. His manner was not verbose, however; having greeted King with charm and courtesy he listened intently to his verbal report, whilst making notes on two separate pieces of paper, and King immediately sensed the well built and slightly balding man would be a force to be reckoned with.

  “So, it is to be Angelo's?” Lesro's question brought King back to the real world.

  “Is there a choice?” he grinned, as the two men bounded along the street.

  As they approached the next corner a child appeared: barefoot, dressed in short trousers, and running in the opposite direction. He cannoned straight into Lesro, who caught him by the shoulders, then amiably guided the boy past without comment.

  “Does your father have goods aboard the convoy?” King asked, when they had made the turn.

  “He has two ships that are his under licence,” Lesro replied casually. “As well as various goods aboard other vessels.”

  “Then you must be pleased to hear the convoy is in sight,” King supposed, and his friend gave a brief laugh.

  “We will be, if our ships are amongst them,” he said.

  Lesro had followed King to Malta less than a month after his friend's arrival, Admiral Nelson having no hesitation in repatriating him, even before receiving Donnelly's report. But King had already been in contact with Lesro's father to give news of his son.

  Edwardu Lesro was one of the richest and most influential men on the island, as King quickly realised. As soon as he understood his son's position and King's part in it, one of his assistants arranged lodgings for the homeless lieutenant; a smart three-roomed house cut into the rock face in a street where the family business owned many similar properties. And there would have been employment for King himself, had the Civil Commissioner not already seen to it.

  Actually, King could also have had a post aboard ship if he wished. Ball was not in the least perturbed by his lack of a left arm and offered a berth in a line-of-battleship that had been moored in the Grand Harbour for several months. At first King was delighted, but subsequent investigation revealed the ship to be crank and unlikely to sail again. By then Robert Manning had taken passage back to England where his wife had given birth to a son, but Hunt and Brehaut remained in Valletta and, by the time Lesro arrived, he had already accepted Ball's subsequent offer of shore-based employment.

  And, for probably the first time in his life, King was now experiencing what it was like to be rich. Not personally, of course, but by proxy. Left to his own devices, he could never have afforded more than a room above a tavern, and would still need to eke out his pay to cover food, uniform costs and all the other expenses a beached officer encountered. But with the Lesro family's association much was altered. Unless he had been in dire straits, his friend would never have advanced him actual money, but they dined well and often; if not at Lesro's, home, then on his family's name, while King was charged a peppercorn rent for what was undoubtedly smart lodgings.

  But the real wealth King drew from the young Maltese was his friendship. King was a stranger in a strange land. He might belong to the Royal Navy; a Service much respected by the population, but that did not give him access to local knowledge, or the intimacies of home life. This was provided by Lesro and his family. His mother, a robust woman with dark hair and a winning smile, had taken to King before she learned of his friendship with her son. And even the servants, who the Lesros regarded as members of their extended family, viewed him more as a friend than an honoured guest.

  “A ship is approaching,” Lesro said as they rounded another corner and the wide bay opened up to them. A cutter could certainly be seen off the harbour mouth; she was sailing with the wind on her beam, her massive mainsail billowing out like a wing while the canted hull bit deep into the blue Mediterranean, bringing up a white feather of spray at her stem.

  “Hardly a ship,” King chided. “Either your time in the French Navy did not teach you much, or you were a very poor student.”

  Lesro shrugged. “A little of both, maybe.”

  “But a Service craft, nevertheless,” King continued. A naval ensign flew from her jack, although the fact that she could take in canvas at the same time as hoisting recognition signals said as much about her identity as any flag.

  “She is from the convoy, perhaps?” Lesro asked. “Or is that a foolish thought also?”

  King shook his head. “No I'd say you were on the mark with that one, Nik,” he allowed, then grew more serious. “But if she's a tender from one of the escorts there may be news,” he continued. “What say we forgo
our tiffin and make for the quay?”

  * * *

  It was just as King suspected, but as the graceful craft swept steadily towards the customs wharf, she was carrying at least one surprise.

  “Ahoy the cutter!” he called, and the lieutenant standing at the vessel's stern turned in their direction and gave an offhand wave. King and Lesro waited while the vessel was brought alongside and secured, then the officer skipped nimbly over the top rail and joined them on the wharf.

  “James Timothy, as I live and breathe!” King exclaimed, shaking the man's hand. “I trust you are well?”

  “All healed and fighting fit!” the lieutenant confirmed.

  “You will remember Nik Lesro, I'm sure.”

  Timothy gave the smart civilian a closer inspection, and then his expression cleared.

  “Indeed I do, sir,” he said. “Though you were dressed somewhat differently when last we met.”

  King let the two men talk while he regarded the cutter in more detail. She was less than fifty feet in length, yet clearly a fine sea boat, with a freeboard that appeared the perfect compromise between speed and safety. And she was armed; a row of four-pounders lined each side, although they would be mainly for show, and perhaps dealing with the odd pirate. The cutter's main weapon lay in her speed and manoeuvrability: she would excel in both and, used properly, they would allow her to mix it with any size of warship. “Smart vessel,” he muttered with just the hint of envy.

  “Tender to Maidstone,” Timothy told him. “Captain Elliot keeps her mainly as a toy, but she has her uses, such as now.” He indicated the tightly wrapped parcel under his left arm. “I have health certificates and bills of lading from the fleet,” he said. “Elliot sent them on ahead to avoid delays; you know what these shore-based Johnnies can be like.”