The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  Again King said nothing, although his mind was now racing. Promotion to commander did mean a considerable rise in his immediate income. Half pay would actually be a manageable amount, and should continue, as a pension, for all times. It was even possible that this was the end of major money troubles, providing Juliana was not unduly greedy. No longer would he have to rely on the Lesro family's goodwill, and might even be able to repay some of the kindness already shown to him.

  “There is no more you wish to know?” Ball asked, now plainly amused. This time King shook his head, he had already been given far more than he had ever hoped for, what else could there be?

  “The prize you brought in is nearing the end of her repairs,” Ball continued. King knew the corvette had been bought into the Service, and had been privately following her progress at the dockyard for some time. “The Admiralty have allowed me to grant another request,” Ball continued. “For the purposes of prize money, you and your fellow officers and men shall be considered as members of the crew of Rochester and share in her value in due proportion.” That was indeed good news, both for him, as well as the others. Adams and Summers especially would be pleased: the midshipmen's portion of a prize was a mere eighth and there would be several other petty officers to share it with, although part of even a small amount was better than nothing at all.

  “She is expected to commission shortly,” Ball continued, and will retain her name, although it will be anglicised to Kestrel,” he said, pausing slightly, as if savouring the word. “It has a pleasant ring to it, and she will be classed as a sloop, so being a fit vessel for a commander to have charge of. And you will need a crew,” he continued quickly, although King had long ceased to listen.

  He was still a naval officer: more than that, one of a respectable rank, entitled to wear an epaulette on his left shoulder. And he had been offered a post, not just sea going, but command of a warship. Small, by many standards admittedly: not even a rated in fact, but in a part of the world where many of his enemies would be privateers, large enough to cause a stir. And yes, he would need a crew; Ball was droning on about raising hands, and that might well be a problem. But as for officers; he would be allowed at least one lieutenant: Hunt, he knew, would jump at the chance, and there would be Adams and Summers. Manning had written saying he was intending to return, but even before then, King reckoned he could raise a nucleus of trusted officers.

  Ball's words finally cut through and King realised he had been asked a question although, for the life of him, he could not recall what it was. Something of this must have been conveyed to the Civil Commissioner, yet there was no hint of annoyance on the older man's face: rather the reverse. He might be a senior captain, with hopes of a flag before so very long, but King instinctively sensed that the mighty Sir Alexander Ball remembered being appointed to his first command in minute detail, and may even have been reliving the scene at that very moment.

  “So what do you say, Commander?” Ball apparently repeated, and there was only one answer King could give.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  * * *

  It was four bells in the forenoon watch or, as a landsman would have it, ten o'clock of the morning. All the starboard watch permitted leave were to present themselves at the quay at the end of the second dog, so Wiessner had twelve hours and a full purse: he could do much with both.

  But despite the fact that roughly half of Maidstone's lower deck would be ashore that day, he struck out alone. At the last minute, some of the fools he messed with tried to persuade him to join them, although company, and the idea of filling up with rot-gut blackstrap, did not appeal. And neither did he want to empty his pockets on gaudy novelties or some sickly pet. Wiessner had brushed them aside quite rudely, but then they ought to have known he needed no form of fellowship.

  The road felt warm beneath his feet, and he really should consider a fresh pair of shoes if he were to stay on shore for any length of time. But his money would be better spent elsewhere; shoes could only be worn for a while, and Wiessner had a strange premonition that the memories he was going to bring back from the day's excursion would remain with him for far longer.

  * * *

  By the end of their first interview the man they knew as Riley had actually softened quite a bit, and a subsequent meeting revealed a more gentle side. Adams explained their predicament and Riley arranged for them both to move into the shed at the rear of his premises. It was hardly larger than a midshipman's berth, and needed to be shared with an aged donkey, although neither lad had known accommodation larger, and the company was broadly the same.

  They had moved in on the previous day, and were intending to work that night, but the presence of a group of redcoats using the lads' first choice of call as an improvised taphouse scuppered their plans. But, undeterred, Adams and Summers quickly transferred, leading the willing animal through the cooling streets until the next place was found. By then the moon had risen; it was full, and shone boldly in the clear sky so that all about them was picked out in horrifying detail. And they could have continued; Adams even supposed in time the additional light might be considered an advantage. But, for their first time out it was disconcerting to the point that they fled straight back to their dark little shed.

  The second attempt was going to be different, though. They had spoken at length, and agreed upon a plan to make their task easier. It would mean leaving the hut in broad daylight, and probably having to wait for a considerable time, although both men were used to standing boring watches, so the prospect of remaining motionless for several hours hardly deterred them. But they needed to be successful that night; Riley had advanced money to pay the rent they owed, so now both were in his debt. And despite the fact that he had unbent somewhat, neither wished to be in any way beholden to such a man.

  * * *

  Kestrel had been afloat for over a month and was secured to a quay in the dockyard on Manoel Island. King had been in the habit of inspecting her roughly once a week, purely out of interest, as this was the last ship he had sailed in and briefly commanded. But on all his previous trips the journey had never seemed to take so long.

  And travelling with a reluctant Lesro did not help matters. His friend seemed more than a little put out at having to miss their mid-day meal, and actually walk in the heat of the sun, so was maintaining a pace marginally slower than King's.

  “It is not so wonderful a ship,” he grunted as they turned the final corner on the Triq Ix Xatt and the vessel's outline was finally revealed. “I served aboard her for several months, she is cramped, cold and could have done with a thorough wash.”

  But King had no ears for his friend's observations. Kestrel was his first official command and if she had been crank, with willow spars and a sagging keel, he would have loved her just as much. As it was, the sloop seemed pretty much perfect.

  “She's new copper, and a fresh fore, as well as main and mizzen,” King called back and he bounded over the bridge that led to the quay.

  “I had thought her masts low,” Lesro panted while making a half-hearted attempt to catch up. “Is that the best a British yard can do?”

  “Topmasts are not set up,” King sighed as he waited for his friend. “Besides, we do not over spar our vessels like the French.”

  “But she has no guns!”

  “They've taken out the long nines and will be replacing them with eighteen-pounder carronades,” King replied quickly. “Not quite the range, and we can only ship a broadside of eight, though they will be faster to load and must surely pack a punch.”

  “But the bilges,” Lesro persisted; the heat was becoming too much and he slowed. “You do not yet know, but at sea she stinks like a sewer.”

  “They've scraped her clean,” King retorted as he finally began to pull away. “Filled and cleared her thrice over, then stowed fresh ballast, as well as a new pump – I'd chance the old one couldn't take such punishment.”

  “Well, I hope they have replaced the galley as well,” his fri
end sighed, while stopping completely, bending low, and placing both hands on his knees to rest. “The food was diabolical.”

  King spun round and was about to reply when he caught the expression on the younger man's face as he looked up at him, and both began to laugh out loud.

  * * *

  They met Hunt on the quarterdeck. He had been aboard since first light and, as any good first officer should, had spent the morning annoying the dockyard workers. Every frame and strake in Kestrel's hull was now inspected, as well as the preparations still in hand for fitting out the gun room and petty officers' quarters. But as soon as the shipwrights left for their mid-day break he became more thoughtful, and when his new captain found him, he was standing next to the binnacle, with both hands set firmly behind his back while imagining how the masts would look when finally set up.

  “Pass muster, does she, Tony?” King asked as he climbed the short quarterdeck ladder. Hunt shook his head as if from a trance and smiled sheepishly.

  “There's a deal of work to do below, and I cannot say I approve of the aft cockpit: no light and air; the lads will never grow. But I'd say we had the makings of a fine ship.”

  “That is good to hear,” King told him, matching his smile. “And what of the preparations for raising a crew?”

  “We're expecting a draught from the regulating office, and I've arranged for placards to be printed.”

  “Will such a thing bring hands?” King asked doubtfully, while inspecting the French made compass that was still in place on the binnacle. He was aware that a small allowance could be applied for when commissioning a new ship, but wondered what response could be expected in a place like Malta.

  Hunt gave him a sidelong look. “I figured it worth the effort,” he replied. “Kestrel is a lively little thing, she'll take prizes, sure as a gun, and you are not completely unknown in navy circles. Why, some we took from Prometheus have come forward already.”

  King looked more carefully at the compass: this was the first time that he had ever considered his reputation might carry some weight, and for a moment was lost for words.

  “The dockyard supervisor says we should be clear of fitting out by the end of the month,” Hunt continued, oblivious to any impact his words may have caused. “Allow three or four weeks for rigging, masts and stores, and we should be at sea well before the end of June. Would that be agreeable, sir?”

  His new captain had a far away look in his eyes, and for a moment Hunt was concerned that he may have done something wrong. Then the face cleared, and the old King returned.

  “That will do very nicely,” he said. “Thank you, Mr Hunt.”

  * * *

  “Would you care for a drink, sir?” the sickly little man with a small dark moustache asked, but Wiessner pretended not to notice.

  “I'll see more,” he said instead, and the woman before him turned to go. She was well built, with long black hair and a large chest that was inadequately covered by her loose dress. And she had fine, full hips, so really should not be discounted, although Wiessner wanted to be sure before making his mind up completely. “Don't go far,” he warned her, and pointed to the pair of similarly clad girls who were sitting together at the other end of the room.

  He had been there for all of ten minutes, and was starting to enjoy himself. The only cloud on his horizon was his button; the small piece of bone had been with him for all his seafaring life, yet now appeared to be missing. Wiessner did not hold great store by it, and was of the opinion that luck was like so much other spiritual shtuss, even though he also hoped the thing would be there when he returned to his berth.

  The sallow man snapped his fingers in a businesslike manner and called out in a language Wiessner did not understand. He was aware of the trouble he was causing; usually this whole performance would have been played out in front of a group of mildly groggy seamen, who would be japing with each other, and the girls, while making up their minds. And it would be evening, or late afternoon at the least. No one at a Nanny House worked in the mornings: most would expect to be asleep and were probably cursing him under their breath. But Wiessner did not care and was used to ploughing a solitary furrow. If anything, the fact he was being a nuisance rather heightened his enjoyment and anticipation.

  Another girl appeared, and must have come straight from her bed: she was rosy with sleep and seemed even more disgruntled than the others. But there was something in her manner that caught Wiessner's attention, and he sat more upright in his chair.

  Her build was slighter than the others, and she had what Wiessner guessed to be pert breasts that were currently concealed behind the cotton of her shift. Her arms were bare to the shoulders and appeared thin but muscular; she would be strong, but only in a womanly way – no match for a powerful man like him, and he was immediately interested.

  And she had character; he could tell that by the way her face was set in a disgruntled frown, an expression that did not disappear when the man shouted at her. He watched while the dark eyes slowly turned to set on him, and carried a message of loathing that Wiessner found oddly reassuring. Yes, that was what he was looking for: spirit and energy and nice sharp teeth. Of all the women in the room, she was undoubtedly the most attractive, and would make a good beginning to his day.

  “That one will do,” he said, nodding towards her.

  “You like Koncetta,” his host confirmed, before snapping his fingers once more and hurrying the other women from the room. “She is a good choice, if an expensive one.”

  Wiessner was unmoved. Payment would come at the end, and he was prepared to argue if need be.

  “And you would like that drink?”

  He shook his head in silence, and made as if to rise, only stopping when the man spoke once more.

  “Koncetta is thirsty, and she only drinks Champagne,” he said.

  Wiessner's eyes set on the man who would have gone down easily at one strike from his fist. The act would give him a measure of satisfaction and be an agreeable overture to what was to come, but Wiessner was not so foolish. No man could run such a business without protection; there were bound to be heavies waiting nearby, and he had no intention of ending his precious day's leave early.

  “Wine, if you like,” he said directly. “Blackstrap: I'll not pay for more.”

  “Very well, wine,” the man shrugged, and a bottle was brought in with two empty rummers set next to it. The girl snatched at the tray and swept it round at such a speed that the glasses slid to the edge. Then she began to walk towards a small door set at the back of the room. And, after a moment, Wiessner followed.

  Chapter Twelve

  Half an hour later it was almost over. The girl lay naked and exhausted on the grey sheets of the bed, and seemed keen to sleep. Wiessner surveyed her over the rim of the glass. It held wine, which tasted foul but the room was oppressively hot and there was no water to hand. Besides, the exercise had made him thirsty. But she had been good, very good, and he was seriously considering enjoying her again. Then, as he watched, she moved slightly and her eyes opened.

  Nothing was said, but the message could never have been misunderstood: Wiessner could gauge exactly how much he was hated.

  It was scarcely a new sensation but the knowledge seemed to fill him with fresh energy. He drained the glass, then picked up the bottle to examine it more carefully. Despite the pimp's claim, his companion had not taken a drop, yet the wine was nearly finished: he must have drunk a goodly amount, which probably accounted for the faint feeling of giddiness. But this was his leave: he was entitled to a bit of a spree, and Wiessner poured the last into his glass.

  The drink had not improved, even if its bite was now more bearable, and almost pleasant. The girl was still glaring at him, though: still setting those black eyes boring deep into his skull, and Wiessner became fully aroused. Seeing this, her mask of loathing finally slipped; she let out a small cry which increased into a scream as the seaman approached.

  He had hardly reached the bed before the
door flew open, and a veritable bull of a man charged into the room. Wiessner turned slowly to meet him. Whether it was the wine, or simply exhaustion he could not tell, but his senses felt dulled, and simple movements did not come easily. Nevertheless Wiessner was always ripe for a ruck, and he balled his fists tightly as the beast squared up to him.

  The two eyed each other warily, and Wiessner sensed there would be no action unless he instigated it. He might even be able to turn away now, collect his clothes, pay whatever was owed and return to the street, ready for more that afternoon. But he had never backed away from a fight in his life, and was certainly not afraid to start one.

  He threw his right, it felt slightly heavy but carried its usual power, and would have undoubtedly caused severe damage had it connected with the man's shining skull. His adversary ducked away long before its arrival, though, and even had time to give a toothless leer as Wiessner recovered. He threw another: a left this time. The seaman even ducked down and advanced to give the blow extra angle and pace. But once more his opponent dodged and Wiessner found himself connecting with clear air.

  Then the atmosphere changed: the bald man was no longer smiling and had started to sway slightly from the shoulders. Wiessner followed him with his eyes, the fists were just as tight although his mind strayed to the missing button and he wondered vaguely if his luck was about to run out. He even considered calling out himself and, for the first time saw the sense in taking such pleasures with others of his kind. A simple shout of his ship's name would normally bring a crowd of shipmates rushing to his rescue. But there were unlikely to be others from Maidstone there at such an hour. And if there had been, how many would bother to rescue a loner such as him?