The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  Wiessner was starting to realise the bald man meant business. Should he be fortunate enough to leave the place upright, it would probably be with empty pockets, and the thought of leaving well earned coin behind filled him with disgust. Then the man came for him, and though he hedged to one side, Wiessner could not resist the solid impact of his punch.

  It struck him soundly on the jaw: for a moment he thought the bone might have broken, but his mouth opened easily enough, and Wiessner casually spat several teeth onto the floor as he assessed his opponent afresh. The strike had not appeased the brute in any way: if anything, he seemed more ready to finish him off than before, and began to circle with fists that were, in turn, rotating. Wiessner looked for some form of weapon but, apart from a table and the bed, the room held no furniture. Then his opponent moved again.

  Wiessner stepped to the left and straight into the man's other fist that struck him on the side of the head, sending spirals of light dancing across his brain. He felt his knees start to give, and there was a small sound that must have come from his own throat. For a moment he wondered if anyone would find him, and had decided not when another blow landed deep into his stomach. He doubled up in pain, but lowering his head had been a mistake, and an upper cut caught him squarely on an unprotected chin.

  It was enough: for a moment Wiessner saw clearly, and even took in the unmatched curtains that hung at the dirty window. But that was all: there was no fight or luck left in him. Wiessner was finally beaten. He grudgingly gave in to inevitability and was gone before his body even struck the floor.

  * * *

  The party was quite impromptu. From visiting the ship, King and Lesro had passed Camilleri's, the naval tailors on the Triq D'Argens, and it seemed a shame not to step in.

  Once inside, the Maltese took over. This was not his usual establishment; his clothes being of far higher quality and sourced from abroad. But that did not mean Lesro was unable to give advice and, within the hour, King had been professionally measured and was placing an order for two frock tunics, as well as one of full dress, along with the necessary britches, shirts, waistcoats and stockings suitable for the captain of one of His Majesty's ships of war. It was an extravagance, but one King was prepared to tolerate; two weeks must be allowed before the clothes would be ready, and it was more or less accepted that the bill could be stretched out for several months after that.

  Besides, he felt the expense justified; when serving at sea as a lieutenant, King had been inclined to wear nothing more fancy than duck trousers and an old, buttonless round jacket, but now he must think about setting a better impression. And there was one saving, the footwear could wait: he still had a serviceable pair of boots, and two pairs of shoes that shared the same, plated, buckles, although the epaulette was something else entirely.

  It was also the last thing they chose, and took almost as long as selecting the cloth for King's undress tunics. Lesro could see little point in buying the cheaper models but, unless he was fortunate in prize money, a bullion swab would always be beyond King's reach. Eventually they decided on a gilded brass example, it was lighter than some of the pinchbeck models but of particularly heavy leaf, as the tailor assured them while deftly slipping it onto King's current jacket shoulder to secure the sale.

  And so, as they made their way back to the Auberge d'Italie, it would have been churlish to reject Lesro's suggestion of meeting that evening at Angelo's. Naval tradition stipulated that a new swab must be toasted, and suddenly the idea of celebrating seemed inordinately attractive. And later, when he saw the group of familiar faces that waited for him, King was not sorry.

  Hunt's was amongst them: beaming with the glow that came with the first glass of wine, and Timothy's – it was especially good to note he was there when the invitation could only have come a few hours before. Then there was Brehaut, presumably his current ship had been delayed still further, along with the dour Martin, King's colleague from the Treasury. It was a shame that some of the younger men had not made it: Steven was present, and Lesro had invited his little brother Anton, but there was no sign of Adams or Summers. And then King noticed a stranger in decidedly formal civilian dress.

  The fellow cut a vaguely sombre figure amongst so many naval uniforms, and was seated near to the head of the long table. He could not have been beyond his early thirties, yet had a fat face that ended with jowls descending from a weak chin with a small, almost feeble, nose. And the hair; King had grown used to Service fashions, and there were still a few officers yet to opt for the modern cut. Some allowed theirs to grow freely and would even use powder, but they were very much in the minority, with most preferring a neatly tied queue. But the fellow before him had a splendid mane of unpowdered auburn locks and, rather than being constrained in any way, it hung in ringlets down to his sloping shoulders, reminding King of a woman's before she had properly dressed.

  “Tis the hero of the hour!” Hunt bellowed with glee on seeing him. “Come, Tom, take a seat, we have been waiting a veritable age!”

  King allowed himself to be steered to the head of the table. “You will forgive me, I am certain,” he told Hunt, remembering his new first lieutenant had equal cause to celebrate. “But there was much to attend to at the Treasury.”

  “Utter nonsense!” the young man assured him a with admirable candour. “Nik's been telling us of your purchases – why one is even giving you away this very moment!”

  “And is the reason we are gathered!” Timothy added, eyeing King's epaulette with covetous eyes as he reached for his glass.

  Wine was poured and soon they had all drunk a brimmer to the swab.

  “And shall we be eating?” Lesro asked, looking about the small room. “You are aware, of course, that the sailor's slang for food comes from a Maltese word?”

  “Scran?” King asked, in surprise.

  “Munjy,” Lesro corrected with authority. “From our word Mangiare, which is to eat.”

  “All very interesting, but first we have wine that wishes to be drunk!” Hunt insisted, while examining one of several bottles that were grouped on the table.

  “No, I really should be careful,” King exclaimed, while his glass was being refilled.

  “And that does you credit, sir!” a strange voice told him, and King found himself looking into the dark eyes of the newcomer.

  “Forgive me, I have been casual in my manners. Thomas King – Commander Thomas King – Captain of HMS Kestrel,” Timothy corrected himself to chortles from the assembly. “Meet Samuel Taylor Coleridge.”

  King gave a nod and extended his hand across the table to the stranger who took it with deference in his own, slightly clammy, grasp.

  “An honour, sir,” Coleridge informed him, adding, “I am pleased to know yet another sea officer – sure, 'tis a calling I admire greatly.”

  “And was it one you considered for yourself?” King asked politely. He had met many who claimed a wish for a life at sea. On investigation, they usually seemed more interested in prize money, as well as the mistaken belief that sailors led an especially amorous life – an assumption that hardly bore close inspection. But there were no illusions as far as Coleridge was concerned, and the large, fluid face split into a generous smile.

  “Lord, no!” he exclaimed, chuckling deeply. “I served a spell as a dragoon, and flatter myself that not so very much harm was done. But give me charge of a watch, and there is no end to the damage I could cause.”

  The others joined him in good natured laughter.

  “Mr Coleridge is a poet,” Timothy explained. “He has penned a deal of verse, including some ditty about an old shellback.”

  Now he had been reminded for the second time, the name did mean something to King: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner had caused something of a stir when first published, although he never bothered to read such things himself.

  “I confess, I...” he began awkwardly.

  “Fear not, friend, I do not expect the entire world to read my work,” Coleridge assured h
im with apparent sincerity, before raising a quizzical eyebrow. “Though my publishers barely pay me fourpence a line, so were you to purchase a copy, I should not mind a jot.”

  Again there was laughter, and King found himself warming to the strange guest.

  “Will you not take more wine, Tom?” Hunt asked, but King shook his head.

  “I have had plenty for now, thank you,” he replied, and was about to urge his friend to help himself before noticing he was doing exactly that.

  “Ah, the young – how they abuse their bodies so,” Coleridge exclaimed on seeing this, and King considered him.

  “You do not imbibe, sir?” he asked.

  “In my youth I have to admit so,” the stranger confessed. “And lately have been partial to the poppy, though that is all behind me now.”

  King noticed Timothy eyeing the man with amusement, but Coleridge seemed oblivious.

  “In fact that, in part, is why I am here,” he continued. “A chance to start life afresh in a different environment, and away from all enticement.”

  There was much in the man's statement that did not ring true, and King had begun to reassess him when Timothy took over the conversation.

  “Well you have hardly placed yourself away from temptation,” he told him baldly. “There may be churches in abundance, though Malta is by no means a monastery; medicinal laudanum can be found in any one of a hundred apothecaries, while there is Kendal Black Drop, Dover's Powder or Godfrey's Cordial in most stores.”

  “And you only have to travel a few miles over the water to reach the source,” Martin added, warming to the theme.

  “Why yes, Sicily is a paradise for narcotics,” Timothy agreed. “They say the opium crop alone is worth a fortune; one square foot will bring in forty pounds a year, and there are many others to choose from.”

  “Fifty pounds,” Lesro corrected with casual expertise. “And white poppy is the favourite. They sow in October and November with the seeds being planted in a mixture of ashes and dung – no earth is required. Each plant grows to a height of six inches before the flowers first appear and the drug itself can be harvested when the capsules are barely half grown.”

  King considered his friend with interest; he knew only the basics of his father's business, but guessed there was much more to it than simply importing corn.

  “Is that the case?” Coleridge asked, while his expression revealed a mixture of horror and wonder. “I really had no idea,” he added quietly, before reaching for his previously untouched glass of wine.

  * * *

  Father Vella, the aged kappillan who cared for the Church of the Blessed Virgin was the next person to take possession of Wiessner's body. The first had been his attacker, the bald man who was also Koncetta's lover. He, along with her pimp, had loaded it into the back of a small trap that was used for such purposes, before taking it along a bumpy road and all too roughly depositing the thing outside Father Vella's place of business. The elderly man who tended the church's small garden spotted it less than fifteen minutes later and, together with his son, heaved it into the cool of the church, where the cleric now regarded it.

  This was hardly the first time such a thing had happened, and his was not the only house of prayer to be regularly blessed in such a way. For all the changes that had been wrought in recent years, the Church, and Father Vella, retained some responsibilities, and one was for the disposal of the dead. These were usually classed as paupers, either in fact or due to their relatives' reluctance to waste money on a funeral. But Father Vella was provided with a store of coffins for just such an eventuality, and San Pedro, his assistant, had a spade.

  Yet, this was no ordinary beggar; a single look was enough to tell him that. He knew nothing of Wiessner's upbringing or home life, and neither was he aware of the seaman's capacity for luck and survival, attributes that might have made him take slightly more interest in the cooling body. And Vella certainly had no knowledge of the poisoning properties of the mandrake plant that had accounted for Wiessner's state. But the priest could tell a Jew when he saw one, and the sight filled him with mixed emotions.

  It was three hundred years or so since the Edict of Expulsion had been signed in Palermo: this single document had effectively banned all of that race from Spain and, by association, Malta. That was not to say the untravelled kappillan had never come across a Jew before; there were actually quite a few amongst the slaves, not to mention those who had come to live in his country that he suspected to be hiding their faith.

  But since the French occupation, all restrictions had been lifted, and during his brief stay, Napoleon – the same Napoleon who was to strip every true church of its physical wealth – even suggested the setting up of a synagogue in Valletta. It was an idea that still caused the priest disquiet. Yet, when the British took over, there was no renunciation. Vella even suspected Jewish immigration would soon come to be encouraged and, again, was appalled.

  Not that he had anything against the race; how could he, when his Redeemer, along with all but one of the authors of the book he held most dear, were of such stock? And Vella would have no truck with scare stories of the fate a Gentile baby might meet when falling into Jewish hands. But despite his somewhat insular upbringing, he could predict nothing but trouble if more were to come.

  Malta's economy was fragile to say the least. It was over ten years since repercussions from the French revolution had reduced the country's income and all but bankrupted its former rulers. Since then they had been pillaged by the French and, despite efforts from the British, were still suffering the effects of economic depression. Such matters should not concern a man of the cloth, although Vella did have to deal with the consequences.

  So many businesses had failed, with some of their owners being pushed to the crime of self murder, while those less affected were still struggling to keep their families together. And it did not take a man of business to appreciate that an influx of those famed for their financial skill and enterprise would cause havoc amongst the tender traders of Valletta.

  But the fact remained; the body before him was that of a Jew. Vella supposed he could contact a few people he knew in Valletta, one of whom was even rumoured to have appointed himself rabbi. But it was also a Saturday, the Jewish day of abstinence from work; something the kappillan accepted was more strictly adhered to in their faith than his own. And they had very different ideas about dead bodies and how they should be dealt with; he may well be causing more problems than he solved, especially as this particular member of the race had died a violent death. He could foresee repercussions that might lead to outright riot, especially if he were correct in his assumption that more passengers of the Jewish faith had arrived in the convoy.

  Of course he might be wrong; the dead man could have belonged to the armed forces, even though his body wore no uniform or jewellery to identify him as sailor or soldier. The latter might have been taken from him, and even caused his death, but Vella thought not. Few soldiers were as uniformly suntanned as the magnificent torso before him, while a total lack of tattoos was almost unheard of in a seaman.

  And if he did inform the authorities, they were equally unlikely to do much on a Saturday, while no burials took place on the Christian Sabbath, so Father Vella might be lumbered with the corpse for the next two days. It was only May, but spring was already behaving too much like summer to take chances: unless it was put under the soil in the next few hours, the body would become a danger to health. Such risks simply could not be taken on a crowded island, especially as Father Vella was likely to be the first victim, and it was that thought which finally spurred him into taking action without further delay.

  All of the Catholic cemeteries were short of space and, were he to carry out a funeral without notice, it would attract attention from one of his regular flock. Rock Gate, the official burial site dedicated to those of different faiths was an option, but should be disregarded for the same reason. And then Vella remembered Kalkara.

  It was one of
the oldest cemeteries on the island and held the bodies of many denominations including Moslems killed during the Ottoman siege. And being open ground, and set to the south east side of Grand Harbour, he could come and go without causing attention.

  Vella sighed as he considered the corpse afresh. He would call San Pedro and his idiot son Patrizju who were to be the last people to deal with the corpse. They would find it a coffin and dig a suitable grave as they had done for many others in the past. It was not an ideal solution, but the best a humble man such as himself could reach. And though a compromise, he felt it would suit all parties, including the soul of the misguided child before him. He knew little of the Jewish faith, just that their concept of heaven was different to his own. But Vella was sure of one thing; the man would have died without calling upon his true Redeemer. And for life and hope to have been extinguished at the same moment saddened him greatly.

  * * *

  But the kappillan was wrong, both were very much present in Wiessner's motionless body. Admittedly they had been suppressed by the drug given to him in the brothel, and the subsequent beating hardly aided his recovery. But a glimmer of life remained and, while it did, there must always be hope.

  Nevertheless, the first thing Wiessner became aware of when he woke was pain; it seemed to fill his entire body, though centred mainly upon the face and head. And there was blood in his mouth, he could taste it, as well as another less familiar flavour which was equally strong. He opened his eyes, but it made no difference, there was still utter darkness and he wondered if he had been struck blind. There was a sheet covering his naked body which he brushed aside but, when he went to rub at his eyes, something more solid constricted both limbs, and it was then that Wiessner realised he was being held in a form of box.

  He felt at the top; it was rough wood, and careful manoeuvring told him it reached at least as far as his head, while a kick from his bare feet confirmed there could be no way out in that direction. Wood extended to either side as well: even in the stuffy darkness he could imagine the oblong shape, while there was solid resistance when he bashed against the walls, and the dull, dry sound that came back to him verified there always would be.