The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  Vasey, the carpenter, had appeared on deck, a rare occasion in itself when his battle station was below the waterline. He had two of his mates with him, and all three were carrying lengths of wood that were eagerly accepted by others from the boatswain's team.

  “So what's going to happen?” Summers persisted.

  “They'll be rigging them about the split – fishing, so it's called,” Wiessner explained. The wind was just as strong, but with Kestrel moving slower, the roar from her bows had diminished, and the two could speak without raising their voices. “Won't be sound enough to carry a full sail, but might at least stop the spar from breaking completely.”

  Summers looked up. It was growing darker by the second but he could still see the canvas of the topsail as it thrashed itself into ribbons way above his head. And even that minor pressure on the topmast was causing it to work alarmingly.

  “And will they manage it?” he asked, somewhat artlessly, although the fear was evident in his voice.

  “Well, maybe they will, an' maybe they won't,” Wiessner replied gently. “Either way I'd say the French are going to close on us, an' we'd better prepare ourselves for a bit of a scrap.”

  Just as Wiessner spoke, the wind brought the sound of a double report from the enemy's bow chasers. Neither could see the frigate, nor its shot, but the twin discharges were louder than before, and carried greater menace. He looked at the lad, and actually went so far as to lay a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “But you've got to ask yourself an important question,” the older man told him. “How bad can it get?”

  It came to Summers then that all was likely to end in disaster, although somehow he could not be afraid. It was as if the realisation that, with the worst that could happen actually panning out before him, there was no longer any need for anxiety, and he understood then that what had really frightened him in the past was fear itself.

  “Mr Summers – look to your guns, if you please!”

  The rebuke came from the quarterdeck; the first lieutenant was standing by the break, and appeared to be supporting himself on the main fife rail. Summers immediately broke away from Wiessner and assumed his correct station at the forward section of the battery. Midshipman Steven, who had taken over Adams' role, was already in place further aft, and rapidly called for the men to close up.

  “We are going to engage the enemy,” Hunt told them from the quarterdeck, although his voice was not strong and some had difficulty in hearing. “Prepare the starboard battery; there will be one broadside with round, then reload with double bar – see to it!”

  The last details were missed by many, but quickly repeated by Midshipman Steven, and all, including the inexperienced Summers, guessed what was to happen. The sprung mast had caused a major problem: Kestrel would undoubtedly be dropping back, and was bound to be caught by the Frenchman. It was equally clear the captain was not intending to go down without a fight, but no one was under any illusions; in a pitched battle between a sloop and a fifth rate there could only be one winner.

  “We shall have to draw further bar from below.” This was Steven again, and Summers raised a hand in acknowledgement. Ready-use round shot lay in garlands by every cannon, but only two rounds of bar, the special shot designed to wreak havoc amongst an enemy's tophamper, were on hand, and suddenly an element of mischief crept into the young man's mind.

  “You there, Miller, and Jones!” The hated hands at number three gun glared at him, although Summers noted that Wiessner, who also worked the same piece, was watching with interest.

  “Get below and bring up sixteen rounds of bar – and be sharp about it!”

  That would provide a further two double-shotted broadside but, more to the point as far as Summers was concerned, it also represented a load of over two and a half hundredweight for the seamen to carry. And one they would have to lug two decks up from the very depths of the hold.

  Both men fixed him with a look made of pure hatred, while Miller even opened his mouth to complain. But the order was both reasonable and public, and neither could refuse.

  The two pushed past him as they made their way to the forward companionway. Summers heard a muttering that might equally be threat or curse and was surprised to find he could not have cared less. He had no idea how the oncoming battle would pan out, but knew his own, internal fight was both over and won. And he was equally aware that something of the victory had already been signalled to Miller and Jones.

  * * *

  On the quarterdeck, King was feeling equally devil-may-care. The frigate was continuing to gain perceptibly but in a similar way to Summers, now that the worst had happened, he felt blissfully unconcerned. They may be taken – the odds were undoubtedly strong in that direction but, even though his command of Kestrel was likely to be remembered as one of the shortest in history, he remained stubbornly buoyant.

  Hunt was looking far from well, however. The younger man stood next to the binnacle and was half leaning on the frail structure as he watched the men working aloft. King walked across to join him.

  “How is it with you, Tony?” he asked, noticing how he immediately stood more upright at the sound of his words.

  “Fine, thank you, sir,” Hunt replied automatically before adding, “Though my shoulder is paining me.”

  “It is your first day back to duty,” King reminded him. “As I recall you were advised to take matters easy.”

  “I cannot argue there,” Hunt agreed. “But where would we be if we always hearkened to medics?”

  The two men grinned together, and something of their former friendship returned. Then the voice of Duncan, the boatswain, broke the mood.

  “That's as firm as I can make it!” The man must just have come from the main topmast and his usually grizzled face carried a strained, preoccupied look, which probably explained the lack of quarterdeck protocol.

  “Will she take a sail?” King demanded.

  “She might, sir, if heavily reefed,” Duncan conceded. “But there's no tellin' how long for.”

  That was little help. Without the aid of the main topsail they were falling behind noticeably. The wind was continuing to rise but more slowly now, and it felt as if it may have reached its peak, even if the rain was increasing. He glanced back at the frigate, which was only now taking a reef in her topsails. He might try setting the forecourse again, but it was unlikely to hold for long, while even a heavily reefed main topsail would make little difference, and may account for the entire topmast.

  A crash from behind brought up a cloud of splinters that signalled a hit just below their taffrail. Kestrel must have fallen back to the extent that she was now within range of the enemy's bow chasers.

  “Go to the guns, Tony,” King ordered, turning back to the first lieutenant.

  “Surely I should remain on the quarterdeck?” he protested.

  But King would brook no argument. “Go to the guns, I say; I shall have excellent support from Mr Brehaut and with only Steven and Summers there, you are needed.”

  More to the point, if the quarterdeck was to suffer a broadside from the enemy, any shot that accounted for King was likely to take the sailing master into the bargain, while Hunt would be better protected on the main deck, and be able to take command.

  “Very good, sir,” the first lieutenant replied almost formally, and then was gone. King glanced across to Brehaut, who appeared as alert and ready as he could wish. With Kestrel already damaged and facing almost certain capture, they must have grounds enough to surrender, if not now, then after a few shots had been exchanged. And King harboured no wish to drag out matters unnecessarily, certainly not at the cost of men's lives.

  But he was not without hope; in fact the bones of a plan were already forming in his mind. It was highly fallible and not even complete, though he sensed there to be merit in it, while some of the preparations necessary had already been made. And of one thing he was certain, if Kestrel was going down, she would do so fighting.

  * * *

  “Ready
there!” The sailing master's voice was distorted by his speaking trumpet although, if he had whispered the warning, most of the hands would have understood. They were standing at their stations, the afterguard and waisters by the braces, with gun crews closed up at their starboard weapons and what topmen could be spared, by the shrouds. The enemy frigate was now less than a mile off their stern and Kestrel had already suffered five hits from her chasers that had accounted for two men on the quarterdeck. One, a lad, had been taken below while the other, for whom there could be no hope, was quickly dropped over the side.

  But now the tension was rising steadily: it was simply a question of which ship would yaw first, and King had already decided it must be them.

  “Are you prepared, Mr Hunt?” he called, and the first lieutenant raised a hand in acknowledgement. Then a single glance at Brehaut was all that was needed; the sailing master was totally in sympathy with his thoughts, and Kestrel began to fall off the wind as her hull turned to starboard to take the weather beam on.

  Less than fifteen seconds were needed to assume position, and only slightly longer for the gunners to lay their weapons and assess the new motion. Then at a shout from Hunt the entire ship heeled as a near simultaneous broadside roared out against the oncoming Frenchman. And there was no time to await results; they had fired round shot, which was better for long range, but would cause less damage to the masts and spars that were their target. Almost before the last of her shot had reached the enemy, Kestrel was coming back to the wind, and soon she was resuming her previous course.

  King looked back at the frigate; she had shown no signs of turning, and her only apparent acknowledgement to the British ship's broadside was the same double flash from her bows as the twin chase guns spoke out yet again. Neither shot hit, however, although Kestrel's lead had dwindled alarmingly.

  The men at the starboard battery were fighting to reload their guns as the sloop resumed the rhythm of the chase, but there was now less than a quarter of a mile dividing them. It was close range, but the carronades' next load would be a double dose of bar. Such a charge ideally required the shortest distance possible and King resolved to wait an extra minute to allow the enemy to come closer.

  Never had sixty seconds taken so long to pass. Throughout the time his eyes remained fixed on the frigate, watching for any sign that the ship might be intending to turn. But the French captain came stoically on, just as King would have done in his place. It might not be pleasant to receive a bows on broadside, but being raked by a sloop was not so very terrible, while every inch the larger ship could win made Kestrel's eventual capture that much more certain.

  Then it was time for a second try – for what might also be the last, unless they hit an extra run of luck. Hunt, on the main deck, had been signalling the guns ready for some while, and a word from King set the wheels in motion once more.

  Kestrel bucked slightly as she turned, and her starboard side was made to face the oncoming frigate. Hunt began peering over the bulwark, waiting for the ideal time to release their load, while the Frenchman's bow chasers spat out another pair of shots, one of which found a home in the great cabin, directly beneath King's feet. And then the British ship's broadside was released once more, and once more the sloop was brought back into the wind before any result could be gauged.

  But this time there was a difference: this time a sigh of pure pleasure ran about the men, and quickly gave way to a cheering that came close to hysterical. King, who had been watching Brehaut as he coaxed the sloop back on course, found time to glance back at his enemy and gasped.

  The broadside had been well laid; the enemy's fore topsail was all but gone amid what must have been a hail of shot. But what was far more important was her fore topmast. This had been knocked sideways and was currently teetering on the edge of collapse.

  “Take her round!” King bellowed suddenly. “Ready larboard battery!”

  That was all the instruction necessary; gunners immediately crossed the deck and began preparing the larboard pieces, while Brehaut kept the helm over and allowed the ship to continue round until the larboard side was being presented. The unused carronades must still be loaded with round shot; King had no idea whether Hunt would order the target to be low or high – each would have an impact – but the important thing to do was get those shots in, before the wounded beast behind them could recover.

  “Fire!”

  Hunt's bellow carried over the scream of the wind and in no time the larboard battery was adding to the cacophony. The eighteen-pound balls rained down on the enemy's prow, knocking chunks from her bows that were visible even in the dying light. And then the Frenchman's fore topmast finally began to tumble. It fell slowly and almost with grace, being delayed by a number of lines, until it crashed down onto the frigate's forecastle in a pile of splintered wood and torn canvas.

  “She's trying to yaw!” Whether by intention or design, the enemy was certainly turning, although King had no idea who had first spotted the fact. But with the prospect of the frigate's main guns coming into play, it was time to be going.

  “Take her back!” he snapped. “Five points to starboard!”

  Brehaut instantly nodded in agreement. The frigate was turning to present her larboard battery; steering to starboard would prolong the time when her broadside would bear, while taking the wind on the quarter gave Kestrel much needed speed.

  The sloop turned smoothly and soon the wind, that now blew little short of a gale, came over her starboard quarter, while the frigate began falling behind and was clearly struggling.

  “We can finish her off, Tom!” This was Hunt. He must have run back from his position on the main deck and was standing before King, face flushed and eyes alight. “Turn back and give her another dose – she'll strike – you see if she don't!”

  “Get back to your station!” King roared with unaccustomed venom, although there were few about with time to notice. Hunt duly slunk back towards the quarterdeck ladder while King's mind played briefly on the proposal. They might indeed turn back, but whatever the damage they had caused to the foremast, the Frenchman remained a formidable opponent. Kestrel was not only out-gunned and out-manned, she also carried a wounded main topmast. They had been lucky once, such things could not be guaranteed a second time and it was better by far to take the winnings already accrued, than chance it all on another roll of the dice.

  He watched as the frigate steadily disappeared into the gloom. They could hold this course for an hour or so, then change, and change again should he feel like it. It would be strange if the Frenchman was in sight at dawn, and even if so, he now felt confident enough in his ship and himself to see her off. And it was then, for probably the first time, that he finally felt he had earned the right to call himself Kestrel's captain.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Well, King – I see you managed to inject a little excitement into your journey,” the Civil Commissioner murmured with heavy irony. Little had altered in the great man's office; it almost seemed as if Sir Alexander Ball had remained seated at his desk since their last interview, a month or so ago. But when he looked closer, King was aware of a slight change. The shadows under his eyes were perhaps a little darker, while the hair appeared thinner and more inclined to grey. And the room was uncomfortably hot; summer had now become firmly established and the entire island seemed to be broiling under the relentless attention of an ever-present sun. “One clear prize, and a damaged French frigate,” Ball continued, referring to King's written report which was before him. “A reasonable haul for any first voyage.”

  King remained silent, no reply was necessary and to make one would only sound a false note.

  “I'm afraid I do not have quite so much excitement for you on this occasion. It will be convoy work,” he continued. “And Kestrel will need to be ready within a fortnight.”

  Two weeks; the sloop's damage was not so very great, although it still might be hard to see all done within that time. But Ball was still speaking, and King f
orced himself to focus his ever wayward mind on that alone.

  “You will be junior escort to a frigate, taking merchants to Sicily,” the Civil Commissioner continued. “There are nine at present, although a few more may make themselves known before you sail. From there you will call on the squadron at Toulon, or wherever my Lord Nelson has seen fit to position himself, before continuing to Gibraltar once more. Leckie is the honorary council at Syracuse; he is likely to have information for the Admiral, otherwise there are copies of our last despatches that are to be taken.” Ball relaxed for a moment, and a faint smile played upon his lips. “The Med. is hardly a friendly place at present, as I think you have discovered, and it has become prudent to copy everything several times to ensure delivery.”

  “Indeed, sir,” King agreed, while his thoughts ran on. It would be another fast passage across the Mediterranean, this time from Sicily to Toulon – shorter, and not as dangerous as his last, but still an invigorating prospect. And as Ball said, the inland sea was by no means quiet: even a spell as convoy escort should prove stimulating, while it was good to hear of a larger warship on hand in case of trouble.

  He came back from his thoughts to find Ball considering him in his usual, frank manner, although King noticed his long, slender fingers were also starting to drum on the desk.

  “There is something else,” he said. “Another reason I wish you to go to Gibraltar at this time.”

  And then the Civil Commissioner grew unduly anxious, an unusual adjective for him, and King wondered what could unsettle such a solid and capable man.

  “It is my son, William,” Ball admitted at last. “Francis Lang has been tutoring him on the island, but believes it time his education was extended, and that inevitably means travelling home.” His words were spoken with forced ease, then he added, “I am totally in favour, of course,” in case King made any attempt to argue the point.