The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9)

by Alaric Bond

  “He is thirteen; a man almost, so I do not think myself failing in my fatherly duty by sending him. But then he will not be alone,” Ball hurriedly corrected himself, and added a false smile. “Lang will accompany him, and both will be under your protection, at least for part of the journey.”

  King supposed that to be a compliment, even if it was one he would have cheerfully foregone.

  “By travelling via Sicily you will be avoiding the North African coast,” Ball continued. “William is precious to me: you will understand my reasons, I am certain.”

  Indeed King did. The pirates that infested the southern stretches of the Mediterranean would value the son of Malta's effective governor highly; the lad could be held to ransom, while his life was made an absolute misery.

  “But we will be sailing in company with a frigate, sir,” King said softly. “Would not your son be more comfortable aboard a larger ship?”

  “I am sure of it,” Ball agreed, “and it was not his comfort I was considering when selecting Kestrel. William has not chosen a naval career for himself, though I live in hope that he will, and we both know that so much more can be learned aboard smaller vessels. “Besides, the captain is equally important,” he continued, and King noticed his expression lighten slightly. “Forgive me, King, but you are still a relatively young man, and likely to be more in tune with one of William's age. Besides, you have already shown yourself worthy of trust, and I could not commit anything more precious into your care.”

  It was impossible to reply in the face of such praise: fortunately the Civil Commissioner had more to say.

  “But if you are in any doubt, I mean, if you would prefer not to take this assignment, William would be able to await another opportunity...”

  “No,” King replied, and was surprised to note how his commander's face fell at the sound of that single word. “No,” he continued, “I should be happy to carry the despatches, sir. And your son as well, of course.”

  * * *

  He walked clear of the Auberge d'Italie and straight into the midday sun. Its heat was strong enough to stop a breath and, as warmth was also being radiated from the pavement as well as the stone buildings that lined it, King had the impression of standing in a large and open oven. But as he began to walk down towards the harbour, his mind soon focused on other matters.

  Kestrel had come in the previous evening and, when King quit her that morning, the dockyard supervisor had just come aboard. The man would have assessed the damage by now, so he should return directly to make sure the convoy's departure date of two weeks could be met. But then he should also have stayed at the Navy Office to check their captured brig had reached port safely – there was no sign of her in Grand Harbour, while the prize crew must be found as well. He wasn't entirely sure if he wanted Broome, the master's mate, back but young Adams would be useful. Which went on to remind him that he should enquire about the next examination board – it would be prudent for Adams to sit it as soon as possible. Ball had sanctioned an additional lieutenant for Kestrel, so if he failed to pass, a new one must be secured. The jumbled thoughts continued as he walked, so as King rounded a corner and almost cannoned straight into Lesro, he hardly recognised him.

  There was no mistaking that well remembered smile, however, and the Maltese greeted him with a handshake that swiftly turned into an embrace, which bewildered King all the more.

  “I saw the ship first thing this morning,” he told King, “and called to find you already ashore. And here you are – yet you do not come to call upon your greatest friend!”

  “I had things to do, Nik,” King protested, as the young man waved his explanation away with feigned disgust.

  “There is always time for friends, food – and chocolate,” Lesro insisted with a mildly wicked grin. “And we can have a surplus of all three,” he continued, while turning and neatly inserting his left arm through King's right. “Come, I have a table waiting for us at Angelo's.”

  “But I must get back to the ship!” King cried, as his friend tried to drag him along the pavement.

  “Tony is there already,” Lesro explained. “And Robert – I collected them both from the ship when I called – it was they who suggested I find you.”

  “But the dockyard report?”

  “Tony has that with him, and it is not so very bad. It is currently being passed about the customers in Angelo's dining room; we can discuss it together, and enjoy our meal. And our chocolate,” he added with an especially hungry look.

  King took a hesitant step, which was rewarded by a cry of pleasure from Lesro that might have come from a proud father.

  “There, it is not so very difficult!” he encouraged. “And by the time we arrive more should be there for you to meet.”

  “More?” King enquired cautiously.

  “The fellow Coleridge,” Lesro replied. “He has not been on the island long, yet already has made the name for himself. And I have sent a message for Miss Webster to join us as well,” he added.

  “Sara?” King asked, his surprise growing further. Then, as he realised he may have given the game away, added, “Do you mean Tony's young lady?”

  “These sailors – how many does he have?” the Maltese laughed easily, although King noticed him colour slightly as well. “And did you not see Maidstone is in harbour also?” he continued quickly. “James Timothy is with us: he has recently been in action against the naughty French, and there is Martin from the Treasury. Come, Tom, you cannot let them down – it will be a splendid party!”

  * * *

  It was. Meeting with Timothy and even Martin was a pleasure King had not anticipated. Manning and Hunt were there as an added bonus, although he was a little disappointed to find himself seated opposite the dour, slightly overweight man Timothy had previously introduced as a poet. But so general was the conversation that no one was left with a single partner, and all seemed equally committed to enjoying the meal, and company, as one.

  Hunt gave a brief resume of their previous trip to a mixture of incredulity and mocking from some of the others, then shamelessly unbuttoned his shirt to reveal Manning's masterly stitching, while Timothy related his recent experience of destroying French small craft in Hyeres Bay. And the food was as excellent as King remembered, with all the sea officers eating both more, and earlier than they were accustomed to. Consequently there was a pause after the last scrap was finished, and Lesro pushed away his plate with a contented groan.

  “Ah, these Maltese potatoes, they are so much finer than anything we get from Sicily.”

  “Is there so very much difference?” Coleridge was surprised.

  “Oh, indeed,” Lesro told him lightly. “Where there is rarity, we also find quality. My father's company brings many tons of vegetables by ship, but I only eat those grown in our own soil.”

  “Your own soil?” Martin gave a loud snort. Unlike most of the others, he had not confined his drinking to the chocolate that was the house speciality, and was starting to show the effects of a heady, white wine. “What pray is your own soil, when most has been brought from other countries?”

  “Angelo knows my wishes,” Lesro insisted stubbornly. “And would only feed me potatoes grown in true Maltese earth.”

  “Well, that is something I shall be doing without for a spell,” Coleridge announced. “I intend to head for the land of the potato shortly.”

  “Ireland?” Martin grinned foolishly.

  “No, Sicily,” the well built man replied. “I am shortly to travel there, and in the company of some of these fine officers, or so I understand.”

  King felt mildly uncomfortable while Hunt and Manning were conspicuously at a loss.

  “That is the case, is it not?” Coleridge asked, targeting King specifically.

  “I have just spoken with Sir Alexander,” he began, awkwardly. “Mention was made of a trip to Sicily, but nothing specific. And I should be cautious about discussing any departure times or destinations, were I you,” he added with a poignant lo
ok at the man before him.

  “Forgive me, sir,” Coleridge replied, glancing around at the assembled company, before bowing his head to King. “I had considered us amongst friends, though see that this remains a public place, and am coming to understand the need for secrecy.”

  “Sir Alexander has been pleased to appoint Mr Coleridge his acting private secretary,” Martin, who was undoubtedly the worse for wine, stated with a hint of bitterness. “Perchance he will guard his tongue more carefully in future.”

  Coleridge flashed a look at the young clerk, who had the grace to flush.

  “I have undoubtedly been granted a great honour,” he agreed, adding, “and as both my appointment, and its remuneration, will continue throughout my trip, I am sincerely grateful. I fancy it is not a favour granted to all.”

  The awkward pause was quickly disguised by Lesro, who called for more chocolate, and conversations resumed after each man's cup was filled. Then Pinu, Lesro's manservant, appeared from the street carrying two packages wrapped in cloth. His master stood and collected them from him, before turning to the group in general.

  “I have something of a small gift,” he announced, as the atmosphere lifted further. “One is actually from my father – he commissioned it for Tom. But when I heard of Tony's injury I contacted the maker and requested another be made,” he continued, nodding to Hunt. “You see, the news was just that your arm had been wounded, and I feared might be lost.” A playful glint crept into Lesro's eyes. “Actually, when I discovered who was the surgeon, I was certain of it,” he added to a roar of laughter from the sea officers and a belligerent look from Manning.

  “But even though all has turned out so well, and you are recovering – due in no small way to Mr Manning's exemplary skill,” he added hastily, “I still felt it appropriate to pass on this small memento of our friendship.”

  Lesro placed both parcels on the table before him and swept back the cloth that covered them. Two identical mahogany boxes were revealed; one was handed to Hunt, the other King, and both men opened them under the combined gaze of all present.

  King noticed his was secured by a silver latch that could be opened easily with one hand, and a sly glance across the table confirmed that Hunt's was similarly equipped. Inside, a single heavy pistol rested on a bed of red velvet, along with several small silver boxes and a row of neat metal balls, far smaller and much shinier than those usually associated with a weapon of such a size.

  “They are experimental models made by a local man named Spiteri – a respected gun maker who has provided weapons for the highest in both military and political circles,” Lesro explained modestly. “Both are fitted with a new system of ignition that is far superior to any that use a hammer and flint. Is-Sur Spiteri recommended them especially, saying they would be easier to load with one hand while, to that end, the ramrod is also central and captured.”

  King picked up his pistol with interest.

  “The procedure is still in its infancy of course,” Lesro continued, “but has already attracted a lot of attention. It seems any weapon so equipped will be almost watertight, so better suited to sea travel.”

  That was undoubtedly the case, and King had heard rumours of the system which, as he recalled, relied on fulminate of mercury rather than gunpowder to fire the powder. He weighed the weapon experimentally in his hand. It was heavier than expected, and it was then that he noticed the broad barrel was actually drilled out with four neat holes around the ramrod. A series of raised nipples were set to the opposite end of the barrel, and must be intended to accept some form of cased charge, which he guessed would be included in one of the silver boxes. King raised the gun higher, holding it way above the heads of those about him, and squeezed the trigger. The mechanism worked with an agreeable click, and he was sure the barrel had also rotated, even though the pressure was light, and no more than he would have expected from a single barrelled weapon of that size. He worked the action again, and this time was certain. All he need do was to squeeze the trigger to send one of four separate shots speeding towards a target while, if the lock lived up to its expectations, each would have a far better chance of actually firing than any detonated by flint and frizzen. It was a magnificent gift, and one that owed as much to thought as cost. He caught Lesro's eye, while Hunt fired his off at the ceiling in the same way as King.

  “It is wonderful Nik,” he told him quietly.

  “The present is from my father as much as me,” Lesro confessed. “It seems our business has improved greatly since you released me from the French slavery, and he wished to show his appreciation.”

  “Maybe so, but it is still most thoughtful, and I can never thank you enough.”

  King was actually about to say more, when a hush fell over the table, and he looked round to see two women approach. One was dressed in a faldetta, the traditional hooded cape worn by many Maltese women. She was short and dark with dusky skin, and did not meet the glance of any man present, while the second appeared a complete contrast.

  Her hair was fair, and the woman herself far younger and dressed in the style of a Western European. Her light skin positively glowed with vigour and she seemed to encompass the entire table with a radiant smile.

  “Sara!” Hunt cried, standing quickly, while Coleridge also gave a start at the sound of her name. King noticed both men's reactions, but did not rise himself. Seeing the woman again was a shock, though, and many of the hopes previously held were rudely awakened. But he was no longer the shy young man who had been fooled in the past, and now felt fully aware of the kind of woman he dealt with.

  However she might appear, Sara was nothing more than a siren, whose only true aim was to lure sailors to their destruction. He watched her as she exchanged easy remarks with most present, and fancied he could see through that beautiful skin to the calculating mind that lay beneath. Even her arrival at the end of their meal seemed apt; it was the second time she had pulled off that particular trick, and made herself the object of attention from a table-full of men. And it actually came as a relief to King that, rather than the feelings of envy that had been festering inside him, he now felt merely sorrow for his friend.

  But not every man at the table was quite so cynical: all seemed to be competing for her company even if it were obvious Hunt was truly smitten. His hand shook as he held it out to her, a fact clearly noted and appreciated by the young woman. But rather than taking it in her own, she turned to others and let them share the benefit of her presence. Yes, King decided, Sara was one of a type, and would always need to be admired. Even if Hunt persuaded her to be his wife, she would never be happy with only one man's love and each day spent away from her would be filled with the doubts and suspicions of what mischief she was up to.

  He would never be able to serve at sea, and would be doomed to spend the rest of his life ensuring everything she could possibly want was provided, while fending off approaches by hopeful suitors encouraged by her beckoning glances.

  “Come join us, do,” Hunt was almost pleading now. “And see, I have been given a magnificent gift!”

  The woman glanced at the weapon in his hand and smiled afresh, before seating herself very purposefully between her young suitor and Lesro.

  “That is very kind,” she said, turning to the civilian. “And must have cost an absolute fortune. But then you have the reputation of being a man generous in all things, Mr Lesro.”

  The remark caused the guffaws and snorts expected of a group of men who had just enjoyed a good meal, although King noticed Sara was no longer smiling. Instead she looked at the Maltese with an intensity that he himself had known in the past. And it was then that he realised Lesro was undoubtedly blushing.

  * * *

  The bland assurances made that morning turned out to be true; Kestrel's repairs were not extensive. A fresh topmast had been set in place within forty-eight hours, and the damage to King's quarters was also addressed. Within a week they boasted a new taffrail, along with an improved cabinet for t
he storage of signal flags, together with a larger compass, to replace the French made affair that the quartermasters had complained about.

  And the time following their repairs was soon spent; Adams attended, and failed his lieutenant's board, while Timothy discovered the refit that Maidstone was long overdue for had finally been agreed, and was given a three month leave of absence. The two events were not unconnected; Adams could no longer be rated as an acting lieutenant, yet here was a known man apparently free. King's only reservation was that Timothy was far more experienced than Hunt, and senior to him by ten years, although he showed no sign of resentment when King cautiously offered him the position of second officer.

  “I should be delighted,” the older man told him. “And do not foresee any awkwardness at working under Tony. Why I seem to remember serving alongside a certain midshipman, who is now to be my captain, and frankly am delighted.”

  Towards the end of their time, Alexander Ball paid a visit to the ship and introduced his son, a shy young man with fine yellow hair, who had the languid smile of his father. A fresh draught of hands were also received; fifteen trained men who had been allowed to volunteer from Maidstone, and were subsequently approved by Timothy as being trustworthy. King wondered if their influence would raise the social level of his current people, but did not hold out a great deal of hope.

  Then they were allocated a fresh contingent of Royal Marines, including a particularly harsh sergeant to replace the injured Cork. The new man seemed especially keen on discipline, and the ordered influence of his men did much to quell any discontent amongst the hands. While all the time Hunt bustled about with the earnest attention to detail that distinguished first lieutenants from mere sea officers, although King could tell there was more on his mind than simply Kestrel's well being.

  He had no idea what problems the lovely Sara was causing his first officer, but sensed matters were not going the way the young lieutenant hoped. Throughout their refit and for some time afterwards messages were regularly sent by Hunt to the shore although, to King's knowledge, only one was received in return. On two occasions he even tried to speak with him, but Hunt was unusually evasive, and King began to wonder if something of his own interest in the girl had been revealed.