The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail series Book 9) Read online

  The

  Blackstrap Station

  Alaric Bond

  The Blackstrap Station – Copyright © 2016 by Alaric Bond

  ISBN 978-1-943404-10-0 e.book

  978-1-943404-11-7 paperback

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  The Blackstrap Station (The Fighting Sail Series, #9)

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author's Note

  Principal Characters

  Selected Glossary

  About the author

  Also by Alaric Bond:

  About Old Salt Press

  More Great Reading from Old Salt Press

  For John and Helen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  The cover shows a detail from The French corvette Bayonnaise boarding HMS Ambuscade during the action of 14th December 1798 by Louis-Philippe Crépin (1772-1851). The original is in the Musée National de la Marine, Paris.

  Publisher's Note: This is a work of historical fiction. Certain characters and their actions may have been inspired by historical individuals and events. The characters in the novel, however, represent the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Published by Old Salt Press Old Salt Press, LLC is based in Jersey City, New Jersey with an affiliate in New Zealand. For more information about our titles go to www.oldsaltpress.com

  Chapter One

  Christmas morning found them cold, tired and hungry. The small boat had leaked steadily throughout the night forcing those fit enough to take their turn in bailing, so most were also wet, while the last few hours had seen their former home, the seemingly indestructible HMS Prometheus, wrecked on a lee shore. It was an event many were still coming to terms with, and one that left a general feeling of depression.

  Since that terrible incident every capable seaman, along with the majority of their officers, had also been subjected to at least two hours' rowing, while their one small water breaker was found to be less than half full, meaning all were now thirsty. So when a crisp, bright but impotent sun finally rose to unveil the French warship lying a scant three miles off, the sight was hardly greeted with enthusiasm.

  “Ain't that the bastard what caused our grief in the first place?” Cranston, one of the seamen muttered to Beeney, his mate, although the latter did not bother to reply.

  Whatever its history, the enemy corvette was far enough away to cause them no immediate danger, and Beeney had other matters to concern him. He was still recovering from his last trick at the oars and felt more than ready for a breakfast; preferably one of boiled burgoo sweetened with molasses, followed by a solid draught of stingo to wash it down, and the lack of either on a Christmas morning made him uncharacteristically grumpy.

  “We're drifting slightly,” Cranston added, in the expectation of starting some form of conversation. They had been ordered to stop rowing as dawn broke, and now a slight current was turning the boat until it lay abeam of the French ship. The corvette was under easy sail, but her canvas barely rippled in the still air, while what had been a heavy sea a bare twelve hours before was now almost still. Neither warship nor weather seemed likely to cause them immediate trouble, and the men felt able to watch in comparative safety.

  “What we need is a sea anchor,” Cranston persisted in the hope that the midshipman might prove a better bet. “Want I rig somethin' temporary, Mr Adams?”

  “T'ain't worth the trouble,” Wiessner, a regular hand, told him.

  “Who asked you?” Cranston snapped back. “I was speakin' to an officer.”

  Adams glanced towards Lieutenant Hunt, who sat a little further forward.

  “We'll be under way again afore long,” Hunt replied. He too had been with the last team of rowers and his voice cracked slightly from a mixture of fatigue and thirst. “Though you may send a pail over the side to straighten our head if you wishes.”

  “See to it, yonker,” Cranston said, and he cast a triumphant look at Wiessner before handing one of their bailers to the lad seated nearby. The boy took the wooden bucket and began to make his way through the crowded boat and finally stood perilously at its bows. “An' don't forget to clap a line on first,” Cranston added. “It ain't a superstition, you know.”

  The lad duly secured one end of a length of half-inch hemp to the handle and the other to the boat's breasthook, then threw the bucket out over the side where it fell with a surprisingly loud splash. Soon the current picked it up, the line went tight, and the cutter began to lie straighter in the water. The boy remained where he was and looked back towards the enemy ship that still appeared eerily asleep. The daylight was increasing steadily and, beyond it, familiar shapes of further vessels were slowly being revealed.

  “There's more,” he said softly, and almost in wonder. “Only they looks to be Frenchmen an' all.”

  * * *

  Indeed, the new sightings were two of the heavy liners that had caused their own proud ship's destruction. The pair were further off, though, and actually heading away in a slight wind that seemed to be theirs and theirs alone. Soon they could be discounted, although the nearer, if lighter, corvette remained, and it was that which caused Lieutenant King's greater concern.

  He considered it while huddling in the sternsheets and trying not to shiver. Of all in the cutter, King was probably the best dressed and he pulled the watchcoat tightly about him with a feeling of guilt. When Prometheus struck he had been in charge of the lower gun deck: evacuating the two hundred or so men under his care was a considerable distraction so he could hardly be blamed for boarding the small boat wearing nothing heavier than his broadcloth tunic for warmth. It had been Robert Manning, the surgeon, who provided the coat and, of all the officers present, he alone had reasoned that cold could be expected on a dark December night. He collected the coat on his way from the orlop but, on noticing King's lack of protection, handed it over without hesitation.

  “How is the wound, Tom?” the surgeon now asked, and King moved cautiously in his seat.

  “It is fine, thank you,” he replied, flexing the stump of his left arm experimentally, although his eyes remained fixed on the nearby French warship. “I can feel no pain.”

  Manning said nothing. He had heard such assurances often enough and knew King to be untrustworthy in matters concerning his personal health. The wound should be examined as soon as the sun rose higher, but the surgeon had noticed a distracted look in the young man's eyes and guessed other tasks were likely to arise and be considered more important before then.

  “That's our friend from earlier, sure e
nough.” The voice of Lieutenant Hunt came from the bows and confirmed both Cranston's identification and the surgeon's prediction. The corvette had indeed shadowed their late ship, and it was due to her dogged determination that the liners were guided in, ultimately causing Prometheus' destruction.

  “Will we be noticed at such a distance?” Manning asked.

  “Oh, she'll have spotted us for sure,” King snorted. “Though who we are, or where we sprang from, might still be a mystery. The old girl's wreck must be a good few miles off, after all.”

  “A casual glance with a glass will tell them much, though,” Hunt added. “I'd say we'd best prepare ourselves for a chase.”

  There was still little wind and the cutter's eight rowing positions had seen heavy use throughout the night, although King did not hesitate in nominating suitable men to take up the oars once more. They moved quickly in the cold, grey light and had no idea their young lieutenant's feelings of guilt were increasing further. But King could do little else; the other officers had taken a turn at rowing and it would endanger their authority to force them to continue, while having only one serviceable arm ruled him out altogether.

  Actually, the ratio of officers to men in the small boat was wildly out of proportion. Besides himself and Hunt, who were both commissioned lieutenants, they had a senior warrant officer in the form of Brehaut, the sailing master, who was currently crouching over his precious charts in the bows. Then there was Manning, the surgeon, Cooper, a master's mate, two quartermasters and three midshipmen, including Adams, who was almost an acting lieutenant. It was a selection that could have provided the nucleus for commanding a brig, or even something larger, yet the cutter's lower deck contingency consisted of just seventeen regular hands and one youngster. King supposed such inequality was inevitable; under Adams' command, the boat had ferried a good number of survivors to land before he and the other officers commandeered it.

  Of the rest of Prometheus' people, he knew very little. The captain, Sir Richard Banks, had received a head wound earlier in the action, yet managed to remain on the quarterdeck for the last few hours of his ship's life. But, once she struck, he appeared to lose the will to continue and it had been relatively easy to have him bundled into a shore-bound boat under the care of his servant. And Corbett, another lieutenant, had bravely led a group of men along their downed mainmast to safety. As to the fate of the others, King had only the sketchiest of ideas.

  “Shall we show some canvas?” Hunt called from the bows, and King instinctively felt the wind against his cheek. It was slight, barely noticeable in fact, and had reverted to the north-westerly expected for these waters.

  “Yes,” King replied, with more confidence than he felt. But as morning was breaking, the breeze was liable to grow. Hoisting the cutter's twin lateen sails might confirm their identity, although the French were no fools, and would probably have already marked them down as survivors from their recent victory.

  The masts were stepped once more and, when joined by the power of eight strong men at her sweeps, the small boat began to make credible progress. King instinctively looked to Brehaut, who had been working through the morning ritual of sighting the sun, as well as any identifiable point of land.

  “Have you a course, Master?” he asked quietly, and Brehaut gave him a reassuring nod.

  “I would assume you wish to avoid our friends,” he replied, glancing quickly at the corvette that lay to the west and was now starting to turn in their direction. “Steering sou-sou-east will clear the land, while suiting what wind we have, and may even bring us into the shallows – these charts are annoyingly vague when it comes to depth.”

  “Though it seems the Frogs aren't keen for us to get away so easily,” Hunt added from further forward. King looked back to see the corvette had picked up a wind that was yet to reach them, and appeared in the process of setting topsails and forecourse.

  “We'll have the heels of them as long as that wind don't increase,” he muttered thoughtfully.

  “Though they'll be carrying boats that can outrun us,” Hunt again. “And will be able to fill them with crews that are properly armed.”

  That was certainly the case, although King would have preferred it if their position were not so clearly stated in front of the hands. “Well, our guardian angel's looked after us well enough so far,” he replied, lightly. “Let's hope he won't abandon us now.”

  Nothing further was said for some time, while the breeze, for those in the cutter at least, stayed low. Even if the corvette proved unable to catch them, she would send boats that could, and an all out fight must only end one way. However desperate King's force might be, they lacked weapons, apart from a single seaman's cutlass and two discharged pistols.

  They had boarded the cutter late the previous evening, when King had intended to make straight for shore and surrender to the French. It was only chance and the confusion of a beached ship in the dark that enabled the change of plan, so their immediate capture was avoided. But the night that followed had been both long and hard, as well as his second without proper sleep, and King was starting to wonder if their brave attempt had been in vain, when Hunt spoke again and seemed to extinguish all doubt.

  “I believe the French are launching a boat,” he said.

  * * *

  HMS Rochester was in prime condition, having only emerged from her first refit a few months before. Her copper was complete and relatively clean and she had a fresh suit of sails made from the finest Reading canvas, all of which allowed her officers to make the most outrageous claims for the frigate's speed and sailing abilities.

  But speed alone did not win battles, as James Timothy, her second lieutenant, knew only too well. What really mattered, to him at least, was that Rochester mounted thirty-two, twelve-pounder long guns on her main deck, and they were his to command. It was an armament that sufficed to nudge her out of the 'Jackass' class, and allow an accurate description as a fifth rate. Combined with the quarterdeck carronades and a pair of more than serviceable chase guns, they also made Rochester the worthy opponent of any single decked French ship she was likely to come across, and possibly a few two deckers.

  That was mainly bravado, of course, and very much in line with boasting about record speeds or claiming impossible times for setting up topmasts. The kind of bluster officers were inclined to indulge in when a particular vessel had caught their fancy, although Timothy had yet to serve aboard any ship without her winning his heart. In reality he knew Rochester was only one rate away from being in the lowest class of serious warship and, as sixth rates were now becoming increasingly scarce, one of the smallest post ships listed.

  And there was another important consideration that he tried not to remember; at forty-six, her captain, William Dylan, was old to hold the command of such a saucy little vessel and had only achieved post rank on being appointed Rochester's commander, while Heal, her grey haired first lieutenant, could give his captain a further five years.

  Neither could have been considered exactly unfit however. Like most first officers, Heal could be a bit of a batchelor's son and would never be promoted further, while the captain was a cagey old soul at the best of times, although Timothy supposed both performed their duties capably enough. And he saw no difficulty in being commanded by far older men. He was thirty-five himself, so no spring chicken and if Admiral Duncan, his previous Commander-in-Chief, was anything to go by, grey hair did not denote a lack of fighting ability. But the simple truth remained: Rochester's present order of command was elderly on many levels, and Timothy longed for a captain who would truly put the frigate through her paces.

  However, it was Christmas morning and Timothy was not thinking about retirement, old age, or future adventures at that moment. Divine service, which had been as short as Captain Dylan could decently have made it, was over and the hands were back at their duties. He had the rest of the first watch which was scheduled to end at noon, when there would be just two hours to spend in book work, or possibly relaxation
, before the officers dined. And it would be a dinner that was almost guaranteed to be worth eating.

  He shared the gun room, the small space that in larger ships was referred to as the wardroom, with seven other officers. Rochester had been sent to the Mediterranean from England, pausing only briefly at Gibraltar but while they were there, Marine Lieutenant Harper, the honorary wardroom caterer, had purchased four prime geese. Until yesterday evening the birds had been making a raucous sound in Rochester's manger, but now the coop was empty: the geese slaughtered, drawn and plucked, and a decent silence had returned to the upper deck. The captain and his strumpet would be joining them, along with a few favoured junior officers and all were looking forward to a decent feast, as a gallon of dried fruit had been allowed for a prime plum pudding, while Harper was also proposing to open twelve of the claret taken from the coaster they captured off the Tagus.

  Rochester was sailing under orders to join Nelson off Toulon and, by rights, had actually been due to meet with the Mediterranean Squadron that very afternoon. But an American schooner had passed on news of a French squadron active in the vicinity and they immediately changed course to hunt for the enemy. It was a long and gruelling search but, apart from the occasional hearing of what some claimed to be distant gunfire, there had been no actual sighting. And now they were several miles to the west, and certain to be late in rendezvousing with the British fleet.

  This was of little concern to Timothy, however. He was but the second lieutenant, with limited responsibility for either the ship or her destination and, on that particular morning at least, little desire for more. It was such a bright, clear day for the beginning of winter, with an empty sky of the deepest blue that was reflected in a still and tranquil sea. These were images that woke up the more gentle aspects of Timothy's nature; the kind he tried hard to hide from his fellow officers but nevertheless gave him pleasure as well as strange reassurance.

  Since his youth, Timothy had indulged in poetry (not writing: such things being beyond the restricted imagination of a sea officer, but reading). And he still retained the sensitivity, and gratified his passion in private moments, even if a lifetime spent aboard one warship or another had dulled it to some degree. Reading other men's words had taught him to appreciate the colour and textures of his surroundings, as well as the subtle nuances of certain light, although it had not softened him in any way. In fact Timothy remained a sea officer at heart: one with the distinction of being present at a major fleet action. And it was equally no effort for him to look forward to a truly gargantuan feast, one that would sate the mind of any respectable barbarian, in not so many hours' time.