Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series

by Alaric Bond

“Well, you took yer time getting here,” the boatswain's mate snorted, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

  “Said my pay wouldn't start until I comes aboard,” Johnston said defensively.

  “Oh yes,” the man's face softened slightly. “But there be a wealth of work on, and no one to do it, so we needs all the 'elp we can get.”

  “Short of 'ands, are you?”

  “Aye, loaded us up, then most buggered off. More's a commin', an' we 'ope to pick up further at the Downs an' probably the Channel. But, it ain't just the lack of Jacks that has put us out.” His voice softened, and he darted a quick look about before continuing, “We got new officers, an' they're the biggest bunch of nigits it has ever been my misfortune to sail with.”

  Johnston pulled a face. “So we're in the suds?”

  “Up to our necks.” The shorter man eyed Johnston knowingly. “You a King's man, are you?”

  Johnston stiffened slightly. “I served, a while back.”

  “Well, we'll keep you safe in the barkey,” he said, understanding much. “Can't stop 'em if the Andrew comes lookin', but no one will tattle, not while you're in the Company's service, you can be sure of that.” He held out a tar-caked hand. “Name's Ward, captain of the maintop in Sovereign, afore I sees the error of me ways.”

  Johnston took the iron grip while the man continued, “An' I don't want you thinkin' I'm usually in such sad trim; like I says, plenty of hard work for us all afore we sail, and not the time for the dolly. Better go and make your mark, then I'll finds you some entertainment. An' ditch that shore goin' rig if you want to keep it tidy.”

  * * *

  King turned and gave his hand to Clara who stood awkwardly at the carriage doorway, her long dress all but hiding the small wooden step. The coachman tied up the reins, and reached back for the first of the luggage.

  “So which one is it?” the girl asked, when she was safely deposited on the ground. King looked about the crowded anchorage. There was a mass of shipping in various states of readiness, some with topmasts up and clearly set for the off, while others might just as likely have been in ordinary.

  He shook his head, “We'll know soon enough.”

  “Ain't you just a little bit interested?” the girl asked, as Manning clambered down after them.

  “He'd be keen enough were she a warship,” he said, giving his hand up to Kate. “But then he'd have been aboard afore now, not leaving it to the last second.”

  “It's a means to an end,” King said simply. “Employment for a couple of years, and hopefully a decent return.”

  “Set you up, will it?” Clara asked hopefully.

  “Hardly that, but I have a need for funds, and this appears to be the best way of providing them.”

  Kate was with them now, and looking about expectantly while Manning began to take the luggage down from the driver. “Better get a porter, Robert,” she said.

  Manning shook his head. “Not for this little lot.” He turned and passed the first of King's possessions to his friend, then reached back for the single sea chest he was sharing with his wife. King walked towards the quay where a line of wherries sat waiting for trade. Clara stepped close alongside him, and awkwardly pushed her hand under his arm.

  “You really will be gone a full two years?” she asked.

  “Two years is probably the most,” King said, strangely eager to please her. “More'n like it'll be a year an' a half, maybe even less.”

  Silently she took the information in.

  “How much for four an' luggage?” he asked when they reached the nearest boat.

  “Sixpence for the hire, penny a person, and sixpence for the dunnage,” the grizzled seaman answered. “It's the standard charge; any boat you like, to any ship in the pool.”

  King looked about. All were manned and of roughly the same size, so he chose the one owned by the speaker. Robert arrived, and gratefully swung the chest down to the wherryman, while Clara stepped uncertainly into the small craft. In no time, they were out on the murky waters of the Thames. There was hardly a breath of wind, so it was likely to be a slow passage.

  “What ship?” the stroke oar asked, once they were underway.

  “Pevensey Castle.”

  “I knows her; India bound, so they says.”

  King nodded. He didn't need reminding. Feeling a faint pressure on his arm, he noticed that Clara had taken possession of him yet again. She smiled and looked up into his eyes. She had a pert nose and a pleasant face, and King supposed that she was really very pretty, although he only registered the fact as one of many that did not concern him. Kate beamed at them both from the seat opposite, while King's attention drifted to the shipping about them. They were passing a Navy frigate, a sixth rate similar to his last ship, just in the process of setting up topmasts and probably to be gone with the next tide. She was likely to spend the rest of winter scraping an enemy lee shore on some relentless blockade duty, but it might well be something better; an independent mission, possibly even a cruise. In that case, there would be prize money for all, and a lieutenant's share was not inconsiderable. The ship was sharp as a razor. Even the ironwork gleamed, and her lines promised speed and a weather helm. He sighed, turned back and caught Clara's expression as she looked intently at him.

  “That your boat then?”

  He tried not to wince, “No, I'm afraid it is not.”

  She leant closer. “I'll be missing you,” she told him quietly, pressing her body gently against his. He wriggled uncomfortably on the thwart.

  “Thank you, I…” It was difficult to express his emotions, especially under the scrutiny of two women, but he did not want the girl to be under any illusions.

  “You will write?” she persisted.

  “If you wish,” he said. “But also to another.”

  “Another?” Her voice was suddenly loud; a screech almost, and one that attracted the attention of all in the boat as well as some further away.

  “I have told you,” King said softly. “There is a young lady; we have an understanding.”

  “She's Dutch!” Clara all but spat, before pulling away and continuing just as loudly. “An' she ain't hereabouts!”

  For the first time in many months, King was rather pleased about the last point. Kate was still watching them both, a sly look on her face.

  “No, but I intend to send for her, when I return.” His words were spoken especially clearly, as if talking to a child. “I have said this before; you must understand.”

  Whether she did or not, Clara's hand was swiftly removed from under his arm, and the journey continued in an awkward silence.

  They neared an Indiaman, and soon King could make out the name on her counter. He looked across at Manning. “That's her,” he said.

  Clara came out of her sulk to look. “Pretty,” she said, although neither of the men agreed. The ship was painted well enough, a fresh job, probably the result of her time at Blackwall, and there was nothing exactly wrong with the vessel itself. Fresh dark marks below the scuppers told a different tale, however, and there was a free end of line swinging uselessly from the taffrail, while a length of mouldy canvas hung down from the lip of an empty gunport. A grubby wooden landing stage was rigged at the starboard entry port. The wherry drew closer, but there was no shout from a lookout. King and Manning exchanged glances as the boat rubbed against the stage, before coming to a gentle halt. Standing, King reached into his pocket and passed the fare to the stroke oar.

  “You'll be taking this young lady back,” he told him. Clara did not look up, or even acknowledge his leaving and he stepped quickly out of the boat.

  “Comin' aboard, sir?” A head appeared at the entry port; an ordinary seaman, although the greeting was friendly enough.

  “Indeed. Have this luggage swung up, will you?” The man knuckled his forehead before disappearing. Manning and Kate joined him on the stage; he looked back at Clara, and received a cold smile. There seemed little else to do, so he turned and made his way up t
o the entry port.

  On deck, the ship was clearly in a state of turmoil. That was to be expected, and really, nothing was terribly out of place. But to a seasoned officer, the general impression was not favourable. The main grating to the hold was left open, even though no work was being carried out, and it was clear that several weeks had gone by since any of the decks last received the attention of a holystone. The only men present were working at the falls, bringing the luggage from the wherry, and they were hardly setting any records.

  “We have to get used to a different routine,” Manning said philosophically when he joined him. “It's bound to be different; merchants just don't have the man power, so they cannot be so spick.”

  King nodded, although he had heard different. Of course, the East India Company mainly used leased vessels, but they were supposedly built and maintained to a very high standard. The Company even ran their own naval service, the Bombay Marine, equipped with proper warships that had proved able to match most of their size and many much larger opponents. He simply could not believe that this was a typical example of an East Indiaman.

  “Captain's probably ashore,” Manning said, following his thoughts. “An' also the first luff, or chief mate, as I suppose we shall have to start calling him.”

  The party at the falls were finished now, and the luggage lay heaped on the deck. One of the men approached, and King noticed he was wearing the uniform of a boatswain's mate.

  “Are there officers aboard?” King asked, as the man saluted.

  “Only yourselves, sir. Captain's been a day or so back, an’ Mr Willis, the chief mate, he was here yes'aday. The others 'ave not been down yet; you're the first.”

  “I see,” King said, coldly. “And you are?”

  “Ward, sir.”

  “You are poorly turned out, Ward.”

  The man nodded. “I am sir, an' the sorrier for it, but there's a measure to do, and no one else to do it. The other boatswain's mate 'as a party sortin' in the 'old, an' I was trying to make some sense of the bosun's stores. We finished lading last week, then most of the crew took their tickets; there's less than twenty men aboard, sir. Another joined us today, but we was promised a whole lot more.”

  “Where is the bosun?”

  “We ain't got one, sir, not no more. Mr Hodges left several days back, 'long with t' carpenter an' sailmaker.”

  “Indeed? Something of a massed exodus.”

  Ward's eyes fell. “Bit of a disagreement with the cap'n. They were all good men, sir, but used to doing things their own way.”

  King sighed and looked about. The wherry was heading back to the quay, and Clara could be seen sitting in the stern. She had turned around and was desperately waving in a hopeless and quite pathetic manner. Instinct told him to hail the boat; he had made a mistake, a big one, and the sooner things were sorted the better. He looked to Manning.

  “This don't augur well, Bob. What say we leave out of this?”

  Manning snorted, “I'm inclined to agree.”

  “And how do you intend to live?” Kate asked sharply. There was a cold look on her face. She might have shared their concern, but was clearly considering the practicalities. “Father's money is spent, now it is our turn to maintain him.”

  Manning nodded silently, but she was not finished.

  “We have already accepted pay for the first two months of our service. Do we give that back? A berth aboard this ship might not be the best, but it will take time to find better. Really, we have little option.”

  “The surgeon, is he aboard?” Manning was addressing the boatswain's mate.

  “Aye sir, but he'll be asleep b'now.”

  “Asleep?” That seemed like the last straw. It was nine in the morning. He glanced back at King, carefully avoiding Kate's stare. “I fear you might be right, Tom.”

  “Been up all night with Clegg, one of the hands what 'as the fever,” Ward continued. “It finally broke just afore breakfast, and he said he could be left for a while.”

  “I see.” That was better. “When do you expect the captain to return?” King again.

  “This eve'nin, sir. An' we should be getting more 'ands afore long. Rumour 'as it a detail's a'coming from the Boreham, what docked last week. The old girl's to be condemned, so we'll probably get 'er standing officers, and a few of the crew. Me'be enough to make up the numbers.”

  “Right, well I feel we should make the best of a bad job.” King clapped his hands together and looked about. “We'll strike our luggage below. Then, I want to see all the petty officers. I'll need a full report on fabric, rig, and stores, both held and expected. We have the rest of today; what say we start to make some measure of order?”

  Ward's grin owed much to relief. “That suits me fine, sir,” he said, knuckling his forehead.

  King turned to Manning and Kate. “There's clearly a deal to be done, and I'm not saying I'm happy with the situation, but we may as well make what we can of it.”

  “I think you're right,” Kate said. “I can't see it getting any worse.”

  “Aye, an' if it does,” Manning agreed, “we can always jump ship.”

  * * *

  By four that afternoon there had been a mild transformation. Despite his appearance, Ward had a good understanding of what was needed, and actually seemed keen to sort matters out. As for the remaining men, the arrival of a proper officer and the promise of order provided them with the impetus they so clearly wanted.

  King walked out of the carpenter's workshop where two mates were freeing the blocks in a jumble of tophamper, and looked along the lower deck. He was tired. Several weeks had passed since he was last on board a ship, and this one, with her novel architecture and ramshackle state, seemed destined to wear him out. There had been so much to attend to; not everything was exactly in his domain, but all needed to be done. Word had come from one of the shore boats that the captain was due back aboard at any time, and King wanted to deliver a better prospect than the one presented to him that morning. He moved on, continuing his tour of inspection. In steerage, the cattle stalls were empty, as they must have been for a month or more. But, the lack of ventilation meant that there was still a distinct smell of the farmyard about the place. As a mate, King guessed he was berthing with the senior officers and better class of passengers at the stern of the ship. Steerage was for the juniors, and he was glad not to be joining them. A figure working in the near darkness caught his attention. King could hear the splash of water and the sound of brushing.

  “All well there?” he asked, walking forward. The man was on his knees, scrubbing out the stalls with water and what smelled like vinegar. He turned back and looked up at King.

  “Aye, sir. Just giving a bit of a scrape out; ain't been clean in ages. No good putting fresh beasts in a dirty stall.” The seaman stood up awkwardly and grinned. King noticed the long pigtail that marked him as a man of several years’ service. His gaze fell to the deck and even in the dim light he could see that a workmanlike job was being done.

  “Very good,” he said, and went to pass on, when he noticed the man regarding him strangely. “Was there something?”

  “No, sir.” The man looked away quickly and, slinking back to the deck, began to scrub again.

  King paused, uncertain. “What is your name?”

  The brush stopped for no more than a second. “Johnston, sir.” His voice was low, almost muffled, but there was something about that pigtail that stuck in King's mind.

  “Have we served together in the past?”

  “Don't believe so, sir.” The scrubbing continued, possibly a littler harder than before.

  Johnston. It wasn't a name he remembered. There were noises from above. Something was happening on the upper deck that may well require his attention. But, the man did seem oddly familiar and he opened his mouth to say more when another voice came through the upper grating, “Mr King, are you below, sir?”

  “What is it, Ward?”

  “Looks like captain and chief mate are
a comin' aboard, sir.”

  King snorted. There was still a deal to do but at least he had a better ship to show them. “Very good, Johnston,” he said, and moved on.

  * * *

  The gloomy winter afternoon was just starting to give way to dusk when King joined Ward on the starboard gangboard. The boatswain's mate pointed out to where a wherry was approaching, crowded with officers. King looked around; there were no sideboys on board, no marine guard; he would have to greet his new captain without any Navy ceremony.

  “Boat ahoy!” Ward's hail rang out across the water just as Manning came up from the depths, followed by an inquisitive Kate.

  “Pevensey Castle!”

  The reply confirmed Ward's suspicions, King tried to make out the dark figure dressed in a boat cloak who sat in the sternsheets. The captain of any ship held the ultimate power: he could make or break a commission. A bad report from this shadowy man would seriously influence his future in the merchant service. They waited in silence while the boat drew nearer, and finally came to a halt next to the staging.

  “Right then, line up and pay some respect.” Ward was forming six ordinary seamen up into a welcoming party and, as the captain's hat appeared above the entry port, the squeal of a bosun's pipe shattered the silence of the dark afternoon. Manning and Kate drew forward in anticipation, but King stayed right where he was. The man was in full view now, and glared down the line, appearing to find fault in all that he saw. His gaze swept round to the officers, softening slightly and pausing to take in the young woman appreciatively. Then, it rested on King, and a hint of evil humour appeared. He smirked, and nodded his head very slightly.

  “Mr King, what a joy it is to see you once more.”

  King's mouth was dry; a store of seemingly forgotten memories flooded into his mind, bringing back the very atmosphere of the officers' quarters in Vigilant. It had all happened several years ago, but the recollections were fresh and not in the least pleasant. And here was the cause, the man himself, standing in front of him, and wearing the uniform of an East India Company captain. His captain, his superior officer, and for the whole of the commission.