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

by Alaric Bond

  They watched while the canvas filled.

  “Mind, we went aboard to thank 'em, back in England,” Paterson continued reflectively. “Found the captain an' most of the officers Tynesiders; decent enough people but such strong Geordie accents that we couldn't make out half of what was said.”

  “Braces there!” King bellowed.

  The frigate cut through the water with all the panache of her class. Pevensey Castle was moving steadily, now that the extra sails were starting to draw, but her bluff bow seemed to stub the water head on. King had the impression of driving a nail upside down, and it was perfectly clear that she would never set any records. At that moment Drayton, dressed in a very superior greatcoat but without a hat, made his way on to the quarterdeck.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” he said in reply to their greetings. “I trust I will not be in your way?”

  “No sir.” Willis’s complexion had grown slightly darker. Clearly, the fresh morning air was doing him some good. “You will be very welcome.”

  “Mr Rogers is not abroad?” Drayton asked.

  “He has matters to attend to in his cabin.” Willis appeared slightly awkward. “Shall I send for him, sir?”

  “Thank you, no. It would be better that he were not disturbed.” Drayton's voice was low and quite without emotion. “I am sensible to the heavy responsibilities a man such as he must carry.” He treated the group of officers to a genial look. “Sure, he will be busy enough later, let him take his rest while he may”

  * * *

  The convoy made steady progress, but by four bells in the afternoon watch, was only just passing the anchored shipping at the Nore. King looked out at the well-remembered scene. Less than a year ago, and in the very same channel that they now navigated, his previous ship, Pandora had been forced out to sea in the dead of night. The threat that caused their sudden departure had not come from any foreign force: Pandora was actually running from British seamen. Led by Richard Parker, himself a former junior officer, they had disgraced themselves by daring to defy the Admiralty and hold their own countrymen to ransom. King recalled the night well. The lack of wind meant the frigate had to be towed as far as the estuary, and he had been a lieutenant in charge of one of the boats. It was a bad time for the ship, the service, and the country in general. All appeared lost, and imminent invasion seemed certain. Much had happened since, of course; but now, as they passed the dockyards at Sheerness, King questioned whether his own position had actually improved.

  At that moment Paterson who was not on duty for some time, appeared on the quarterdeck, and walked across to join him. King had only known Paterson for a matter of days. At first, he had been put off by his somewhat direct approach, although their common purpose in getting Pevensey Castle ready for sea, as well as the conflict between them and Rogers, had started to forge a friendship.

  “Slow work, Tom,” Paterson said. His voice was loud, and Willis who had the conn, stood with the pilot barely twelve feet away. “By this rate, it will be ten hours or more before we make the Downs.”

  “There might be a better wind presently.”

  “Aye, and rain, if I'm not mistaken. T'will mean rounding North Foreland in darkness, then we have to negotiate the Goodwins; not my favourite sport on a winter's night.”

  “How long do we stay at the Downs?”

  “As little time as possible,” Paterson replied. “A day or so to take on passengers, then off for Pompey just as soon as the wind sets fair. We may be lucky and gone within a day or so, 'though I've known ships trapped at Deal for almost a month.”

  “Do we collect more at Portsmouth?”

  “Aye, an' the rest of the convoy. Reckon a few more escorts as well; can't be too many for my liking.”

  King had served in warships detailed to protect convoys and did not remember overly enjoying the work, although now he was starting to see the other side of the coin. Pevensey Castle might be the size of a heavy frigate, but there all similarity ended. Her armament was modest, her crew would have been considered insufficient for a warship half her size, and the last few hours had already shown that she possessed many of the sailing qualities of a house brick. The idea of her putting up a reasonable defence against a determined force was frankly laughable, and he shared Paterson's wish for a strong escort force. The wind was growing more fitful by the minute and was slowly veering.

  “So, ten hours to the Downs?” he asked.

  “At least that. We have to round North Foreland first, and I reckons that'll take us six.”

  King glanced at Shearwater, valiantly holding herself in check while she waited for the clumsy merchants to catch up. Paterson was right. It was slow work indeed.

  * * *

  In fact, it was all of eight hours later, and Paterson had the deck when the pilot finally ordered them round the tip of the north Kent coast. In the absolute black of night little could be discerned apart from a single guiding light off to starboard, a visual anchor for them all to centre upon.

  “Eighteen lamps a burning there,” Paterson told King who had brought him a mug of hot tea. “An' bless the Lord for each an' every one of 'em.”

  The wind grew steadily and was blowing from the northwest as they settled on to the new course, and soon Pevensey Castle began to wallow in the slow chop. The pilot took a bearing on the light and looked forward to the frigate, several cables ahead. Rogers appeared, his second visit of the evening, although this time he was more suitably dressed in a heavy watch coat and tarpaulin hat. Seagrove was with him, and they beckoned Paterson and King to join them as they approached the pilot.

  “Navy's cutting it close, usual,” the older man was saying. “I'd prefer to give them sands to starboard a wider berth.”

  “The Goodwins?” Willis asked brightly. The pilot stared at him in mild contempt.

  “That's the Goodwins,” he pointed over the larboard bow. “We's headin' for the Gull Stream what runs between them.”

  “The Gulf Stream? Surely not?” Seagrove gave a slight laugh that was stilled by a stony stare from the pilot.

  “Gull—like in the bird,” the disdain was evident. “It'll take us into the Downs an', hopefully, a safe anchorage.”

  Rogers looked up at the weathervane. “Should we be concerned?”

  The pilot shook his head. “Na, cap'n; not at present, though I'm not taking her any closer. Ask me, the Navy's more afraid of the French than runnin' aground, or they wouldn't be holding such a tight course. But, the Frogs can come and go, whereas the sands is always with us.”

  The man was probably right, but still King felt a measure of sympathy for their escort. It was a thankless task, shepherding three rolling merchants through difficult waters, and on a night when all of them would have been far happier abed. However, it was not unheard of for privateers, or even small enemy national vessels, to take such an opportunity to snap up a fat prize. Shearwater must keep an eye out for just such a threat, as well as watching the weather, the tide, and the treacherous shoals through which they were heading.

  King looked across at the pilot's chart. A small mark showed their present position, and it was clear that it was going to be a delicate business, threading through the channel to their final destination. Paterson also peered over his shoulder, although the others seemed content for the pilot to continue managing the ship without their assistance. King was about to comment when, quite abruptly, the third mate turned and rushed for the lee rail, dropping his mug with a clatter as he went. They watched in surprise while he leant deep over the side.

  “Something he ate?” Willis said, in a voice void of concern.

  “It appears that Mr Paterson is unwell,” Seagrove was quick to join in. “Belike he is not so experienced with the sea as he might have us think.”

  King stirred uneasily. There was little shame in seasickness; a condition famous for being no respecter of rank or station. It could spring up without notice, setting its evil claws into the least suspecting and most seasoned of men, and
was relatively common during the first few days of any commission.

  Rogers snorted. “Takes our first blow to settle the wheat from the chaff,” he added disparagingly.

  King turned his back on them and approached his friend. He had experienced the condition just once in his life, but could remember only too well the feeling of absolute despair and desolation. “T'will be better bye an' bye,” he said, placing his hand awkwardly on Paterson's shoulder. “Is there anything I might do for you?”

  The mate turned to him, his face looking ghastly in the low light.

  “Kill me,” he commanded softly.

  “Perhaps I could arrange a relief?” King temporised.

  “No, I can finish the watch, Tom.” Paterson gave a faint smile. “And, in truth, will be right and normal again in a year or so.”

  King followed his gaze across to where Rogers and his two senior mates were grinning openly. “Would that you could suppose the same about our dear officers,” he said.

  * * *

  Below, the situation was not pleasant. In her small cabin Kate sat at the table, picking at a bowl of cold greasy lobscouse, while the two girls were swaying gently in their cots. As an idler, one who need not stand a night-time watch, Kate was allowed several hours to herself and could have taken to her own bed, had she so pleased. However, the room really was too small for more than two cots to be rigged at once, and she preferred to squeeze herself into the corner and eat her meal. She might slip out to the sickbay in a moment or two. Clegg, the seaman with the fever, was mended now and back in his quarters. There were berths a plenty there, and relative privacy. She had no wish to stay in this little room with her two companions, especially when they both appeared to be dying.

  One moaned as the ship gave a particularly severe lift, before falling into the trough with a surge that even took Kate momentarily aback.

  “When will it end?”

  She looked up to see Susan's face peering over the side of her cot.

  “We shall be at Deal before long,” Kate told her. “Then, we will anchor, and the motion should be less.” Her tone was deliberately matter of fact; she saw little purpose in sympathising with either girl. This was not due to any animosity she might have felt. Her father had been a lifelong victim of seasickness, and Kate who never suffered, had learned that empathy or attempted understanding on her part would usually be taken the wrong way. A stiff word was all he usually needed; then at least he might leave her alone.

  “Can't we go ashore?” Emma whispered.

  Kate snorted. “Land is the last place we should wish for at the moment.”

  “Well, ain't there a cure?” Susan spoke again, her voice a little stronger.

  “Oh yes, there are a number.”

  Both heads appeared now, and Kate felt herself very much the centre of attention.

  “Proper ones?” Susan asked doubtfully.

  “Some say,” she was assured.

  “Well, what are they?” Emma demanded.

  “Food, but you have to know exactly what to eat.” There was a pause, then the groans began again as Kate continued. “Uncooked salt fish is supposed to be efficacious, though I prefer mine in a cream sauce with maybe a fresh raw egg. And there are those who recommend a rich turtle soup, 'though I have never tried it myself.”

  “You're an evil bitch, you know that, don't you?”

  Kate looked up sweetly. “Or I have heard a long ride on a bay mare works wonders,” she said simply, and continued with her meal.

  * * *

  Despite an initial increase in both wind and the motion of the seas, Paterson remained on deck while Pevensey Castle headed uncertainly down the Gull Stream. He still felt giddy and nauseous; still longed for the moment when the universe stopped moving about him, and still hated all and everyone who were so annoyingly healthy in his distorted world, but the effects were slowly dissipating and he was able to make a passable impression of an officer of the watch.

  Of course, the pilot had charge of the ship. Paterson's only duties were to implement his orders, and see to any emergency that might occur. Rogers seemed strangely happy to leave him, taking Willis and Seagrove below with sarcastic advice against the over-feeding of fish. Paterson was not totally without support, however; Nichols, due to relieve him at eight bells, had come on deck early. In company with King who was also apparently at a loose end, he was taking much of the responsibility, leaving Paterson to his misery. An hour ago, they ordered the topgallants taken in, and all thought it likely to follow with a reef in the topsails, although this had proven unnecessary. The pilot who had been standing on the quarterdeck for more than twelve hours without any sign of fatigue, had just taken another bearing, and was talking to them now, while the third mate watched from the shelter of the weather bulwark.

  “South Foreland Light!” King turned and yelled at him, pointing ahead. Paterson dutifully peered out to sea. Sure enough, even through the dizzy haze of his nausea, the dim gleam of a lighthouse could just be made out. Paterson stepped forward. The deck heaved and swayed when he moved, but the motion was certainly less; either that or he was starting to become accustomed to it.

  “Keep that dead ahead an' we'll come through to the anchorage,” the pilot was telling the other two as he approached. The elderly man seemed pleased. Paterson assumed that this was just a normal day's work for him, and wondered how anyone could repeat such a dreadful passage on a regular basis. He took a firm grip on the reassuringly solid binnacle. The other three ships were still in sight. Shearwater, almost dead ahead, had seemingly decided that the merchants were no longer in need of her protection and was simply heading straight for safety. Admiral Hayes and Coventry were a little way behind. Paterson thought Coventry might be drifting slightly too far towards the Brake Sands, but he was in no position to judge and had enough to do on his watch to bother about other shipping.

  “I see lights!” It was King. Paterson peered forward again, but could make out nothing further through the heavy rain.

  “That'll be the first of the moored shipping,” the pilot replied, almost smugly. “You're to anchor off the western bank; it won't be long now.”

  A rocket went up from Shearwater, followed by a series of lights at her mainmast. After a pause of no more than a minute, a deep blue glow shone out from the shore, was shielded for several seconds and then appeared again. Paterson held tight to the side of the binnacle while a fresh wave of sickness began to gather. They had announced their arrival, and the pilot was right; it would not be long now.

  Chapter Five

  The dining room cuddy was really quite impressive with the candles alight. Rogers allowed his gaze to sweep about the room, and gave a self-satisfied smile to the assembled guests. The silverware was only plate, of course; one does not waste the best for sea travel. But, his servant had made it shine bright enough, and the white muslin tablecloth contrasted well with the darkness of the beams. It was customary for the captain, senior officers and important passengers to have the main meal of the day at four bells in the afternoon watch—two o'clock—although Rogers had called this first introductory dinner during the evening to allow the new arrivals to acclimatise to the ship. Besides, he always preferred to eat later, when the aftereffects of any drink he might have taken would be numbed by sleep.

  And this really was the most splendid of evenings. The food, having in the main been taken aboard that morning, was just as good as any on land, and it had been worth broaching that case of claret which was intended for his arrival in India. Drayton certainly seemed to appreciate it, along with the port that was now making its tortuous journey round the table. Tradition was that the base of the decanter must not leave the surface of the table, on fine of the purchase of the next bottle. Rogers watched the progress with interest. His port was of the highest quality and could never have been considered cheap.

  “Five guineas that robber wanted, for to take us out here,” an elderly army officer was broadcasting to the table in general. “I t
old him to take a powder, but it seems they are thick in their trade, and have the monopoly.”

  “Landlord knew how to charge at the George,” the fair haired son of a factor confirmed. “If Pevensey Castle hadn't made it by the end of the week, I'd have been following a 'whereas'.”

  The army officer looked at him strangely. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

  The younger man grinned. “Following a whereas? Don't you read The Gazette? Whenever there is a notice starting 'Whereas', you know some poor Joe is about to be announced bankrupt.” The company gave a good-natured laugh, although the officer appeared mildly cross. Rogers continued to watch the decanter, now very much on the home straight as far as he was concerned.

  “You were to tell us of your time in Vigilant, captain,” Drayton prompted him, setting his own glass down and selecting an apple from the bowl.

  “Ah yes.” Rogers leant forward and beamed generously. It was the ideal occasion; his senior officers and most of the better class of passengers were present, including that darling little yellow mot who had come aboard at Gravesend. She was actually only a steerage-class traveller and had no right to be at his table at all, but on first seeing her he made certain she would be invited. She was sitting there now, at his right hand, and just waiting to be impressed. He paused until the full attention of the table was his, then he began to speak.

  He made it good, very good. First, the events that led up to the action; his ship protecting the gallant merchants, the dividing of the convoy, and finally one heroically small two-decker charging in to beat off all those nasty Frenchmen. The captain was killed early in the fray. Dyson, the first lieutenant, was not a fighting man and proved rather short of the mark. Therefore, it had fallen on Rogers, as second lieutenant, to take charge. Vigilant suffered severely, of course, and many of the crew were dead or wounded, but with Rogers in command, they caused enough damage to the enemy squadron to make their eventual destruction inevitable. Vigilant finally limped back with a returning convoy to the thanks of a nation. Of course, it was unfortunate that full recognition was not given to him, he looked about deprecatingly, but he was still officially only second in command and Lieutenant Dyson had written the report.