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

by Alaric Bond

  “Over on the larboard beam,” the masthead answered King's question instantly. “Comin' up fast an' sailing large with a quartering wind!”

  King nodded to Taylor, the junior midshipman, who made for the roundhouse and the captain's cabin. It was five bells in the afternoon watch, and most of the officers had just finished dining. Paterson, on deck and taking the air, sauntered across to join the acting mate.

  “Maybe the first of many, or just another straggler, but at least we seem to have found company,” he said.

  “Assuming she is British,” King reminded him.

  “Ah yes.” Paterson was relaxed after his meal and grinned rather sheepishly. “That was, perhaps, a premature presumption.”

  The captain had yet to dine and came on deck with an angry countenance that made both officers stiffen.

  “Where away?” he snapped.

  “To the east, off the larboard beam.” King indicated where the unseen ship should soon be appearing to those on deck. Rogers snorted and glared about him.

  “Take that down immediately,” he said, indicating the Com-pany flag currently flying from the main. “Hoist the commiss-ioning pennant and rouse out a Navy ensign.”

  King gave the orders. They were sensible precautions to take. An Indiaman sailing alone was a rare enough sight, to disguise her as a British man-of-war was a simple matter and might fool a long-range inspection. Should the approaching ship be a privateer, or even a small national vessel, it might well be discouraged by what was apparently a powerful British frigate.

  “What do you see there?” Rogers bellowed impatiently, as the long pennant was set and streamed out in the wind.

  “Ship rigged; and t'gallants showing,” Clegg, one of the masthead lookouts replied. “Course seems to be to the sou-west.”

  Paterson and King exchanged glances. A southwesterly course would intercept them; it was the typical behaviour of a warship intent on closing in the least possible time.

  The passengers, who usually dined at three, were starting to assemble for their major meal of the day. There were already several small groups on the main deck, and the officers knew that the quarterdeck was soon to be alive with the more affluent, drinking their sherries and asking the most stupid of questions. Rogers took a pace or two, cursing under his breath.

  “I have her courses now,” Clegg's voice again. “Not such a deep roach, but still I'd say she were a warship. Small though; me'be a sloop.”

  King's mind began to race. A British ship of that size was unlikely to be alone in this part of the Atlantic unless escorting a convoy, and her course seemed to rule that out. Really, it was far more likely that they had met with another privateer.

  These small, private, men-of-war had been acting indepen-dently for the past few years. The risks were high, and manpower hard to come by, although rewards for an enterprising captain or owner were vast—certainly worth the investment of obtaining and fitting out a vessel. Sizes ranged from barely more than open boats to three masted ships that might easily take on a frigate, and the fact that this one was apparently operating alone suggested something larger than the luggers they had seen off in the Channel. A sudden shout interrupted his thoughts.

  “Damn it man, I have the business of the ship to attend to!” King looked up to see that Luck, Rogers’s servant, was on deck, presumably to call his master to dinner. He retreated, along with two passengers and an Indian servant who was clutching a small gong to his chest. Clearly King's thoughts were shared, and the captain was equally concerned.

  “Summon all hands,” Rogers said, almost to himself. “Have that ensign bent and ready, and clear away the guns.”

  “Every one, sir?” King asked.

  “Every damn one, Mr King!”

  The screams of pipes and rumble of bare feet on deck interrupted some of the passengers, who were just making their stately progress to dine. Others, still in their cabins, were surprised by parties of seamen who burst through the fragile doors of their quarters and began to clear away the trussed-up cannon that had been keeping them silent company since they arrived. Many of these heavy guns had been incorporated into the living arrangements, and were doing service as makeshift clothes driers and wardrobes, or simply draped with cloth to hide their murderous purpose. With few words and no apologies, the men brushed all personal items aside and made the weapons ready for action. Round shot was brought up from the hold and laid out in the garlands that were being used as shelves and contained books and assorted small possessions. Cots, beds and other domestic furniture were roughly pushed to one side to give the weapons, and those who served them, room to work. The guns stowed in the hold were all but beyond reach. It might take several hours to haul up the barrels and mount them on carriages, although Pevensey Castle would still be able to offer a reasonable broadside, in terms of weight as well as number.

  “Mr King!” Back on the quarterdeck, the young man jumped when his name was called, and he turned as the captain continued, “We'll have the royals on her, if you please, and hoist the Navy ensign.”

  King collected the speaking trumpet from its becket and bellowed the order. Soon the upper sails, dark rimmed across the heads from lack of use, were set and filling, and Pevensey Castle took on an extra measure of speed. It would not be enough to evade capture, however; already a brief smudge of masts and sails could be seen from the quarterdeck, to be gazed at and commented upon by the off-duty officers who were now starting to appear on deck. But the additional sails would buy them time; if they could string this out to darkness and another storm, or even a minor squall descended, it was possible they might escape completely.

  “Take her to starboard,” The captain spoke again. “Heading…Oh, confound it, man; as far away as we can reach!”

  “Steer southwest,” Paterson interrupted.

  The helmsman turned the wheel, and the braces were brought round. Now that was taking things too far, King thought, when Pevensey Castle was settled on the same course as her pursuer. If the sighting was a privateer, there was no chance that their lubberly old tub would out-sail her, and any thoughts Rogers might have of disguising them as a warship were now lost. No British frigate would run at the first sight of a strange sail; the enemy must smoke them straight away.

  “She's hull up now,” Clegg reported. “I see gunports, an' she's going a fair pace.”

  “Colours?” King asked.

  “Not yet,” Clegg replied, his bellow being heard and attended to by all on board. “Weathered sails, though her lines are certainly French.”

  There were several small groups of both passengers and crew, and his report brought forth numerous discussions. Discoloured canvas meant very little; an active privateer could be expected to be showing worn sailcloth and, for a multitude of reasons, French lines were not uncommon in the British Navy.

  “Problems, captain?” Drayton had appeared on deck wearing his ubiquitous greatcoat. King watched with interest as Rogers gave a brief report on the circumstances, his tone containing an odd mixture of respect and arrogance.

  The man nodded, apparently understanding. “I notice the guns have been made ready; you will be clearing for action, I suppose?”

  “In good time, sir, in good time.” Rogers appeared to be physically irritated by the civilian's presence. “But first I intend to outrun.”

  Drayton looked across at the oncoming ship. Her upper sails were clearly visible from the deck now, and the idea that Pevensey Castle could increase her lead in any way was clearly laughable. Rogers sensed this and turned upon the man.

  “Sir, you will do me a great service by allowing me to fight my ship.” The officers on the quarterdeck cringed slightly, although Drayton seemed to take the outburst in good heart.

  “Of course, captain, of course.” His genial look encompassed the entire deck. “I will leave you gentlemen to what you do best.”

  Rogers glared about, seemingly keen to find another target. “Mr Seagrove, assemble the male passengers and equip t
hem with small arms. Mr Robbins, attend to the arms chests, if you please.” He paused, long enough for it to seem that he had not been prompted, then added curtly. “Clear for action.”

  * * *

  The women were already heading for the hold, but began to hurry as parties of men started to tear down bulkheads and remove furniture about them. Kate and Elizabeth, who had taken an early meal together, reached the open hatch to find the ladders already in use.

  “Give us some light, milady,” a dark-tanned seaman spoke, not unkindly, to the first of the bustling line.

  “We wish to seek shelter in the hold, Matthews,” Kate told him.

  “That's as may be, ma'am,” the man knuckled his forehead briefly. “But we need to strike all we can below first. Let us carry on, an' we'll see you safe.” He stepped back while a large sofa was manoeuvred past him and down one of the ladders. “Safe and comfortable,” he added, winking broadly.

  The women withdrew and the men continued with their work.

  “Most have not dined,” Elizabeth said. “Will you arrange for tea?”

  Kate shook her head. “I fear that might not be possible, although I will try and send some cold victuals down.”

  “You will not be joining us?” The other girl seemed surprised.

  “I'm sure you can look after the ladies,” Kate replied, while further personal possessions were shunted past, with some all but thrown down the open hatch. “This appears to be a major action, and my place is in the sickbay.”

  “Can I assist?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, you will be better placed below. Share out what food I can find and try and keep everyone talking. Let no man down with you and, if we are taken, do all you can to keep the women together.”

  Elizabeth reached for her hand. “Do be careful,” she said.

  “And you, Elizabeth.” Kate nodded and left her.

  * * *

  The bell rang once, it was four thirty, and light was starting to fade. King had been standing on the quarterdeck for over four hours and should have been hungry, although the sight that was on their larboard quarter was enough to quell even the strongest of appetites. The privateer, now in plain view, lay just out of gunshot range, her full sails tight, French national flag flying proudly, and a fine mist of spray breaking from her bow as she broached the Atlantic rollers. King looked away and back to his ship. About him, men stood ready at the larboard battery, and topmen were poised by the shrouds, although there seemed little they could do that had not already been tried. The ensign ruse had failed, as he predicted, although Rogers was not without other ideas. Additional sail was set, only to be taken in again when it was clear the hull would move no faster and they were in danger of losing masts and yards. At one point the captain even decided to wear to the northeast; it had taken the combined efforts of all the officers to dissuade him. A sudden change of direction might have put their adversary off for a while, but there was little that Pevensey Castle could achieve that would be both slick and surprising. The privateer, a tidy vessel, well rigged and lithe, was bound to be handier in stays. Now they waited, as the darkness slowly gathered about them, and the enemy grew steadily closer.

  “She's intending to yaw,” Willis muttered.

  Sure enough, the ship was starting to turn; within minutes, she would be presenting her entire larboard battery to the merchant.

  “It will cost her.” Paterson was watching intently. The action was certainly increasing Pevensey Castle's slight lead, but any gain would be easily offset by a well-aimed broadside.

  A puff of smoke came from her side to be instantly dispersed by the steady wind. “She's opened fire!” Seagrove's shout came out in a higher pitch than he intended and he instantly turned his attention to the fastenings of his coat. The sound of a single gun rolled across the water, but there was no sign of any shot, and the other broadside guns remained silent. Langlois was studying the enemy through the deck glass, while Rogers paced backwards and forwards in a stride that was becoming increasingly erratic.

  “She's turning back to her original course,” Willis said, fingering the hilt of his sheathed sword nervously.

  King looked about the crowded deck. It seemed ridiculous that they were simply standing and gaping while the enemy crept closer. Something could be done, something must, else they might just as well surrender immediately. Eventually it became too much, and he approached his captain.

  “If we turned to larboard I could muster a broadside, sir,” he said, already preparing himself for the rebuke. “Chance we might be able to strike a yard or two. It might buy us time.”

  Rogers glowered round at the enemy ship that he truly hated. No gun could be brought to bear on her on their present course, yet to do as King suggested would all but finish the chase.

  “They are brim full of men, damn it!” the captain spat back. “Even a point will give them sea room; she'd be alongside before you can say knife.”

  “I don't see many aboard.” It was Langlois’s voice, slow and measured. He was still examining the privateer closely. “I'd say they were undermanned, sir.”

  Rogers strode across and roughly snatched the telescope from his hand, while Paterson and Nichols inspected the ship through their own personal glasses.

  “Undermanned?” Rogers gave a short dismissive laugh. “Why, I can see enough to take this ship and several others after.” He thrust the glass roughly back at the fifth mate.

  “We could load round on grape.” King felt unable to keep quiet. “That might gain us time, and cut the numbers down.”

  “You will be silent!” Rogers bellowed, then added more softly, “If anyone else has the temerity to offer advice, I shall dismiss them from the quarterdeck. Do I make myself clear?”

  * * *

  Manning and Keats had removed a canvas bulkhead and extended the sickbay to incorporate an area of adjoining deck, although the space was still less than twelve foot square, far smaller than the section of orlop reserved for dealing with the wounded in Pandora.

  “Can I assist, Mr Keats?” Kate asked, as she entered.

  The surgeon regarded her doubtfully. “I think not, ma'am; the work will be hard and not in the least pleasant.”

  “Kate served in the cockpit at Camperdown,” Manning said simply.

  Keats visibly relaxed. “Then you will indeed be welcome; we have no loblolly boys in this ship.”

  “And little space,” she said, looking about the meagre area.

  “I fancy we will not need more,” the surgeon continued. “I do not expect a great number of casualties,” he smiled grimly. “This will hardly be a fleet action.”

  * * *

  The privateer had yawed again, and another shot came from her. This one struck them, hitting their taffrail and sending up a cloud of small splinters. The debris caught the wind and fluttered down about the men on the poop and quarterdeck like so many snowflakes. Nichols glanced across at Langlois, who grinned winningly back as he brushed the dust from his jacket. Rogers had withdrawn slightly and now stood at the lee side of the quarterdeck, with the bulk of the mizzenmast between him and any French guns.

  King moved to the break of the quarterdeck and looked down to the waist where most of the male passengers and some of the afterguard were sheltering under the lee of the gangboards. All were armed, although he wondered how many of those carrying edged weapons were able to use them. The Company blunderbusses, evil-looking beasts with short stocks and gaping barrels, might be a better bet. Even the more reticent of civilians would be likely to have handled a firearm in the past. King knew from experience how much easier it was to squeeze a trigger and watch men fall from a distance, than moving in closer, exposing your own body to injury, and attempt to physically butcher another human.

  The privateer did not alter course and a further shot was fired, although this one passed by and fell harmlessly into the sea. The enemy were being left behind, but he fancied he could see movement on their deck. He moved back and collected a glass. Y
es, hands were going to the braces. A group clustered about the two cannon that had been fired, but it appeared that the other broadside guns were left unattended. He glanced across at Rogers, still fidgeting nervously by the fife rails. It was useless arguing with the man, his mind was made up and yet, properly handled, King was sure Pevensey Castle could put up more of a fight.

  * * *

  The hold was dark, even with four lanterns burning and Elizabeth found it difficult walking amongst the seated women. Kate had sent down some cold duff that was to have been their dessert, and she was distributing this, along with drafts of lemonade from a large pewter jug. All had been in high spirits at first, the earlier brush with enemy ships having instilled confidence and even bravado in some. But as soon as they received their first hit, the mood changed rapidly. Now they sat, most in stunned silence, although somewhere far away Elizabeth thought she could hear the sounds of gentle sobbing.

  “Ain't you got nothin’ stronger?” It was Susan, one of Mrs Drayton's maids; her mistress was at the other end of the group.

  “Only lemonade,” Elizabeth said, offering the jug.

  The girl held out her cup to be filled, just as another shot struck. Two women shrieked and the sound of crying was now very apparent. The shock caused the jug to jolt, and liquid spilled over Susan's hand. Elizabeth apologised, but the girl shrugged. “Worse things have 'appened,” she said.

  * * *

  The privateer was pierced for fourteen guns, all of which were bound to be far lighter than Pevensey Castle's main armament. Granted, the enemy's weapons were probably more modern, better served and rigged to allow a greater arc of fire. And any boarding party the French might summon would also be made up of bloodthirsty thugs who were certain to have no interest in mercy. Still, King felt restless as he watched—watched and did nothing. Of them all, he was probably the only true fighting man; certainly no one else had seen action on so many occasions. He alone knew that, carefully planned, they could put up some form of resistance. To do nothing was tantamount to suicide.