by Alaric Bond
They reached the upper deck, and assembled under the ship's boats. It was now quite dark, although a number of lanterns had been lit and were held by the French. Elizabeth felt a wave of relief when she saw Kate standing next to her husband and the surgeon.
“Is it right that we are going to the French ship?” she asked, as they came together and briefly embraced.
“It is—all senior officers and passengers, and some of the crew as well. We will be kept in separate confinement, though thankfully I seem to have been counted as one of the latter,” Kate replied. “Mr King and the juniors are remaining in charge of those left in Pevensey Castle.”
“Could he not just sail her away in the night?” Elizabeth was looking anxiously about her. Kate smiled.
“No, there will be a prize crew aboard, and I expect the ships to be travelling in close company.” She turned as a Frenchman on the gangboard began giving orders in a broad accent. “We shall probably be in France within a few days,” she added hurriedly.
Elizabeth could now see Rogers, along with Willis, the first mate. They were walking out along the starboard gangboard and, on reaching the entry port, began to clamber ignominiously off the ship. Mr Paterson followed, then Mr Langlois, almost elegant in his tailored watchcoat, and there was George, last in line. He looked down at her, paused and raised his hand briefly, before being prodded in the back with a pistol held by a French seaman. One last look then he was gone. A cold sensation ran down her and she had the strange intuition that she would never see him again.
* * *
The damage to Pevensey Castle's rudder was not critical, although it would take most of the night to repair. The carpenter had been called to attend and fingered the damage thoughtfully, while one of his mates, along with King and two armed Frenchmen, looked on.
“I'd say a round shot,” the elderly man murmured quietly, examining the edges of the damage. “Must have struck at an angle, so I'm surprised it even penetrated.”
“Larboard tiller sheave is done for.” His assistant collected the smashed block from where it lay, wrapped in a tangle of line. “'Ave to rebuild the fixin' an' mount a fresh block.”
“Sweep okay?” the carpenter asked.
The mate turned to the long, curved wooden beam that supported the tiller. “Aye, an' the rest's healthy enough. It's just the mountin'.”
“Four hours,” the carpenter said, turning to King. He held up the fingers of one hand and loudly repeated, “four” to the guards. They nodded and began to converse in French; the carpenter turned back.
“They might try rigging a relieving tackle,” he muttered to King. “Chains to the rudder 'orn, then mount a couple of blocks up to the poop; that'll work her right enough for a time, an' it would be the faster option.”
“If it came to it they could probably steer by the tiller,” King agreed, his voice low and guarded. “It wouldn't take much to rig a separate internal tackle.”
The carpenter looked at him doubtfully. “You gonna suggest it?”
“Oh no,” King rolled his eyes “I am in no rush to see France. Let us see if they can work it out for themselves.”
* * *
By dawn, the repairs were complete and Pevensey Castle was underway once more, beating back against the easterly breeze, with the privateer to windward, less than a cable off and ready to bear down upon her should she show the least sign of wavering. King was in the captain's cabin, which he now shared with Marcel, the French first mate. Both had little more than a smattering of the other's language, although the common currency of seamanship had been adequate to carry them through most problems.
The prize crew consisted of eighteen men, a relatively small number to contain the remaining British seamen, although the French were heavily armed and alert. On arriving in France, Pevensey Castle would bring the privateers a handsome profit, a fortune even, and they were determined not to let her slip from their grasp.
Their captives remained in two watches, with each spell of duty now running for six hours to reduce the number of times a watch was changed. The off duty men were confined below, supervised by the French equipped with loaded East India Company blunderbusses. The guards were also working watch and watch about, and had been split, with five stationed on deck and four in steerage. It was a tight system, and at any sign of insurrection, the privateers had made it clear that they would not hesitate to open fire.
Crowley entered with a tray of food; Luck, the captain's steward, having followed his master to the privateer. Marcel indicated Rogers's handsome desk and beckoned King to join him. There were some rather superior biscuits, far nicer that those normally issued, several types of cheese, what looked like a potted meat pâté, along with some rather sorry-looking pieces of fruit. Clearly, Crowley had been inspecting the captain's stores. On seeing the spread, King was reminded how hungry he was. He cared little where the food came from, in fact knowing it had been provided by Rogers actually gave it extra flavour. The pot of coffee added an aroma to enforce the point, and soon he was laying into his breakfast like a lad. Marcel, eating well but with slightly less enthusiasm, chuckled quietly as he poured a measure of red wine and water for them both.
“You eat, then you rest,” Marcel informed him, indicating the captain's sleeping cabin. “All officers together; I shall be here.” He pointed to the large couch in the main room. It would be hard to exit the sleeping cabin other than by passing the Frenchman. The off-duty deck guards from the prize crew were also berthed in the dining room cuddy, so communication with Pevensey Castle's people was all but impossible, except when they were on watch.
King nodded and bit into some more of the cheese. It seemed a reasonable enough arrangement; at least they weren't to be bound and gagged. The Frenchmen must fear the take over of their ship, but then he supposed they were also relying on the fact that passengers and officers were interned in the privateer; each ship was effectively carrying hostages for the other.
Crowley appeared again and spoke to Marcel in rapid French. King strained to translate, and then the steward addressed him directly.
“Your man here reckons it will be a good five days or so afore we reach port.”
King nodded. It was what he had been told, but why was Crowley mentioning it, and in such a direct manner?
“So I understand, Michael,” he said, eyeing the steward cautiously.
“Well, I think you'll be finding the men will be ready before then,” he continued.
King stared at him, uncomprehending.
“I said, they will be ready, sir.” Crowley's statement was slightly more emphatic. Clearly he was trying to convey something to King, although the young man's tired brain could not decipher it.
“Ready?” Marcel spoke from the other side of the cabin. “For what is it that they are ready?” His voice was harsh and suspicious.
“For the next watch; they are settled in their quarters,” Crowley replied innocently, repeating the answer in French.
Marcel snorted and went back to making up his bed. It was only then that King began to truly understand. Crowley was saying the British crew were prepared to act, to retake this ship or anything that he, as senior officer, might have in mind. They were primed to support him if he chose to make a move, although quite what that move would be remained a mystery. For a split second the very thought appalled him, but then he supposed he had a certain duty, a commitment almost. They had done their bit by showing their willingness to be led. Now it was up to him to do the leading.
“Very good, Crowley,” he said, adding a sly wink, although there was nothing in the Irishman's face or manner that showed any sign of collusion or shared understanding. “I will not need you further this watch, you may get some sleep.”
Crowley left silently through the dining room cuddy while King made for the small shutoff area that was the captain's sleeping cabin. He had also been looking forward to some rest, but now it seemed there were other matters to consider.
* * *
The British hands had lost their comfortable quarters in the forecastle to the steerage guard of the prize crew and were now berthing with the Lascars. The latter shunned the use of hammocks, however, preferring to sleep on the hard deck and with the French strictly imposing the six hours on, six hours off, system, there was room enough for all. The new watch had just been set, and Ward, Johnston and Khan were tired after working for much of the night. There had been plenty to do in their department. In addition to the main yard, which was now fished adequately enough, several mizzen shrouds had parted during the battle and a fresh main topsail needed to be set. All the repair work was carried out by Pevensey Castle's crew, while the French guards looked on. But then, with just nine men on watch to guard many times that number, their captors could hardly be blamed for giving all their attention to supervision. After a gruelling and overlong trick, the men were not impressed and grumbled openly as they ate the cold burgoo provided for their meal.
“This is nothing less than horse feed!” Ward grouched, while he annoyed the mixture of oats and water with his spoon.
“Galley fire's dead,” Johnston informed him stoically. “Don't seem likely they're going to relight it, neither.”
Clegg, a topman from Lancashire at the next table, exhaled loudly and swung round on his bench to face them. “Aye, they probably think we're gonna grab hold of burning coals, an' lob them about when they're not looking.”
“They'd got the spirit stove in the cuddy pantry alight an' were roasting chickens, last I heard.” Ward added bitterly.
The French were certainly taking few chances. All small arms had been rounded up and locked in the spirit room which was one of the most secure stores in the ship. Even the topmen's knives, essential tools for their job, were taken from them.
“Tastes very fine to me,” Khan said, a slight smile on his face. “All that butter and sugar is very bad for a man's heart; this will do more good.”
Ward, whose proportions were certainly generous, peered at Khan's slight frame. “If you're so bleedin' healthy,” he asked. “Why ain't there more o' you?”
“Do you see me tired?” Khan replied. They considered him; certainly, the Indian seemed as fresh as when they started the watch. He looked about brightly. “Maybe if I carried so much fat it might be the case, but as it is I am ready for my sleep, and work the next day.”
“So you're not missing your prayers then?” Clegg asked. Khan might be a friend and shipmate, but there was something in the Indian's superior attitude that occasionally nettled, making the northerner long to prick his composed bubble.
“It is regrettable,” Khan shrugged. The regular meeting times when men of his faith could pray was one of the first things the French abolished. “But Allah understands and will make allowances.” He glanced at them sideways. “Besides, maybe a way will be found for us to continue, before so very long.”
* * *
Elizabeth's suspicions proved correct. The women passengers were segregated from the men, and placed in a small dark room that stank of mouldy cloth. It was deep inside the French ship, with no ports or scuttles of any description, and soon the smell of confined bodies made the atmosphere even more oppressive. A door set into the bulkhead at the far end was their only form of ventilation, and that was fully boarded. There were nineteen of them altogether, counting Kate, who the French assumed could never have been an officer, and the very basics for survival had been provided.
The food mainly consisted of ship's biscuit. This was different to the type they were familiar with, but not unpleasant. There was also some soft cheese that she guessed might be goat, although it was so far gone as to be almost inedible. Both were doled out as soon as they settled, and all now had disappeared. Water was provided in two large skeels, one of which had been clumsily knocked over and the other emptied almost as quickly. Since then, they had been left for what must have been six or seven hours, and they were certainly thirsty. The room was only just large enough for them all to squash in, and lit by a single lamp that gave its meagre light at the cost of a dirty wick, which added an unpleasant cast to the strong smell of captivity. There was no furniture, other than the bolts of canvas they were sitting on. For other, more personal requirements, there was a bucket.
Elizabeth wriggled uncomfortably in her seat and whispered a quick apology to the woman on her right, who appeared to have been woken by the movement. Kate was on her left, eyes closed, and probably dozing. Elizabeth tried to join her, but could not relax in such circumstances and for the second time in twenty-four hours, she felt almost frightened to close her eyes. Instead she stared about the room and wondered vaguely about George. There had been no sign of the men by the time they finally boarded the privateer. All was dark, the ship strange, and the French who herded them down to this room were wary in the extreme. Most regarded the women with suspicion, but some seemed to have a different interest, and at least one, a chubby officer with a stupid, thick moustache, did not attempt to hide his look of open desire. She supposed that George and the others were held elsewhere. In a ship this small they could not be far away, but to find them would probably take forever, even if they were free to do so.
“I should welcome some food.” Kate's whisper made Elizabeth start slightly. “And a chance to stretch our legs would be nice.”
“How long have we been here?” Elizabeth asked.
Kate shook her head and then peered forward in the half-light of the crowded room. “Does anyone have a timepiece?”
Mrs Drayton stood and presented her dog to the women immediately next to her. Leaning closer to the lantern, she consulted an ornate fob watch that was set on the lapel of her jacket. “Half past ten o'clock,” she said firmly, then added, “Mind it is like to lose the odd half hour most mornings, so better make that eleven.”
Kate glanced at Elizabeth. “I'd say it was time they started to take notice, wouldn't you?”
Without waiting for a reply she lifted her head and shouted “Hello!” The other women looked at her aghast, and when she repeated the bellow, some shuffled uncomfortably.
“It might be better if you did not annoy them.” Mrs Crabtree's voice came from the far end. “We are their captives, after all.”
“And you know what the French are like,” another slightly closer added enigmatically.
“I know they have kept us here long enough,” Kate retorted. “And if we don't start to make ourselves known, we might well be forgotten.” She went to shout again, but before she did so the sound of keys rattling outside made them all turn towards the door. It opened, admitting a pool of lantern light from the corridor outside and the same moustachioed officer who had leered at them earlier.
He leaned in through the opening and surveyed them for a moment. “Ladies, there is too much noise; continue and you will force me to be harsh.” Even in the poor light, it was clear that he would require little persuasion.
“We should like food and some fresh air,” Kate said coldly. She was directly opposite and fixed him with her stare. “Also, this bucket is undignified; would you expect your own women to use such a thing?”
The man returned her gaze, his moist eyes standing out in the flickering light. “My women learn to do what they are told,” he said, a smug expression sitting easily on his fat face. “As you will also, if you cause me trouble.”
“Does the captain permit you to threaten women prisoners?” There was a mutual intake of breath from the others, but Kate's eyes remained set on his.
“The captain has given me the full control, as I speak your sauvage language.” His look mollified for a moment. “But maybe…maybe if you were kind, I might be able to give you what you want.” He reached down and touched the cheek of the nearest prisoner. It was Emma, one of Mrs Drayton's maids, and the girl froze while his hand greedily explored her hair and face.
“Maybe the captain should know you are offering to make deals.” Kate's reply caused the man to visibly start, his fingers frozen over Emma's lips. “Maybe
if we were all to scream at once he might hear,” she continued. “Maybe then he would ask what caused us to react so, and then discover that you are open to inducements.”
The officer pushed himself further into the room and stood as near upright as the low deckhead allowed.
“You would not be so stupid.” he said.
Kate drew a deep breath and let out a credible scream. The sound echoed about the small room. She inhaled and shrieked again. This time the noise was louder, as Elizabeth and another added their voices. The three women went to repeat the procedure, and it was clear that others intended joining them. The man's eyes grew wide, and he swung round, gesturing violently for them all to stop.
“There is no need to involve the captain,” he said, panting slightly.
“Then we can expect some breakfast and an opportunity to exercise?” Kate's voice, though slightly hoarse, lost none of its menace. “Otherwise he will hear of your attitude.”
He turned back to her. “There shall be food shortly,” he said. “But you would be wise not to annoy me.” The frightened look was fading now, and complacency slowly returned. “You will all be in my care for as long as we are at sea; and if any prove to be a problem I shall report them to the captain myself. Once I have done so I am sure he will be happy for me to deal with the situation in any way I choose. We have a number of punishments that are eminently suitable for ladies; some you may know, others might come as the surprise, but all are undignified and I doubt there are any you will wish to experience.”
