by Alaric Bond
* * *
King had been back on duty for three hours, and darkness was just starting to fall when he decided to make his move. It was a subtle one and must remain undetected afterwards, so choosing the right time was very important. He had long since decided that, should this attempt fail—if he, or his plan, were discovered—there could be no other. Either the French would take far harsher measures in detaining them, or he would be dead.
So far, the day had gone well. Pevensey Castle had tacked three times and was still heading in a broadly northeasterly direction, towards the coast of Spain. Even beating against the wind, they must have covered a fair few miles, although by now he had little real idea of their exact position. Two hours of pumping by the previous watch had seen the well almost dry, and they had prevailed upon their captors to relight the galley fire, so there was hot food for all. His plan must remain undetected for several hours, so any relaxation on the part of the French was to be encouraged. Now it only needed him to act.
Marcel was studying the traverse board by the binnacle. King sauntered across. The two were getting on reasonably enough; in fact, he had come to genuinely like the Frenchman, despite their differences in nationality and language.
“I need to use the heads,” he said, patting his stomach. On the first occasion, he was accompanied by a junior officer, but since then King seemed to have earned a little trust. Choosing the place was not up to him, so provisions had been made for any eventuality.
“Below,” Marcel replied, pointing downwards to the great cabin.
The quarter galleries. He was in luck. King nodded and strode quickly for the companionway. It mattered little if he rushed and might even explain matters should his absence be slightly longer than normal.
On the deck below, the dining lobby in the great cabin was empty. He went in and closed the door behind him, as well as the open sliding door to the larboard quarter gallery. That might buy time if anyone came to investigate. The hatch to the bread room was rarely used and lay under the thick canvas sheeting. It was a far less obvious means of entry than the locked outer door on the deck below, but how could he get the flooring up without a good deal of fuss? He glanced about the room and then noticed a corner, next to the quarter gallery entrance, which was free of furniture. He lifted the canvas up. The heavy cloth came back almost as far as the hatch, and he only needed to move a table and two chairs to clear the opening completely.
The trap door moved easily and made no undue sound. Gently, he laid the wooden cover back on the rolled-up canvas, collected a lantern from an overhead beam and slipped quietly down into the bread room. The lantern lit the dark billowing sacks of hard tack that lay in neat piles. He was banking on the biscuit being stacked clear of the next hatch. If he needed to move any sizeable amount, it might take a second visit, and that could not be until the following watch. He fell to his knees, feeling along the deck for another opening. The bread room was less than fifteen feet long; the lower trap that led to the bilges might easily be the other side of the door. That could be broken down of course, except that to do so might advertise his presence, and probably jeopardise the entire plan.
Luck was with him. The hatch was in the room and just where he hoped it to be, although only instinct and a fair amount of guesswork had actually guided him. This one was far lighter, but the hinges were badly rusted and squeaked as he brought the lid up. He pulled a face to himself, but did not stop. Time was so very important, and this was the most dangerous part of his plan.
Jumping down into the bilges, he felt his feet splash slightly on the wet gravel. Pevensey Castle had clearly taken in some water since the recent pumping, a fact that could only give his idea credibility. The lantern light flickered about the dank chamber, and several rats ran scurrying for the darkness. He was at the extreme stern end of the hold. About him were two rows of casks and what looked like spare parts for one of the pumps. He swung the light around, desperately searching, and then noticed the hefty bronze faucet rising up from the ballast shingle.
This was the sweetening cock, a valve set through the hull of the ship which allowed seawater into the bilges. Once a suitable amount had entered, the theory was that the valve would be closed and the water could then be removed by the main pumps, thus diluting and neutralising the ship's odour. Pevensey Castle carried three such valves in total. The other two were permanently attached to canvas pipes and used to direct seawater inside the ship. If Marcel had sent him to the forward heads, King would have been forced to tamper with one of those, with a far greater likelihood of him, or his plan, being discovered.
A brass bar was set across the valve. Placing the lantern on the shingle, he took the cold metal in both hands and tried to move it. At first, it seemed stuck fast, then the lever began to ease very slightly. Gritting his teeth he strained until it moved one-quarter turn. He paused, drawing breath, and wiped his hand about the mouth of the pipe. It was quite dry. Back to the valve: a little more effort brought it round a further half turn. The thing was moving easier now, and he stopped when seawater suddenly began to gush from the pipe, splashing over the shingle and thoroughly soaking his boots.
The noise was too great; it might be heard, and could cause the ship to actually sink. The sound of the running water was also playing terrible games with his mind, making him wonder if his fictional trip to the heads might actually prove necessary. Slowly he eased the bar back, until the torrent dwindled to a decent sized flow. The ideal amount was slightly more than the pumps could handle, although he could only guess at what that might be. He settled for a stream that seemed a little greater than that from the scuppers when both pumps were in action. The noise was still noticeable but, being continuous, should soon fade into the background, to be masked by the other regular shipboard sounds.
His lantern was in danger of being soaked. Quickly he collected it and made back for the hatch. The bread room was just as he had left it. He lifted the lower trap carefully, wincing as the hinges moaned closed. Now was the truly dangerous time, if someone had entered the lobby while he was below, they would almost certainly be waiting for him. The opened seacock was bound to be discovered, and all would end badly. He peered up into the room, but there was no movement, just absolute silence. Pushing the lantern ahead of him, he swung himself up and dragged the hatchway closed. The canvas flooring rolled back well enough, and he hurriedly replaced the table and chairs. Now he was short of time. The lantern was rehung and he paused only to open the quarter gallery door, before striding across the room, out to the deck and straight into the bulk of Marcel.
“Ah, you are malade?” The Frenchman grinned conspir-atorially.
King tried to hide his surprise. “Yes, my stomach.” He held his belly and pulled a face. The Frenchman laughed heartily and slapped him on the shoulder, before heading back to the quarterdeck. King followed, his hands, which he plunged deep into his pockets, were cold, wet and shaking, and as he walked along the dry wooden deck, his feet squelched in his damp boots.
Chapter Twelve
For his plan to work, King was counting on a number of things, the most important being the ingress of water remaining undiscovered until the seacock was fully submerged. Then the cause might be put down to damage below the waterline, most likely from the recent action. The valve could still be suspected, of course, in which case it would take little investigation and hardly any effort to stop the leak, while an inner feeling told him that identifying the culprit would be no more taxing.
The other major concern was that the leak would go unnoticed, even to the extent that Pevensey Castle might actually sink. But that should take a considerable time, and the fact that there was rising water in the well must surely be spotted before long. With the pumps in action for up to twenty-four hours a day, he hoped she could be maintained afloat, even if the valve remained open. Her waterlogged hull would not sail well, however, dramatically slowing the progress of both ships, and buying precious time before they finally made French waters.
At the very least, their recapture by a British vessel would be more likely, although King was hoping for rather more.
In fact, the flooded bilges were not discovered until later that evening, when the routine sounding of the well showed several feet of seawater where only a few inches were to be expected. It was two hours before King was due to go on duty, and he was playing a game of vingt-et-un with Marcel in the captain’s quarters, when the cabin door burst open and the boy officer erupted into the room.
Marcel stood as the lad began to blurt and babble in French. King could understand little of what was said, although clearly Marcel was immediately concerned. He turned to King, his face creased in surprise and mild panic, and shouted in French.
King shook his head and spread his hands wide, even though some words, like l'eau and le naufrage, came through clearly enough. The emergency had robbed Marcel of his limited English, and he did not intend to make life any easier for him. Crowley entered, drawn by the commotion. Marcel addressed him in a torrent of French, and King noticed that the Irishman's face betrayed no change as he took in the information.
“Your man here says we are leaking,” Crowley told King. “He wants to know how much the well usually draws in a day.”
King replied in an equally flat tone. “A few inches, though it can be more in bad weather. How much is there?”
“Just under two of their metres.” Crowley's voice was now full of concern for the ship; the answer was what King wanted to hear, but anyone looking at either of them could have thought the opposite.
“More than six feet, that is very serious,” he said, turning to Marcel. He found an air of mild panic peculiarly easy to adopt. “We must pump,” he said, winding his hands in the air to mimic the pump handles.
“ Rassemblez les hommes!” Marcel shouted at the boy. “Et commencez à pomper l’eau!” The lad nodded and rushed away, calling as he went.
“They're summoning the watch below,” Crowley said. “Me'be them at the pumps will make a difference, though six feet'll take a while to clear.”
“Especially if the leak is not cured.” King was finding it harder to keep the triumph from his face now, and Marcel's eyes were boring down on him.
“What do you know of this?” he asked.
King turned his expression into one of surprised outrage as he shook his head and spluttered, “I can only assume that we are holed.”
“What?” Marcel demanded, and swung round on Crowley. The Irishman translated, but the privateer remained unimpressed.
“In the action,” King persisted. “You fired on our stern. One man died and several were badly injured. It was a rash act if you had any intention of capturing us.” He watched while Crowley translated, hoping that the accusation, together with the inclusion of the casualties, might muddle things sufficiently.
“He says that is not the case,” Crowley told him. “The injured were on a higher deck, by the tiller; no shots hit below.”
“Tell him he is mistaken,” King replied. “We felt damage in the hull.”
Marcel shook his head on hearing Crowley's translation, and repeated “Non!” several times.
King shrugged. “In that case we are not leaking,” he said simply.
The Frenchman clearly understood without Crowley's help and stamped his feet in frustration. It was dawning on King that the danger had been discovered at the ideal time. In the dark of night, communication with the privateer would be that much harder. The prize crew must rely on night signals; both ships might even need to heave to while the emergency was discussed. Of course there was some backbreaking work ahead for the captured British, but the French were no fools. Fewer than fifty men might pump a leaking ship and sail her for a day or maybe two. But to make France could take a week or even longer. Reinforcements would be needed from the privateer, and in the confusion some attempt to retake the Pevensey Castle must surely be possible. He felt the excitement rise up in him, and it was difficult to remain calm and still while the ship echoed to the noise of men being roused from their sleep.
Then Marcel suddenly began to babble at Crowley, and before the steward had a chance to translate, rushed from the cabin, and out towards the quarterdeck.
“He says there must be another reason.” Crowley raised one eyebrow to emphasise the irony. They were alone, but there was still a chance that others might overhear. “Belike he intends to search the ship.”
“With six feet in the well, any leak is likely to be hidden,” King replied flatly. He had counted on a minimum of four to conceal the opened seacock, but that did not mean it could not be checked by anyone so determined. “And the lower she sits in the water, the greater will be the pressure. They will have to find it fast, or it will be the worse for them.”
Crowley nodded wisely and then caught King with a direct stare. “There will be a fair amount of disorder, sir,” he said softly. “Maybe we should offer to assist?”
* * *
Pevensey Castle carried two pumps, both on the lower deck and to either side of the mainmast. Each had a single continuous chain that carried a series of tholes—small leather plugs that fitted tightly into a wooden tube extending deep into the bilges, at the lowest point of the ship. Two large handles on each side of the pump hood turned a wheel that pulled the chain. There was room for two men at each handle, so four men were needed to work each pump; eight for both. They could not be expected to pump for longer than half an hour; more than that and the backbreaking and belly-bursting effort would totally exhaust them. Thus it would take sixteen men an hour to maintain a constant drain on the bilges, and even at the peak of fitness, none could work effectively for more than six hours in any one day.
Johnston, who knew nothing of the cause of the leak, had not actually worked this out while he was being chivvied from his warm hammock. But he realised immediately that the number of men remaining in Pevensey Castle would not be sufficient to clear a sizeable body of water. Certainly, if the leak was as bad as the rumours currently circulating, further hands would be needed from the privateer; possibly even passengers as well. Word that they were actually sinking quickly followed, and the estimated time they could stay afloat dwindled with every telling. Johnston was an experienced seaman and used to the lower deck's inclination to exaggerate. But he also guessed that the stories must have some substance and, unless a way could be found to stop the rising water, both pumps would be working until the ship saw land, or the ocean bottom.
He grasped the cold metal pump handle and began to turn the heavy contraption as the last remains of sleep left him. Ward was to his right, sharing the same handle, while Khan and another Lascar worked to the other side of his pump. It took five or six full revolutions before the first of the water appeared in the cistern and began to run down the leaded dales and out through the scuppers. It was a fair flow, and the second pump could be expected to produce as much. But then, they had only just started, and the latest report of eight feet in the well and rising was certainly a good deal of water to move. He looked to his left and grimaced at Khan while the rhythm became established. The Lascars, with their slight frames and lean bodies, were not ideally suited to this kind of work, and Khan's forehead was creased in concentration and effort while he turned his handle. Then he noticed his friend's attention; his expression cleared, and the familiar smile returned.
“Hard work to last for very long,” he said, breathing only slightly deeper than usual.
“Aye,” Johnston agreed. “Reckon we'll have a fair taste of it, afore the day's out.”
“Over ten foot in the well, they tells me,” Ward added for good measure from his right. “Say several planks have been stove in below, an' the entire hold's awash.”
Khan remained silent, but grew more thoughtful.
“Strange that there were no sign of a leak until now,” Johnston added and was about to say more when he noticed the Lascar glaring at him over the curve of the pump hood. The intensity of his stare made Johnston pause, and he considered th
e situation afresh.
Strange it certainly was. There was no damage below the waterline that he was aware of, and the well had been all but dry only that morning. Johnston's eyes flashed back questioningly to Khan, who winked at him as they continued to turn the heavy pump handles. Johnston winked back while his thoughts ran on. He quickly decided that the leak had been caused by something other than enemy shot. That only left sabotage.
Clearly, there were those in the ship who were working to stop her, and it came as a relief to discover that a chance remained he was not going to end up a prisoner of the French. He continued to turn, but now his back was starting to protest. The pain must inevitably grow until the end of his trick, and by then, he knew from experience, he would be good for nothing. However, the rhythmic movement certainly encouraged thinking, and he let the speculations continue as a distraction to his complaining sinews.
So, the leak could probably be blamed on one of the officers. King, who was on the lower deck and actually walking towards them as they worked, would be the most likely. He had shown himself to be quite a spark in the past. What else was in his mind was a mystery, of course. It wasn't for Johnston to consider such things; his job was simply to follow when led. But he and the other seamen could now rely on the fact that one of their officers had conceived a plan and was in the process of carrying it out. It might prove unsuccessful, of course, although it was unlikely that any officer worth his salt would have failed to properly think things through, so Johnston reckoned that the scheme must have a fair chance of working. Besides, anything—even the wildest of ideas—was better than sitting back and waiting while they sailed themselves into captivity.
The wheel continued to turn, and the water flowed regularly along the dale and out through the scuppers. The only noticeable change in the routine was his back and belly, which were now starting to protest most strongly. If the leak were as bad as they said, it would take more than two pumps to keep Pevensey Castle afloat, so further action might be expected sooner than later. He grinned at Khan once more; the Lascar was also showing signs of tiring, although he met his eyes readily enough and nodded in return. Johnston knew instinctively that Khan's mind was running on a similar path, and the serang would be equally keen for the next move to be made. He just wished that a way had been chosen that involved less physical effort.
