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

by Alaric Bond

  * * *

  Johnston was wrong. When it came to knowing what to do next, King did not have a clue.

  There was no overall plan; no finely detailed strategy that covered most major eventualities, leading to the overthrow of their French captors. In fact, there had been a complete lack of foresight. The act of opening the seacock was almost instinctive and based solely on the principle that something which did the French harm must surely be a blessing to the British. Now, though, it appeared to King as the act of a rash young man, one with no idea how to put a leaking Pevensey Castle to their advantage.

  The enormity of what he had already done, coupled with an expectancy from the other men, instilled feelings of foolishness and inadequacy in him not experienced since he was a lad. He longed to discuss the possibilities that his actions to date had uncovered. But he was still a captive, still liable to constant surveillance from Marcel and the other members of the French prize crew and for the first time he truly knew the loneliness of command.

  His thoughts tumbled through his head as he made his way along the lower deck. Ahead of him, the pumps were clanking monotonously, and he could see Marcel standing close to the stern hatch with a group of Frenchmen, their faces strangely distorted in the lantern light. Throughout his journey from the roundhouse, Crowley accompanied him, along with two of the guards who had been sleeping in the dining cuddy. Neither spoke any English, but still he and Crowley remained silent. Even with the relative security of their language, King preferred to say nothing. That way Crowley might not guess that the officer he trusted to lead them out of this mess was completely at a loss.

  The hatchway led to the hold and lay open. King pushed past the group, peered down into the gloom below and was surprised to see a floor of black water, far higher than he had anticipated, reflecting the lantern light. As he watched, several small casks floated by, bumping against each other as they went. The hold was almost flooded, even with the pumps working continuously.

  He spun round and addressed Marcel. “How much water is there in the well?” he demanded. The Frenchman stared back without understanding, and then switched his attention to Crowley.

  “Gained another ten centimetres since the pumps started.” The Irishman translated Marcel's reply with just the slightest hint of worry.

  “We must get help.” King's voice rose with concern, both for the problem and that his part in it might be discovered. He faced the French officer directly. “There are additional portable pumps we can rig, and a bucket chain could be started, but that will take more men.”

  They had been communicating well until the emergency, but now Marcel's English deserted him, and again he looked to Crowley.

  “He says they will have to fire the rocket,” Crowley translated.

  King's forehead creased.“What rocket?”

  “It sounds to me like some sort of danger signal, in case we gets too lively. I reckons there'll be a bunch of armed Frenchmen joining us once it goes up.” His eyes flashed at King as he continued. “That'll make a might of confusion, wouldn't you say?”

  King nodded. Crowley was right, if they were going to act further and make anything from the opening of the seacock, it must be now.

  “We have two fire pumps on the upper deck,” he said, turning back to Marcel and pointing at the deckhead. “I'll get them rigged over this hatch and for'ard.”

  He went to move while Crowley translated, Marcel nodded readily and let him go, while he babbled instructions at the boy officer who had first announced the leak.

  The three of them made for the upper deck, with the lad just slightly in the lead. As they went, King caught sight of eight of Pevensey Castle's men, five British and three Lascars, presumably the relief crew for the pumps. He bellowed for them to follow, which they did. Their two guards objected, but the lad shouted them down, and they too joined the group heading upwards, like characters in some absurd fairy tale.

  On deck Drummond and the duty watch were grouped about the main and foremasts, watched over by three more Frenchmen armed with blunderbusses. Again, the lad gave an order, indicating towards the poop where two more stood ready. The boy waved his hand, and one peered forward in the dark.

  “La fusée! Allumez la fusée!” The guards hesitated, clearly unwilling to carry out such a drastic action on the word of a mere child.

  “I'll go!” Crowley shouted, translating quickly for the benefit of the Frenchmen. He bounded along the gangboard and on to the quarterdeck, then mounted the poop ladder. The two men stood back as the Irishman joined them.

  “They need you to fire the rocket,” he said in English. “Fire the rocket,” he repeated. One guard shook his head bewildered, but turned to where a slim brass tube stood ready, its mouth pointing over the side towards the privateer. Crowley grabbed the flint and steel that lay next to it and began to strike; soon a small fire was glowing in the tinder. He looked across to where the French ship's lights could just be made out; she was about three cables off their starboard bow, beating close hauled into the wind. Once they saw the rocket it would take little time to let the wind carry them round, and alongside. The two Frenchmen began to talk rapidly to each other, but Crowley paid them no heed as the flame grew up and was ready. He glanced back at the guards, noticing that the boy officer and two other Frenchmen were making for the poop, with King and his men close behind.

  “Fire the rocket,” Crowley repeated. At last, one of the guards bent down to the fuse, which could just be seen at the base of the tube. His head lowered as he extended the small length of quick match, exposing it to Crowley's flame. The second guard was leaning over to watch, and it was then that Crowley dropped the flaming tinder and administered a deadly rabbit punch to the back of the man's neck.

  * * *

  On the quarterdeck, King saw Crowley act and the man fall. The first guard looked up in surprise, and the Irishman neatly despatched him with a sweep from his right fist which sent him spinning to the deck. It was clear from their reaction that the French also noticed. The boy looked back at King, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion, while the other guards shouted and raised their weapons to bear on Crowley. There was no time to think. Without a sound King caught up with the rearmost Frenchman who was in the act of aiming his piece, and shoved him firmly in the small of his back. The weapon flew up and the man crashed forwards, but King had no time to consider him further. A second guard turned to him and levelled his blunderbuss. Without conscious thought, King reached for the barrel and knocked it back towards its owner, just as the trigger was squeezed and the hammer struck the frizzen. A flash came from the pan, but no more—a misfire. King finished the startled man off with a swift punch and saw him fall back and to one side. He turned to take on the rest, but they had already been dealt with by Pevensey Castle's crew, who were standing over them like so many hunters claiming their prey. King's grin owed much to relief as he looked back along the deck. It was now quite dark, but there were no signs of other Frenchmen.

  “Tie them up and make sure they’re securely gagged,” he said. All but the boy were knocked senseless, but there was no telling for how long they might stay that way. King had already taken enough chances and cared little if the gags choked them. There were five blunderbusses lying on the deck, which were quickly gathered up by the men. One also collected the short sword that the officer had carried and handed it to King. Holding the naked blade, he felt more able to plan matters. Crowley was back from the poop and dragging one of the guards with him.

  “Good work, Michael.” King nodded as the Irishman dumped the senseless body with the rest.

  “The other will give us no problem,” Crowley replied with strange certainty. “Shall we attend to those Frenchmen below?”

  “Yes, two parties,” King said with sudden decision. “You four and Crowley take the for'ard ladder; Drummond, you'll be in charge. I'll take the stern with the rest. Clegg, stay at the wheel and try to keep her steady.” The midshipman blinked in confusion for a mom
ent while he took in what was said. King realised that this must be his first time in action and slowed down. “Take your men down the hatchway, but no further. Do nothing until you hear us begin, then join in as fast as you can. No one is to use firearms unless they have to. But if it comes to it, don't forget that we have men at the pumps.”

  The lad nodded, and the men separated. King made for the stern hatch.

  “May I suggest, sir?” Crowley was pointing to the fife rail where a row of empty belaying pins sat ready. There were no small arms to hand other than the blunderbusses and the boy's sword, but the short wooden staves would make excellent weapons.

  “Yes, take one each if you wish.” The unarmed men helped themselves, although King knew that their blood was up and that the seamen would fight well enough with their bare hands if need be. The forward group moved swiftly across the deck.

  The only part of the fight which might have been seen from the privateer was that one misfire, but sound could carry great distances at sea, and they had not been silent. The Frenchmen below might also be wondering what was happening, and how long it took to launch a simple rocket. Some may even have come to investigate and seen that the British were in control of the upper deck. Then there was the not inconsiderable point that Pevensey Castle was slowly sinking. Even if the British dealt with the prize crew below, they must then attend to that damned seacock, as well as making preparations to receive the Frenchmen from the privateer when they came to retake the ship. Time was certainly of the essence.

  He peered down to the deck below; no one was apparently waiting. Ahead he could see Crowley and Drummond in position at the mouth of the forward hatch. He raised his hand to them, then walked slowly down the steps, his sword held hidden against his leg.

  Below the French were still grouped about the entrance to the hold, while the monotonous drone of the pumps continued, masking much of the sound of their conversation. Ahead, King could see Drummond cautiously leading his men down the forward ladder. He reached the deck without attracting attention and slipped into the shadows next to the steerage mess. Slowly his men formed up behind him. He paused, looked back and then strode boldly out into the centre of the deck. His boots sounded noisily on the hard deck, but he continued forward, conscious that each step he took brought him closer and made the job easier. He came to within ten feet of the group when one looked round and called out in surprise. Marcel's face was visible for a moment, and he said something that King did not catch. It was time.

  With a yell that was very close to a scream, King launched himself forward, swinging the short sword out in front of him. He could hear the thunder of bare feet as those behind followed; and there was Crowley closing in from forward, passing the bemused men at the pumps, while he singled out an opponent. The crowd of Frenchmen broke as they turned to meet them, reaching for their weapons. King noticed Marcel drawing his sword. There was no time for niceties; he made for the man and crashed into him, knocking his body sideways and the weapon to the deck. The crack of fist on bone came from the other group, and one of the British yelled as a cutlass slashed across his chest. King recovered himself, and struck out wildly at one of the guards who was raising a pistol. The blade caught the Frenchman on the forearm, and the weapon tumbled out of his limp hand. Someone fell, knocking King sideways as he went. Then Marcel clambered to his feet, and began to shout in guttural French, before Crowley, striking from behind, silenced him forever with a belaying pin.

  The fight ended as suddenly as it had begun. The pumps had ceased to turn with King's attack, the men having abandoned the hated machines in order to join their comrades. For a moment, there was a stunned pause; then all began shouting and slapping each other in victory. King knew it was time to take a hand and called for order. Once more, the injured Frenchmen were secured and roughly moved to a nearby cattle stall.

  “Fresh hands to the pumps,” King continued, conscious that the men were ready to respond to him, whatever he ordered. He glanced down at the hold; there was no visible change in the water level, but that seacock must be closed without further delay. “Does anyone here swim?” he asked vaguely.

  “Yes, sir.” It was Johnston and, despite the circumstances, King found himself suppressing a slight smile. He was well aware of the persistent deserter’s talents in that department. But Johnston was injured, a cut to his left forearm was bleeding freely, despite his efforts to contain the flow with his right hand.

  “See to your wound, Johnston; I will need someone else.”

  The man was about to complain, but another was there ahead of him.

  “I do, sir.” King considered Khan, the boatswain, briefly. The man was clearly tired from pumping, but he also carried an air of competence that was obvious to all.

  “The stern sweetening cock is half opened,” King told him. “Do you know where it is?”

  “'Ere, you can't send Abdul, there's nothing of him,” Ward complained, and Johnston was looking mildly disgruntled.

  “Do you swim, Ward?” King asked. The boatswain's mate shook his head. King glanced at the other men, but none met his eye.

  “The valve you mentioned is below the bread room, sir,” Khan said softly.

  King turned back to him. “Indeed. Can you reach it?” What he actually wanted to know was, did Khan have the strength to close the thing, although to ask such a question of another male was almost impolite.

  “I believe so, sir,” the man replied.

  King looked about. Both pumps were working again, but it would not be long before the water came up to the level of the lower deck. The longer they waited, the harder Khan's task would become, the deeper Pevensey Castle settled, and with the increase in pressure, the faster more water flowed in through the valve.

  “Very well, Khan. Do your best; but don't take too many risks. If it cannot be closed there will still be a little time, although we might need to defend the ship shortly.”

  Khan nodded and lowered himself until he was sitting on the hatch coaming, dangling his bare feet above the water. He slipped his cotton top off and handed it to Johnston. The Lascar grinned at him and then gently eased himself over the side. A slight splash, and he swam away into the black depths of the hold and out of their sight.

  King reckoned he could remain on the surface for a spell, at least until the deckhead became too low. After that, he would have to continue underwater and in total darkness. The sweetening cock was several feet down; it must be located and heaved shut. King had found it a hard enough job to open: Khan must close it several feet down, before finally returning to the surface. There was a deep ripple as the Lascar's lithe body slipped under the water. Then he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  All the men were crowded together in the raider's hold. Counting officers, passengers and the remainder of Pevensey Castle's crew, it amounted to almost fifty. Although the Espérance was nearly empty of stores, there was hardly room for half that number. One lantern lit the dismal scene. The seamen had taken to the forward end and made themselves relatively comfortable, even to the extent of rigging makeshift hammocks from the slimy line and scraps of canvas they had found. The gentlemen passengers were next; uncomfortable and in the most part cold, they sat close together and muttered bitterly of the circumstances which had put them in such a position. Several were military men, and nearly all mourned the fact that they had failed to get to grips with the enemy. To have surrendered without a shot being fired, or any form of resistance offered, offended their pride and made the captain's expulsion to the very end of the officers' section inevitable.

  He sat there now, alone and for a number of reasons ignored, while Paterson, Nichols and Langlois talked softy in the half-light. Willis slept nearby, and Drayton, who had naturally assumed the status of officer, chewed on the very last of his ration of salt horse. Keats and Manning were not present, having been called for some while ago. They were thought to be treating an injured member of the French crew. The ship gave a slight heave, alerting the sa
ilors present, and then a succession of shouted orders filtered down from above.

  “Sounds like a change of course,” Paterson said flatly. This was nothing to be surprised about. The privateer was beating into the wind and they were accustomed to tacking regularly. Nichols withdrew his watch and peered at it in the uncertain light.

  “A little early,” he said. “Belike the wind has shifted slightly.” This also was in no way unusual, and the three were content to let the matter drop when Langlois spoke.

  “She is not turning,” he said, his clear voice edged with certainly. “I'd chance they are backing sails.”

  There was silence as all considered the implications. The only reason most could think of for the privateer to purposefully slow her progress was trouble aboard Pevensey Castle. The merchant might have lost a spar or some other piece of her tophamper, or there could be problems with the British crew. Then the unmistakeable sound of gun carriages being run out came to them.

  “I'd say something was up,” Paterson chanced. The others nodded and stirred themselves in their cramped seats. Langlois rose, stretching his legs and looking about. The captain was still sitting morosely to the stern, his head down and arms wrapped about his body. They must have been cooped up for almost a day, and yet the only contribution he made was pushing himself forward to be first for the provisions and, inevitably, the necessary bucket. Willis still slept, but Drayton was alert and caught the fifth mate's eye.