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

by Alaric Bond

  “All clear?” Paterson was peering under the wrecked hatch cover.

  Nichols nodded. “Apparently.”

  The hatch creaked as Paterson pressed up from beneath. Nichols moved towards it and took the edge in both hands. With his feet on the solid deck, he was able to wrench the entire cover free, although he was careful to keep the noise of tearing wood down to a minimum. Below him, Paterson was still perched on the barrel, with the other men in the hold crowding beneath. The seamen, most of the officers and a good proportion of the passengers looked ready to act.

  “Lower deck's empty at the moment, but that can’t last if you make a lot of noise.” Nichols spoke in a clear, soft voice that carried easily and there were nods of agreement from most as he continued, “We'll take the officers first, then the seamen. Gentlemen, your assistance would also be welcome.”

  The message clearly found a home with some of the passengers, and Paterson received a nod from Langlois. He glanced back up at Nichols, who was standing next to the open hatch, looking along the deck. “Come on then,” he said, and reached for the coaming.

  “Touch of the dropsies?” Paterson asked, as he clambered on to the deck and noticed the crumpled body of the Frenchman. “Didn't have you down for a pugilist, George.”

  “In truth, neither did I,” Nichols replied. “'Tis lucky he went down as he did: there was little else I had to offer.”

  Paterson looked about; the lower deck of the privateer was far narrower than that of Pevensey Castle. Men's hammocks remained hung from the deck beams, grouped in what must be their individual messes; clearly, the French did not choose to sling them nightly. There was also the usual assortment of storerooms and workshops that might be found on any deep-sea ship. Doubtless the women were incarcerated in one, but they would have to remain so for the time being. Should they be released, it could only mean greater danger for all. There was no sign of any other French, he supposed the activity above demanded all hands. Then the ship began to turn.

  A stream of orders came down to them, followed by the creak of spars as the braces dragged the yards round, and the ship heeled on to her new course.

  “All appear to be up on deck,” Paterson commented.

  “Must be truly short handed,” the fourth mate agreed, while Willis climbed up through the hatch. Most of the officers were out of the hold now, and the first of the seamen were beginning to follow.

  “What of the captain?” Paterson asked, suddenly noticing that he was missing.

  “Mr Rogers prefers to remain in the hold,” Langlois said flatly. “Though I chance we are the better without him.”

  “The captain is ill,” Willis's tone was stiff and defensive.

  “Then what I say holds true,” Langlois replied, his voice oddly curt.

  The officers were silent, although noises from above continued, and the ship began to heel further to larboard.

  “Starboard tack and wind on the quarter,” Paterson said, quietly. “I'd say they've turned about.”

  “Chance is another vessel's been sighted.” Langlois was looking intently at the deckhead as if he wanted to see through the planks. “Belike a warship?”

  “They could hardly attempt taking another merchant,” Paterson agreed. “Not with their numbers stretched so.”

  “Odds are high that it be British.” There were several seamen on deck now and the first of the male passengers also joined them, although it was going to take a fair while to clear the hold completely. Some were brandishing their rough wooden staves as if they were terrible weapons.

  “Gentlemen, I think we can find better arms.” Paterson indicated the nearby bulk of the mainmast, which had a ring of boarding pikes secured about it. Cutlasses were also to hand in two brass racks to either side, and soon the small group was a proper fighting force.

  “If they've sighted a British ship, we might be better to wait awhile.” Willis sounded anxious, although no one seemed to be taking a great deal of notice of him.

  “My guess is there's trouble in Pevensey Castle, and they're heading back for her,” Nichols said, gripping his cold iron sword in his swollen right hand, conscious of a strange but not unpleasant surge of energy flowing throughout him. “There is nothing to gain by staying here. Clear the hold of all who are willing and let us act, else the advantage of surprise will be lost.” The ship groaned as she took up speed, and when he moved off for the stern hatchway he knew instinctively that the other men were following him.

  * * *

  The privateer was closing on them fast as King regained the quarterdeck. He glanced briefly at Crowley who appeared to take no notice of his soggy clothes, bruised face and lack of jacket, before turning his attention to the oncoming enemy. She was less than two cables off their bow and bearing down, her topsails, stays and jib picked out by the ghostly moon.

  “They're intendin' to come alongside,” Crowley muttered, his eyes fixed on the enemy ship. “I wagered to starboard, but now ain't so certain.”

  King nodded. “Aye, it will be larboard for sure; best set the men.”

  Crowley stepped forward to the fife rails and directed the crew to the larboard side bulwarks.

  “Stay covered 'till we meet her, and then wait 'for them to come across.” King addressed them in a clear but soft voice. “Take them on our deck, only attempt to board yourself if there be enough, and you are truly confident of support.”

  There were several former Navy men who knew the dangers of an enemy deck, and King trusted that the Lascars, together with any dyed-in-the-wool merchant seamen, could control themselves sufficiently. The privateer drew closer, and was almost hidden as she crossed their bow. They had been right; she would scrape their larboard wales. A light showed briefly from her foretopmast, to be repeated after a short interval.

  “They've done that afore,” Crowley spoke from behind. “I was thinking it a signal but knew not what to reply.”

  King nodded, then inspiration struck. “Tell them we're sinking,” he said.

  Crowley looked at him sidelong for less than a second before drawing breath and bellowing forth.

  “Nous coulons!”

  The words echoed about the quiet night as if shouted in an empty cathedral. A momentary pause, then a guttural French voice replied.

  “They're asking us to make the signal,” Crowley replied.

  “Say there is no time, to come alongside and help; tell them the pumps are out of action and we are taking in water fast.”

  Crowley's reply rang out, and now the French ship could be seen clearly as she crept towards their larboard bow.

  “Keep covered, lads,” King growled, when one of the British seamen on the forecastle raised his head above the bulwark. The same French voice replied, and this time it carried a slight note of panic.

  “They say if we don't make the signal they will fire on us,” Crowley said calmly.

  “So be it,” King all but whispered. “They are close enough, and we have put them off long enough.” He turned and looked at his friend, both faces dimly lit in the moonlight. “What say we go and meet with some Frenchmen?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ward and Johnston were keeping down low behind the dubious protection of the forecastle bulwark. The thing was made of sound enough timber and in places measured several inches thick, although it still would not be strong enough to keep out round shot at close range. On a warship it would have been higher, thicker and topped with netting that held any number of canvas hammocks, each tightly rolled and crammed in place to make an excellent defence. But they just had plain wooden planking secured to frame timbers; the bulwark itself was only truly intended to repel high seas and stood barely more than a foot above the deck.

  Ward lay next to Johnston, who had Khan's shirt tied about his wounded upper arm, with Clegg, the Lancastrian, further forward and currently peering up over the cathead.

  “Less than a cable off,” the latter reported, ducking down and regaining what shelter he could. “I'd say t
hey'll be alongside in less than a minute.”

  Ward fingered his cutlass thoughtfully. The blade was heavy and almost dull, although its worth came not from a razor-like edge. It was built to deliver hard, hacking strokes that severed and slashed and could be as deadly as any scimitar. The weapon was worthy of the job ahead; a true professionals tool, but at that moment Ward felt that it was being held by an out-and-out amateur.

  His Navy days were more than ten years behind him and had been free from any genuine action. The previous brush with privateers in the Channel had been inconclusive, and even when Pevensey Castle was taken, he had not felt himself in any great danger. Now though, with King in command and the stakes raised so high, he knew this was not going to end without a proper resolution, or in the anticlimax of a speedy surrender. He looked at Johnston who crouched, knees drawn up under him, his back barely sheltered by the bulwark. The man seemed taut and ready to pounce as soon as the chance presented itself. Feeling Ward's eyes on him, he glanced sideways and treated the boatswain's mate to a slow, sly wink.

  “Ready, lads!”

  Ward jumped at the unexpected voice. Mr King had come forward and must be just behind them. Yes, there he was, peering over the bulwark at the oncoming enemy. He stood half way up the forecastle ladder, dressed in what looked like sodden clothing that clung to his body. Heaven alone knew how he had got himself quite so wet; it was certainly none of Ward's concern. The time stretched on inexorably, with every man at his post—rigid with anticipation or, in certain cases, something else.

  And Ward was one. In the past he might have wondered how he would behave in action, but it was only now, now that the prospect of a bloody fight was so dangerously close, that he knew for certain. He swallowed dryly and suppressed the urge to urinate. In a couple of seconds he was going to disgrace himself, and yet there was nowhere to go and nothing else he could do, so exposed was his position. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and knew his breathing to be brisk and shallow. It could not last much longer, surely?

  Then the slightest of shadows passed overhead. There was a loud crack that was replaced instantly by a horrible grinding noise, and Pevensey Castle shuddered and heeled. A whistle sounded, and Ward found all mundane thoughts swept away as he rose up to meet the oncoming rush of Frenchmen.

  There were fewer than ten perched on the enemy's forecastle, although one fell to Clegg's pistol before he could even attempt to clamber up the Indiaman's sides. Then Johnston raised a boarding pike and stabbed down on another whose hands were reaching up to grab the top rail, and the shot of a blunderbuss, aimed by someone on the gangboard, accounted for two more. Ward glanced down and along the privateer's decks. The ships drew apart momentarily, and the Frenchman crept slowly by. Aboard her another group of twenty or so were waiting for them to close again by her mainmast. King was also looking and turned to Ward's group on the forecastle.

  “Knock out all you can on our decks when they come across. Remember the enemy will be that much harder to fight on their own territory. So don't follow any back, or go on your own. Wait until you get the word.”

  Ward nodded to himself. He saw the sense in that, and was certain not to get carried away—the very idea of carrying on the fight unnecessarily was quite abhorrent to him. A crash and another shudder, then the yardarms locked and both ships became entwined. This time there were more men reaching for Pevensey Castle's forechains. Johnston, backed by several others, was soon at work with his pike. The sound of a blunderbuss, wielded amidships, rang out above the din, and a tongue of flame from a French swivel gun lit the scene momentarily, although the weapon was aimed far too high and did no discernible damage. Clegg now held a cutlass and was slashing away madly at two men mounting the chains, while shouting the foulest of oaths at the top of his voice. Something caught Ward's attention; to his right a Frenchman had actually made it as far as clambering over the top rail. Instinctively he swung his own cutlass, catching the man on his shoulder while he struggled to stand. The privateer screamed and dropped his sword as his right hand went to the wound. Fired by success, Ward advanced and struck again, this time sending the man backwards over the rail, to fall on any others that might be following.

  Now his blood was up, and there was neither the time, nor the need, to worry how he might fare as a fighter. He glared about, eager for another enemy, and immediately spotted one attempting to mount their larboard anchor. The man had a small axe slung about his neck while he used both hands to climb, and was an easy target. Ward wielded his cutlass again, and the Frenchman disappeared with barely a scream.

  He looked to his left. Johnston was entwined with an evil-looking brute who was wrestling him for his pike. It was a simple matter to take the man from behind, swipe the hilt of the cutlass down on his neck and finish him off with the blade as he fell. Johnston looked his thanks, but there was no time for more. King, with Crowley by his side, was fighting with two Frenchmen who were apparently on the verge of being beaten back, while Clegg moved further forward, hacking at men as they attempted to board over the bowsprit. Johnston's pike was in use once again, but there seemed no immediate enemy for Ward. He glanced round, his mouth open and eyes wide. A moustachioed face appeared for a moment over the larboard anchor, but vanished just as quickly when its owner apparently lost his footing. Ward stepped forward and peered over the side and saw seven or eight Frenchmen grouped on the privateer's deck below. Some had been pressed back by Pevensey Castle's crew and were clearly wounded, others seemed unwilling to even try. He braced himself and grasped his cutlass even more tightly. His head was filled with fighting madness. They had won; the French were beaten off. Now was the time to press forward the advantage.

  Stepping up and over the anchor, he paused for a second. Pevensey Castle's tumblehome, the rounded profile caused by a wide lower deck and narrower upper, meant there was a good three feet between her and the Frenchman, although the latter vessel sat much lower. He braced himself for less than a second before leaping forward, just as someone unknown shouted his name. The distance from his ship to the privateer was easily covered, and he landed with a sizeable thump, absorbing the shock with bended knees. His feet smarted from the hardness of the enemy deck, but Ward was more than ready and sprang up, cutlass raised and a cruel look on his face, to meet the Frenchmen. They stared at him, transfixed, for no more than a second, and he had time enough to fully appreciate their number and the folly of his action, before they killed him.

  * * *

  King, watching from Pevensey Castle's side, swore under his breath. The man was a fool, of course, but that didn't make the fact of his death any the easier to take. His damp clothes were finally becoming a nuisance, and he shivered suddenly in the chill of the night. He might have just seen off two boarders and the forecastle was now free of Frenchmen, but to take the fight to the enemy was another question entirely—as Ward had already discovered. Pevensey Castle was considerably higher than the privateer, and any attack they launched must be that much harder to retreat from. They would be committed, and the chance of failure was high. But then they had been committed from the moment Crowley first felled the guard—from the time King opened that seacock, come to that—and to throw away the advantage already earned would be foolish in the extreme.

  “They're clear amidships,” Crowley shouted. King looked; sure enough the men at the larboard gangboard had also fought the French back, aided by those on the poop and quarterdeck. All were now without an enemy to fight. Seven seamen stood primed on the forecastle, with only one slightly wounded, and there were at least eleven further back who appeared just as ready to join them.

  “Then now's the time, Michael,” King said, raising his sword high and looking back for the others to notice. They greeted his action with a roar and were immediately clambering across the bulwark. King too mounted the wooden wall, before launching himself over and down on to Frenchman's deck. A man was directly in front of him as he landed and King dodged the slash of a cutlass whi
ch would have all but taken off his arm. He knocked into Crowley as he avoided the blow, but the Irishman was ready with his weapon and cut the man down. King recovered and raised his own sword, sending another privateer, who was making for them, spinning to the deck. More appeared. One, wild eyed and yelling, swung a wicked-looking axe in a manner that seemed every bit as dangerous to the French as the English. Crowley neatly despatched him with a blow from the hilt of his cutlass, and the axe fell harmlessly to the deck. Two steps deeper into the enemy's territory and a pistol ball screamed by King's head. He turned, looking for the source, but saw a man heading for him with a pike instead. A quick side step, and another cutlass landed on the Frenchman's shoulder as he passed. Crowley drew back his sword without a word, and they advanced further.

  “We must take the quarterdeck.” King shouted once he realised that the forecastle and main were theirs. The Irishman nodded. There were roughly twenty more Frenchmen towards the stern, some having retreated from the main, along with one well-dressed officer who looked like the captain. King had twelve fully fit men on the privateer's decks and it was hardly enough; especially when more enemy were liable to be waiting below. For a moment he considered withdrawing, but the Indiaman's sides were high, and the French were bound to take advantage of the first sign of retreat.

  “Back with you lads, we're taking the officers!” Crowley clearly had no such thoughts and, raising his cutlass high, led the boarders in a rush. The Frenchmen on the quarterdeck were ready, some armed with pistols, while others held pikes and swords. King, running forward with Crowley, was preparing himself for a bloody fight when the first of the British prisoners appeared from the stern hatchway ahead of them.