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

by Alaric Bond

  Their noon sights placed them at roughly forty-three degrees north. Longitude was less easy to calculate as all the available chronometers differed, but it was generally reckoned that there was upwards of a hundred and fifty nautical miles to cover before raising the coast, and a further two hundred to sight the Tagus. It was a journey they could easily complete within the week, although with the rate Pevensey Castle was making, it might be twice that long, and even minor meteorological problems could stretch the time still further. Standing on his tiny quarterdeck, King was already becoming familiar with the motion of his ship through the soles of his boots. She was a lively thing to be sure; he felt he could have taken her to Gibraltar and back in no time at all, were he permitted.

  To leeward the Pevensey Castle was battering through the swell with all the grace of a clumsy bear. She was riding higher now and must soon be dry, even though a trickle of water from the midship scuppers showed that her pumps were still in action.

  Langlois’s words, and being aboard the privateer, even for so short a time, were awakening strange feelings in him. There was nothing exactly unseaworthy or crank about the Indiaman. Indeed, she was solidly built and would probably survive three, or even four, more passages to India. He doubted if his present craft could see two without a major refit. But the privateer remained a proper ship, whereas Pevensey Castle was simply a barge—one built to bring riches from the East and wealth to her owners. There was no soul in her; she was just a means to an end.

  Though larger, his previous ship, Pandora, a light and lithe frigate, was surprisingly like the little privateer. A versatile craft, not built for a single destination, and one designed with her sailing abilities very much in mind. The same could be said about most Navy vessels. Even the mighty warhorses, the seventy-fours and above that sat low and were so laden with guns as to be floating fortresses, even they could show a couple of knots to the old Pevensey. Watching her now as she dragged herself through the rolling seas, he finally decided that the merchant service was not for him.

  He walked back and forth across the tiny deck while his thoughts ran on. Langlois had been right; the two services were very different. Plodding along in a hull weighed down by so much dead weight might suit some, but he yearned for the freedom of a warship, even one confined to a dreary blockade duty. And he missed the company of Navy officers. Paterson, Nichols and the rest had done well enough when retaking the Espérance, but with a handful of true fighting men beside him, he was certain the Indiaman would not have been captured in the first place. Thinking about it again he was still amazed at the apathy the others had displayed. In his mind there could be no excuse for allowing such a valuable ship to fall into enemy hands without some form of resistance, yet giving in without a fight seemed to have been universally accepted.

  And in a warship there were no passengers, no audience present, to discuss the smallest of orders. It was strange how even a few weeks at sea produced nautical experts from the most unlikely material. He was equally sick of snugging the ship down at night, shortening sail early to ensure that none of these newborn sons of the sea were awakened by something as mundane as taking a reef in the topsails.

  He would see this trip out, even though calling at Gibraltar was going to be difficult in the extreme. The Mediterranean fleet were regular visitors; he may well see ships known in earlier times, and meet with former colleagues in the Navy. Then, when he finally quit the merchant service, he could apply again for a proper posting. The time wasted in Pevensey Castle might see some important changes in the war; there could be a berth for him then. He knew the chances were slight, but at that moment even to be on half pay in a Navy uniform seemed a better option than service at sea with the Honourable East India Company.

  * * *

  “That sounds perfectly dreadful,” Kate said as she handed Elizabeth a cup of hot tea in the steerage mess. “Though in my experience the Navy does not shrink from important tasks, if at least some degree of success is perceived.”

  “I know, yet they refuse to act, and it would seem such a relatively simple procedure.”

  “I fear that any attempt to open a belly could never be considered simple,” Kate said, as tactfully as she could.

  “Maybe not, but if it be the only chance, surely it is worth the taking?” Elizabeth sipped the hot drink and winced slightly. Kate had sweetened it almost to a syrup, even though she knew Elizabeth did not take sugar. “Mr Keats just has to remove the ball, and repair any damage it might have caused.”

  Kate nodded sympathetically; she could remember all too well how she felt when her own father was in a similar situation. “I am sure if it could be done it would,” she replied. But her words sounded trite, and she could tell that nothing, short of having Keats ordered to operate, could be acceptable to the girl.

  “Forgive me, but what exactly is the problem?” Langlois was dining alone at the small table that he had adopted in the corner of the room. Kate acknowledged him for the first time, also noticing how he was taking a glass of white wine with his meal; it seemed a sophisticated accompaniment to a very basic lobscouse.

  “George Nichols is in need of an operation,” she said briefly. “Mr Keats fears him not strong enough for the pain.”

  “Cannot laudanum or rum be used?” the mate began to chew meditatively.

  “It is a belly wound: the surgeon will not countenance drugs.”

  “Has he none that need not be ingested?” he asked, himself swallowing a mouthful and taking a small sip of wine.

  “I presume not, though you should properly speak with the surgeon.”

  “It is rare even for an experienced man to contemplate such a procedure,” he mused, replacing the glass on the table. “Though I grant that medical matters may have moved on a pace of late.”

  “If there is something of which you know, I am sure Mr Keats should welcome the telling.” As she spoke Langlois became uncomfortably aware that he was holding both women's rapt attention.

  “It is probably nothing,” he said, then apparently changed his mind. “Let me be straight, it is the pain that remains the problem?”

  “Indeed.” Kate agreed readily.

  Langlois stopped eating now and for a minute sat holding his knife and fork in the air, before placing them both down on the table. “Forgive me ladies, I would not have your hopes raised, but do wonder if there might be something that could be tried.”

  Both women were looking at him now, and hope was very evident in their eyes.

  “Pray, do not take what I say to heart until I have cleared it with the surgeon.” He smiled awkwardly as he stood and went to leave the room. “I might be considering something that is quite impossible; but still, I think it worthy of pursuit. You will excuse me, I am sure?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The air in the sickbay was already thick with its smell, and yet only a small fraction of the green lump was actually burning.

  “It is important that you breathe in the smoke,” Langlois told Nichols, before turning to where Keats and Manning were waiting by the patient's feet. “And equally so, gentlemen, that you do not.”

  “Have no fear of that, Mr Langlois,” Keats said seriously. “I have every intention of keeping my breath clear, and trust that you will also.”

  Langlois nodded. He was well aware of the responsibility he had undertaken, and secretly felt less than certain he could maintain the patient in a suitably semi-conscious state. But this was not the time for doubt, without surgery Nichols was going to die, and the man had been ready enough to take the chance when offered. He lowered a small brass funnel over the glowing drug and held the dish in front of the fourth mate, who now lay, prone and naked, on the operating table. Nichols’s nose twitched slightly, and he seemed to cough. Then his eyes grew darker, and his head fell to one side. Langlois looked back towards the surgeons.

  “I think you may begin.”

  It took less than twenty minutes, and despite the fifth mate's administrations, hardly ap
peared pain free, although Nichols remained relatively still throughout. Langlois gave his entire attention to the patient, altering the position of the brass dish as minute facial reactions revealed his state of consciousness. He purposefully did not look when Keats wielded the probe and finally caught the small ball in the bullet retriever. It dropped with an important clatter into a pewter dish. The shot was lodged in the man's lower abdomen, and the surgeon had been able to press it against the pelvis to allow the tool to do its work. There was also a small amount of fibre, presumably from Nichols's clothing, which Keats removed. Damage to the gut was mercifully light. Not more than eight horsehair stitches being needed to close the fascia and abdominal muscle, with another twelve of light gut to the skin, administered by Manning who was becoming quite adept with a needle. Keats wiped the ragged scar dry and applied a small lint dressing that he held in place as Manning bandaged. Then Nichols drew his first clear breath as Langlois removed the funnel and extinguished the glowing fire.

  “A success, Mr Keats?” he asked, closing the lid and slipping the warm dish into his jacket pocket.

  The surgeon shook his head. “Far too early to speak of such things, Mr Langlois. I have only performed one similar procedure in the past and that, I regret, was not a success. Still it is done.” His expression lightened for the first time. “And it might not be, but for your help. I thank you.”

  Nichols’s eyes were closed, and it was obvious that he would sleep for some hours although, of all present, only Langlois could guess at the dreams that might accompany him.

  “We will discover more in a day or two,” the surgeon continued. “But I fear it will be far longer before we know if sphacelus infection has been avoided.”

  “I will inform the ladies,” Manning said. By common consent it was agreed that neither woman should be present, even though it had become routine for Kate to assist during surgery. She was carrying out an equally valuable role in comforting Elizabeth, and Manning was eager to tell them both of the progress.

  “I must caution you again, you know little of what you do,” Keats said, when Manning had left the room. The surgeon regarded Langlois seriously as he wiped his hands on some cotton waste. “Opium is a powerful drug. I concede that without its attributes, and your knowledge, Mr Nichols must surely have perished. But no good will come of such indulgence for pure pleasure; anyone foolish enough to think otherwise can only expect damaged countenance, poor constitution and an early death.”

  “It is something I have heard before, doctor.”

  “Then I am telling you again,” Keats continued. “It is a dangerous game that you play; one that will likely do you the ultimate harm.”

  “Death is something that worries me little,” Langlois replied, equally sincere. He tapped his pocket, which was growing agreeably warm, and met the surgeon's gaze with equanimity. “Life offers few pleasures, and I am sadly denied one of the greatest; so you will pardon me if I take others where I may.”

  * * *

  “I wish to talk with your master,” Drayton told Luck, Rogers’s servant.

  “I believe he is resting sir,” the man replied, with only the slightest hesitation.

  “Perhaps you will ask?” It was in Drayton's mind to barge past and force his way into the room, but this interview was intended to settle matters, and that might not have been the ideal start.

  Luck returned almost immediately, and Drayton noticed the look of relief on his face. “Very good, sir. Please to enter.”

  The roundhouse cabin appeared very much as before, except for a small print of King George which was missing from the larboard bulkhead. Rogers was sitting at his desk, although he did not seem settled in any way; it was almost as if he had just placed himself there.

  “Sir, we need to speak.”

  Rogers regarded the man with moderate interest. “There seems little to say, but if you wish it so, then pray be seated.”

  Drayton sat opposite, his body angled slightly in a manner that was intended to be non-confrontational.“Matters regarding this ship have yet to be consolidated,” he said. “There are still a number of points we must consider, and I hope to have these settled before we sight land.”

  Rogers affected a look of unconcern. “I am no longer captain, sir, so am at a loss how they might affect me.”

  Drayton nodded. “Very well. I asked to speak with you in private, but if you wish it, then I must communicate with the court of directors.”

  There was no perceivable reaction from Rogers. Drayton continued. “A situation such as this does no one credit. I am certain the Company's wish will be to keep details as private as possible, and assume that you are of a similar mind.”

  “Difficult to deprive a captain of his command and say naught about it,” Rogers mused, while examining his fingernails. “I'd chance that plenty of folk will be interested in the whys and wherefores.” The sudden smile was one of defiance, and Drayton felt his body tense slightly. But he was prepared for some degree of obstinacy, and careful to show no change in his expression.

  “That is your prerogative, sir, if you so wish. Sure the newspapers will be only too pleased to make a cheap story; but you will not be seen well, that I can promise you.” Of course Drayton cared little how Rogers might be perceived; in the scale of things he was a complete nonentity. But the good name of the East India Company, the Honourable East India Company—that was of far greater concern.

  The Company prospered, and men like him grew rich because of its reputation for sound business sense. A bad apple like Rogers could do incalculable harm to both the organisation and foreign trade in general. Public confidence would fall, and even those in government might take a slightly different view in future dealings. With Britain at war, a great deal of leniency was being extended to what was basically a private concern. Expansion in both India and China had been left very much to them and their armies. Closer inspection by civil servants could only cramp future developments and might even endanger the valuable monopoly that was the centre of the Company's wealth and its very raison d'être. And Drayton would be damned if Rogers endangered either.

  The two men considered each other as poker players might when the stakes were rising uncomfortably high.

  “I had considered my father to be husband of this ship,” Rogers said, taking an unexpected turn.

  “Indeed, we agreed that you should be so told.”

  “And why? Why was I deceived? Why must I find I cannot trust my own parent?”

  Drayton could tell that Rogers was about to embark on a personal tirade of injustice and self-righteousness and quickly replied.

  “Because he, in turn, felt that his son was not to be relied upon.”

  There was another silence while this was considered, and Drayton felt that Rogers’s face had blanched slightly. “This might be better said by him,” he continued, straightening himself in his chair until he faced the man directly. “But since you have chosen to put me in such a position, I shall tell you myself. Suffice it to say that your father has reached the end of his tether as far as you and your care are concerned.”

  There was no reaction, and Drayton continued.

  “Though not exactly the closest of friends, we have been business associates for many years, and I have been very aware of the efforts he has made on your behalf.” Rogers’s stare remained constant. It was as if he were slightly disturbed by what was being said, yet too intrigued in the outcome to interrupt. Drayton was strangely reminded of his own reaction when his granddaughter began to tell outlandish stories about her younger brother.

  “We will not list them now, but you have taken advantage of all his endeavours, yet repaid nothing. He confided in me that this ship, and the arrangements he made for your command, were to be the last.”

  “I had it that Pevensey Castle was purchased on my behalf.”

  “That was not the complete truth. Your father certainly invested in her, but there are other shareholders, apart from myself. I was unanimously vote
d her husband, and it was a condition of my associates’s involvement that I should accompany you on your first trip. It happened that I was due a visit to several factories, and…”

  “So you are telling me that he lied?” Rogers interrupted. His face was alight with indignation, and he brushed Drayton's comments aside like an annoying fly.

  “If you wish to take it that way,” Drayton replied simply. “Although I might guess that it is probably the only lie you have ever heard from him. Though not, I fear, the other way about.”

  Drayton had long ago decided that Rogers was not the fastest of thinkers, but upwards of a minute went by before any reaction could be detected, apart from a blank stare that seemed to focus somewhere in the middle distance. Then the face cleared slightly, and a more genial look appeared.

  “The ship is not taken,” Rogers said, as if registering the fact for the first time. “She is whole and intact, apart from a little dampness in the hold—the fault, I might add, of someone other than myself. We should make Gibraltar safely and ought to be restocked, re-victualled and ready to meet with the next southbound convoy within the month.”

  A smile was forming, which Drayton purposefully did not meet as Rogers continued. “And we have acquired a valuable prize into the bargain!” The look now developed further, and his stare was fixed hard on Drayton in an endeavour to make it infectious. “In no time we could be turning turtles off Ascension.” His expression reached its zenith and Rogers was positively beaming. “Frankly, sir, I fail to comprehend the enormity of my crime.”