by Alaric Bond
Khan nodded. “I am very well aware, thank you, sir. Mr Johnston has explained everything, but much I knew already.”
“You would do better to stay with the Indiamen,” King persisted. “And I am willing to take you back, if you so wish.”
“I am certain that you are right, sir, and your offer is much appreciated. But I have served with them for nine years, and now wish to try for the British Navy.”
“That wasn't what we said,” Johnston interrupted, looking sideways at his friend. “Head back home, then a spell inland. I was to take you to the farm I told you about.”
Khan nodded graciously. “It is generous of you indeed, and I should like to see an English farm, but I am not a worker of the land. I understand the sea and ships, and know that it is the place for me. I also have learned that it is better to serve good men than bad.” He paused and looked directly at King. “And I wish to follow this officer.”
King was mildly embarrassed, although not unaffected by Khan's speech. The man was certainly talking from the heart, and it was quite a compliment. He looked to Manning, who shrugged in reply. There was little either of them could do. King might take them on and allow passage to England. In a hired vessel running an understandably relaxed regime, they would probably go undetected; and if both chose to leave when they entered home waters, he could even deny all knowledge of their existence. They were excellent swimmers, and Johnston was something of an expert at running away, having left at least three ships undetected to King's certain knowledge. But if King was to rejoin the Navy, it seemed clear that Khan intended to follow, and go wherever he went. He knew in his bones that Johnston was not one to be left behind, and it would be just a question of time before the man was recognised and found out. He must, inevitably be caught and was just as likely to meet the noose. If King accepted them on board, it was tantamount to handing Johnston over himself, and after all that they had been through he wondered if he could carry out such an action.
“You may have issues with the East India Company,” King prevaricated. “Johnston, you will have drawn two months pay on signing on; some of that time is still owed.”
Both men nodded, even though neither seemed exactly concerned.
“But this is a hired vessel, Tom,” Manning interrupted. “It might be argued that Johnston is still officially in their employ. When we finally make England, the time will have been all but used, so, as I see it, he will be a free agent once more, and can do pretty much what he pleases.”
King looked at him uncertainly.
“Were you in any doubt,” Manning continued. “You could always refer the matter to Mr Crowley.”
“Crowley?”
Yes, he has come across from the Company's employ with little trouble, and I am sure will be in full agreement.”
“Very well,” King said, blushing slightly and looking swiftly away. “That will do for now; you may return to the other men.”
The two seamen knuckled their foreheads respectfully enough and left the cabin.
“Thank you for that,” King said, once they were gone. “My first command, and you have me sheltering runners.”
Manning's expression was totally bland. “Not so; you heard me say, they are all still Company men. There is nothing with which you must concern yourself.”
“Remind me of that when we see Johnston, or whatever he'll be calling himself by then, making one last passage up to a foremast yardarm.”
“Look here, Tom, they are fully grown, and can make their own decisions. I've told you the crew we have; all experienced, but hardly in the first prime of fitness. Two more regular hands are a Godsend, and all seem ready to do what is needed to get this ship back to England. You really should not decline such providence.”
Of course, Manning was right, although King still could not ignore a measure of responsibility. “Very well,” he said finally. “We shall do what we can to make the best of them. Mr Barrow, you can assist Mr Manning in drawing up a watch list.”
Manning looked surprised. “Hold fast there, I know nothing of such things.”
“We must all be ready to do what is needed, Robert,” King told him brightly. “All I want from you is a medical assessment. Mr Barrow will take care of the rest. Divide the healthy men equally between the watches; you might consult with Mr Crowley as well. I have as much confidence in his instinct for human nature as his seamanship.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The midshipman touched his hat.
“And see if any are gun crew amongst them,” King added as they were about to go. “I'd like at least half our pieces to be manned, should we have need.”
“Do you think that likely, sir?” Barrow's eyes held more than a spark of interest.
King snorted. “Mr Barrow, from my experiences in this ship so far, I would exclude nothing.”
* * *
His Majesty's hired ship Espérance was cutting along at an exhilarating pace with an easterly on her beam, and King had seldom been happier. Freed from the dead weight of Pevensey Castle and with the prospect of reclaiming his commission, the future suddenly looked far more positive. This change of heart was heightened by his little ship's performance; she was proving true to every promise. They had covered nearly four hundred miles since their departure. At that rate England should be raised in less than a week, and he could hand over the all important despatches with added pride from a fast passage.
The wind had remained strong throughout. A storm was clearly raging just over the horizon, but apart from giving them a good and steady speed, they were mercifully unaffected. Johnston, now rated as the second boatswain's mate, had taken it upon himself to exercise the men aloft, devising further evolutions on a daily basis for what he referred to as his 'poxed topmen'. But, social illnesses aside, the men were generally well versed in their craft and took Johnston's commands readily enough. By the third day everyone was working smoothly, and as a team; so much so that King wondered if it was actually responsibility that had been lacking in the man's life. Maybe an earlier promotion would have cured him of his pathological need to desert? There were certainly no signs of restlessness or discontent; in fact, he was exhibiting all the qualities of a fine warrant officer.
Barrow, the midshipman, had also revealed hidden talents, being quickly identified as a gunner at heart and given charge of the ship's main armament. Enough men were raised to man four of the long six pounders, which could now be served in quite a credible manner without the use of topmen, although the final act of heaving the heavy guns up the sloping deck was often a trifle slow, and apparently painful.
King was also harbouring plans to organise a small arms drill: three of the sick and injured were marines, one a sergeant. They seemed more than eager to pass on their skills, even though, at the speed she was travelling, it was likely that Espérance would be rounding Ushant and on the last leg before they got the chance.
Below, in a locked drawer, were the despatches entrusted to him. Though clearly of little actual importance to Jervis, their early delivery should gain him extra kudos when applying for a position again. He would start by petitioning the admiralty in person before writing to anyone who might hold sway, and calling on former captains and senior officers. All the avenues his juvenile reticence and lack of confidence had previously closed to him would be forced open and followed to exhaustion, until he found himself back on the deck of a warship. The spell in Pevensey Castle might not have been happy, but he had grown considerably because of it and now felt ready to take on the adult world with a more mature attitude.
The sound of a whistle cut through the air, and the men began to secure the guns once more.
“Very good, Mr Barrow,” King said. “You have made a sound start. If we draw on topmen we might even be able to offer something approaching a full broadside.”
The lad touched his hat, and King noticed that his forehead was running with sweat.
“Thank you, sir. It would be good to have a live practice at some time.”
/> “Sadly we are low on supplies, but these men are experienced enough, despite their injuries. I think we can rely on them to make a credible show.”
It was unfortunate that much of the French store of powder was in cartridges that had been allowed to grow damp. Some of these were now opened and their contents laid out to dry, but so far the sun was having little effect, and King was hesitant about supplementing it with heat from the galley stove. There was roughly seventy pounds of dry powder left in one keg, which he intended to have sewn into fresh cartridges, but that would only provide a total of thirty-five rounds for his main armament. It was possibly enough for the briefest of skirmishes, but none could be wasted on practice.
“Pipe up spirits, then send the seven bell men to dinner. The others may follow at the end of the watch.”
Barrow touched his hat again and hurried off. As soon as the rum was distributed, King decided he would go below and collect his quadrant. They were coming up to noon: time for the daily sighting. This was normally a hallowed ceremony in larger ships, although King, who was naturally taking all responsibility for navigation, allowed any who professed an interest to join him. Khan had been quick to take up the offer, and Johnston, encouraged by his friend’s interest, accompanied him. There was little of the navigator in the British seaman, however. His hands, made clumsy by years of hard labour, found the intricacies of delicate instruments hard to deal with and the mathematical calculations were quite beyond him. But Khan was of a different mettle, and showed innate ability. His mind followed the complex computation of figures and formulae so rapidly as to be almost intuitive. If Johnston was a potential boatswain, then Khan might have an equally rosy future as a sailing master. It was a satisfying thought and one that increased King's feeling of well-being still further. This was certainly turning into a golden cruise.
There was a murmur as Kate appeared on deck, accompanied by one of the blind hands supporting a small cask of spirit easily on one shoulder. She walked sedately towards the scuttlebutt with the man following, his left hand resting lightly on her shoulder. A wail of pipes followed, and the men were just beginning to form up for their noontime grog when a shout from the masthead cut through a dozen conversations.
“Sail ho, sail on the starboard bow!”
King's mind jumped back to reality. That was almost directly to windward, and the likelihood was it would prove to be a larger ship than his.
“What do you see there?” All happy thoughts dissolved as he called up to the lookout. A pause, and he had to resist the temptation to peer at the far horizon.
“Sizeable, sir. Masts are well spaced an' she's going some.”
“Colours?”
“No, sir, though the sails are white.”
King felt his heart begin to pound. “Heading?”
“To the sou'west, I'd say.”
Espérance would have to alter course. He had every confidence in both ship and crew and knew that there were few vessels he could not outrun, but they were no match for an actual opponent. The diversion must take them deeper into the Atlantic and, more importantly, would delay their arrival in England.
“Very good,” he muttered softly. “We'll take her to larboard,”
Khan, who was preparing to take the noon sight, responded instantly. “Braces there!” The men reluctantly turned away from the promise of grog, and went to attend to the sails while King consulted his chart. There were British ships a plenty in this part of the Atlantic, although the majority were likely to be following the coast, either to the north or the south. A ship heading southwest was probably a foreigner, possibly neutral, but more likely a privateer in search of convoys. Or she may even be a larger stray warship that had escaped from a blockaded harbour.
He must balance the likelihood that they could out-sail this mystery ship against the risk of falling into enemy hands. Manned as she was, Espérance could not face any but the feeblest of warships, but most, he knew, would be hard pressed to catch her in a chase. So, should he turn and run, abandoning the highly credible time made to date? Or only alter course to avoid the enemy and, placing total trust in his ship's exemplary sailing abilities, dash past her very bow, and on towards England.
In any event, there was little chance that the despatches would be taken. The package was weighted well enough for just such an eventuality and could be thrown over the side should the need arise. But the very fact that they were not delivered must count against him, and even influence his future employment. For a moment his mind hung in indecision, then sense took hold and he acted.
“Steer north by nor'west.” The solid helmsman had seen it all before and began to turn the wheel without comment or show of emotion. Aloft, the spars creaked. The braces were keeping the sails in the wind, and Espérance bucked slightly as the hull angle altered, and she began to cut into the heavy rollers.
For a moment King hesitated. He could still change his mind, still order her completely round. Heading on the same course as the sighting should see her sailed under the horizon in an hour or so. But by venturing deeper into the Atlantic, there was also more chance of heavy weather and further complications. His hands were pressed deep into his pockets, and he set his jaw determinedly as he told himself it was the right choice. The enemy might well close on them, but he felt they were fast enough to pass her by, before returning to their original heading. And the main point was they would still be making some degree of progress northwards.
He took a turn back and forth along the tiny quarterdeck, and the movement gave him strange reassurance. It was something he had seen other commanders do a hundred times, and he wondered for a moment how often the simple action disguised acute anxiety.
The thought stayed with him as he considered his options once more. All on board depended on his actions, but then it was the job of any commander to make such choices. He took another turn along the deck, and gradually the tension eased. Clearly, other members of the crew were aware of his quandary. Khan considered him with interest, while Barrow was anxiously looking at the horizon, beyond which the enemy was now bearing down on them. King's expression relaxed as he eased his hands from his pockets and placed them more elegantly behind his back. It was done, he had made his decision and was staying with it. There was certainly a risk, but a small one and definitely worth the taking. He would be careful to keep them out of range. Within a few hours they should have passed in front of the enemy and be able to set a more direct course for England once more. It should still be a remarkably good time, and he would make a reasonable impression as he delivered St Vincent's despatches. The mixture of concern and relief made him chuckle softly to himself, and Barrow and Khan smiled also. At that point no one knew it was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Chapter Eighteen
On hearing the masthead's report, Kate immediately abandoned any thought of distributing grog.
“Back to the pantry, if you please, Mr Webster.”
The man's sightless eyes filled with disappointment as he reached forward and felt for the cask. The temptation for her to rush below and find Robert was hard to resist, but she waited and guided the steward back to the hatchway, while about them men grumbled and muttered as they prepared to alter course.
“Can you manage the ladder?” she asked artlessly, and the man grunted in reply. He had been blind for less than two months, the result of a small powder explosion, although already he was able to find his way about well enough. She followed him through to the pantry, where he deposited the cask back on the counter.
“Thank you, Webster; we'll leave it here for now, though it will probably be called for soon enough.”
The man knuckled his forehead, and Kate followed him out of the small room, locking the door behind her.
In the tiny sickbay Elizabeth was passing a bowl of portable soup to Nichols, who was sitting up in the only fixed berth.
“There's a strange sail in sight to windward,” Kate said, as she ducked in through the d
oorway and looked around the room. “Might Robert be about?”
“He was here not a moment ago,” Elizabeth told her. “What kind of ship?”
“It sounds to be foreign,” Kate said vaguely as Espérance's heel lessened.
“And we are altering course,” Nichols spluttered, almost choking on the soup. “I must go on deck.” He brushed the bowl away and went to move.
Elizabeth's eyes widened. “But you haven't eaten,” she grumbled, returning the bowl.
“Neither have you, neither has anyone,” he all but snapped. “And it won't kill me if I miss the occasional meal.” He was pushing himself up from the bunk and clearly about to swing his legs off. “Really, both you ladies have been very kind, though I'm getting a bit tired of being treated like an invalid.”
Kate opened her mouth to answer, but Elizabeth was ahead of her.
“George, you must take things slowly,” she said reprovingly. “At least let me help.”
“You could get me my trousers,” he replied. His bare legs were now reaching down for the deck. “Else I'll have to go in just my shirt.”
“Here, wear this,” Kate passed him a greatcoat, then turned away while he stood to put it on.
“Whoa, she rolls!” Nichols had one arm through the coat when a sudden bout of dizziness caught him. He reached out and gripped Elizabeth's shoulder.
“Take it slowly,” she repeated. “You have been in bed a long time.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. There was a shout from above. It seemed that King was ordering more sail. “And will be even better when I am able to see what is going on. My boots? Where are my boots?”
* * *
Espérance was slicing through the dark waters, her stem cutting a fan of pure white spray that soaked all on deck, while her very timbers trembled as she powered through the rolling waves. The wind was now blowing on their starboard quarter. King had added jib and staysails, it was too strong for topgallants, and he told himself repeatedly that there was power and space aplenty to pass the enemy. He had just returned from a brief trip aloft, studying the sighting from the swaying maintop. Three-masted and carrying a good deal of sail, she was clearly a warship and equally obviously making to cut them off. The height of the fore and main topgallants marked her out as a Frenchman, as did her canvas, which was definitely of a foreign pattern, lacking the squareness of British sails. If he could maintain this speed, there seemed little likelihood of their getting within long range. All the same, several unsteady hours lay ahead before they could call themselves safe. King knew he would be in a state of constant tension for every second. The enemy should be visible from the deck shortly; it was an indication of the speed at which the two ships were closing, but then all would be so much clearer when his opponent was constantly in view.
