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

by Alaric Bond

  “Carries a fair pace, don't she?” Standing next to him Crowley's eyes were ablaze. Both men were unusually conscious of the movement, as the ship bucked and dived beneath their feet. King envied him, remembering times when he had enjoyed the pure excitement of speed and pursuit. But previously there had always been the reassuring presence of a competent commander. Now that he found himself thrust into just such a position, the stimulus became somewhat less than pleasurable.

  A movement forward caught their attention, and both men were surprised to see Nichols clambering painfully through the stern hatch.

  “Good to see you, George,” King said, making towards him and extending a hand. “Are you right to be on deck in such weather?”

  “If the women had their way, I should never see daylight again,” Nichols grumbled, while he let Crowley and King escort him to the lee of the starboard bulwark. “Haven't felt the breeze on my face in months, or so it seems, and with an enemy to windward I will end up touched if I stay below.”

  “Well, see that you do not tire yourself,” King said as his friend reached up to grab hold of a shroud.

  “I see her!” Barrow's shout alerted them all. The midshipman was on the forecastle, his body wrapped in a dark, soaked watchcoat. King turned to look over the rail and, sure enough, a small smudge could just be distinguished on the horizon.

  Nichols shaded his eyes with his free hand as they all considered the oncoming ship. Crowley ran his tongue over his cracked lips. “It'll be a close one, so it will,” the Irishman said.

  King nodded. The enemy had gained since he viewed her from the maintop. They would still pass a good two to three miles off her bow, but it was closer than he had planned. He glanced up at the sails and then at the weather vane. The wind was still holding strong and steady, although soft clouds to the east warned of change. He could order them a point or two to larboard and their lead might increase, but the moment they actually passed, and the time the enemy finally sank below the horizon, must also be delayed. And even an extra point to the west took them that much further away from their final objective. Enemy ship or not, King still was worried about making a good time to England.

  “We'll keep her as she is,” he said, answering a question that no one had asked. He turned from the sight, not wishing to discuss matters further, although the doubts inside him were starting to multiply, and he stalked rather rudely away in case he should change his mind.

  * * *

  Khan saw him go and knew the reason. He could already guess the young man's indecision and was equally aware that no one could share either the worry or the responsibility—certainly not a petty officer from another world and culture.

  But an empathy remained, nonetheless. The Lascar naturally acknowledged that he owed far more to King than a few minutes of instruction in celestial navigation would warrant, and regarded himself effectively in his debt. Arriving in England in good time was clearly vital to him, as was delivering the package, a thing that he seemed to treat with even more importance than most Britishers did their possessions. These were factors far beyond Khan's reckoning. He rarely encountered urgency, and ownership of anything beyond the most essential of items was completely against his personal ethos. But they were important to King, the man who had risked his own life to save his, and so assumed some form of reflected value to the Lascar. In the same way that one might play a game of chance with a friend, not for the game, but the company—so Khan was equally concerned that they made England quickly and that the canvas package was safely passed on.

  He was also an experienced seaman and knew very well that King was taking a chance in trying to pass the enemy ship so close to her bow. In his mind he felt there was space enough. Espérance should clear the enemy ship with room to spare—certainly well out of the range of her guns—but that was assuming none of the many possible mishaps occurred. They could easily split a sail, a spar might spring, the wind alter or even die completely. The sea was an element built on change. It was the main reason Khan had first been attracted to it and, ironically, its ephemeral temperament did much to help him maintain something far more placid in his own countenance. But now that there was reason for worry, even though it be a reason borrowed, he was experiencing an unusual feeling of disquiet.

  For probably the first time in his life Khan was acutely concerned about matters that he could not control. He felt a gnawing in his stomach that was quite foreign to him. It was probably a similar sensation to that when the English claimed hunger, although he knew that a simple meal would not ease the pain in any way.

  A cry came from the masthead. The man stationed there had identified the type of ship and clearly the news was not being received well by the other members of the crew. Khan looked about uncertainly; another trait that was becoming all too common with him since the start of this voyage. Johnston was on the forecastle, and both were officially off watch, so there might be some benefit in keeping together. He stole towards him, an uneasy expression on his face, and Johnston seemed to greet him with relief.

  “How come, Abdul?”

  The Lascar relaxed slightly at the sight of the weather-beaten face.

  “We have a race on, as I think you say.”

  Johnston grinned at him. “Aye, that's a fact. An' one we're gonna win.”

  Khan returned the look, and the two men stood companion-ably together while they watched the enemy ship gather detail as it bore down on them. It was certainly better than worrying alone.

  * * *

  By six bells in the afternoon watch, three o'clock, the enemy was in clear sight. King considered her through the deck glass. She was what he would term a light frigate, although the French doubtless used some other name for the type. She probably carried between twenty and thirty guns, either nine or twelve pounders, over sparred in the typically French manner, but with a sleek hull. And she could sail, there was no denying that. Her captain had her trimmed to perfection, and the ship sliced through the broad Atlantic rollers as if she were a toy yacht set free upon a millpond. As King watched his hesitation mounted. Yes, she was certainly fast, but not as fast as Espérance, he told himself.

  The wind was staying true, and they would not close for at least another hour, probably more. He watched the enemy craft powering through the water, aiming for a point some way ahead. It was a course which, if she raised the speed, should ultimately cut them off. He was still reasonably certain his little ship could pass out of range, but night was only a few hours off. They should start to lose the light in no time, and he wondered again if it might not be better to wear away now.

  “Colours!” The shout came from somewhere forward, and King looked again. Sure enough a large tricolour could now be seen on the Frenchman. By his own command, Espérance was flying no flag of any type. Even the coveted 'despatches' pennant had been struck some while ago.

  “An' a signal.” King was reasonably sure the voice belonged to Barrow, but was more interested in the Frenchman's activities. “Looks like a numeral, and two swallowtails that ain't in our book.”

  Being the ship to windward, the frigate was making the private signal first. Espérance would be expected to respond with the recognised reply. Failing to do so was as clear an indication of her identity as any, and must wipe any doubts that might be remaining from the French captain's mind.

  “Hoist a French ensign,” he said, without taking his eyes off the enemy ship. There was nothing wrong with the ruse at this stage; indeed, it was almost to be expected. He could then follow it up with the private signal he watched the luggers off the Downs exchange. Doubtless it was well out of date and probably irrelevant for this station, but it might encourage some indecision.

  King took a turn along the deck as was now becoming his habit. The signal was made, but no response came from the Frenchman. He looked at her for some time, then took his eye from the glass and peered up at the sails and the weather vane. Yes, he would take her a point or two to larboard, that would lengthen things slight
ly, and might even bring the time of passing closer to nightfall. His mouth opened to give the order, and he was actually drawing breath when another call from the masthead stopped him.

  “Sail ho, sail fine on the larboard bow!”

  Instinctively he turned to look, but the blank horizon stared back at him.

  “What do you make there?”

  A pause followed. The lookout was Fowler, a former topman who must have been standing masthead lookout for many years. Though now well over thirty, and with a rupture that made the long climb a painful business, he still retained excellent eyesight, and King was glad to have someone so experienced on hand. Clearly Fowler had called a warning when he was reasonably certain it was another vessel. To define exactly what type, or course, would take a little time.

  “Belike a brig, or maybe a snow,” he replied eventually. “Two masted, an' headin' north, I'd chance.”

  King glanced down at the chart while Fowler gave the bearing. The second vessel was almost exactly in line with his current course, and they were closing with her at a considerable speed. The heading made it likely that she was a merchant, although why sailing independently, and not part of a convoy, was a mystery.

  Nichols appeared again at the stern hatchway. He had gone below about an hour ago, and King was not expecting to see him again that day. Obviously the draw of an enemy actually in sight was too much for his curiosity. He pulled himself over the coaming and stood uncertainly on the weaving deck. Elizabeth followed close behind and King's impression was that, even if they were about to be set upon by an entire fleet, her attention would remain solely on her patient.

  “How is it with you?” King asked as they joined him in the lee of the bulwark.

  “Well enough, thank you,” he said. They both helped him to the side, although he was standing firmer now and seemed in no need of her support.

  “We seem to have acquired further company,” King said, while Elizabeth buttoned up the greatcoat that Nichols had clearly just thrown on. He pointed forward. “There’s a brig sighted, heading north.”

  “A trader, do you suppose?” Nichols asked.

  “So I should say,” King replied. “And, if British, they will not thank us for bringing a Frenchman down upon them.”

  “Deck there, I can see her tops'ls,” Fowler reported from the masthead. “An' I get a glimpse of her courses an' hull ever so often.”

  “What is she?” Nichols shouted, then instantly gripped his belly in pain. Elizabeth grabbed his arm, but he brushed her away as King repeated the question with more force.

  “A snow I'd say, an' a warship at that,” the masthead replied. “Showing a fair roach to the forecourse, and there be no way she were fully laden, not an' travellin' the speed she is.”

  “Does that mean another Frenchman?” Elizabeth asked.

  “There is no way of telling,” King shook his head. If so, their position had deteriorated considerably. He could not make that slight alteration now, in fact the only way to truly avoid capture was to turn to the southeast. It was away from England, and all thoughts of a quick passage must be forgotten. But if not, if some miracle had occurred and she turned out to be a Royal Navy warship, the odds had changed just as dramatically. Together they would be no match for even a light frigate, but if the other were properly handled, they might guarantee the escape of both.

  “Strange place to find a brig of war.” Nichols shifted uneasily, and reached out to the bulwark for support.

  “Aye, but she might make a deal of difference were she British.”

  “Do you think that likely?”

  “Starboard escort of a home-bound convoy,” King replied hopefully. “I'd not discount the situation. And we can’t be certain she is but a simple trader sailing independently.”

  Nichols shrugged. “Like as not, we shall tell in due course.”

  King felt a wave of apprehension stir within him. “You think different?”

  “I'd say she were another privateer,” he said simply. “And I doubt that she is alone. We must be just off the northwest tip of Spain, is that not so?”

  King nodded. “Finisterre bears not a hundred mile' to the east.” The doubts inside were beginning to grow.

  “It is an area ripe with jackals,” Nichols mused. “Deep enough into the Atlantic to grab the larger Indiamen, yet close to their home bases, so it need not be a long run for safety. They often hunt in pairs; I'd say there will be another, maybe two, in sight of her.”

  “But, if you are right, they will be oblivious to the frigate,” King said, clutching at a straw.

  “Indeed, both forces will know nothing of the other,” Nichols agreed. “Though their presence must affect your actions, I'll be bound.”

  He was right; the turn to larboard was out of the question now. Of course, he could wear round completely and head south with all sail, but such a move must only encourage a chase. Any well manned privateer would be a tough match for Espérance, with her crew of invalids and rejects, and that was discounting the powerful national ship that was also bearing down on them. The frigate could sink his little craft with a single broadside and hardly leave a mark upon her own paintwork.

  “Wait, larboard ship's turning,” Fowler was speaking again. “Yards are amove. She's starting to tack.”

  King looked again at the map. Presumably the brig was intending to bear round and head for their stern on the larboard tack; another ship, if there was another ship, could come down on their bow. Neither need know of the frigate's presence, they would be simply rounding up an adversary and guiding her closer to the shore, in the same way that a pair of dogs might gather in a wayward sheep. But it was only a question of time before the frigate's topmasts became visible to them. Then the situation must change considerably.

  “Take those damned flags down!” King had forgotten all about his ruse. If anyone in the brig noticed the bunting, they would guess that another ship lay hidden from their view. For a moment he even considered using Duncan's trick. He could send up a signal announcing an enemy in sight, in the hope of fooling both. But the French were not so simple and might even be able to read the British code book. He would have to send a bearing. Which would it be? And why had he delayed so long in announcing the presence of the frigate?

  “Shall I strike the Frog ensign as well, sir?” Barrow was hauling down the signal halyard himself as he asked.

  “No you may let that stay. It may serve to add confusion.” King cleared his throat and was about to take a turn or two along the deck, but with Nichols and Elizabeth standing with him he felt unable to break away. The afternoon watch was ending in no time. Dusk would start to fall not long after supper, but night remained some hours off. He looked across at the French frigate, still pounding off their starboard bow. The ship's masts were especially tall, how long would it be before they noticed the brig, and maybe her consort, that had them neatly trapped?

  “She's settled on the larboard tack,” the masthead reported. “Close hauled an' heading—wait, I see a signal!”

  King felt the pain inside his belly grow.

  “There're flags breakin' out, and she's hoisting French colours.”

  Nichols let out a long sigh. It might be a ruse. A merchant captain could be trying to see off what he took to be a privateer. Espérance was still flying the French ensign, after all.

  “Do you see anything else off our bow?” King bellowed.

  A pause, then Fowler's voice came back to them again, although this time there was the slightest hint of umbrage. “No, sir. Just the two sightings…as reported.”

  King and Nichols exchanged glances. The brig's signal and change of course might still be the gambit of a particularly game merchant captain, even if the evidence indicated otherwise. The two men considered the problem for a while, then Nichols broke the silence.

  “I'd say we was in a fix.”

  For the first time Elizabeth turned her attention away from her patient.

  “Maybe you're right,” King
said, meeting the looks of concern with an ironic grin. “But we have a few more cards to play yet.” He spoke the words automatically, as something a captain should say in such a situation, but the others took them well and almost seemed encouraged. Only he felt the ominous signs of approaching depression.

  * * *

  “Robert, I wonder if I might have a word.”

  Manning almost laughed out loud. The ship was travelling at speed, her deck constantly vibrating to the motions of the ocean, and there was a tension in the air that only came when frame and fabric were being pushed to the very limit. It was so typical of Kate to choose the wrong time for a chat.

  “Of course, my dear, shall we go to our quarters?” They were standing in the tiny dispensary and the low deckhead made such conditions extremely uncomfortable.

  “No,” she said, surprising him for the second time. “No, I think we should stay here, if you don’t mind.”

  “As you wish,” his look became a little less certain now, and he sensed what she wished to say might have greater import. “But at least let us be seated.”