by Alaric Bond
She nodded, strangely serious, and propped herself on the edge of Nichols’s empty bunk. Manning collected the small chair without a word and wedged it against the bulkhead where it made a steady enough support, even in the present conditions.
“Very well, my dear,” he said, regarding her cautiously. “What do you have to say?”
Her eyes lowered, and for a moment Kate did not speak. Then she muttered a hesitant, “I fear it is of a medical nature…”
* * *
King's world was rapidly collapsing about him. Espérance might be called his first true command, but even she was nothing more than a hired ship. He had been hoping for a fast passage, a chance to deliver her and the despatches safely, and then effectively reclaim his precious commission. Now it seemed he was to lose all three. At best they would be taken prisoner, with the canvas-covered bundle at the bottom of the Atlantic. At worst, men, and possibly women, would die. Some were his friends, and he would be responsible.
His black thoughts ran on all too readily, spreading further woe wherever they could. And the despatches might be seized—he had to delay throwing them over the side until the last possible moment, but what if something stopped him in that final act? Handing Jervis’s private documents over to the French was not the best resumption of his naval career, and could hardly improve his standing, should he be exchanged.
The stain of depression was now colouring his brain completely, and it would have taken very little to have him heave the ship to and surrender. The realisation forced him to turn away suddenly, and he took three or four good long strides, gasping in the cold fresh air that seemed to have been missing in his lungs for a good while. He had known times like this before, times when he allowed his natural pessimism to take control, conjuring up strange fantasies and dreadful conclusions as it did. In the past the problems might have been small, or at least they appeared so in comparison to those which currently faced him. Now lives depended on his judgement and the decisions he made could not be those of a child, one who allowed the devil to take charge of his mind. He looked back at Nichols and Elizabeth. Their eyes were following him in a subtle but considered way, as if watching a jack-in-the-box toy that might operate at any moment. No, it would not do, he told himself. Espérance had plenty of fight in her, and there was still much he could try.
He turned from his pacing, and approached the couple once more. “Yes, it is a fix indeed, George,” he said, this time with no forced jollity. “But what say we make the best of it?”
Nichols nodded. “Aye, we figured you had something of the like in mind.”
“Deck there!” Fowler's voice cut into their thoughts, and all eyes turned aloft. “Sail in sight, fine off the larboard bow.” He paused for a moment to consider, the added, “She's headin' close hauled and as tight to the wind as she'll lie.”
It was the ship that Nichols had predicted. King noticed that the man was now gripping the rail until his knuckles were quite white.
“What do you make of her?” he called.
“I'd say it were another snow, sir,” Fowler replied after a moment. “Just like the first, an' she's aiming to cut us off for'ard.”
Strangely King received the news quite well. Rather than sending him down further into the pit, his spirits actually rose, and he glanced about the deck as if this were all some splendid game, one that might end well enough as soon as their mothers appeared and they were finally called in for tea. Crowley, standing next to the wheel, was clearly worried, as was the helmsman, another experienced seamen, and Nichols was looking as if the world itself were about to end. But the spur was just what King needed to pull him up the final step from his melancholy, and he began to chuckle softly to himself.
“A fix indeed,” King was actually laughing now, and all were looking slightly more confident; even Elizabeth's eyes were raised and she was smiling slightly. “Well, if we are to be taken, I intend to sell ourselves dear. Does that cause any concerns?” he asked.
“None that I can see.” Crowley was the first to reply, but it was clear from the looks of the other men that they were in complete agreement. Only Nichols appeared at all unsure, but then he was still an invalid, King reminded himself. And a merchant seaman.
“Mr Khan, she'll take more sail, methinks.” He turned to the boatswain standing nearby. “Worry not if we shake a spar or two, we will be sailing this to the edge and have nothing to lose. We shall take her to larboard and meet with the first of them on our terms, and maybe sooner than they might wish. Rig preventer stays, then we'll have t'gallants. Oh, and you may prepare the stun'sl. booms while you are about it.”
Khan knuckled his forehead, his face unnaturally creased with concern. The wind was still blowing strong, even to add topgallants was risky enough. But the studding sails, additional canvas set on extensions to the yards, were made of a lighter material and would be blown out within minutes.
King caught the look and shook his head. “Do not be concerned, Mr Khan, I have no plans of setting the stuns'ls at present. But the wind may yet die, and we could be glad of them afore long.”
The boatswain acknowledged the explanation with a silent nod and set about calling up topmen while King began to pace the deck once more. It was the damnedest piece of fate that dealt him such a hand, but there was nothing to be gained in cursing. He was still reasonably certain his ship was the better in an all-out race, although whether she were quicker in stays was something yet to be discovered. He might have an experienced, disciplined and eager crew, but, if the majority were anywhere near the peak of their efficiency, Jervis would hardly be sending them home to retire. But the momentary period of doubt had served its purpose. Now he was determined to see matters out to the end, play on until the very last card. The next few hours might well be the most taxing of his life, and he had to give his all. There would be plenty of time later for regrets.
* * *
“It’s hardly long enough for us to tell for sure,” Manning said, wiping his hands on a small piece of tow. “And the tests I should normally run, well, they’re just not possible.”
Kate nodded. It was much as she expected. There were very few things that could have distracted both their minds from the activities on deck, but she had managed to pinpoint one.
“When did the sickness start?” he asked.
“About a week ago, every morning.”
“Only in the morning?”
She nodded. “Except when I drank some coffee with Mr Paterson before we left the Pevensey Castle; I thought I was going to throw up, and cannot bear the thought of the stuff ever since.”
“Well then, I chance that it is pretty certain.” The look of concern was starting to fade and a slight smirk replaced it. “And despite all Rogers’s efforts!”
Now she was smiling rather hesitantly herself, and she reached out and held his hand.
“There were suspicions, some while back. Which is why…which is why I wanted to head for home,” she added with a rush.
“In truth, I had thought there must be another reason.”
“You don't mind?”
“Why should I mind?” It was a proper beam now, and one that she was beginning to share.
“But the travel, we were to see the world…” Once more she felt her words fade away as he looked at her face.
“We can still; this will only delay matters for a year or two,” he thought for a moment. “Possibly a little longer if there be more.”
“More?”
He was positively chuckling now. “These things do happen,” he said. “We might have learned that by now.”
They laughed together then, as if by an unspoken signal, stopped and held each other very close.
“You don't think me foolish?” she asked, drawing away suddenly.
“Foolish?” it seemed a strange choice of adjective. “No, why ever should I?”
She shook her head. “For wanting to go back to England. When I suspected, I mean.”
“I wouldn't s
ay that was foolish, exactly. You could have given birth aboard ship, though. People do.”
She laughed suddenly. “Aye, stick me 'twix the cannon like the rest of 'em.”
“Well, I wasn't meaning that exactly…”
“I'm sorry, Robert, I just didn't want it that way.” She held him to her once more, her voice muffled slightly by his shoulder. “Maybe I've been living in a ship for too long, but now, now that we are starting to be a family, I need something more.”
He drew back. “Kate, I cannot give up the sea, not for a while at least.”
“And I wouldn't expect you to.”
“Maybe when I get my surgeon's ticket I could try for a shore base?”
“That would be fine, but it isn't necessary. I could be happy knowing you were coming home.”
“I would always do that, if I were able.”
“And I would be there for you.”
His face relaxed. “I think I realise that now.” he said.
“Do you want to tell anyone?” she asked, her head to one side as she pressed against his chest once more.
“Not yet. “Not before we know for certain. Maybe then Tom, and Elizabeth, if you wish.”
“I think she already suspects,” Kate sighed. “She was there once when I was sick.”
Manning snorted philosophically. “Then let us hope she has sense enough to keep it to herself, until you are ready, that is.”
A shouted order came down to them, and the dark and tiny space was suddenly private no more. “We aught to see what is about,” Manning said, releasing her from his embrace.
“Yes.” Kate stepped back and smoothed her hair into some sort of order. “Belike we should think of other things for a week or so; at least until we get back to England.”
Another call, this time accompanied by the sound of running feet. “Sounds as if there be action above.” Manning raised one eyebrow slightly. He took her hand in his, and they started towards the door. “Let us hope it is something that will take our minds from the immediate,” he said.
Chapter Nineteen
The wind was changing. It had backed slightly and was starting to show signs of faltering, although Espérance still sailed crisp enough for now, with shrouds and stays fiddle-string tight and the whole of her tophamper seemingly as one. The first French brig was closing on them, and the shift in the weather was also hurrying the second to starboard, while the frigate had altered course and was heading in at speed from the northeast. No signals had been exchanged between either force, but that need not mean they were unaware of the other's existence. King took a turn about the deck. Darkness still lay some time off. He must meet with at least one of the enemy ships before then, and had been making plans.
The stun’sil, or studding sail, booms were in position, with canvas furled and ready. The wind was still too strong to consider their use for now, but in an hour or so he might be glad of the extra speed. The ship was cleared for action, and the guns, already loaded, were checked and secured. That much was possible using those detailed as gunners, most of whom were suffering from rupture, tumour or the loss of an arm or hand. To actually run all the pieces out called for fully able bodies. It would have to be the topmen, even for the relatively light weight of a six pounder, and that must mean temporarily sacrificing control of the sails. Ideas began to tumble about his brain as he sought solutions, while the ship powered on through the dark waves, with every minute bringing her closer to the nearest enemy.
“I'd say we shall be within range in half an hour.” Nichols was studying the brig through the deck glass.
“Your wound does not bother you?” King asked, taking the brass telescope from him.
“Truth is, I had almost forgotten it,” Nichols lied.
“Well, I have not.” Elizabeth had been waiting in silence for some while. “And if you really must stay on this wobbly deck, can you not avoid standing?”
“Maybe a seat?” King asked diplomatically. Nichols was duly placed on a hammock chair by the nearest gun, and Elizabeth started to arrange his greatcoat about him.
“You might be more comfortable below, dear,” he said when she was finished.
“Below?” Elizabeth asked, surprised.
“Aye, we'll be in action in no time,” King confirmed.
“But that does not mean I cannot stay and look after George.”
For a moment King nearly laughed out loud. There seemed little a young woman could do to stop French round shot. “Remain if you wish, but there will be nothing called for from you, and it will only be placing yourself in greater danger.”
“Go, my dear.” Nichols reached up and touched her hand briefly. “Tom is right, you cannot do much, and I am well protected.”
The girl considered him doubtfully. “I'd say I were in as much peril here as anywhere, but I shall, if you think it right.”
“I believe the Mannings were bursting with something when they came on deck earlier,” Nichols continued, his own eyes slightly alight. “She seemed as if they had won the lottery, yet neither would speak any more. What say you try and discover their secret?”
“I noticed that, though chance I might already have guessed the cause.” She studied his face for a moment, then leant to embrace him. King turned diplomatically away and returned to studying his adversary.
The brig was well set up and being handled competently enough. And Nichols was right, they should be within range before the next bell, although if both held their current course, there would be minimal gunfire. The Frenchman was close hauled on the larboard tack, sailing as near to the wind as she could lie, while Espérance had the wind just past her beam. The two vessels were converging almost bow to bow and at a considerable pace. If the Frenchman had any guns facing forward, the British would know of it soon enough, but it should be a spell longer before their broadside armament came into use. He glanced up to the sails, now considerably softer than when the wind was blowing at its peak. The fore and main courses were set, although their roaches were uncomfortably low for a warship. Whoever had fitted Espérance out paid scant attention to the needs of a privateer—her lower canvas was certainly of a merchant cut. Were he to use the guns he really should consider brailing them up for safety, as they could so easily ignite. But if this were to be the hit and run manoeuvre he intended, extra power was needed to turn and move on. There was really so much to think about, and yet so little time. Crowley came towards him and knuckled his forehead.
“Can I be issuing a bite of food to the men?” he asked.
Of course! King felt the first signs of depression returning. He had postponed their noon time meal: most had eaten nothing for several hours. If he couldn't even manage to keep his people fed, what chance did he have of conducting an action?
“Yes, speak to the cook and see what can be done,” he said, feeling his face flush slightly. “Let no man leave his station, but arrange that all have enough for now, and promise them a hot meal and double grog when it is over.”
Crowley moved off, and King's thoughts went back to the problem of manpower. The guns were ready, but all his topmen, and the injured trained as servers, would be needed to man a single broadside, and yet he must also keep control of the sails. He felt that he could solve every difficulty adequately enough were he only given one at a time, and with sufficient space between.
“She's signalling!” Barrow spoke this time. The young man was studying the French frigate through his own glass. Sure enough a line of bunting had broken out, and the second brig, still thundering towards them to starboard, was making some form of reply. So the enemy were now aware of each other and their own strength, although that hardly altered his current problem. He turned to pace again, and was actually raising one foot to move, when the solution finally came to him.
* * *
“Hold her, steady, steady…” King was leaning over the larboard side, his right hand clutching at the mizzen chains as he watched the enemy draw closer. They were now less than three hundred
yards apart, with the French brig only marginally off their larboard bow. Neither vessel had opened fire, both lacking any forward-facing guns, but it would take no more than a simple helm order from either to present their full broadside. Such an action was risky, however. Anyone acting so must stake the chance of an important hit against that of losing both position and wind. The battle of wills continued, with each vessel creeping nearer in the fickle breeze. Espérance had her fore and main courses furled tightly to the yards, whereas the forecourse was still set on the Frenchman. But then the enemy's sail bore a deep-cut roach that placed it well out of the way of any burning embers, should she use her guns, whereas King's ship was hampered with low-cut canvas that would be more appropriate on a collier.
“Steady,” King repeated. He glanced over to Harris, the helmsman, and felt there was no need to worry. The man knew his job well enough and was absent-mindedly chewing on a quid of tobacco while he guided them in. Never was the difference between helming and steering so clearly exhibited. Most hands with the usual share of sight and reason could be taught to steer, but it took a true seaman, one with years of experience and a fair amount of intuition, to feel the way of a ship, predict the numerous variances in a failing wind and keep her on a steady course, when all about her were trying to do otherwise.
The time for subterfuge had past, and the British ensign flapped laconically in the breeze. They were growing closer now. He must not leave it too late. King opened his mouth to give the order, then hesitated. It was no good allowing the enemy room to manoeuvre and possibly recover, but then he also wanted to avoid closing too much. He glanced up at the sails, no longer stiff and starting to grow indistinct in the lowering light. A lot depended on how the addition of courses increased their speed; there would be little time to add studding sails for what he had in mind.
