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

by Alaric Bond

  “Take her two points to larboard,” King said finally, his voice breaking the tense silence that enveloped the entire ship. It was the order they were expecting, and the men responded instantly. The yards were heaved round, and the ship began to turn almost imperceptibly. It was not enough to bring the enemy into their arc of fire, but the intention was clear and made doubly so when the hands who had been manning the braces rushed to the waiting starboard battery.

  “Run them out, lads,” Barrow shouted, his hands waving in excitement. The guns rumbled forward on their carriages and were swiftly secured. Again, it appeared a slick enough operation, even though there were precious few men to actually serve the pieces if King had ordered them to be used.

  He continued to watch. There was no sign of movement from the Frenchman, and they were each about to enter the other's arc of fire. Then a murmur ran through the crew as the enemy showed its teeth, in this case an irregular line of black muzzles that nosed out from their starboard ports to snarl at them. King forced himself to count; there were nine—the brig was well armed. He peered up at the mizzen topsail, now decidedly slack. It was going to be a close thing. Much would be down to luck and how that luck was used.

  “Now's the time,” he said finally, pulling himself inboard as he did. “Bring her round and heave on those sheets!”

  The enemy could be expected to open fire at any moment—he had judged it to the very last second. Johnston was there with his pipe to his lips, but there was no need for any instruction—the men knew their tasks well enough. With a sound of successive snaps, the main and foresail sheets were heaved, tearing the spun yard loops that were securing the canvas to the yards. The heavy sails had been soaked in water to prevent them catching fire whilst also retaining every last breath of wind. They flopped down and began to billow in the gentle breeze while the yards were braced round and Harris centred the wheel. Then the men were rushing to the guns, this time to run out the larboard battery. King looked to the brig again as the small vessel began to move across their prow and finally settle off their larboard bow again. Espérance was moving faster now, but would she be fast enough to avoid the enemy's reaction?

  “Take sight and hold your fire.” Barrow was running down the deck as the guns were secured. Each had an experienced captain attending to it, even though two of them were lacking an arm and another a leg, while a fourth was muttering nonsense to himself while he signalled the servers to move the gun to point as far forward as it could. “Take your time,” Barrow cautioned. “We don't want no fancy broadsides, fire when you're good and ready, but not until I gives the word.”

  The men knew their business well enough, as they did their aiming point, which was to be at the brig's tophamper, but all were far too intent on what they were doing to make any form of reply. Barrow watched as the enemy crept closer, then finally looked back at King, who gave him a nod.

  “Fire as you will, lads,” he said. For a moment nothing happened. The pause continued until King wondered if any had truly heard. Then the first gun spoke, and soon there was a long staccato clatter that cut through the cold, quiet evening air, and turned all on deck ever so slightly deaf.

  It took hardly any time for the seven six-pound lumps of iron to cover the short distance, but King willed them on every inch of the way. It was a Frenchman's trick to fire at another ship's masts, especially with the wind as it was, but he was not intending to take the brig, or even harm her significantly. If Espérance was carrying any chain or bar shot he might have used that, but a well-placed six-pound ball would do almost as much damage to a fragile rig as something far heavier. One shot striking a vulnerable spar should do the job, disable the vessel enough for them to pass and seek shelter in the dying light. One shot, and they were firing seven. It needed an expert gun layer, a man used to his weapon and the motion of the ship, to hit such a small target from a moving platform, but then that was where the luck came in.

  “Buckets there!” Stationed further forward, Barrow was clearly keeping his head, and had the sense to check the courses. The fore was glowing slightly at the clew and would be ablaze within seconds if not attended to. Two seamen quickly doused it with seawater, and the danger was abated.

  King looked back to the enemy brig. The smoke was rolling down towards her, as he found himself joined by Crowley and Khan at the larboard rail. Then the wind gusted, the evening air cleared, and the group let out a mutual sigh, followed by something far more robust from further forward as seamen on the forecastle registered their success.

  “That seems to fit the bill,” Crowley commented dryly.

  “I could not ask for more,” King agreed.

  Indeed, the damage was beyond his wildest hopes. The brig lay amidst a confusion of spars, canvas and rope, her main topmast leaning forward and clearly about to tumble.

  “We must make for safety,” he continued, turning away from the sight and looking up at the sails once more. With a larger crew and no other ships in the vicinity, he might even have taken the Frenchman, but as it was he could only depend on flight and the coming darkness to shelter them.

  “She's opened fire!” Barrow again. His shrill call came a split second before the sharp crack of five or six guns fired almost in unison.

  “We've little to fear from that,” Crowley muttered. “It were fast work for them who ain't ready; half failed to fire and those what did could only have been roughly laid.”

  King stared back into the gloom. Crowley was right, and even if the French had been prepared at the larboard battery, the confusion caused by a falling topmast could hardly have helped their aim. Sure enough, a line of splashes, some way short of Espérance, rose up briefly to disappear almost as fast, and only one, laid slightly higher, skipped across the dark ocean in a series of splashes that finished well before their hull. “Belike we caught them unawares,” the Irishman continued, gracing a rare smile on anyone who would have it.

  “Take her to starboard!” King ordered, turning aside and almost colliding with Nichols who was stumbling across the deck to see.

  “A hit, Tom?” he asked, his face the image of anxiety.

  “Aye, we've taken out her main topmast,” King said, before turning his attention back to the ship. “Braces there, and rig the stuns'ls!”

  The wind was certainly weak enough now for the fragile extensions to the yards to be used. The topmen ran from the guns to the shrouds, and in no time the extra sails were being sheeted home, and the ship truly began to gather way.

  “She's in irons,” Crowley said, his eyes back on the enemy and his voice rich with satisfaction. Clearly, the slight alteration necessary to allow the Frenchman's broadside had been ill timed. The brig was wallowing in the swell, with her remaining sails flapping impotently as the darkness began to claim her. They had gained a head start and, with the wind now on her quarter, King was quite certain that Espérance could out sail any vessel with a damaged mainmast. But then there were still other matters to concern him.

  “What do you see of the second Frenchman?” King yelled. A moment's pause, then the masthead replied.

  “Hull up and headin' for us, though the light’s fading fast.”

  “Distance?”

  “Two mile off or more.”

  King nodded to himself and spared a grin for Nichols. There was the noise of water bubbling from the stem, and the lower courses were growing stiff and hard: the wind appeared to be rising. Luck was certainly on their side, but would it remain so throughout the night and, most importantly, stay with them until morning?

  * * *

  Midnight and no moon. The ship was totally blacked out, and darkness completely enveloped them. Only the whine of wind through rigging lines and an occasional slap of water as a rogue wave smacked against the hull proved that Espérance was anything more solid than a ghost ship. King was back on deck after retiring below when the enemy finally disappeared into the gloom. There he had nibbled at a scratch meal, rested a spell, and even contemplated sleep before a s
eemingly magnetic attraction brought him up once more. Now he stood next to the binnacle, his tired body flexing easily with the motion of the ship, while his mind considered the many possibilities before him.

  When last spotted, the second French brig was making to the southwest on the starboard tack, while the frigate, being slightly to the north, was on a converging course. The wind was still backing and now came from roughly that direction. Espérance had turned, taken in her studding sails and was making good speed close hauled, heading west-by-north. The change had been made in complete darkness, and King was reasonably certain would have gone unnoticed, although there was nothing he could do to prevent the French from predicting his actions.

  This was where supposition took over. He could have no idea if there was any change. Both vessels might have continued on their previous headings, which placed them slightly to the east of him. Or they could equally have given up the chase completely. But then Espérance was a small ship and easy pickings for the Frenchman. He could not think they would let such a plum prize get away without a chase.

  If he was worth his salt, the enemy captain should assume that King wanted to get to his destination without delay, and attempt to return to his previous course, or as near as he could make to it. And he would be right. With the change of wind, a northerly heading was impossible, but King was sailing Espérance as close as she could lie. And if he were doing the obvious thing, could he not expect both enemy vessels to have altered their headings accordingly? If so they must have worked out his likely position, and be aiming to intercept him at daybreak.

  But at least he felt he could all but discount the first brig. Since their brief action they had travelled a fair distance and repairs to a main topmast could not be made quickly in the dark. It was probable that she was many miles away by now, or at least so far off as to make any further involvement in the action unlikely. The second brig was still a threat. She appeared every bit as powerful and could probably take King's little ship with ease. But he had already dealt with one of her kind and, in his mind at least, felt able to write her off in a similar manner. It was the frigate that really worried him—she was a completely different proposition.

  There would be no chance of disabling her in such a cavalier manner. She was bound to be heavily armed, with chase guns to bow and stern, and her broadside could sink a fragile craft like Espérance before he even thought of testing his feeble six pounders for range.

  He took a turn or two along the deck, easing his tired muscles into activity, and gaining a small amount of warmth from the action. It was possible that he was reading too much into the problem and could be excused for thinking the French had not guessed his change of course. He might just as well brazen it out and continue on his present heading. Then he stopped pacing and sniffed the breeze. In his bones he knew that, if he did nothing, first light might reveal a powerful enemy vessel in sight, and almost certainly to windward. It was not an attractive thought.

  So, what were his options? A few hours ago, avoiding capture had been enough. But now, now that he had gained both a reprieve and the all-important sea room his desire for a quick passage home returned. The recent diversions had placed him behind. To make anything like a credible time he must pass the French and, ironically, it was probably the one manoeuvre they would not be expecting. But only the hours of darkness could make such a bold move possible, and they were rapidly diminishing.

  The wind was gradually growing steadier, the earlier gusting having all but levelled off. It also seemed to be settling in the north. Tacking now, he could probably hold a course eastwards; possibly east-by-north. The northward progress would be almost negligible, but he would be in a better position should it back further. Then he could continue with a series of broad reaches until the wind changed again. It would be a bold and calculating move; one that meant turning towards the French, and attempting to slip past. And rather than just a simple exercise, one that would be over in a couple of minutes, this had to last out the rest of the night. For several hours he must hold his nerve, while any second could reveal a dangerous enemy close by. King could not help but wonder if he was truly ready for such a task.

  But what was the alternative? They could continue as they were, wasting time and exposing themselves to greater danger while being chased even further from home. With an invisible force at their heels, King could guess how soon the hunters would assume greater powers in the men's minds. He had an experienced crew and to run for an hour or so was acceptable, but a prolonged pursuit must start to tear at their morale. Even if daylight revealed an empty horizon, all would know the French were still out there somewhere. They might continue, surviving the day and the following night, but each mile must take them further from their objective, with the added chance of sailing straight into further enemy shipping growing with every league.

  Turning to the south might be a better proposition. They could gain speed, and the manoeuvre might well confuse the chasing French. But the enemy would remain to windward; a danger to be negotiated when he finally found the courage, he could think of no other term, to turn for home.

  He flexed his knees and yawned, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets, confident that the absolute darkness would hide such a deliciously slovenly act. The night was certainly welcome, and he was further blessed by the complete absence of moon, but it only granted a brief postponement. Morning must come, and the first hour of light would show his true position.

  “Two bells, sir.” Johnston called out softly.

  King had ordered that the bell should not be struck once the gloom descended. Two bells. Sunrise was at eight, but dawn started long before that. There were less than five hours of complete darkness before first light. A lot could happen in that time. A lot, or nothing at all—the choice was his. By this time tomorrow he might be heading once more for England, a prisoner of the French, or well beyond the range of all such worldly matters. And, whatever his eventual position, the only certainty was it would be entirely due to the decision he was about to make.

  * * *

  After an especially tiring day, Nichols was feeling remarkably good. The wound was healing nicely; apart from a tendency to itch, it caused him little problem. And the pain inside that had been pretty well constant since the surgery was growing less. It was almost as if the recent exercise had actually been beneficial. Sometimes he received a not-so-gentle reminder, and on a couple of occasions he thought he might have pushed things too far; but in general, he felt well.

  And he was not dead; that was certainly a point in his favour. During his seafaring career he had heard of many cases where men injured in the chest or belly required medical intervention. Such procedures were carried out only when there was absolutely no alternative, and were rarely, if ever, successful. No, he was certainly a lucky man; that fact was readily acknowledged, and he also felt incredibly glad to be alive. The ship might be speeding into dangerous waters, and they may have several powerful enemy ships on their tail, but that was all but countered by the overwhelming feeling of wellbeing that he now experienced. It was a sensation aided not a little by a most beautiful dining companion, one who currently sat in front of him, and smiled so readily whenever he looked in her direction.

  In fact, they had long since ceased to eat, and the remains of their supper was now quite cold, although still they sat facing one another as if frightened that movement by either party might break the spell. Their conversation was conventional enough for two nubile people, even if they gave it a mildly unorthodox slant.

  “Or we could ditch the whole idea,” Nichols said, his eyes flashing wickedly.

  She gave him a warning look. “What exactly do you have in mind?”

  “A secret wedding,” he beamed innocently. “One with two witnesses that we drag in from the street and a tired old parson who only wants to go back to his pipe and armchair.”

  “Really, George. You make it sound so attractive.”

  “It might save a lot of fuss.
”

  “Fuss is what a woman looks forward to most in a marriage,” she said primly. “For the ceremony at least.”

  “Well, I should be happy.”

  “Doubtless, though my aunt might object.”

  “I don't want to marry your aunt,” he paused. “At least I don't think I do. Is she as pretty as her niece?”

  Elizabeth dropped the hand she had been gently caressing and leaned back in her chair. “In a moment you'll be asking Mr King to perform the ceremony at this very moment.”

  “It’s a consideration.”

  “Can he do that?” she asked, suddenly interested. “I mean just marry people, as a captain?”

  “Tom? Oh yes, he can marry whomsoever he likes, 'though I fear he might be already spoken for.”He looked at her with ill-concealed glee. “Otherwise you might try introducing him to your aunt.”

  * * *

  Kate and Robert were in bed, their bodies close together, neatly entwined like adjacent spoons in a tray of cutlery. The ship was making her customary rhythmic groans, the flexing of timbers and easing of joints that was usually enough to send them into a deep and trouble-free slumber. Both were fiendishly tired, yet they lay awake, drawing comfort and reassurance from the other's proximity. They moved little and spoke hardly at all, but there was communication enough in the simple sharing of warmth and intention. The new life that was starting between them had yet to assume any form of identity although it was already affecting their relationship. They were no longer Mr and Mrs Manning, man and wife, bride and groom; lovers setting out to make the best of a partnership. Now they had become one single entity, a family, albeit their issue was of doubtful age and completely lacking in individuality. Earlier there had been talk, long and deep, in the darkness of the empty sickbay, even though there was little to discuss, the two being of a common mind and understanding. The future might hold much, and nearly all was well beyond their comprehension or control, but everything that came would be met together, shared in full with the absolute support of the other. It was the first time either had truly known what it was to be as one. The cause might be both joyful and fearsome in equal measures, but the feeling it evoked was every bit as wondrous.