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

by Alaric Bond

  “Mizzen t'gallant!” Crowley shouted, tripping as he dodged out of the path of another falling block. King reached out and pulled him from the deck, while a series of loud crashes told where several more pieces of tophamper were raining down.

  “Topmen!” King shouted, but Khan was already heading for the weather shrouds, with Johnston and Smith, the second boatswain's mate, following close behind.

  “Watch the spar!” The call came from Harris at the wheel. He was staring up at the sky and pointing wildly. King followed his gaze. The yard and upper mast were free now and starting to fall, with much of the topgallant sail still attached.

  “Stand away there!” King bellowed to no avail, but then it was hard to know which way to run, as the dark wooden beam speared down towards them. It landed squarely on one of the men, bending the soft body to the deck much as a badly wielded hammer might a particularly stubborn nail.

  “Abdul!” Johnston's shout was nothing less than a scream. He rushed forward as the spar fell to one side, its work complete.

  “Leave it, boy,” Harris at the wheel commanded. Indeed, there was little Johnston could do for his friend, but much remained wanting elsewhere.

  “Axes, axes there!” A considerable amount of cordage and the topgallant staysail, were trailing over the side, slowing their progress. Two men made for the bulwarks and began to hack down on the tight lines. King looked about in momentary confusion; then he saw Elizabeth and Nichols.

  She was lying in his arms as he bent down and attended to her in an odd reversal of roles. Blood was streaming from her head, and her eyes were open, but clearly seeing nothing. King consciously blocked the sight from him mind; he could spare them no time while the ship was in such imminent danger.

  “Topmen!” He repeated his cry of thirty-seconds ago. Johnston was still attending to Khan's body, but Smith responded readily enough, and along with other hands, began to clamber up the weather shrouds.

  “How does she feel?” King snapped at Harris. The old man turned the wheel either way.

  “It’s a difference I can handle,” he said guardedly. “The bow is up slightly, an' I'd appreciate the stays'l replaced.”

  “Very well, we'll see what can be done.” Of all of the tophamper, the mizzen topgallant was probably the least important, but that hardly eased the fact that they were hit. Any progress they made now was bound to be that much slower, and, probably just as important to the eventual outcome, the French would be encouraged. King felt the motion of the ship through his feet as he stood on the quarterdeck and glanced back at the oncoming enemy. Certainly, Espérance was maintaining her lead and might be even gaining slightly.

  Another crack from the bow chaser. They were currently in the arc of the larboard gun, which was still firing every four minutes. Was it really that long since they were hit, or had their success hastened the French gunners? This time the shot fell to starboard and even a little short, so the damage might easily have been caused by fate—a freak combination of power and timing which had thrown what could even have been an irregular ball further and higher than normal.

  Smith and the topmen were at the mizzen topmast now and appeared to be attempting to make some order from the mess.

  “Can you rig a jury?” King asked.

  Smith shook his head. “Not a replacement mast, sir. But I might be able to set a fresh stays'l if we has one.”

  “We got a main t'gallant stay that'll serve.” Johnston's voice—he had finally left Khan's body and was looking up. “Rig a fall whilst I rouse it out.”

  King nodded, then noticed Nichols and Elizabeth once more.

  He had laid her on the deck and was foolishly trying to wipe the blood from her forehead, although the wound was clearly deep and continued to bleed.

  “It was a fiddle block,” he said, almost conversationally as King joined him. “Fell from above and knocked her cold.”

  “Is she breathing?” King asked.

  “Aye, and there's a pulse.” King could see that Nichols's hands were shaking horribly and wondered how he could tell.

  “We should get her below.” He looked about, but all appeared to be fully occupied.

  “I'll take her,” Nichols said, and he began to scoop the light body into his arms.

  “Wait, you’ll do your wound damage. I'll get Manning to come up.”

  But Nichols was already gathering Elizabeth in his arms. He began to lift, then let out an involuntary cry as he slumped forward over her. He sobbed once, and went to try again. Then Kate joined them.

  “Come, George, we can take her together,” she said, and King was momentarily struck by her white pallor. She pressed her arms under the girl, and with Nichols half lifting, half trailing, brought her up from the deck and started for the hatchway.

  “Can I help?” King asked, feeling vaguely useless.

  “You can attend to the ship, Tom,” Kate replied, not looking back.

  Another shot came from the Frenchman, but that also fell short, and another after that. Then there was blessed silence, a silence that continued far longer than anyone could have hoped. Slowly, it dawned on them that Espérance was finally out of range.

  The remains of the topgallant mast had been ditched over the side, and Johnston with two other men were manhandling a replacement staysail to the lower mizzenmast. Khan's body was still lying broken on the deck. Two older men made for it, but Johnston cried out angrily, and they let him be.

  “Bloody Lascars,” Johnston swore softly to himself while he turned his attention to attaching the staysail to the line that Smith had sent down. “Always the first to die.”

  * * *

  King breakfasted a little later, and by the time he regained the quarterdeck, much had changed. The French frigate was still in clear sight, although the lead was now more than four miles. But coming up to larboard, seemingly with a firm breeze, the French brig was gaining fast.

  “Take her two points to starboard,” King ordered, as he collected the traverse board from the binnacle. They were now heading almost due west and must be more than fifteen points off their original course. The brig was a nuisance, no more. Even with their damaged mizzen, he was confident of eventually out-sailing both vessels. And once that was achieved, there would be little point in repeating last night's disaster. Making England and delivering the despatches late was far better than not arriving at all.

  He had left Nichols and Elizabeth in the sick berth. Manning had extended the small room to take in a good section of the lower deck, and already there were several takers. They were minor injuries mainly, men cut or bruised by falling debris, a splinter wound and one who had lost two fingers to another's axe. Elizabeth lay in the sick berth proper, out cold and seemingly many miles away. Nichols was attending to her and, quite understandably, had been rather short when King enquired as to her condition. Manning reassured him that there appeared to be no major damage, although little could be told for certain until she showed signs of consciousness. He, too, had been a little curt, but then this was his first time in overall charge of a sickbay, and King was well aware how heavily new responsibilities could weigh. The still small body of Khan was wrapped in a sheet awaiting the attention of Johnston, who claimed the Lascar as his tie mate and would later deal with him in the time-honoured fashion.

  At the dining table King ate cold boiled pork with some pickled cabbage and took a draught of more strong black coffee. It was his first proper meal for twenty-four hours and sustained him insofar as he felt few ill-effects from his sleepless night. Manning joined him briefly, although Kate was strangely absent.

  On returning, King sent Barrow and Crowley also to eat and began to pace the empty area, almost enjoying the lack of company until he remembered the reason.

  “Sail ho, sail fine on the larboard bow!” The voice of the lookout took him by surprise. It was Cuminsky, a wild-eyed Irishman with a broken nose.

  “What do you see there?” he shouted. The likelihood that it was yet another enemy ship w
as small, but one that still made his heart beat noticeably.

  “Two sail, sir.” The reply came back after a slight pause. “Large ships, I'd say they was men-of-war, or of a similar size. They're close hauled, headin' west-nor-west, an' just come on to that tack, by the looks of it.”

  King felt his body go limp. Oh the relief—the glorious feeling of rescue at the final hour. A pair of warships beating against a contrary wind. That certainly didn't sound like Frenchmen, although, even in his elation he recognised it as strange that no smaller vessels were in attendance. He felt the tension flow from him while he looked back at the pursuing French. Both must still be in ignorance of the sighting and were bound to remain so for some while. If he could only lure them into range, they would be snapped up in no time. The ideas began to develop; maybe if he slowed slightly, and waited until nightfall, or perhaps he might signal the ships and bring them down upon the enemy.

  “Men-of-war for certain, sir,” Cuminsky called again. “I'd say they were heavy frigates, or me'be even larger.”

  “Are they showing colours?” King asked, as Crowley appeared once more on deck.

  “Not that I can make, sir. But they don't look like Frenchmen.”

  “Any other in sight?” King persisted, nodding briefly at Crowley.

  “No, sir, but they're not good sailers.” Cuminsky's words held just the hint of doubt. “We're gaining on them fast enough.”

  Large, slow ships, yet well into the Atlantic. And rather than being on the end of a broad reach, they might just as easily have altered course when they spotted the Espérance. After all, she was still, apparently, a privateer. Feelings of disquiet multiplied as his mind ran over the likely options, then the cold truth dawned, to him and Cuminsky, almost simultaneously.

  “I'd say they was Indiamen, sir…”

  * * *

  Now the cat was really amongst the pigeons. He had encountered a wayward pair of East Indiamen. British, if he were to believe the ensigns that were now becoming clear, and they were sailing unescorted. There were reasons enough for such a meeting. They might have been separated from a larger convoy by the recent ill weather, or simply be chancing a run for home without escort, but neither improved his position in any way. Rather the opposite, in fact.

  Sailing as they were, almost in line with his present course, meant that he was now leading the French to a far greater prize than his one small ship. Two fat Indiamen must be worth hundreds of thousands of pounds, to say nothing of the cost and inconvenience to his own country. Their presence was still hidden from the French, but it could only be a question of time before they spotted the topmasts and came to the same conclusion.

  “More John Company ships,” Crowley growled as their significance dawned on him.

  King nodded. “Aye, and I could do without their presence.” He looked about. With the brig coming up on their larboard counter, and the frigate still sitting on his stern, he was running low on options.

  “I shall have to avoid them as if they were Frenchmen,” he continued bitterly. “Otherwise we will simply be making a gift to the enemy.”

  Crowley had totally grasped the problem now. “If only they were being escorted,” he said.

  “Well, maybe they thought better of it,” King agreed bitterly. “Didn't want to wait for the Navy to help them out.”

  Crowley was watching him warily. He knew the fix King was in.

  They must alter course, and as soon as possible, but with the wind still in the north the choices were limited.

  “Take her to larboard, head due south.” The worry and relief of the last twenty-four hours were encased in that simple phrase, and King all but spat the words out. But the men reacted readily enough, and soon Espérance was making a credible speed running before the wind, her stunsails once more straining in the growing breeze.

  “We'll keep her like this a spell,” King continued. “Then take her to the southwest, when our friend here gets too close.”

  He was watching the French brig, now growing steadily closer. She had also altered course to maintain her bearing, but still lay three miles or more off their larboard bow. A mile south should sail the Indiamen well under their own horizon and totally mask them from the French.

  Nichols appeared on deck once more, but did not approach King. Instead, he looked across to the nearest Frenchman.

  “What news of Elizabeth, George?” King shouted, taking a step in his direction.

  Nichols nodded, but did not smile. “She is right enough, though still out cold from the blow. Her wound has been stitched, and it’s thought she will mend in time.”

  “Robert has a fair hand with the needle,” King said, searching for something constructive to say as he joined his friend.

  “What of the enemy?” Nichols asked.

  “We have sighted Indiamen to the north-west, so we’ve turned south.”

  “You are still running?” he asked, amazed.

  “Of course; it is my duty,” King replied.

  Nichols considered him for a moment. “Yes, I suppose so.” His voice now carried a note of dull wonder. “Though I could never carry such diligence quite so far myself.”

  “It would have done little good to have surrendered earlier,” King murmured, then inwardly kicked himself. To Nichols it would have made all the difference in the world.

  “I am inclined to disagree,” he said quietly.

  There was an awkward pause, before King tried once more. “I fear it will be a while afore we are back on course for England.” The situation left little constructive for him to say.

  Nichols shook his head. “That is not a great concern for me at present.”

  Sailing before the wind, the lack of sideways pressure on the sails also made the ship's roll more apparent. Nichols staggered slightly as the ship heaved, but quickly recovered himself.

  “You should get below,” King told him. “There is no good to be served here.”

  “Aye, I shall attend to Elizabeth, I am sure you can handle things from now on.” His words carried a ring of finality that worried King. As the mate made to go, he called after him.

  “We will try and evade the brig at all costs; be sure of that.”

  Nichols turned briefly before continuing for the hatch. King could read no reassurance in his face. The man might have other worries, but there was clearly no further interest in the fight.

  “I'll have you home within ten days,” King persisted, desperately trying to find something to reassure him.

  Nichols gave a half smile in reply. “To be truthful, Tom, I should care little if I never saw England again.”

  * * *

  The words, and Nichols’s attitude, stayed with King as he finally brought Espérance on to a southwesterly course. The brig was much closer now and heading west-southwest to intercept them. A painful ten minutes work saw both of Espérance's broadsides loaded and run out, and now the men were resting, watching the chase continue and waiting for the inevitable outcome. Crowley and Barrow were on the quarterdeck with King, and none had forgotten the frigate, also making to the southwest. Their lead was increasing steadily, but her presence effectively blocked any fancy tricks King might care to play in that direction.

  Despite the situation and the knowledge that they were to be in action, and probably taken, within the hour, King found his thoughts returning to his friend. Nichols was clearly thinking of Elizabeth, and who could blame him? Once she regained consciousness and started to show signs of improvement, he would be as keen as any to reach England again, King was certain of that. He might not have a vested interest in the despatches, and there was no commission for him to reclaim, but only a fool could want for a spell in French captivity.

  Of course, it should only be a spell. Most, if not all the crew, would be put forward for exchange straight away; the French could have little interest in holding disabled prisoners. The women were also likely to be repatriated without delay. He and the other officers might be held for slightly longer,
but even they should be home by the end of summer. It might not be so bad, he supposed.

  The Company would lose their valuable prize, however, and when he did return, King would be just another unemployed lieutenant, and one with a less than impressive history. No matter what the odds or circumstances, time spent in enemy hands did not look well on any record. He could apply to serve again, he supposed, and might even find a seagoing position again eventually. But he would be delayed in sending for Juliana, and she could be excused for deciding him a prize not worth the waiting.

  “Watch her head!” King growled. Harris must have finally given up his precious wheel to a man who clearly lacked his skill. The mood of the others about him was also altering subtly. Even Manning, at breakfast, had appeared distant and reserved. As King considered this, there came a mild eruption forward. Johnston was haranguing a seaman in unusually harsh tones. King took another turn across the deck, and thrust his hands deep into his pockets. It was possible that the chase had gone on long enough.

  * * *

  The fickle breeze began to drop shortly afterwards, and by four bells in the afternoon watch they were barely making steerage way. King was now all but stamping about the quarterdeck, his frustration steadily mounting. If the weather deteriorated into a storm, it might be used to some benefit. Even with his damaged rig, a decent squall might enable him to shake off the brig that still crept determinedly closer. And there was four full hours before the dark came to rescue them; long before then all would be settled. Watching from the taffrail he reckoned they might be in range in twenty minutes. The brig was well armed, almost identical to the one they dealt with the previous evening, and he knew that his ship could not sustain any prolonged action with her. Besides, they were low on powder, and the men were showing further signs of growing tired and dispirited. A listless crew did not fight well, and he began to accept that this really was the end. Crowley took some food at lunchtime, although King refused to follow his example. He did leave the deck for two short minutes, but that was only to collect Jervis’s despatches from the desk drawer. They were with him now, the weighty canvas bundle sticking uncomfortably into his waistband, a constant reminder of the job he had failed to carry out. It was almost as if by punishing himself he might woo the gods into taking pity, but then he could see little evidence of mercy in the events of that day.