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

by Alaric Bond

  “Yes, sir.” The two men spoke in unison and saluted again. They were about to turn away, but Rogers, it seemed, had not finished.

  “Another thing.”

  They waited.

  “From now on Mr King will take charge of the junior officers' berthing arrangements.”

  The subject came as a surprise, although the young man tried hard not to show it.

  “I understand that these have been a little lax until now. Let me make it plain. The only married accommodation aboard this ship is for passengers.”

  Again, the feeling that the captain had been watching them returned. “Mr Manning will resume his berth in steerage, whereas Mrs Manning can share the female servants' quarters.” Rogers paused, glowering at them both, although King who knew him of old, could detect more than a taint of pleasure in his tone. “I expect no further reports of any association between them while they are aboard. You will arrange that, and be certain that I am not disappointed.”

  * * *

  By noon, the ship was in turmoil. Surrounded by an eclectic collection of small craft, with more standing off ready to come alongside, she swarmed with men. Some manned the tackles at the fore and main yardarms, straining to lift in the consumable stores necessary to sustain both crew and passengers on the voyage. Others ran light goods in from a whip at the mizzen yardarm, or loaded smaller casks up the parbuckle rails set next to the entry ports. The decks were dark with spillage, while straw, hay and general filth from the many live animals lay all about, making companionways and ladders lethal obstacles that could only be negotiated with the greatest of care.

  Further parties were working below, in the cramped, airless darkness of the hold. Beneath their feet, the ballast shingle, slippery green with bilge slime, was maddeningly unstable, as the heavy casks were patiently coaxed into position. More men were stooping low to dodge the treacherous beams that threatened to knock any remaining sense from their heads, while they carried sacks of flour and hard tack into the bread room, or casks of oil, vinegar, and pickled cabbage to the stewards' pantry. And all would have been in chaos were it not for Paterson, King, Myles the purser, and Nichols, the latter being the new fourth mate who had arrived not three hours ago, yet was already proving his worth.

  He was standing at the main hatchway now when King joined him, while yet another leaguer, one of the giant casks of London water, was swung over their heads and those of the straining men who manoeuvred it. Like all the mates in Pevensey Castle, Nichols was relatively young; not more than thirty, King guessed, and his stout frame, short, slightly greying hair and a manner that was as dry as desert sand, gave him an air of competence and authority rarely found in so young a man.

  “Four more to come,” King informed him.

  Myles, the purser, made a small mark in his rough book. “Then there're some cattle for Mr Paterson, and another lighter full of water awaiting us.”

  Nichols nodded. “That should give us our full measure, and I am hoping all remaining will go in the ground tier, which will allow plenty of room for beef on top.”

  “T'would be good if so.” Being both heavy and regularly consumed, the stowage of water dramatically affected a ship's trim. Casks must be stored in a sensible manner, allowing them to be tapped evenly; the same applied to preserved meat, and other heavy provisions. Loading a ship might be backbreaking work, but rearranging stores whilst at sea was even more so, and should Nichols rush his job now, it would be necessary for Pevensey Castle to retain an even keel.

  All of which hardly explained the absence of Rogers and the other two senior mates. Since making their brief appearance that morning, little had been seen of them, apart from one occasion when Willis was tempted out of the captain's quarters to sign for the spirit issue. King looked about; Paterson, at the fore, was supervising the lifting of several veal calves from a lighter to the pens set below in forward steerage. There had already been two milking cows, which would be swiftly converted into beef when they ran dry, and a breeding bull—the latter being sent to India as cargo. Along with the ducks, geese, and hens lodged on the poop deck, the sheep, shortly to take their place in the ship's longboat, and a pet goat; apparently the property of a passenger, Pevensey Castle was fast acquiring all the qualities of an ark.

  “Fair amount of livestock,” King commented.

  “They'll hardly be noticed,” Nichols assured him. “Last voyage in the Clarence we carried a whole pack of fox hounds; didn't stop barkin' till we reached the Hooghly.”

  “There's a boat setting for us, Mr King.” Ward touched his hat. “Reckons it's the first of the passengers arriving.”

  King glanced around at the mess. It wasn't the best introduction to the ship, but there was little that could be done about that.

  “Very good. Give her a hail and pass the word to the captain if so.”

  The boatswain's mate nodded and saluted once more. “Shall I swab off the decks a little?”

  King was unsure, but fortunately Nichols looked up and shook his head. “A dry brush, nothing more. They'll get used to the pleasures of shipboard life soon enough.”

  Ward grinned and moved on.

  “What is the score with the passengers?” King asked, while yet another cask swung by. “How much sway do they have in the ship?”

  Nichols made a mark on his paper and shrugged. “Depends a great deal on the captain. He is in overall charge, and they have to do his bidding in any situation,” he gave an ironic grin, “no matter how much they might be paying for their passage.

  “If we runs into trouble the menfolk will have action stations and be expected to fight like the rest of us. Should we spring a leak, they'll take their places at the pumps. Other than that, there'll probably be a few steerage class in our mess—junior army officers or the like—but they tend to keep to themselves, specially for the first week or so. Oh, and we're not supposed to mix with the ladies,” he added, nodding to the working party in the hold, and pointing to the spot where he wanted the next leaguer stowed. “That sort of thing is much frowned upon in Company circles. Some captains forbid officers or crew to talk with any woman above ten and below sixty—seventy if they've not seen females for a spell.”

  The empty lifting tackle shot up and out over the side, ready for another load.

  “Don't that seem a might harsh?”

  “No, ask me it makes perfect sense.” Nichols’s manner was quite matter of fact as if he were discussing yet another problem with stowage. “Romance can be a hazardous business in any occupation, but aboard ship the stakes really do stack up.”

  King noticed that the new mate now bore a distant look as he continued. “Fill a ship with nubile souls and leave them a while to fester, anything can happen. I seen too many arguments over brandy that turned into all-out fights. Duels have been fought, marriages broken, and children conceived, an' all that while still in sight of Spithead.”

  A call from below told them that the next cask was waiting. King nodded to the party at the falls, and the line grew taut again, just as a hail went out to the approaching boat.

  “Yes, they can be an odd lot.” Nichols watched while the load was swung up and pulled inboard. “An' it sounds like we're just about to meet our first. Let's hope they're free of kinchins.”

  “Kinchins?” King had never considered that children would be allowed on board.

  “Aye, there's nothing worse in any weather.” Nichols turned his attention to the next cask. “They make more noise than hounds,” he continued. “And smell every bit as bad.”

  * * *

  There was little to worry about. The first passengers were all fully grown and quite subdued. Two ladies' maids and a valet, sent in advance to prepare quarters for their employers, a cadet from the East India Company's own land forces, and a couple of clerks, or writers, who were to take up positions in one of their many factories. They were clearly lower-class travellers, and Rogers didn't deem them worthy of an appearance, so it was down to the working parties to recei
ve them, and King, as the junior officer, to escort the new arrivals below and introduce the wonders of shipboard life. The cadet, barely more than fifteen, was clearly a little seasick after what must have been a choppy passage out. He was allocated a small partitioned-off cubicle in the great cabin and seemed more than happy to take straight to his cot. The ladies' maids were directed to one of the sternward cabins in steerage, and the writers and valet had been given a similar four-berth hutch almost opposite. Soon, King was returning to the waist, where the last of the water was waiting. As he clambered on to the upper deck, a seaman almost cannoned into him. He grinned instinctively when the man apologised and stood to one side, turning his head away as he passed. King caught sight of a long red pigtail; clearly an old hand, but there was something else about that hair, something that triggered an earlier memory. He stopped and looked more closely at the seaman who, noticing the attention, drew further back, and even lowered himself slightly under the inspection.

  “Simpson, is that you?” King asked finally. There was no response, and it was only then that King recalled just why the man had stayed in his mind. “We served together, in Vigilant,” he continued, a little more cautiously. “You were in Flint's mess; I was your divisional mid.”

  Slowly the man's eyes rose to meet his.

  “Aye, an' I were a runner, Mr King.”

  “That's right, you were,” King agreed. “And missed out on a deal of prize money, if the truth be known.”

  The man grinned sheepishly. “So I hears, but there was that bit of badness with the master at arms.”

  “Aye, you split his lip.” It was all coming back to King now. “An' awaiting court martial, so I recall.”

  “I was indeed.” Even in the dull light of the upper deck, King thought he could detect a flash of defiance in the man's eyes while he continued. “'E riled me, so he did, an' I hit out. Didn't mean 'im no harm, mind; it ain't happened afore; an' it ain't happened since.”

  “I'm glad to hear it, Simpson.”

  “I don't use that name no more, Mr King.”

  That came as no surprise to King. He studied the man for a moment. Distinctive tattoos, and that brilliant red hair; it was a wonder he had not been picked up long before this.

  “You didn't think to lose the queue?” he asked, temporising while his mind ran through the available options. Simpson must still be wanted by the authorities; not just as a deserter, but one who had also struck a superior officer—struck and drawn blood. The man was clearly destined for the noose, and King should waste no time in having him detained and reported.

  The man sighed. “Couldn't bare to cut it, sir,” he said quietly. “Nor have it dyed; reckons it would be like flicking off me nose.”

  “Where have you been?” King persisted. “It must be three years or so.”

  “About that. I lay low for a time, took some work on a farm inland. Then got restless for the seas. I done one trip in an Indiaman an' liked it well enough, though I were near pressed three times. But, I all'ays got away with it.” His eyes fell again. “Until now, that is.”

  King was still looking at the seaman intently. He had known Critchley, Vigilant's master at arms, to be a bit of a bully, and wondered whether he would have reacted in a similar way in Simpson's position. He thought not. King was no coward, but Critchley had been a big man and a born fighter. Simpson was considerably smaller and had shown a fair amount of pluck in standing up to him. And in addition he was a good seaman. Despite the recent intake, Pevensey Castle was still desperately undermanned. Of course, Critchley was killed in action a short while later, and when it came to it, King was no longer acting as a commissioned officer. A shout from Nichols at the main hatch brought him back to the present—clearly his attendance was required elsewhere.

  “So, remind me what are you called now, Simpson?” he asked, rather artlessly.

  “Johnston, sir.”

  “Johnston.” King nodded, as if trying the name out for size. “Well, carry on then,” he said, nodded briefly, then hurried on to see to the last of the water casks.

  * * *

  “Lawks, it' ain't got no lights, nor no windas!” Kate looked up from her seat as the two girls entered the little cabin. They were wrong. A tallow candle burned grubbily in a shielded sconce on the table where she rested her ledger, but the impression was quite understandable. The girls, noticing her for the first time, jumped in unison. Kate looked up and smiled.

  “I'm sorry, did I startle you?”

  “Startle? I'd say!” The voice was loud, with an edge that made it almost painful to hear. “Fair set me loose below. What you doin' 'ere, anyways?”

  Kate stood up and offered her hand. “I'm Katharine Manning, assistant to the purser.”

  The first girl, whose light blonde hair looked almost green in the poor light, regarded Kate's hand with caution. “Are you indeed? Still don't answer my question.”

  “No, it don't answer her question,” echoed the other girl who was darker, shorter, and running slightly to fat.

  “Well, if you are Mrs Drayton's ladies, I'd say we will all be berthing here together.”

  “Berfin'?” The taller one screeched. “It don't sound decent!”

  “It don't,” her friend agreed. “Not decent at all.”

  “That is how they tend to speak aboard a ship,” Kate said quietly. “We have to share this space, along with another who is due aboard later.”

  “I'm not sure that I like the sound of that!” Somehow, Kate was not surprised. “Tain't enough room for more'n two, I'd chance. There's three of us, an' another coming, you says?”

  “I believe so.”

  The girl pouted. “Na, that can't be right; I'll have to take it up with Mrs Drayton.”

  “Mrs Drayton will sort it out,” the shorter girl assured her.

  “I'm sure she will,” Kate said. “When does Mrs Drayton embark?” The first girl looked at her strangely, and Kate corrected herself. “When do you expect her to join the ship?”

  “She's going to Portsmouth, but 'er husband's comin' later today. That's Mr Drayton,” she added, with special emphasis on the title.

  Kate nodded seriously. “I see, well what say we make the best of things until Mr or Mrs Drayton arrive? Now, I've told you my name; and you are?”

  “This is Susan an' I'm Emily,” the dark girl informed her. “Only I'm usually known as Emma.”

  “Stubble it, girl!” Susan glared at her friend. “You don't want to get too familiar with the 'elp.” She looked back at Kate. “Maybe we should make it Miss Woodhouse and Miss Chapstick? I think that would be fitting.”

  “As you wish.” Kate's expression became neutral as the girls inspected the room. It clearly came nowhere near their expectations, and she could do little but sympathise. The place was even darker, and certainly much smaller, than the steerage mess, from which it was separated by several other similarly tiny compartments. Being nearer the stern, the smell of the bilges was also far more noticeable, and almost overpowered that from the animals further forward. How it might be after a few weeks on the ocean she didn't like to predict. And yes, it certainly would be cramped; four shortened cots lay folded against the stretched painted canvas that constituted a bulkhead. She supposed it might be possible to hang them all at the same time, but it would take every inch of available space.

  “Well, I'd say it were a pretty queer deal,” Susan finally said to Emma. Kate was not included. “We got a mass of stuff to store; there won't be room for the half of it.”

  “There's personal hold space for every passenger. Anything you do not require whilst on board can be stowed there,” Kate informed them. “For that which you do, a space next to the bosun's stores has been set aside.”

  Susan looked at her doubtfully. “They got to unload it first,” she said.

  “Then tell the mate in charge.”

  “Mate?” the girls exclaimed in together, both raising their hand to their mouths and pretending to stifle a giggle.

&nb
sp; “A mate is a senior officer,” Kate said a little coldly. “One or more will be looking after the party unloading your stores. Speak to them and they will arrange to send what you wish to the appropriate place. The same for your mistress’s belongings; you'll find them very obliging.”

  “Obliging? I'll wager.” Emma gave a crude snort, but Susan raised herself above the remark to address Kate.

  “What did you say your job was?”

  “I am assistant to the purser; he is the officer who allocates provisions and supplies.”

  “I see, well we are ladies' maids, and don't deal with heavy luggage and the like.” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Besides, we are also paying passengers. It would seem to be a task more suitable for someone such as yourself—a Company servant.” She took one more disparaging look about the small cabin before heading for the door with a slight flounce. “Attend to it, will you, Katharine?”

  * * *

  News of the final passenger scheduled to board at Gravesend came as the afternoon was ending, and it was clear that Rogers would make the effort to greet him. In fact, he came on deck a good half an hour before the man was due. The loading had only just been completed, and the main gratings were still to be secured when the captain appeared, followed at a respectful distance by Willis and Seagrove.

  “Hold up, we have company,” Paterson spoke, although his lips barely moved when the trio made their appearance on the quarterdeck.

  “Mr Paterson, Mr Nichols, your attention please.”

  King drew back while the two mates approached the captain and saluted.

  “The ship is dirty, gentlemen,” Rogers informed them. “Extremely dirty; I would have her shining like a new pin. Mr Drayton is an honoured guest, and expected within the hour. He is not to be disappointed and neither am I.”