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

by Alaric Bond

  “She is coming up on our stern.” This was Willis who ought to know better than state the obvious. But, the enemy was certainly creeping closer, and should be able to fire on them from a different angle very shortly. The question was, would they do so? Damaging Pevensey Castle might make her easier to raid and ransack, whereas holding back, and taking her by boarding was the better option if she were intended as a prize.

  “Shearwater is signalling!” Drummond was watching the frigate, now a good distance to the north. Sure enough, bunting had broken out, and she appeared to be about to wear, even though that meant leaving the remaining merchants to the other privateer.

  “What does she say?” Rogers barked at the midshipman.

  “Nothing in the Company code, sir.” The lad was clearly worried and went through the book several times. “Think it might be a Navy signal.”

  It was, and soon the reason became obvious.

  “Deck there, ships in sight.” King's bellow from the masthead made them all look up, then across to the empty horizon. “Two maybe three, heading from the north, an' I think I can make out a commissioning pennant.”

  Rogers drew breath while he considered the approaching privateer again. She was now comfortably in range, although still making no preparations to fire. If the sighting turned out to be British warships, and if they really were heading directly south, they must surely deal with the northernmost Frenchman, as well as cutting off any chance for the nearest to escape. Should the enemy attempt to board and take Pevensey Castle she would be recaptured almost immediately. However, the main advantage lay in the fact that Shearwater had been able to wear earlier. Even now, she was coming round and would soon be hurtling down on them and the last privateer.

  “Sighting is two frigates,” King was reporting more confidently now. “British colours, and coming up fast.”

  Rogers glanced up at the horizon. The topmasts were in sight from the deck. His gaze dropped back to the privateer, and he thought there might be movement about the deck. Yes, hands were taking up the braces; she was going to turn and run for her coast while there was still the chance. He felt the relief flow down his body, and it was all he could do to stop himself from laughing aloud. However, this was not the way to behave. The conniving part of his brain was very much awake, and he sensed there was an opportunity to turn the situation to his advantage.

  “Larboard battery, are you ready?”

  The gun captains turned to look at him, surprised at the question. “Aye sir,” one replied, and the rest hesitantly raised their right arms.

  “Quartermaster, take us to larboard. As close to the wind as you can make!”

  “Braces there!” Willis was alert enough and took up the call while the ship began to ease over. He had been right, the privateer was turning and would soon be heading away on the starboard tack, much faster than the stately old East Indiaman on the larboard. But, the raider's guns would not be able to bear, whereas Pevensey Castle should have at least a chance for a single broadside.

  “Hold it now, on my word!” It was not the best way of signalling a broadside. Paterson or Nichols in the waist were probably better placed, and it was hardly a captain's responsibility. But, Rogers was not expecting to hit the ship. It was more a dramatic gesture, one that he knew would impress the men, the passengers, and hopefully Drayton, still standing behind him and doubtless watching all that went on.

  Pevensey Castle was slowing as she came closer to the wind; the time was very near.

  “Hold it, steady…” He wished he were wearing his sword, so that he might raise it in a spectacular fashion. The gun crews were desperately levering their pieces to bear on the enemy. Rogers held his hand up high, bringing it down with a flourish.

  “Fire!”

  It was not the snap discharge of a crack warship. The sound rolled out in an erratic staccato, but the sudden noise and flash of bright flame that stood out against the smoke and late afternoon gloom made a dramatic impression, as Rogers knew that it must. All rushed forward to see the fall of the shots; some were very wide, another ridiculously short. Two might have found their mark, but no damage was evident on the privateer.

  “A hit, sir!” Willis’s face was ecstatic. “I'm certain of it!”

  That was all Rogers needed to hear. The story was now in place and could, in time, be embroidered upon. He chuckled inwardly to himself. At that moment they might have been fighting off a flood of desperate privateers, but instead he had apparently seen them off. Carefully handled, this should do his reputation no harm at all. His standing with the East India Company would be greatly improved, and all on board must acknowledge him for his true worth. Legends had grown from smaller beginnings than this. With care and a little elaboration, he could go on to build his reputation as a true fighting captain.

  Chapter Seven

  They arrived at Portsmouth the following afternoon, the late January sun picking out the famous seafront in spectacular fashion. Their luck held, the wind was still fair and in the north, contrary to what usually prevailed in the Channel, and as they crept up to anchor off the Mother Bank, Captain Rogers was clearly in a buoyant mood.

  “Passengers expected, Mr Nichols,” he said, smacking his hands together while he bustled about the quarterdeck. “Have the decks holystoned and pipe clay the man ropes.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “With luck, we can keep this wind and be off by nightfall.”

  Nichols glanced at the assembled shipping; it would indeed be a lightning stop if so.

  “Oh, and the fifth mate should be arriving.” Rogers took one more look about the deck, before starting for his quarters. “Send him to me when he does.”

  Nichols touched his hat and passed the instructions to Drummond, before returning to check the ship's bearings. The current was negligible. There seemed no risk of the anchors slipping, but procedure was there to be followed, and Nichols was a methodical man. Admiral Hayes and Coventry were close by; just beyond them the rest of the convoy lay, apparently ready for the off. There were fifteen ships in all and most the same size or larger than Pevensey Castle. Something of the captain's optimism was probably wearing off on him. All had topmasts set up, all appeared ready to sail, and it did seem a crime to waste such a useful wind.

  A party of seamen came on to the quarterdeck with a sack of sand and several holystones. Nichols stepped to one side as they began to work. Memories of the previous afternoon's adventure were still fresh in his mind although strangely it was not the actual contact with the enemy that haunted him. He had seen the woman on several occasions since she boarded at London; in an eight hundred-ton ship that was inevitable, he supposed. Still, each meeting had stuck in his mind as he usually managed to embarrass himself in some minor way. The rule about not mixing with passengers was strict Company policy, but it was also one he readily approved of.

  When a midshipman, on his first voyage, he had fallen desperately in love with the youngest daughter of a senior East India Company factor. He realised now, with the benefit of hindsight and experience, that she had led him on, enjoying his frustration as much as he had their few clandestine meetings, and was determined never to allow himself to become so embroiled again.

  He was almost thirty now, his hair was prematurely greying, and he knew that with each passing year he became less attractive to the opposite sex. It was a change he welcomed, as it made his life of celibacy that much easier. Only occasionally, as with the recent meeting with Miss Hanshaw, did he wonder, wistfully, just what a normal married life would be like.

  Marriage, ha! It was a measure of his true state of mind that he need only meet a presentable woman to start to think about weddings. Stupidly, he realised he was still holding the azimuth compass and hurriedly replaced it in the binnacle locker. He might pretend to accept growing old and grey. He could fool himself that he was in no need of feminine contact and greet the prospect of a chaste life with all the relish of a true enthusiast. But deep down inside, he knew himse
lf to be longing for that comfort which can only come from the close company of a woman.

  The last time someone had truly attracted him was two years and ten months ago. After that misfortune, he really thought he might be able to settle down to a bachelor existence. Sadly, Miss Hanshaw had come to spoil things—sadly for her as much as him. However, hard he might try, it was inevitable that he would continue to annoy the girl and embarrass himself with each subsequent meeting. By the time they finally saw India, she would be so desperate to free herself from his attentions that escape at the first opportunity would be her only desire. It had happened before, on several occasions, and he accepted with grim resignation that it was about to happen again.

  * * *

  The frigates, whose appearance had been the true cause of Pevensey Castle's reprieve, had followed them to Spithead and were now dropping anchor close by. King had come on duty a few minutes before and noted how they took in sail and secured with smooth efficiency. Then the nearest began to attend to her longboat, which was cleared away and swung out from tackle at the fore and main yards.

  “It appears the Navy are to pay us a visit.” Willis was on deck and watched with him as the boat, now manned with a crew as well as six armed marines made for them.

  “But surely, they cannot be coming for us?” King asked.

  “Would be strange, if so,” Willis snorted. “But then His Majesty never misses a chance to collect a few more hands.”

  King always found that the forced upper class whine in the first mate's voice made everything he said sound mildly disdainful.

  “But we are desperately undermanned,” he persisted, feeling vaguely incensed that his previous colleagues should even think of taking men from their ship. He himself had been involved in many such raiding parties in the past, but always from homebound merchants. The Navy was allowed to press men then, even if their prey might be sighting England for the first time in many years. “Surely there are rules against taking men from outward-bound ships?”

  “Rules there may be, but they make little difference to the Andrew,” Willis replied, curling his lip slightly. “They can write their own, and would leave us with the captain and the ship's cat if they needed the people bad enough.”

  Sure enough, the longboat was soon alongside and a young midshipman clambered through the entry port. He was not more than fifteen, although he carried himself more like an admiral. Four sailors, broad bodied men with arms like hams and expressions of pleased anticipation, followed the lad on to the newly whitened quarterdeck. They were clearly looking forward to their morning's work. The detachment of marines, crisp and lethal in red, white, and silver, formed up smartly behind them.

  “Name's Gordon, from Phoebe,” the lad said to King. “Captain Barlow sent me to wait upon your captain. You are to provide us with some men, I believe.”

  King had not held his lieutenant's commission for long, but still it rankled that a warrant officer should presume to speak with him on equal terms.

  “You have no jurisdiction here, sir,” Willis replied. “We are outward-bound, and as such may retain our people.”

  The boy met the mate's stare with equanimity. “It is a private arrangement,” he said. “Between our captains. A matter of honour, or so I understand.”

  Watching, King felt he could guess the story. Rogers had probably got himself in debt to this Navy captain, and chosen to see himself clear with members of his crew. A despicable trick, but one he could well imagine of the man.

  “Mr Midshipman Gordon.” The devil himself was on deck now, he must have been roused by the hailing of the boat. “I am the captain of this ship, and you will address yourself to me.”

  Gordon rolled his eyes at King and then turned away.

  “Captain Barlow's compliments, sir. I have been sent to collect four experienced hands, if you please,” he said.

  Rogers nodded. “I will assemble the people, and you may select, although I cannot vouch for any individual's qualifications; that was not in the understanding.”

  At a word from Willis, the sound of a pipe broke the still morning air and soon both watches formed up in the waist. The men stood waiting knowing what was to come and that there was little that could be done about it. They might have the law on their side, but that hardly mattered against a group of Navy roughs with marines to back them up. King and Willis followed the lad down to the waist, while Rogers stayed watching from the quarterdeck.

  “Cap'n said topmen only, and not to be fobbed off with no landsmen,” the boy informed them.

  Willis regarded him with scorn. “I fear we have been at sea but a few days, Mr Gordon. The men have yet to prove themselves. You may take four hands, as I believe you intend, but pray do not expect us to aid in your selection.”

  The boy looked along the rows of tanned faces. All appeared to be experienced, in fact there was very little to choose between them. Eventually he selected four, pretty much at random. The men stepped forward muttering slightly as the others mocked them gently from behind. King noticed with a start that one had long red hair tied back in a queue.

  Johnston's eyes met his for a moment, but no words were spoken, even though the man was probably about to face a minimum of two years in the frigate. The chances were that no one would recognise him immediately, but once in the Navy he was likely to stay there, and for all the time he served, he would be under constant threat of the noose.

  “Give your names to the purser, then assemble your immediate possessions.” King spoke quietly wondering if, even now, there might be something he could do to save Johnston. From his position at the break of the quarterdeck, Rogers watched in silence. The captain had also served with the man, and it was possible he recognised him as well. But, even if that were the case, little could be done to avoid Johnston's departure. The chosen men went below; appearing again almost immediately with their ditty bags. Myles, the purser, began to mark against names in a large brown ledger.

  “Some will have chests.” Willis turned to the midshipman. “You have room for them in your longboat?”

  “Indeed, sir.” The lad was about to say more, when one of the men caught his attention. “Hey, there! What goes with that fellow?”

  Johnston was mounting the gangboard ladder and looked back. The midshipman approached him.

  “What have you there?” The midshipman tugged at a small canvas and leather device that Johnston carried over one arm.

  “It's me spare truss, mister,” he said, holding the thing up. “I'm allowed one for washin' and one for wearin'.” Johnston lowered the belt of his trousers slightly to show a similar implement in place.

  “I'll have none with the bursten belly,” the midshipman scoffed. “Send him back, I will choose another!”

  “You have already selected, Mr Gordon,” Rogers informed him curtly. “Now take your men and leave.”

  “Don't want no man with a rupture,” the lad repeated.

  “Take him or leave him, but you get no more choices.” Rogers’s tone was one of complete unconcern. “This is a Company ship, lad; not a penny bazaar.”

  The midshipman hesitated, wondering if a seaman who was clearly no good for most purposes would be welcomed. Five men were already on light duties, and one was to be discharged ashore that very day. To take another, only to have him similarly dealt with, might reflect badly on him and his judgement.

  “I'll just have the three, then,” he said, his tone somewhat grumpy.

  “Very good; do give my compliments to your captain.” Rogers turned away as three of his men trudged reluctantly up to the entry port and into the waiting longboat.

  The rest were also dispersing, some to duties, others to return below, and Johnston was one of the latter. He swung his truss and ditty bag jauntily over his shoulder as he passed King. Again their eyes met, although this time the seaman closed one very slightly, and his face bore a look of quiet triumph.

  * * *

  Another boat drew alongside at the beginning of the
afternoon watch. In it was the last of the passengers, along with an older man. He was dressed in a mate's uniform of a very superior cut, although the buttons on his sleeve proclaimed him as merely a fifth officer. Paterson who had the deck, greeted the newcomer on the gangboard just as Rogers was fussing over Mr Drayton's wife who had also arrived and was amid a vast collection of luggage.

  “Anthony Langlois,” the man informed him.

  “Langlois?” Paterson regarded him carefully before adding, “A French name?” with his customary lack of tact.

  “I am a Guernsey man, sir,” Langlois replied smoothly. “And am to join you as fifth mate.”

  Paterson blushed slightly, extended his hand and introduced himself. “Forgive me, I spoke rashly. There is such talk of foreign agents and spies at present.”

  “It is to be understood,” the man regarded him with an easy expression, “though I doubt that even a Frenchman would announce himself quite so boldly.”

  Paterson grinned in return. Langlois had a pleasant way about him that was both welcome and reassuring. The arrival of any new officer was always a worrying time. So much depended on him and his abilities. He might be an excellent seaman, or an outright lubber. In either case, they must work together, and a friendly demeanour was a definite bonus. Langlois not only carried himself well, but he also possessed an inner confidence that spoke volumes of his qualities, both as an officer and a seaman.