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

by Alaric Bond

  “So I believe.”

  “Odd then that he chose to sail with us, don't you think?”

  “In the extreme.” Langlois looked up and met his eyes. “But then I have learnt not to anticipate the workings of the Company.”

  “You seem quite experienced,” Paterson persisted. He had turned in his seat and was speaking to Langlois directly. “And yet you are only rated fifth; can I ask, is there a reason?”

  The man laughed and placed his pad down on the table. “Call it a lack of dedication, I suppose, but my aim has never been promotion.” He regarded Paterson genially and then, sensing that more was called for from him, addressed the room in general. “Tis one life that we are given and one only; that of an officer in an Indiaman suits me fine. I get the opportunity to travel, a fair wage, and a chance to practice my art.” He indicated the sketchpad on the table in front of him. “I do not ask for more.”

  “Can I see?” Manning made to collect the pad.

  “You may indeed,” Langlois nodded, sitting back. “And can keep it, should you so wish.”

  Manning lifted the pad and gave an involuntary gasp at the image. It was Kate, sitting in the corner of the mess, just as she was now, and with that look of beauty and purpose that he found so attractive.

  “It is very good,” he said, eyeing Langlois somewhat suspiciously.

  The new man stretched and yawned. “Alas my work is hardly equal to the subject,” he smiled at Kate. “But do keep it, if it pleases you.”

  Manning nodded and carefully removed the paper from the tablet. The drawing was certainly of a high standard; in no more than a collection of lines the man had captured her mystery exactly. It was an act that, as her husband, Manning felt mildly disconcerting.

  Kate reached across and took the paper from him. She pulled a face and gave a short snort. “Don't look nothin’ like me,” she said, holding it up for all to see. King and Paterson laughed more from embarrassment than anything. It was plain to them that the sketch was indeed good, and no one could ignore the air of tension which was suddenly present in the mess. Manning took the drawing back and looked at it once more. Kate was wrong, it was her to a tee and almost indecent in its perception. He looked across at his wife noticing that her face was now a shade darker, and made a mental note to treat Langlois with a deal of caution from now on.

  * * *

  “Not in 'ere, Abdul,” Ward told him. “This is for senior 'ands and warrant officers only.” The Lascar paused, uncertain. “Down in steerage,” the boatswain's mate continued. “That's where you lot berth.”

  “It is the deck below.” Johnston sounded out each syllable separately while he pointed downwards with his finger.

  “Would you want me to show you?” Crowley, the steerage mess steward, asked him, not unkindly.

  “Thank you, no.” The newcomer placed his small canvas bag down and looked about. “This will suit me very well, thank you, gentlemen.”

  Ward raise himself up in his hammock. “You don't understand, matey. It's for senior 'ands; Hing-glish-men.” He sounded the word out and raised his eyebrows. “Comprehende?”

  The man's deep brown eyes were made darker by the poor light. “I am an officer,” he said quietly.

  Johnston looked across at Ward and Crowley, then back at the man. Certainly, he was better dressed than most of those who had recently embarked, but there was little about his small skull cap and loose-fitting clothes that spoke of rank or station. “You're a Lascar,” he said bluntly. “A native.”

  “I am a serang,” the man replied with dignity. “I take charge of my countrymen, and anyone else below. For that duty I was originally treated as a bosun by my masters, and I have learnt such skills to make the entitlement fair.”

  Johnston gave out one loud laugh and clapped his hands together, as he grinned across at Ward, who looked distinctly disconcerted.

  “Belike he has us there!” the Irishman said, smiling also.

  The boatswain's mate scratched at his chin. “Bosun, you say? No rapper?”

  “On my word,” the Lascar replied seriously. “No rapper.”

  Ward threw himself out of the hammock and straightened up. “You'll have to excuse us, we weren't aware.” He stepped across and extended a hand. “Name's Ward, bosun's mate. This 'ere's Johnston. 'E's rated able, but there ain't a finer Jack aboard, and Crowley which is Irish, but not completely useless for all that.”

  The boatswain shook hands with the men. “I am pleased to meet with you. I am Khan,” he said. “Though you can call me Abdul if it pleases you.”

  The men looked at him dubiously. “He didn't mean no disrespect,” Crowley began.

  “And none was taken,” Khan nodded. “Abdul is also my name; I was most impressed by your perception.”

  Johnston laughed again and pointed to a bench, “Get yourself sat, Abdul,” he told him, although Ward continued to view the stranger cautiously.

  “Thank you, but I must see that my men are provided for. I may leave my bag here?”

  “Of course,” Ward told him. “An' if you got a chest, we'll strike that below, or 'ave it in the mess; there's plenty of space.”

  “Thank you; this is all I own,” he smiled briefly. “We natives do not have the need for many possessions.”

  * * *

  It had been another difficult evening with the captain. Even now, as she changed into her nightdress and brushed out her long fair hair, she could still smell his breath and the very odour from his oily body. The cabin was fine; she liked the fresh air and the fact she did not have to bend double to stand. However, when all roundhouse passengers shared the same dining table in the cuddy, and her place was inevitably laid so convenient to the captain's right, and increasingly nomadic, hand, Elizabeth wondered if she might not be better returning to her allotted berth in steerage. And if she must listen to that tale again, the one about how he had fought off the ravaging pirates virtually single-handed, she knew she was going to scream. The actual event had only happened a day or so ago, and already she could repeat the story word for word. They had taken on the final passengers, but even that had not changed things. Some were clearly prosperous, and she expected her constant rebuffs to Rogers’s advances to have weakened her position in some way. But, the newcomers were found cabins elsewhere, while she, with her standard ticket and minimal furniture, was allowed to enjoy all the benefits of roundhouse accommodation, together with the captain's apparently undivided attention.

  Elizabeth briefly considered a spell of knitting, but the bed was far too welcoming, and she climbed in, wriggling herself comfortable and wondering vaguely if continuous rebuttals and the occasional slap were not a worthy price to pay for this nightly luxury. It was a proper bed, not a cot, not a bunk, but one as might be found in any well-to-do house. It had cotton sheets that tucked under a real mattress, feather pillows and several woollen blankets to place on top. And it was hers.

  But, she could still sense him, which was the strange part of it. Even now, even in her most intimate moments, he always seemed to be there. She closed her mind to the problem and blew out the candle. It must be close to ten o'clock. After that unpleasant experience on the first night, she wanted to give no further reason for him to come and tap on her door. He claimed to be checking that Company rules about lights in cabins were being obeyed, but it had taken almost half an hour, and finally one determined push from her, to be rid of the beast.

  A movement from the room next door made her turn her head. Clearly the captain was less concerned about enforcing the ten o'clock lamp curfew on himself. She could see several small points of light through the thin deal partitioning, but there was one crack large enough to illuminate her own room slightly. As she considered it, the hole went suddenly dark. She watched, fascinated, as it reappeared, followed by the sound of footsteps close by. Slowly she pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed. Standing on the cold deck in her bare feet, she stepped over her knitting bag and crept closer to the bulkhead. It was r
eally quite a large opening, about half an inch across, although she had not noticed its existence in daylight. Intrigued, she pressed her eye to it and gave a sharp intake of breath.

  There was the captain's cabin, well lit and on show for her; and there was the captain, slumped in front of his desk, drinking from an overlarge balloon of brandy. He had taken off his jacket and looked far more slovenly in an unbuttoned waistcoat and britches. As she watched the man gave out a belch, lent to one side, and scratched his behind. The sight, along with the realisation that her cabin must be equally exposed, caused Elizabeth to shift her weight slightly, making the deck beneath her creak.

  She held her breath as Rogers turned, and it was all she could do to contain a small instinctive shriek when he rose up from his chair and began to walk towards the spyhole. Thinking he had spotted her, she drew back and stood to one side. The light from the hole was still visible, but she, hopefully, was not. He could be heard as he drew close, and even the smell of his breath was apparent. The room dimmed slightly; his face must be barely inches from hers, with only a thin wood partition separating them. A thin wood partition, with him looking through, seeing into her private world. No doubt he had looked before, probably several times, over the last few days. A wave of revulsion all but overcame her. She felt both uncommonly angry and physically sick when she fully realised the outrageousness of his crime and reaching for the knitting needle, so conveniently placed in her bag, her hand was shaking quite violently.

  Chapter Eight

  The scream alerted everyone, from the officers on the quarterdeck to the watch below, just two hours into their caulk. Even the lookout, cold and lonely at his perch on the snugged-down ship, even he was aware of the commotion, and none of the passengers in the great cabin or further away in steerage could have remained asleep, while the noise spread easily throughout the wooden vessel. Drayton, abed in his roundhouse cabin, emerged, blinking and pulling on a silk dressing gown. He was followed by his wife, hair in papers and face pasted, who carried a bemused Bella for general encouragement and interest. Elizabeth's cabin door remained shut, although it was her name that was called when Rogers staggered out into the cuddy, a hand clapped firmly over his right eye.

  “Bastard Hanshaw woman!” he yelled as he crashed into the dining table and slumped forward. “The blower! The bitch! The whore!”

  Drayton regarded the captain with apparent curiosity as he leant over the table and continued to moan.

  “I'll see her thrown off this ship, and—and flogged at the grating.”

  Luck, the captain's servant, appeared dressed in a nightshirt. “Are you hurt, sir?”

  “Hurt?” Rogers reared up, his hand still covering half his face, although there was a slight trickle of blood seeping from underneath. “That drab has put my damned eye out!”

  “Is she in your cabin?” Drayton asked peering, none too subtly, through the opened doorway.

  “No, she blasted well is not,” Rogers roared. “And neither will she ever be; accursed witch that she is. I'll see her off my ship!”

  Drayton regarded him seriously. “So you have already said. But I fail to see how Miss Hanshaw did you any damage when she does not appear to have been in the same room.”

  Rogers appeared to think for a moment. “Damn it man, I need a surgeon, Get me to sickbay. Luck!”

  The servant collected his master, holding him awkwardly under the shoulder. “Very good, sir. We'll take you to see Mr Keats; I'm sure he will effect a cure.”

  Drummond entered the cuddy and looked about. He was midshipman of the watch and had been sent to see what all the noise was about. The captain, clearly wounded, was being helped towards the door by Luck. Mr Drayton, presumably the instigator of the injury, appeared bemused, while his wife, the only other occupant of the room, seemed more interested in consoling her dog.

  The lad looked from one to the other. “What's going on here then?” he asked, without any hope of an answer.

  * * *

  A light tap came at the door. Elizabeth jumped and looked up. Her face was strained, and she had clearly been crying.

  “Who is it?” she all but whispered.

  “Nichols, ma'am; fourth officer.” He paused and, feeling slightly foolish, added, “George.”

  It appeared to be one fluid movement: Elizabeth sprung from her chair, opened the door, reached up and hugged him. The mate tried to pull away, but the grip was too firm and her words, though hardly distinguishable, spilled out like too many cats in a barrel.

  “Steady, steady.” He found himself rocking her gently as a child, and as a child she told him everything, her sentences long, breathless and unbound. Nichols looked across to the partition. There was no obvious hole, although the room was lit only by the opened door to the cuddy. Her knitting bag lay on the deck. The room darkened slightly as Drayton entered.

  “Is the young lady all right?”

  Nichols regarded him over Elizabeth's still sobbing shoulder. “She needs to get away from here,” he said. “She has had a dreadful fright.”

  “The captain is injured.” Drayton regarded them both quizzically. “He would seem to blame it on her.”

  “The captain is a pig,” Nichols replied, his voice surprisingly controlled and unemotional. “If there were any justice he would hang.”

  Drayton considered this for a moment. “My wife is outside and will look after the girl.”

  “Thank you, sir, but I think she will be better away from the roundhouse. I shall take her down to steerage; I'm sure accommodation can be found for her there.”

  “Very well, you might seek out my wife's maids, I'm sure they will assist.”

  Nichols went to go, but the girl held him firm, and he had to gently coax her into moving.

  “I'm not certain what has been going on here,” Drayton's voice was slow and considered, “but some form of enquiry will be needed; the captain is clearly hurt. We should signal the commodore at first light.”

  Nichols paused and looked back. “I'm sure the chief officer can take charge, sir.”

  “Maybe so, maybe so.” Drayton nodded. “But Mr Rogers has the ultimate power in this ship. I think the young lady should be transferred to a different vessel, if only for her own safety.”

  That made sense, and Nichols was silently glad that one with Drayton's intelligence and authority was present.

  “You will look after her until first light?”

  Nichols nodded. “Yes, sir. I will,” he said and ever so gently he began to ease Elizabeth through the door.

  * * *

  “If you will try and keep a little still, sir.” Keats peered at the man's face, pale and sweaty in the dubious light from the lantern. Rogers twisted slightly and winced when the surgeon gently eased back the lid of his eye with his thumb. “Swab, if you please, Mr Manning.” Manning passed a small piece of tow, and the surgeon wiped away some fluid. He then collected the lamp and slowly moved it across Rogers’s line of sight.

  “It is impossible to say until morning,” Keats replaced the lantern and sat back, wiping his hands on some more cotton waste. “But my guess is badly bruised, no more. The initial impact appears to have been away from the eye; there is a cut to the skin below the medial canthus, but no sign of puncture to the orb itself. Though badly bloodshot, it appears not to have been penetrated.”

  Freed from the surgeon's examination, Rogers’s hand returned to his eye. “Hurts like hell, doctor. You'll have to give me something for the pain.”

  “Yes, my mate will mix you a draught. Other than that, I will prescribe a cold application at the beginning of every watch; we will undertake that if you wish. Antiphlogistic treatment might be necessary, that will be decided upon later. In the meantime, you must rest. I'll prepare a protective bandage for when you are on deck, but the dressing can be removed below, as long as you are not exposed to bright lights.” The surgeon began to make notes in his pocket book. “Tell me again, this was caused by a pen quill, you say?”

&n
bsp; “That is correct.” It was the only story he could concoct during the journey to sickbay. “I was writing at my desk.”

  The surgeon considered him. “The incision was made with some force; perhaps you sneezed?”

  “Of course!” Rogers's voice rose as if in triumph. “I sneezed, whilst writing, and the next I knew there was this terrible pain.”

  “At the time you appeared to blame Miss Hanshaw.” It was Drayton's voice, and Rogers opened his good eye in surprise. How long had he been standing there?

  “Did I?” Rogers appeared confused. “Me'be it were the shock?”

  “You seemed reasonably certain. Her name was definitely mentioned—several times.”

  The captain's face cleared as a fresh idea occurred. “I was writing to my cousin, my cousin Elizabeth, that might have been it.”

  Drayton said nothing.

  “Have you taken any alcohol?” The surgeon knew the answer, but felt it right to ask the question.

  “A little wine with my meal, doctor, no more.”

  “Very well, we will give you a small draught of laudanum. It should help you to sleep, and may even reduce the swelling.”

  “Will this affect Mr Rogers’s ability to command?” Drayton spoke softly, although all were well aware of the importance of his question.

  “There should be no commands given while under the medication's influence,” the surgeon said.

  “Hold fast there,” Rogers’s voice rose up. “I am the captain. It is for me to decide if I am fit and able.”

  “That is not so.” Drayton's voice remained quiet, although he spoke with authority. “Mr Keats also has a duty to the ship, her passengers and crew. If he feels you unsafe to take charge, it is right that he say so. And, as a member of the Company, I will back him.”

  Rogers pressed his hand to his eye and moaned slightly.

  “I am certain your officers can see the rest of the night out, and so there seems no call for you to take charge for the next few hours at least. Mr Keats will examine you in the morning, and a more detailed diagnosis can be made.”