Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (29 page)

      
Johnston, who knew nothing of the cause of the leak, had not actually worked this out while he was being chivvied from his warm hammock. But he realised immediately that the number of men remaining in
Pevensey Castle
would not be sufficient to clear a sizeable body of water. Certainly, if the leak was as bad as the rumours currently circulating, further hands would be needed from the privateer; possibly even passengers as well. Word that they were actually sinking quickly followed, and the estimated time they could stay afloat dwindled with every telling. Johnston was an experienced seaman and used to the lower deck's inclination to exaggerate. But he also guessed that the stories must have some substance and, unless a way could be found to stop the rising water, both pumps would be working until the ship saw land, or the ocean bottom.

      
He grasped the cold metal pump handle and began to turn the heavy contraption as the last remains of sleep left him. Ward was to his right, sharing the same handle, while Khan and another Lascar worked to the other side of his pump. It took five or six full revolutions before the first of the water appeared in the cistern and began to run down the leaded dales and out through the scuppers. It was a fair flow, and the second pump could be expected to produce as much. But then, they had only just started, and the latest report of eight feet in the well and rising was certainly a good deal of water to move. He looked to his left and grimaced at Khan while the rhythm became established. The Lascars, with their slight frames and lean bodies, were not ideally suited to this kind of work, and Khan's forehead was creased in concentration and effort while he turned his handle. Then he noticed his friend's attention; his expression cleared, and the familiar smile returned.

      
“Hard work to last for very long,” he said, breathing only slightly deeper than usual.

      
“Aye,” Johnston agreed. “Reckon we'll have a fair taste of it, afore the day's out.”

      
“Over ten foot in the well, they tells me,” Ward added for good measure from his right. “Say several planks have been stove in below, an' the entire hold's awash.”

      
Khan remained silent, but grew more thoughtful.

      
“Strange that there were no sign of a leak until now,” Johnston added and was about to say more when he noticed the Lascar glaring at him over the curve of the pump hood. The intensity of his stare made Johnston pause, and he considered the situation afresh.

      
Strange it certainly was. There was no damage below the waterline that he was aware of, and the well had been all but dry only that morning. Johnston's eyes flashed back questioningly to Khan, who winked at him as they continued to turn the heavy pump handles. Johnston winked back while his thoughts ran on. He quickly decided that the leak had been caused by something other than enemy shot. That only left sabotage.

      
Clearly, there were those in the ship who were working to stop her, and it came as a relief to discover that a chance remained he was not going to end up a prisoner of the French. He continued to turn, but now his back was starting to protest. The pain must inevitably grow until the end of his trick, and by then, he knew from experience, he would be good for nothing. However, the rhythmic movement certainly encouraged thinking, and he let the speculations continue as a distraction to his complaining sinews.
 

      
So, the leak could probably be blamed on one of the officers. King, who was on the lower deck and actually walking towards them as they worked, would be the most likely. He had shown himself to be quite a spark in the past. What else was in his mind was a mystery, of course. It wasn't for Johnston to consider such things; his job was simply to follow when led. But he and the other seamen could now rely on the fact that one of their officers had conceived a plan and was in the process of carrying it out. It might prove unsuccessful, of course, although it was unlikely that any officer worth his salt would have failed to properly think things through, so Johnston reckoned that the scheme must have a fair chance of working. Besides, anything—even the wildest of ideas—was better than sitting back and waiting while they sailed themselves into captivity.
 

      
The wheel continued to turn, and the water flowed regularly along the dale and out through the scuppers. The only noticeable change in the routine was his back and belly, which were now starting to protest most strongly. If the leak were as bad as they said, it would take more than two pumps to keep
Pevensey Castle
afloat, so further action might be expected sooner than later. He grinned at Khan once more; the Lascar was also showing signs of tiring, although he met his eyes readily enough and nodded in return. Johnston knew instinctively that Khan's mind was running on a similar path, and the serang would be equally keen for the next move to be made. He just wished that a way had been chosen that involved less physical effort.

* * *

      
Johnston was wrong. When it came to knowing what to do next, King did not have a clue.

      
There was no overall plan; no finely detailed strategy that covered most major eventualities, leading to the overthrow of their French captors. In fact, there had been a complete lack of foresight. The act of opening the seacock was almost instinctive and based solely on the principle that something which did the French harm must surely be a blessing to the British. Now, though, it appeared to King as the act of a rash young man, one with no idea how to put a leaking
Pevensey Castle
to their advantage.
 

      
The enormity of what he had already done, coupled with an expectancy from the other men, instilled feelings of foolishness and inadequacy in him not experienced since he was a lad. He longed to discuss the possibilities that his actions to date had uncovered. But he was still a captive, still liable to constant surveillance from Marcel and the other members of the French prize crew and for the first time he truly knew the loneliness of command.

      
His thoughts tumbled through his head as he made his way along the lower deck. Ahead of him, the pumps were clanking monotonously, and he could see Marcel standing close to the stern hatch with a group of Frenchmen, their faces strangely distorted in the lantern light. Throughout his journey from the roundhouse, Crowley accompanied him, along with two of the guards who had been sleeping in the dining cuddy. Neither spoke any English, but still he and Crowley remained silent. Even with the relative security of their language, King preferred to say nothing. That way Crowley might not guess that the officer he trusted to lead them out of this mess was completely at a loss.

      
The hatchway led to the hold and lay open. King pushed past the group, peered down into the gloom below and was surprised to see a floor of black water, far higher than he had anticipated, reflecting the lantern light. As he watched, several small casks floated by, bumping against each other as they went. The hold was almost flooded, even with the pumps working continuously.
 

      
He spun round and addressed Marcel. “How much water is there in the well?” he demanded. The Frenchman stared back without understanding, and then switched his attention to Crowley.

      
“Gained another ten centimetres since the pumps started.” The Irishman translated Marcel's reply with just the slightest hint of worry.

      
“We must get help.” King's voice rose with concern, both for the problem and that his part in it might be discovered. He faced the French officer directly. “There are additional portable pumps we can rig, and a bucket chain could be started, but that will take more men.”

      
They had been communicating well until the emergency, but now Marcel's English deserted him, and again he looked to Crowley.

      
“He says they will have to fire the rocket,” Crowley translated.
 

      
King's forehead creased.“What rocket?”

      
“It sounds to me like some sort of danger signal, in case we gets too lively. I reckons there'll be a bunch of armed Frenchmen joining us once it goes up.” His eyes flashed at King as he continued. “That'll make a might of confusion, wouldn't you say?”

      
King nodded. Crowley was right, if they were going to act further and make anything from the opening of the seacock, it must be now.
 

      
“We have two fire pumps on the upper deck,” he said, turning back to Marcel and pointing at the deckhead. “I'll get them rigged over this hatch and for'ard.”

      
He went to move while Crowley translated, Marcel nodded readily and let him go, while he babbled instructions at the boy officer who had first announced the leak.

      
The three of them made for the upper deck, with the lad just slightly in the lead. As they went, King caught sight of eight of
Pevensey Castle
's men, five British and three Lascars, presumably the relief crew for the pumps. He bellowed for them to follow, which they did. Their two guards objected, but the lad shouted them down, and they too joined the group heading upwards, like characters in some absurd fairy tale.

      
On deck Drummond and the duty watch were grouped about the main and foremasts, watched over by three more Frenchmen armed with blunderbusses. Again, the lad gave an order, indicating towards the poop where two more stood ready. The boy waved his hand, and one peered forward in the dark.

      
“La fusée! Allumez la fusée!”
The guards hesitated, clearly unwilling to carry out such a drastic action on the word of a mere child.

      
“I'll go!” Crowley shouted, translating quickly for the benefit of the Frenchmen. He bounded along the gangboard and on to the quarterdeck, then mounted the poop ladder. The two men stood back as the Irishman joined them.

      
“They need you to fire the rocket,” he said in English. “Fire the rocket,” he repeated. One guard shook his head bewildered, but turned to where a slim brass tube stood ready, its mouth pointing over the side towards the privateer. Crowley grabbed the flint and steel that lay next to it and began to strike; soon a small fire was glowing in the tinder. He looked across to where the French ship's lights could just be made out; she was about three cables off their starboard bow, beating close hauled into the wind. Once they saw the rocket it would take little time to let the wind carry them round, and alongside. The two Frenchmen began to talk rapidly to each other, but Crowley paid them no heed as the flame grew up and was ready. He glanced back at the guards, noticing that the boy officer and two other Frenchmen were making for the poop, with King and his men close behind.

      
“Fire the rocket,” Crowley repeated. At last, one of the guards bent down to the fuse, which could just be seen at the base of the tube. His head lowered as he extended the small length of quick match, exposing it to Crowley's flame. The second guard was leaning over to watch, and it was then that Crowley dropped the flaming tinder and administered a deadly rabbit punch to the back of the man's neck.

* * *

      
On the quarterdeck, King saw Crowley act and the man fall. The first guard looked up in surprise, and the Irishman neatly despatched him with a sweep from his right fist which sent him spinning to the deck. It was clear from their reaction that the French also noticed. The boy looked back at King, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion, while the other guards shouted and raised their weapons to bear on Crowley. There was no time to think. Without a sound King caught up with the rearmost Frenchman who was in the act of aiming his piece, and shoved him firmly in the small of his back. The weapon flew up and the man crashed forwards, but King had no time to consider him further. A second guard turned to him and levelled his blunderbuss. Without conscious thought, King reached for the barrel and knocked it back towards its owner, just as the trigger was squeezed and the hammer struck the frizzen. A flash came from the pan, but no more—a misfire. King finished the startled man off with a swift punch and saw him fall back and to one side. He turned to take on the rest, but they had already been dealt with by
Pevensey Castle
's crew, who were standing over them like so many hunters claiming their prey. King's grin owed much to relief as he looked back along the deck. It was now quite dark, but there were no signs of other Frenchmen.

      
“Tie them up and make sure they’re securely gagged,” he said. All but the boy were knocked senseless, but there was no telling for how long they might stay that way. King had already taken enough chances and cared little if the gags choked them. There were five blunderbusses lying on the deck, which were quickly gathered up by the men. One also collected the short sword that the officer had carried and handed it to King. Holding the naked blade, he felt more able to plan matters. Crowley was back from the poop and dragging one of the guards with him.

      
“Good work, Michael.” King nodded as the Irishman dumped the senseless body with the rest.

      
“The other will give us no problem,” Crowley replied with strange certainty. “Shall we attend to those Frenchmen below?”