Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (5 page)

      
“But I do know this; if anyone jacks you in, it'd 'ardly show kindly on them.”

      
“No?”

      
“No.” Ward was positive. “There are only so many proper seamen in England, and they got to go somewhere. If every King's man who runs to the Company were given back, there'd be hardly any to serve our ships.”

      
It was a point that Johnston had not considered.

      
“Better stay, that is if you'd a mind to go,” Ward continued. “I reckons your man is not such a fool as all that. Besides, if you're that worried about being sprung, you'll start giving me the jitters an' all.”

* * *

      
Rogers’s berth was a good deal better. Set below the poop deck, in an area known as the roundhouse, it was smaller than a captain's quarters in a similar-sized warship, but palatial compared with the other accommodation. There were magnificent stern windows that gave excellent light and ventilation, and room enough for his desk, three chairs and a rather comfortable couch; all that in addition to his bed space which was in a separate room. The entire roundhouse was divided in two by a deal-wood partition that ran down the middle. One half was entirely his; the other was separated into cabins for the better class of passenger. But, most of their rooms were little more than hen houses; nothing like as grand as the space he occupied. And he had his own private washing facilities and head. He closed the door to the cuddy dining room and strode into his domain. It was his right, of course; as captain, he should have the very best. Some masters chose to rent out their cabins to wealthy passengers and berth more modestly, but he had decided to retain this small indulgence as a necessary return for the responsibility and status of his rank.

      
The door opened, and Luck, his steward, slipped in carrying a small tray.

      
“Brandy, sir?” the man asked in barely a whisper.

      
“Set it down,” Rogers replied, indicating the desk next to the stern lights. The man left as quietly as he had come, and Rogers lowered himself comfortably in front of the decanter. Despite the wine taken at dinner, the spirit warmed him, and he sat back content.

      
Since his sudden departure from the Navy, something that his father, who knew little of the facts, was still working hard to understand and justify, Rogers had spent a mildly indulgent life. There was the odd bit of business in the city, of course, and he had taken responsibility for the family's investments and trusts—items that he immediately placed with more competent minds that did the work well enough and passed the credit back to him. Even so, it had not taken long for his father to insist that he took up a true career; something that might actually earn a return on the money already invested. He had thought to have found such a calling with the Royal Navy, but that later proved to be a dead end. He moved on from the unpleasant incident in
Vigilant
with barely a further thought. The years spent in His Majesty's service had taught him much, however, and a position with the East India Company—the
Honourable
East India Company, was really the obvious step. In addition, he could earn a decent pile. Some captains brought back wealth beyond measure, and there was the added advantage that progress within the service was more easily achieved. In fact, like the ship, most of the crew, his personal cargo, and even his future promotion could actually be bought.

      
His father sorted everything, of course, but then that was always one of his greatest qualities. He knew people. More than that, he knew the right people, and how to handle them, so that he got his way, without anyone apparently suffering. It was quite a talent. The old man had certainly excelled when it came to meeting with the court of directors at East India House. They might have appeared a severe lot but, given time and the right attention, soon proved as willing to take assurances of Rogers’s competence, as they were the various gifts, arrangements, and opportunities that were sent their way. It was just a father looking after his son, but he did it admirably well.

      
And he would see a return—there was no doubt of that: Rogers had all the material necessary. The ship was sound enough. She had just completed one India trip to shake down, then gone through a full refit. He was quietly confident that his knowledge of the sea coupled, even more importantly, with his knowledge of human nature, would be sufficient for everything else. He had two good men to support him in Willis and Seagrove; not the finest of officers maybe, but they did what they were told and could be relied upon to back him to their last breath. Furthermore, their complete lack of social status might also come in handy if a scapegoat were needed. If he had learned nothing from his father about getting his own way, manipulating the junior officers to his will, and generally seeing that matters were done—not actually by him, but to his requirements—then his life to date had been totally wasted.

      
Pevensey Castle
was carrying an official payload of lead, tin, ironware, and woollen cloth that would be sold upon reaching Bombay. A little over fifty tons was Rogers’s personal property, as would be the profit. A further allowance of thirty-eight tons' cargo space was also his for the return trip, where the real money was to be made. With earnings measured in hundreds of percent, it would be strange if he were not comfortably set up by the time they next anchored in the Thames. The idea pleased him, especially when he could acquire his fortune by sitting in these pleasant surroundings, and with the reassurance that he was in ultimate control of all he surveyed.

      
In front of him now was the passenger list. That was another potential source of, if not income, then certainly influence. Listed were the names of people with whom he would be spending several months in close proximity. They would be relying on him and his ship for most of their needs, and he had every intention of claiming future favours in return for his services. He glanced down the page; some were joining tomorrow, others at Deal, and a few more when they reached Spithead. The majority were small traders, factors, minor Company officials, cadets, and writers - the kind who cared not how they travelled, or were doing so at someone else's expense. These were unlikely to be of much use, but then there was also one in a very different station: Charles Drayton esquire, a man of influence, someone truly worth cultivating. A secret and quite unofficial ring known as The Marine Interest held virtual control over all ships offered for hire to the East India Company. Drayton was either a member or at least enjoyed close connections, and anyone who had risen to such a position was likely to be influential in other areas as well. Yes, there were definite possibilities there.
 

      
His eyes flowed over the list for the second time. Several female names caught his eye, but most appeared to be travelling with their husbands or, in one case, an adult son. Still, the former might provide a little entertainment. Rogers wasn't above cuckolding the odd insignificant spouse; in fact, he usually found it added spice to a relationship. And even if all were loyal, they were bound to have ladies' maids. Again, he was open minded enough to share himself with women of any level. Besides, there was one, he noted, who appeared to be quite alone; probably being sent to India to secure a husband. That could mean she was as ugly as sin, but even then she might not be discounted, if the time showed signs of moving slowly.

      
He was pouring himself a second generous measure of the brandy when his servant put his head round the door.

      
“Officer to see you, sir. Name of Paterson; says he is the new second mate.”

      
Rogers snorted to himself; does he indeed? Well, there was no harm in pulling him down a notch or two. He had long ago learned that, however competent or experienced a man might be, it was always worthwhile putting him in his place, and showing who was really in command.

      
“Show him in, Luck,” he said, before downing his drink in one and standing to meet the newcomer.

* * *

      
King walked through the door to the steerage mess and threw his ditty bag into the corner of the small, airless room. At the long canvas-covered table, Kate and Manning looked up from the remains of their meal.

      
“Have you eaten, Tom?” she asked.

      
He nodded and gave an ironic smile. “I took a bite just before the captain came aboard; haven't felt much like food since.”

      
Manning grunted. “Rather puts you off, don't it?”

      
“The pity is, it were all starting to go so well,” Kate said, as King slumped down at the table. “I'll admit that Mr Myles, the purser, isn't God's gift to accountancy, but at least he has things reasonably in order and some degree of planning for what is to come.”

      
“Likewise with the surgeon.” Manning thrust his plate aside and turned his attention to the teapot in the middle of the table. “A trained man, and he seems willing to pass on what he knows. Better medical supply than I've ever seen in a King's ship, and a first-rate reference library to boot. He's got Blane, Lind, and the latest Trotter; a fellow could get educated, were he so inclined.”

      
King collected a cup and passed it across to be filled. “Aye, well up until the arrival of our dear captain, I weren't faring too badly. Ship's in a state, of course, there can be no doubting that, but it’s also to be expected with her just out of Blackwall. She needs to work up proper, and there's little chance of that with a skeleton crew aboard.” He paused and sipped at his tea, considering. “Mind, what we have are sharp enough, once you get them going. And all are volunteers; far better than the sweepings from the press I'm used to. Together we achieved more in a day than I'd have thought possible, an' I think that in the main the people are happier for it.”

      
Kate had finished eating now and collected Manning's plate beneath hers, neatly stacking the cutlery on top of both. “What really nettles me is the fact that Rogers was quite right.” Both men nodded as she continued, “Tyrant and bully he may be, but it weren't the best way to greet a new captain,” she looked across at King. “You should have made certain of your rank and entitlement before accepting the post, and I…” She paused for a moment, “I probably should have been a little less forthcoming.”

      
There was a silence as Kate's admission was digested. It was one that, for her, was almost bordering on a revelation. “Perhaps you were a little hasty,” Manning conceded, studiously avoiding King's eyes.

      
“So we will have to make the best of it,” she said, standing and taking the plates away. “Purser says they'll be a fresh intake in the morning, both officers and men; it's up to us to make this ship work.”

      
“I doubt that we'll get much help from Willis or Seagrove,” Manning said gloomily. “Seems to me they've got their mind set solely on pandering to the captain.”

      
“That's as may be; we'll have to see. But, if we don't try to meet them at least halfway, this cruise is going to be a nightmare for all.”

      
A sound from outside, followed by the opening of the door, made them all look round. A man stood hesitantly in the passageway. Slim, and below average height, his short dark curly hair was cut in the modern manner, and he was dressed in the Company's uniform, with a canvas parcel tucked under one arm.

      
“Room for one more?” he asked, smiling pleasantly. “I don’t take up much space.”

      
“Come in and be welcome!” Both men stood, and King extended a hand. “Thomas King, midshipman; this is Robert Manning, surgeon's mate, and Katharine Manning assistant to the purser.”

      
“Pleasure to meet you gentlemen, madam. John Paterson, at your service; third mate, or so it appears. I had hoped for better, but it seems the captain has already appointed.” His look was good natured and genuine. “Sorry not to be here the sooner, there were illuminations in London and not a carriage to be found.”

      
“Third mate?” King asked cautiously. “Are you in the correct berth?”

      
“Ah, King by name, and do I detect a King's man by nature?”

      
“I have served in the Royal Navy,” King confirmed, guardedly.

      
“Sure, I gathered as much, and that you aren't used to the ways of the Company.” Paterson smiled again, although this time there was something slightly superior in the expression.

      
“Allow me to explain; the steerage mess is treated very much as a wardroom for junior offices, do you see? Third mate is customarily the president. We don't go for fancy cabins; even those that do are likely to sell them on to the wealthier passengers.” Paterson's look grew wistful as he added, “Forty guineas or more, they pay for an outward berth, or so I'm told.”

      
“Tis a tidy sum,” Manning commented. King said nothing. He had not asked for an explanation and was a little taken aback by the new man who clearly enjoyed the sound of his own voice.