Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (32 page)

      
He looked across. Khan was alive and breathing deeply. “Did you manage it?” he asked, still breathless.

      
Khan's eyes were closed and he appeared to be speaking softly to somebody else. Then they opened, and he registered King's presence apparently with surprise. “Yes,” he smiled weakly. “It is done.”

      
King nodded. “Good.” The air was starting to revive him now, but still he continued to inhale deeply. “I have no wish to go back,” he said.

* * *

      
In the privateer, the prisoners were making slow progress. The hatch cover was solid hardwood and Paterson was attempting to force a plank from the smashed crate up under one of the corners. He guessed that the thing was only lightly secured, but there was little movement when he pulled back. His lever creaked alarmingly, and the hatch stayed firmly closed. Withdrawing the plank, he moved away from the corner, and inserted it nearer the middle. This time the cover bowed slightly with the effort.

      
“Give me another,” he shouted, and a second plank was thrust up from below. He took it, pulled back on the lever and thrust the new piece into the gap. Withdrawing the first plank, he took another as it was passed to him and repeated the process. Soon the hatch cover was bowed along its entire length, although the gap was less than three inches high at the widest point.

      
“I need something larger,” he said, looking down at the waiting group. “Something to force into that hole.”

      
There was a brief movement and some muttering before one of the heavier frames from the crate was handed up. Paterson examined it: a much shorter length of wood, although considerably thicker. He pushed the timber into the gap nearest the corner, and pulled back. The hatchway groaned with the effort and there was one sharp crack, but no more. He tried again with the same result. Then, on the third attempt, another louder snap, followed by the sound of tearing wood, and the cover lifted.

      
The previously wedged planks released and fell on to the men below, but no one complained or even seemed to notice. Paterson pressed his back against the hatch cover and gingerly lifted it free. He glanced round; the lower deck appeared empty, but he could not be sure. The cask that supported him wobbled slightly, and he peered down to see Nichols scrambling up next to him. When he was settled, Paterson lifted the hatch up again, and the fourth mate squeezed through the gap.

      
Once 0n deck Nichols climbed to his feet. A foreign voice, raised in alarm, made him turn and he looked straight into the eyes of a stocky man in a striped shirt. Without stopping to think, Nichols lunged forward. The Frenchman stepped back, but could not avoid the fist that caught him on the side of his chin, or the swift left hook that followed almost immediately afterwards. The body slumped to the deck in an untidy heap and Nichols massaged the knuckles of his fist thoughtfully.

      
“All clear?” Paterson was peering under the wrecked hatch cover.

      
Nichols nodded. “Apparently.”

      
The hatch creaked as Paterson pressed up from beneath. Nichols moved towards it and took the edge in both hands. With his feet on the solid deck, he was able to wrench the entire cover free, although he was careful to keep the noise of tearing wood down to a minimum. Below him, Paterson was still perched on the barrel, with the other men in the hold crowding beneath. The seamen, most of the officers and a good proportion of the passengers looked ready to act.

      
“Lower deck's empty at the moment, but that can’t last if you make a lot of noise.” Nichols spoke in a clear, soft voice that carried easily and there were nods of agreement from most as he continued, “We'll take the officers first, then the seamen. Gentlemen, your assistance would also be welcome.”

      
The message clearly found a home with some of the passengers, and Paterson received a nod from Langlois. He glanced back up at Nichols, who was standing next to the open hatch, looking along the deck. “Come on then,” he said, and reached for the coaming.

      
“Touch of the dropsies?” Paterson asked, as he clambered on to the deck and noticed the crumpled body of the Frenchman. “Didn't have you down for a pugilist, George.”

      
“In truth, neither did I,” Nichols replied. “'Tis lucky he went down as he did: there was little else I had to offer.”

      
Paterson looked about; the lower deck of the privateer was far narrower than that of
Pevensey Castle
. Men's hammocks remained hung from the deck beams, grouped in what must be their individual messes; clearly, the French did not choose to sling them nightly. There was also the usual assortment of storerooms and workshops that might be found on any deep-sea ship. Doubtless the women were incarcerated in one, but they would have to remain so for the time being. Should they be released, it could only mean greater danger for all. There was no sign of any other French, he supposed the activity above demanded all hands. Then the ship began to turn.

      
A stream of orders came down to them, followed by the creak of spars as the braces dragged the yards round, and the ship heeled on to her new course.

      
“All appear to be up on deck,” Paterson commented.

      
“Must be truly short handed,” the fourth mate agreed, while Willis climbed up through the hatch. Most of the officers were out of the hold now, and the first of the seamen were beginning to follow.

      
“What of the captain?” Paterson asked, suddenly noticing that he was missing.

      
“Mr Rogers prefers to remain in the hold,” Langlois said flatly. “Though I chance we are the better without him.”

      
“The captain is ill,” Willis's tone was stiff and defensive.

      
“Then what I say holds true,” Langlois replied, his voice oddly curt.

      
The officers were silent, although noises from above continued, and the ship began to heel further to larboard.

      
“Starboard tack and wind on the quarter,” Paterson said, quietly. “I'd say they've turned about.”

      
“Chance is another vessel's been sighted.” Langlois was looking intently at the deckhead as if he wanted to see through the planks. “Belike a warship?”

      
“They could hardly attempt taking another merchant,” Paterson agreed. “Not with their numbers stretched so.”

      
“Odds are high that it be British.” There were several seamen on deck now and the first of the male passengers also joined them, although it was going to take a fair while to clear the hold completely. Some were brandishing their rough wooden staves as if they were terrible weapons.

      
“Gentlemen, I think we can find better arms.” Paterson indicated the nearby bulk of the mainmast, which had a ring of boarding pikes secured about it. Cutlasses were also to hand in two brass racks to either side, and soon the small group was a proper fighting force.

      
“If they've sighted a British ship, we might be better to wait awhile.” Willis sounded anxious, although no one seemed to be taking a great deal of notice of him.
 

      
“My guess is there's trouble in
Pevensey Castle
, and they're heading back for her,” Nichols said, gripping his cold iron sword in his swollen right hand, conscious of a strange but not unpleasant surge of energy flowing throughout him. “There is nothing to gain by staying here. Clear the hold of all who are willing and let us act, else the advantage of surprise will be lost.” The ship groaned as she took up speed, and when he moved off for the stern hatchway he knew instinctively that the other men were following him.

* * *

      
The privateer was closing on them fast as King regained the quarterdeck. He glanced briefly at Crowley who appeared to take no notice of his soggy clothes, bruised face and lack of jacket, before turning his attention to the oncoming enemy. She was less than two cables off their bow and bearing down, her topsails, stays and jib picked out by the ghostly moon.

      
“They're intendin' to come alongside,” Crowley muttered, his eyes fixed on the enemy ship. “I wagered to starboard, but now ain't so certain.”

      
King nodded. “Aye, it will be larboard for sure; best set the men.”

      
Crowley stepped forward to the fife rails and directed the crew to the larboard side bulwarks.

      
“Stay covered 'till we meet her, and then wait 'for them to come across.” King addressed them in a clear but soft voice. “Take them on our deck, only attempt to board yourself if there be enough, and you are truly confident of support.”

      
There were several former Navy men who knew the dangers of an enemy deck, and King trusted that the Lascars, together with any dyed-in-the-wool merchant seamen, could control themselves sufficiently. The privateer drew closer, and was almost hidden as she crossed their bow. They had been right; she would scrape their larboard wales. A light showed briefly from her foretopmast, to be repeated after a short interval.

      
“They've done that afore,” Crowley spoke from behind. “I was thinking it a signal but knew not what to reply.”

      
King nodded, then inspiration struck. “Tell them we're sinking,” he said.

      
Crowley looked at him sidelong for less than a second before drawing breath and bellowing forth.

      
“Nous coulons!”

      
The words echoed about the quiet night as if shouted in an empty cathedral. A momentary pause, then a guttural French voice replied.

      
“They're asking us to make the signal,” Crowley replied.

      
“Say there is no time, to come alongside and help; tell them the pumps are out of action and we are taking in water fast.”

      
Crowley's reply rang out, and now the French ship could be seen clearly as she crept towards their larboard bow.

      
“Keep covered, lads,” King growled, when one of the British seamen on the forecastle raised his head above the bulwark. The same French voice replied, and this time it carried a slight note of panic.

      
“They say if we don't make the signal they will fire on us,” Crowley said calmly.

      
“So be it,” King all but whispered. “They are close enough, and we have put them off long enough.” He turned and looked at his friend, both faces dimly lit in the moonlight. “What say we go and meet with some Frenchmen?”

Chapter Fourteen

      
Ward and Johnston were keeping down low behind the dubious protection of the forecastle bulwark. The thing was made of sound enough timber and in places measured several inches thick, although it still would not be strong enough to keep out round shot at close range. On a warship it would have been higher, thicker and topped with netting that held any number of canvas hammocks, each tightly rolled and crammed in place to make an excellent defence. But they just had plain wooden planking secured to frame timbers; the bulwark itself was only truly intended to repel high seas and stood barely more than a foot above the deck.

      
Ward lay next to Johnston, who had Khan's shirt tied about his wounded upper arm, with Clegg, the Lancastrian, further forward and currently peering up over the cathead.

      
“Less than a cable off,” the latter reported, ducking down and regaining what shelter he could. “I'd say they'll be alongside in less than a minute.”

      
Ward fingered his cutlass thoughtfully. The blade was heavy and almost dull, although its worth came not from a razor-like edge. It was built to deliver hard, hacking strokes that severed and slashed and could be as deadly as any scimitar. The weapon was worthy of the job ahead; a true professionals tool, but at that moment Ward felt that it was being held by an out-and-out amateur.

      
His Navy days were more than ten years behind him and had been free from any genuine action. The previous brush with privateers in the Channel had been inconclusive, and even when
Pevensey Castle
was taken, he had not felt himself in any great danger. Now though, with King in command and the stakes raised so high, he knew this was not going to end without a proper resolution, or in the anticlimax of a speedy surrender. He looked at Johnston who crouched, knees drawn up under him, his back barely sheltered by the bulwark. The man seemed taut and ready to pounce as soon as the chance presented itself. Feeling Ward's eyes on him, he glanced sideways and treated the boatswain's mate to a slow, sly wink.

      
“Ready, lads!”

      
Ward jumped at the unexpected voice. Mr King had come forward and must be just behind them. Yes, there he was, peering over the bulwark at the oncoming enemy. He stood half way up the forecastle ladder, dressed in what looked like sodden clothing that clung to his body. Heaven alone knew how he had got himself quite so wet; it was certainly none of Ward's concern. The time stretched on inexorably, with every man at his post—rigid with anticipation or, in certain cases, something else.