Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (14 page)

      
Kate turned back to the pot, but watched out of the corner of her eye as the girls rose and began to assemble the tea things. Her gaze continued round to the other women, mostly passengers, and mostly chattering excitedly at the novel surroundings and the fact they might shortly be in action. Kate could not tell how they might react if it actually came to fighting, but was reasonably certain that the present high spirits would not last. She noticed Miss Hanshaw, sitting quietly next to a tier of beef casks and knitting. Their eyes met, and both smiled.

      
“Will you take tea?” Kate asked as she approached. She caught her eye and held the pot up. “I'm sure it’s within your victualling allowance.”

      
The girl laughed. “In that case, it shall be very welcome.”

      
Kate began to fill her cup. “I'm afraid there is no milk.”

      
“Really?” Elizabeth looked surprised and then considered for a moment. “That is a shame. Do you perhaps have a bucket?”

      
Kate eyed her quizzically. “A jug, might that do?”

      
She returned to the stove and held up a large pewter jug.

      
“Capital!” The girl put down her cup and knitting, sprang to her feet, collected the jug and made for one of the ladders. “Some of the cows above are Company property, I assume?”

      
“Why, yes.” Kate looked mildly puzzled. “And I suppose I should know which, but fear I do not.”

      
“It is no matter,” Elizabeth said, hitching her dress up with the hand that held the jug, and starting up the ladder. “We only need a pint or so; I'm certain it will not be missed.”
 

* * *

      
Rogers looked about his ship in mild desperation. The male passengers were standing along the larboard gangboard, fingering their weapons with rather more respect. Seamen were stationed at those larboard guns that had been cleared and ready. It took six men to serve each, so he was left with fewer than thirty actually sailing the ship. To starboard, the sands off Dungeness effectively blocked any chance of escape in that direction, and to turn and attempt to find shelter behind
Shearwater
would only present themselves to the privateers and make matters far worse. He had yet to take his ship through the eye of the wind, but even the poorest of seamen knew that a lubberly barge like
Pevensey Castle
would wallow hopelessly, taking forever to see the opposite tack. He glanced up. They were carrying topsails and topgallants, along with the forecourse and staysails; there was little more he could do in this wind—ominous creaks were coming from aloft as it was.

      
Shearwater
was firing again now, this time at the centre of the three ships. A small cheer went up as the enemy vessel was neatly straddled by the shots, wiping her masts down as if they were nothing more than matchsticks and leaving her helpless.

      
“One down,” Nichols murmured to Paterson. They watched while the frigate, now heading almost directly away from them, made for the northernmost craft. The next Frenchman would be in range in minutes, but by the time
Shearwater
had dealt with it and turned about,
Pevensey Castle
would be fighting off the nearest of the privateers.

      
“Mr Paterson, Mr Nichols, you will assist Mr Seagrove in the waist.” Rogers had already decided that a fight was inevitable and wanted his third and fourth mates well out of the way, should he choose to surrender. He turned to the men at the nearest gun. “How are you set?”

      
“Round shot, sir.”

      
Ideally he should order the weapons drawn and reloaded with grape, but the time to think of that had long passed. To attempt to do so now, with inexperienced men, would probably see the guns empty as the enemy came alongside.

      
“Very well; each of you will hold your fire until you are ordered.” He looked up at the approaching privateer. She was well armed, with seven guns a side; they might be six or even nine pounders, and almost certainly more accurate and with a greater range than his own blown-out eighteens.
Pevensey Castle
's guns threw a heavier ball, but the barrels were short and the bores generous; point-blank range against a large enemy was about their limit. The Indiaman would probably be feeling the force of the privateer's weapons at any moment, and he was far more confident of their effectiveness.
 

      
Then while he watched, the enemy turned a couple of points to starboard, and the immediate threat was postponed. The French were clearly intending to close as fast as possible, then round their stern. Like everything else that was playing out before him, the tactics were eminently sensible, although that hardly lessened his frustration. He felt his hands begin to shake and thrust them behind him, as he sought to adopt a determined attitude. If he allowed the enemy to attack from behind,
Pevensey Castle
could be raked, round shot running the length of the ship, smashing everything in their path. He bit his lower lip. There would be carnage. It must not happen, especially as he, standing on the quarterdeck with only the frail timbers of the poop to protect him, would be a likely casualty.

      
“A desperate situation, captain.”

      
Drayton's voice combined with the suppressed tension made Rogers physically jump. Where had he come from? Presumably the man was in his cabin in the roundhouse and had not been alerted until now.

      
“It was good of you to see that I was advised of the danger,” Drayton said.

      
Rogers looked at him cautiously, but made no comment. Thoughts of the roundhouse brought an obvious association, however. Elizabeth might still be in her cabin. He really should see that she was safe as well. For a moment, he considered despatching one of the midshipmen, then changed his mind. The girl could look after herself; she was only really steerage class, after all.

      
“Are we in danger, sir?”

      
“I fear so, Mr Drayton.” His tone was forced but strangely, even in such a situation, Rogers found it easy to speak lightly. “T'would be a shame to lose the ship so early into the voyage, and while still in home waters.”

      
“You think that likely, Captain?”

      
“It is indeed possible,” he continued, almost casually, as if there were nothing odd about indulging in light conversation while his ship was about to be attacked and boarded. Rogers thought for a moment. Was this the bravery that other men displayed in battle? He supposed so, and had certainly met with those who behaved in just the same way. He remembered even despising them a little for it. Rogers had been in action on several occasions, and each time fear, something he considered quite healthy, had made itself known. This was his first time as a captain, and he found himself performing like those stalwarts he always vaguely scorned. But did they also have to clamp their hands behind their back to prevent such a shaking? Rogers told himself that they did not, even though a curious inkling said that they might.

      
“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.”