Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (16 page)

      
“I should introduce you to the captain,” they reached the quarterdeck, and both turned to look as Mrs Drayton was holding up a small pug dog for Rogers’s admiration. “But now might not be the time.”

      
“I have enjoyed the benefit of Mrs Drayton's company for five days or more.” Langlois’s voice was smooth and low, although his twinkling eyes spoke loud enough. “And could not contemplate depriving anyone from such an experience.”

      
Paterson grinned again and considered the newcomer further. He was older than the other senior officers, and yet he had not progressed in rank: curious. At that moment, Rogers noticed them and gratefully seized upon Paterson as a distraction.

      
“And this is my third officer, John Paterson.”

      
The mate stepped forward, raised his hat and took the woman's hand.

      
“Delighted to meet you, ma'am,” Paterson gushed. “I hope you will enjoy your time aboard the
Pevensey Castle
.”

      
“You will have to meet Bella, Mr Paterson,” Mrs Drayton informed him, proffering the pug.

      
Paterson was not sure quite how to greet a dog. He extemporised by holding out his hand and attempting to pat the animal's forehead. This was taken in quite the wrong manner, and he snatched his arm away as the beast erupted into a paroxysm of snapping and barking. Rogers chuckled with uncharacteristic good humour, while Mrs Drayton cooed like a young mother and began explaining how much Bella liked a game. Paterson stepped back and looked sidelong at Langlois. The man's face was respectful and attentive; he might have just witnessed a senior captain being introduced to an admiral. One thing was certain; whatever had checked the new mate's promotion, it was not a lack of diplomacy.

* * *

      
King looked up from his journal. Someone had entered the steerage mess, and instinct told him it was not one of the usual inhabitants. He was behind him now, collecting up the teapot and cups from their earlier meal, so it must surely be a steward. The new mate, Langlois, had impressed them all by being unusually tidy, but this would be taking things too far. He was about to return to his work when the man coughed ostentatiously, clearly wanting his attention. King sighed at the interruption, the last in a long line that had stretched from first light. Placing his book down, he swung round in his seat and then gasped in surprise.

      
“Michael! Michael Crowley!”

      
The man grinned self-consciously. “Good afternoon, Mr King.”

      
“What a grand surprise,” King rose from his chair. “How did you get aboard?”

      
“Well, I volunteered, so I did.” Crowley shook the offered hand. “Heard from some old Pandora’s that you had gone for the Indiamen. I figured you might be needin' a hand, an' brought m'self along.”

      
King who always considered himself to be virtually friendless, was taken aback at hearing the man was here because of him. They first met when Crowley had been aboard a French prize. An Irishman by birth, he had spent his life travelling the world and was all but stateless. When given the chance, he readily accepted the Navy as his home and signed on for service in
Pandora
as a gunroom steward. Together they had seen fleet actions and mutinies, and when they finally said goodbye, King promised to send for him if he took another ship.

      
“I hadn't expected you to want for John Company,” he said, slightly embarrassed at the memory. “Surely you are a Navy man now?”

      
“Ah, I might have said the same for you.”

      
King laughed briefly. “Alas, there are few postings for a lieutenant at present. I considered the Impressment Service, but it were not for me.” He regarded Crowley carefully; a trained hand, one who would be welcomed aboard any warship. He could have chosen his berth with ease and yet had opted for
Pevensey Castle.

      
“Would you be needing a steward?” Crowley asked.

      
King cleared his throat. Surprise at meeting an old friend coupled with the knowledge that he had been especially sought out, had quite shaken him. “Whether we do or do not, you're in.” He laughed again as a thought occurred. “Never did trust that Tomlinson fellow: too many stories finding their way back to the captain for my liking. Perhaps we can discover another station for him, an' move you in his place?” There was an awkward pause before King, unsure of what to do, yet wishing to convey his feelings, reached out and touched the man gently on his shoulder. “And if you even think of changin' your mind, I'll have you confined until we sail.”

* * *

      
Rogers’s prediction was wrong. It was not until the following morning that they finally set sail. Amidst a flurry of unnecessary signals from the commodore, the group of ships made a decidedly stately progress as they crowded round the north coast of the Isle of Wight. The wind, which had backed slightly, was in the northwest and gave them every assistance, although some still strayed dangerously close to each other, and on more than one occasion, shouting was heard between quarterdecks. Nevertheless, before long they rounded Bembridge Point and a more regimented order of sailing was established, with two columns of vessels roughly three cables apart, and the frigates snapping about amongst them like dogs herding sheep. By four bells in the afternoon watch, they were in the Channel proper, although the commodore seemed strangely reluctant to increase sail and take full advantage of the obliging wind.
 

      
As the first dogwatch was set, this was becoming frustrating. King who had just come on duty, looked about at the other ships in the convoy. None were making more than three knots, and yet there was easily another two in this breeze. He was aware that Indiamen had a habit of snugging down at nightfall, but darkness was still several hours away.
 

      
“Once more, slow work, Tom,” Paterson said, joining him.
 

      
“We seem destined to remain in home waters,” King agreed. “If they continue at this rate, most will be dead from old age afore any raise India.”

      
“Well, this time there may be a reason,” Paterson nodded authoritatively. “Just wait and see.”

      
There was, and it became obvious less than half an hour later, when the sails of a merchant convoy were spotted. It was a homebound fleet of Indiamen, beating up towards them from the southwest.

      
“Commodore’s signalling” Paterson shouted. “Drummond, look alive there!”

      
The midshipman was already focusing on the leading ship in their fleet. “General, to the convoy,” he said. “Heave to.”

      
Paterson ordered the braces round, and the ship began to wallow in the gentle chop. Alerted by the change of motion, Rogers appeared from the roundhouse and strutted up to the binnacle.

      
“Trouble, Mr Paterson?” he asked.

      
“I think we might have met with a homebound convoy, sir.”

      
Rogers nodded knowingly and examined the new arrivals. “Pretty much on time, and just as well, else we might have been scraping round the south of Wight for an eternity. Clear away the longboat and both cutters.”

      
King watched, mystified, while Paterson simply touched his hat. Without the power of the wind, both convoys were starting to break up and ships soon began to drift in the swell. Only the outward-bound escorts retained any degree of order. Taking advantage of the opportunity to drill, they cruised back and forth, tacking and wearing like automatons.
 

      
“A spell in the tropics does not favour a vessel.” Patterson commented.

      
King looked at the home-coming Indiamen. All appeared weathered, with mended sails and paintwork that, even at this distance, appeared bleached and patchy. Their escorts, two line-of-battle ships and a frigate, looked in far better order, although they would have only joined the convoy at thirty-seven degrees south.
 

      
“Come from India?” he asked.

      
“Me'be China for some,” Paterson considered. “Stuffed full with all the wonders of the East, yet there is only one commodity that interests us.”

      
The truth was starting to dawn now. The longboat had been cleared of sheep and swung out, soon it was joined by both cutters. Rogers pulled out a slip of paper from his pocket and looked about. King felt his eyes on him.

      
“Mr King, you and Mr Langlois are for the
Salisbury,
take both cutters. I need at least forty, but more if they can be spared. Lascars if you must, but Englishmen are preferred. Mr Nichols will take the longboat to
Harlequin
,” he indicated the ships concerned with a wave of his hand. “Now away with you.”

      
“Lascars is all you'll get,” Paterson told him when Rogers was out of earshot.

      
“Are we to press them?” King asked.

      
“Hardly,” the third mate snorted. “They'll be only too pleased to come with you. Given the choice of a quick trip back home and carrying on to England, I'd say you'll be hard pushed to keep the numbers down.”

      
“But they've not even reached home waters.”

      
“Why should they want to? If they did, if they landed in England, they'd only be laid off. Then, they gets another choice—starve to death or freeze. Few Company ships will take them back. There are laws against employing too many Lascars—laws that we're about to flout, 'though no one will report us for it.”

      
King looked across to where boats from other ships were already bearing down on the homebound convoy. It seemed a strange system, but then no stranger than taking a man from a farm and forcing him to serve at sea. If what Paterson said was so, they might well be doing the Lascars a favour, and no one could pretend
Pevensey Castle
did not need the extra men.

      
His cutter was the last to leave, and as he settled himself into the sternsheets, he noticed Johnston seated as stroke oar and without any sign of a truss.

      
“We're making for the black-hulled number over there,” King said, pointing at a ship about half a mile from them. “Might as well rig the canvas.”

      
The crew quickly erected the twin masts, and soon the small boat was skimming through the seas behind the other cutter. The late winter sun was welcome, and King began to enjoy both the trip and the brief time away from
Pevensey Castle
. He found himself beaming at Johnston. The seaman also appeared to appreciate the change and grinned in return.
 

      
Close up, the
Salisbury
looked in even worse order. Her black paintwork, although touched up in places, was badly blistered and peeling, revealing dark, damp wood beneath, and a small stream of water from the scuppers told that the pumps were currently being manned. King's cutter stood off her starboard beam, waiting while Langlois’s boat was loaded. The cargo was human, a line of apparently emaciated bodies that slowly descended and settled themselves in the boat. All were slightly built, dark tanned and wore a variety of headgear ranging from light skull caps to full turbans. Some carried small bags, some short rolls of cloth, but there were no birdcages, no monkeys, no musical instruments, or exotic fruit; none of the usual baggage so beloved by British seamen. And, neither was there any banter. They continued in silence until the boat, finally filled, pushed off and passed them, with Langlois sitting, equally impassive, in the sternsheets. King noticed that not one of the new intake looked back at their old ship or forward to the new. Their expressions, if the word had any meaning at all, were totally neutral. They appeared to expect nothing and were willing to accept all, without a hint of curiosity, complaint, or even understanding. What was happening to them might just as well have been affecting someone else, and on the other side of the world. The other side of the world where they came from, where they would shortly be returning to and where their minds apparently still lay.

      
Then, it was their boat's turn. The cutter bumped once against the side of the merchant ship and was secured. King stood up gingerly, expecting to board, but before he could do so a line of men began clambering down and into his boat. A head appeared through an empty gunport just above him.
 

      
“This lot will make thirty-eight.” A sheet of paper was thrust down. “Details are there for your pusser; all fit, all healthy, and all about as much use as a bald man's brush.”

      
King looked about, slightly embarrassed. The man, a fourth mate, identified by the buttons on his sleeve, laughed readily.

      
“You ain't had much to do with our foreign friends, 'ave you?” he asked. “Some can't speak the language, an' those that can don't care much what we says. Long as they 'ave their food, a place to caulk, an' a chance to pray, they'll do you no 'arm, but don't expect much more.”