Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (20 page)

      
“After India?” he thought for a moment. “Why there will be some delay while we unload and resupply. Many will go ashore for a while, and some of the crew are bound to be exchanged. But I should think
Pevensey Castle
would be sailing within the month. On to China, probably a similar wait then and, once the grand chop has been granted, back to England.”

      
“Grand chop?” she laughed. “It appears they will be feeding you at least.”

      
“It is the procedure necessary for foreign ships to leave China,” he explained.

      
“So you will be home within a year?”

      
“If I can call it home,” he laughed. “No, a little longer, maybe next summer.”

      
“Tis a pity I could not stay with the ship.”

      
His eyes widened slightly, although he was quick enough to follow her thoughts. “I should like nothing better.” He gave her hand the gentlest of squeezes. “But I fear that one aboard might raise objections.”

      
She looked away, her thoughts elsewhere, and he found himself staring at her face. Mention of the captain had taken the child from her expression; she suddenly seemed more mature, even worldly. And she did not seem to notice, or mind, his attention.
 

      
Nichols had never been allowed to consider a woman so closely before. He had known many to be beautiful, but a chance to study that beauty in detail had always escaped him. Her mouth was perfectly formed with lips far less red when examined closely. The desire to kiss them was very hard to resist, although he felt instinctively that in doing so he was merely postponing the pleasure.

      
“But maybe another ship?” she turned back to him. “There must be jobs for women aboard?”

      
“Precious few, I fear,” he said. It was on the tip of his tongue to say that many women who wished to travel married officers, but either sense, or stupidity, stopped him.

      
“Still, I am sure there is something I could do,” she pondered. At that moment, a hesitant tap at the door brought them back to the real world. Both quickly dropped the other's hand and assumed as independent an attitude as was possible when sharing the same sea chest. Kate entered, wearing the warrant officer's jacket she favoured when working with the purser. She gave a knowing look to the couple as the ship's bell began to strike.

      
“Why, that's it!” Elizabeth laughed and turned to Nichols, squeezing him with sudden affection. “Kate here has all the joy of travel, and she is with her husband. I think I know the very thing!”

* * *

      
It was more than six days later, after
Pevensey Castle
had rounded Ushant, left the Channel and was truly in the North Atlantic, when Rogers was next seen. Striding out on to the quarterdeck he took King, the officer of the watch, quite by surprise, so much so that he was greeted with a less than formal gasp of astonishment, rather than the salute a captain was entitled to expect. Rogers glowered at him. Half of his face was covered in bandage, and what was not appeared pale and loose. It was as if he had suddenly grown too small for his skin, although the fire in his remaining eye still shone out, bright and defiant.

      
King hurriedly corrected his mistake and removed his hat. “Good morning, sir,” he muttered, his voice slightly higher than usual. “I trust your wound is recovering well.”

      
“My wound, and its present condition, is not of your concern, Mr King.” The captain sniffed loudly, before reaching for the traverse board and glaring at it.

      
“We're heading…”

      
“I can see our heading, and will thank you to keep any further observations to yourself.” He looked up suspiciously and stared at the convoy.

      
King withdrew to the leeward side of the quarterdeck.
Pevensey Castle
was the sternmost ship, as she had been for the past three days, but nothing else had changed since the captain was last abroad. There was little unusual in Rogers’s behaviour, he told himself. The vast majority of ship captains, be they merchant or Royal, would behave in a similar manner, first call in the morning. And many might suspect their officers of all manner of misdemeanours; sometimes with good reason.
 

      
But then, the last week or so without Rogers had been extremely pleasant, and a great deal that was not officially ordered had taken place without the captain's knowledge. There were the exercises with the great guns, as well as sail drill from the Lascar boatswain, who had proved to be an exceptional seaman. And progress was made in other areas. The passengers were settling down to the rigours of shipboard life and starting to form their own social groups. Now that Rogers’s extended lunches no longer monopolised the dining room cuddy, a whist school could meet there every afternoon. Some of the finer details about the captain were also starting to grow hazy, and many were actually looking forward to the rest of the voyage. But, now his presence was back, the old regimen looked likely to return.

      
It could have been intuition, or he might have even heard the captain leave his cabin, but Drayton made an appearance on the quarterdeck shortly afterwards. King withdrew even further as the two men fell into deep conversation. They spoke quietly, but with passion, for several minutes. At one point, Rogers broke away and took a stride or two about, but King noticed he soon returned to Drayton, waiting patiently by the weather bulwark.
 

      
Seven bells rang, the new watch was to be set in less than half an hour, and the ship would come alive, but still they talked, although it was clear that Rogers was now doing most of the listening. Then, with a swift turn on his heel, the captain walked away and made for his quarters under the poop. Drayton remained and took a pace forward to the binnacle. He stood there for a moment, hands clenched behind his back and greatcoat flapping as he rode with the ship's motion through the swell. Looking at him, King reminded himself that this was merely a passenger and that Mr Rogers, who apparently had just been dismissed from his own quarterdeck, was the captain.

Chapter Nine

      
They made good progress for a convoy of merchant ships. Clearly, the commodore was not in favour of slow passages, and the wind, blowing from the east, was aiding him by growing stronger with every passing day. The glass had also been dropping, although none of the experienced sailors needed any mechanical aids, they understood only too well that a storm was in the offing. Khan, the Lascar boatswain, had noted several deficiencies in their rig that he wanted to rectify before the bad weather arrived. Ward and Johnston were part of the team assisting him, and as they finally wound a fresh larboard mizzen topmast shroud tight, all shared in a brief moment of triumph.

      
“That'll hold,” Ward informed them, pulling back on the line with grim satisfaction. It was on the lee side and remained relatively slack, but all knew it would tighten to iron hard once they changed tack. “Jus' 'ave to reeve in the ratlines, an' there's one more we can rely on.”

      
“The others are not as bad.” Khan spoke with quiet authority, while Ward gave a thumbs up to the party below at the chains. “All can now wait until we reach harbour, although I wish to attend to the serving in several areas, and there are still the foretopmast braces.”

      
“Aye, they gets a measure of use,” Johnston agreed. “Want that we look to them next?”

      
Khan sniffed the wind and looked about. “I think we can leave those as well,” he said finally. “The bad weather is getting closer, and we should prepare for work in different quarters.”

      
“It'll be a bit of a blow, that's for sure,” Ward nodded. “The cap'n might be asking for preventer stays.”

      
The Lascar's eyes rolled slightly. “If he does, you can be certain we will have little notice.”

      
“I'll rouse out the lines and have them ready.” Ward glanced across to Johnston. “Better make a start on the ratlines, we may not get the chance later.”

      
A sudden gust of wind blew a high-pitched whine through the taut stays. All three tightened their hold while the ship gave a lurch to leeward and plunged down into the depth of a wave.

      
“Reckon that's a taste of things to come.” Johnston grinned, recovering himself. “It's going to be a proper thumper an' no mistake.” The ship was surging forward now, and the spars about them creaked alarmingly; it could only be a matter of minutes before the officer of the watch called for a reduction in sail. The men watched in silent fascination while the storm bore down on them.

      
“We're going to be in for a night of it, sure enough,” Ward muttered, when the first drops of rain began. Dusk was coming early; the horizon had already grown dark and indistinct, and the slatches on the windward waves were large and almost upon them.
Pevensey Castle
gave another surge, one that broke the pattern which was already becoming established, and this time they were all caught unawares. Johnston, in the act of transferring himself to the shrouds, felt his feet slip away, until he was hanging by his hands from a ratline. Ward noticed his friend's predicament and reached out for him, only to find himself stumbling in the process. He fell against Khan, knocking the man free of his own hold. The two clung to each other for mutual support and were in danger of falling from the crosstrees when Johnston, who had now regained his footing, swung himself in and grabbed at them both. The top twisted and heaved as the trio hurriedly secured themselves, before giving way to mutual laughter. Johnston, now steadied, reached again for the shrouds.

      
“Take us for a party of landsmen,” Ward snorted, wiping his eyes with one tarred hand.

      
“I seen a bunch of Newgate offerings act less lubberly.” Johnston was back on the shrouds now, and about to descend.

      
“Better remain for the present,” Khan said. “If the t'gallants are not taken in immediately they will blow out.”

      
“Aye, if you got to go, take a backstay,” Ward agreed. The call from deck was surely only seconds away. “Head down the shrouds now an' you'll be stampeded in the rush. Most of 'em will be Lascars, so they won't knock you off; but you could be tickled to death.”
 

* * *

      
“Take in t'gallants!” Paterson roared. The captain's standing orders stated clearly that no change of sail should be undertaken without his or the first mate's consent, but then Paterson had already sent two messages without response and now regarded the situation as dangerous. The quartermaster, tired of wrestling with the wheel, bellowed at the sheltering topmen. Soon the tight weather shrouds were dark with clambering bodies, fighting to keep a grip of the naked ratlines. Ward, who had followed Johnston down, watched as the sails were taken in.

      
“Begin with the lee clew!” he shouted. If the weather sheet were started first the sail would belly off to leeward, being of a lighter cloth than that used for topsails or courses. However, the mizzen topgallant was already heavy with moisture and could be controlled and brought in relatively easily.

      
The movement on deck, though not as extreme as that at the crosstrees, was no more predictable.
Pevensey Castle
bucked and twisted in the growing swell, her ponderous bow and kettle bottom giving the action little grace. Like a cow trying to dance, she lurched and shuddered in the heaving sea, while her heavy hull, freed from the steadying pressure of the upper sails, began to roll sickeningly.

      
Shearwater
was stationed to windward, and making far better of the weather. She had also taken in topgallants, although her reduction was less critical than the one Paterson called for. The frigate's hull was sleek and flowing; she might even have carried more canvas rather than less. Right now, she could as easily be flying past at an incredible speed, instead of being chained to this crowd of lubberly, overweight tubs who were in very real danger of losing spars.

      
Willis finally appeared on the quarterdeck, followed a moment later by his servant carrying neatly folded oilskins and a sou’wester. The chief mate acknowledged Paterson with no more than a single glance before looking up to the sails and across to the convoy. The rain was easing off slightly and now came in hard individual drops. Powered by the wind, they stung any exposed flesh. Paterson pulled his watchcoat about him, while Willis clambered clumsily into his oilskins.

      
“Reckon it will be worse before better,” Paterson chanced. Willis merely grunted in reply. He stared up at the sails once more, while leaning forward slightly and gauging the ship's motion.

      
“Reef topsails,” he said suddenly. Paterson looked at him. The ship's motion had already eased considerably.