Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (37 page)

      
He had been sleeping fitfully since the surgery, attended by either Kate or Elizabeth, using their own private watch on watch arrangement. Kate was present when he started to wake, although Elizabeth, who had only retired a few minutes before, was back in time to see the first true signs of consciousness. She entered the sickbay, eyes already fixed on the body that lay at the far end in the darkened bunk.

      
“His eyelids were beginning to flicker,” Kate told her. “Not like when he was dreaming, it was more as if he were trying to open them properly, and for a moment I thought he might talk.”

      
Elizabeth nodded eagerly while she examined Nichols’s pale face. Then she drew back as his breathing deepened and both arms began to move beneath the sheets. The head fell back, and one hand appeared from under the covers and actually touched his mouth.

      
“It is a common action when awaking from a coma.” Manning's voice came from behind. He had also been called and was watching with as much attention as either woman. “He might not be back fully, but I'd say most of the drug has worn off.”

      
“George, can you hear me?” Elizabeth spoke quietly, but the
 

reaction was obvious to all. His head turned in her direction slightly, and the closed eyelids twitched.

      
“Try not to tire him.” Manning's warning was purely automatic. He was following the progress just as intently, and almost felt inclined to give the patient a firm nudge.

      
“George?”

      
The eyes, finally revealed, appeared dilated and bloodshot in the poor light.

      
“You're going to get better, dear.” She said the words as a statement of fact; one that, once made, could not be revoked. His face twitched and a faint smile appeared, to be quickly replaced by a tensioning that might be from pain.

      
“Leave him a while.” Manning placed his hand on Elizabeth's shoulder, although he remained as hypnotised by the waking form as any of them.

      
“Elizabeth?” Nichols’s voice was little more than a whisper, but his eyes opened once more, and now the entire face was starting to look more human.

      
“Yes, dear.” she rested her hand on his bare arm, and slowly both limbs relaxed. “You need to sleep,” she said, the words betraying her wishes. “Sleep, and you will be better.”

      
He nodded slightly, closed his eyes and, for a moment, there was silence. Then he drew a deep breath and sleep reclaimed him.

* * *

      
Since the French had been confined to their beloved forecastle, the senior hands were now messing in forward steerage. This was not as crowded as it might have been, as several of
Pevensey Castle
's crew were in the privateer, while a few more remained under the surgeon's care in sickbay. And others, of course, were dead.

      
Johnston was trying not to think of the latter as he slung his hammock. It was the end of another eventful day, one of so many in a voyage that was proving more tiring than most, and he felt ready for sleep. He had been assisting Khan with replacing the lifts on the fore and main topmasts. It was the sort of job previously carried out with Ward in the team, and yet strangely he was hardly missed at all. Now they were off duty, however, Johnston felt his loss far more acutely.

      
Khan, who along with most of his countrymen, shunned the use of hammocks, was wrapping his near-naked body in a thin blanket and settling down to sleep in a manner that, to Johnston at least, appeared unnecessarily uncomfortable.

      
“You want to draw another blanket from the pusser, Abdul,” he said. “Each man's 'titled to two; if you don't claim yours, the rook will only sell it.”

      
“And he is very welcome.” Khan was smiling as he lay down in the folds of the blanket and composed himself.

      
Johnston noticed the look and grunted to himself. He had long ago abandoned any thought that he might change the Indian’s habits, but the loss of Ward emphasised the fact that his lifelong collection of friends was incredibly small. “Well, you'll catch your death if you sleep like that.”
 

      
He snuggled himself into the warmth of his hammock, well protected by his own two blankets and the shirt and trousers he had been wearing all day long. It was about now that Ward used to think of something to talk about; usually inconsequential and, more often than not, annoying. But some form of comment would be called for from Johnston, ensuring that a conversation was struck up, and neither got any sleep for at least another half an hour. He had cursed the boatswain's mate for it often enough, but now found himself hating the silence every bit as much.

      
“You are missing Mr Ward?” Khan asked from his bed on the deck beneath.

      
“Not especially,” Johnston lied. “You?”

      
“I was grateful to have him as a friend,” Khan replied after a brief pause. “And hope to meet with him again some time.”

      
“You believe in that sort of thing, do you?” Johnston was fully awake again and listened, strangely eager, for the response.

      
“I believe in many things, and some are not so different from your Christian faith,” Khan said.

      
“Is that straight?”

      
“Oh yes, there are more similarities than you might think.”

      
“Well, I never did.”

      
“But most of all I believe that if we start to talk about such matters now, we will be awake for most of the night. It might be a fitting tribute to Mr Ward, although I think that we should also rest.”

      
Johnston grinned, but found his mind strangely cleared of the memories. “Bloody Lascars,” he said softly, and settled himself to sleep.

* * *

      
They continued to beat against the contrary weather for seven more days until finally the dim grey outline of land appeared off their larboard bow and a fresh course could be plotted. The easterly wind stayed constant and was now in their favour, so much so that
Pevensey Castle
began to heel slightly and a credible bow wave could be seen as her stem drove through the dark Atlantic. There still remained a fair way to run, and with the Portuguese coastline occasionally visible off their larboard beam, all settled down to the final leg that should see them raise the Tagus and safety.

      
The weather moderated two days later. The wind dropped considerably, and a wintry watery sun appeared that gathered in strength, drying the decks and making it almost pleasant to stand watch. Beckoned by its call, some of the passengers came up cautiously from the dark underworld of the ship. Though in the main still shocked by recent events, signs of recovery could be detected. The whist school had already reformed, and there was even talk of a celebratory meal when they finally reached safety. Personal relations also became easier: small arguments and petty squabbles common under Rogers’s command all but vanished. This was not due entirely to Paterson's captaincy, or the improvement in conditions; rather now, there was a physical focus for ill feelings. The passengers were united by the one thing guaranteed to create bonds of fellowship—they had a common enemy.
 

      
The French prisoners were treated with universal contempt. It was considered that Captain Passon's ungentlemanly action had brought disgrace to all and he, along with the other officers, was herded into the same cramped quarters as the men. Their rare and well supervised opportunities for exercise were often accompanied by hoots of derision and blatant insults from the older male passengers, while some of the ordinary seamen were not averse to a well-timed trip that sent one or other of the prisoners sprawling, to the delight and laughter of the ladies.

      
But there was one who was even less popular than the French, and that was Rogers. He continued to haunt his quarters in the roundhouse, where meals were eaten and wine drunk in splendid isolation. Occasionally, he emerged and his dark and sullen countenance would stalk the quarterdeck, to be firmly ignored by all, even if the officer of the watch took particular care to avoid the stinging sarcasm that any inattention on his part would elicit. The passengers also gave him a wide berth, although one aged military gentleman was heard to comment that, by rights, he should be confined in the forecastle with the Frenchmen. The observation was quickly taken up and circulated throughout the ship, to the amusement and approval of all.

      
Paterson, who was feeling surprisingly comfortable in his new position, was secretly shocked by this behaviour. But there was little he could do in such a situation, and he quickly turned his attention to the more complex problems associated with the command of an Indiaman. It was at his insistence that the regular afternoon dinners in the dining cuddy were re-established, and what unspoilt provisions remained were distributed freely without regard to cost or station. The very act of eating well helped restore confidence and generally raised morale, to the extent that for the first time in her current commission,
Pevensey Castle
was showing signs of becoming a truly happy ship.
 

      
Despite his recent appointment, and the responsibilities it contained, the shortage of officers forced Paterson to stand a regular watch. It was something he accepted, if only because it brought him back to the more familiar duties he had carried out for most of his time at sea, the only difference being that there was now no ultimate authority to summon should anything prove beyond his capabilities. But this had yet to happen, and Paterson, like the ship, was becoming brighter as the voyage continued and his confidence grew.

      
It was exactly nine days since he took command, and Paterson had just relieved Langlois and was starting to enjoy the warm sunshine, when Nichols made his first appearance on the quarterdeck.

      
“Jove, sir.” Paterson grinned when he saw him. The man, who lay prone on a bier that was carried by two seamen, closed his eyes to the bright glare of morning and smiled weakly in return. His body was covered in a dark blanket from which his feet, wrapped in white woollen socks, poked out almost comically. “I thought you were to stay abed for the next month.”

      
“And so he should,” Kate informed him sternly from one side of the stretcher. “Though he were impossible to keep still in the sickbay, and, in truth, a little fresh air might help him sleep the better.”

      
“I have used up all the sleep I need to see me until Christmas,” Nichols grumbled. “And dreams enough to last well beyond.” Elizabeth was walking next to him, and they each held the other's hand tightly, as if afraid of losing contact.

      
“Just aft of the main will be the steadiest,” Paterson said, and the seamen lowered the bed down, resting it on two empty hen coops so that Nichols was suspended just above the deck.

      
“Think you can make it to a hammock chair, sir?” one of the seamen asked.

      
“He'll be fine where he is,” Kate informed them.

      
“No, I can do it, thank you.” He held his arm out to one of the waiting men, who heaved him up as if he were nothing heavier than a sack of hard tack.

      
“Steady, Clegg!” Elizabeth held his other hand and together they walked him across to where one of the canvas chairs set out for passengers awaited them.

      
Paterson nodded as the mate was settled and the women began fussing about him, generous with blankets and cautions. “First sign of ill weather and I'll strike you below.” His words were harsh, although he was smiling broadly. “How is it with you, George?”

      
“Well enough, thank'e.” The man showed no inclination to release his grip of Elizabeth's hand, and she knelt awkwardly on the deck next to him. “Belly hurts like Hades, but they tells me I'm better, so I best believe ‘em.”

      
“We had thought you lost,” Paterson told him, with his characteristic lack of tact. “Glad to see it to be otherwise.”

      
Nichols’s face relaxed as he closed his eyes to the sunshine and let out a deep and measured sigh.

      
“Not as glad as I, John,” he said, and squeezed Elizabeth's hand once more.

* * *

      
The bell struck twice, and the helmsman and lookouts were about to be relieved when a shout came from one of the latter.

      
“Sail ho, sail on the starboard bow!”

      
Paterson looked up and then across to where the privateer was sailing to windward on their larboard beam.

      
“Make the same to Mr King,” he said, automatically. The smaller ship had lower masts and would not notice the sighting for some while. Taylor, the young curly haired midshipman, had learned much and was prepared for just such an eventuality. The flags ran up the halyard and broke out as the lookout was adding to his report.