Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (9 page)

      
“It's all our things
and
Mrs Drayton's,” she said. “Silly bitch has put everythin' in 'ere.”

      
“Silly bitch had no idea where else to place them,” Kate informed both women who jumped to see her standing so close behind.

      
“Well, it ain't gonna do you no good,” Susan reared up slightly. “You ain't got nowhere to sleep, not neither!”

      
“I am used to living in a ship,” she said. “There are plenty of places I can lay my head.”

      
“Well, wait till Mrs Drayton hears about this!” Susan countered quickly.

      
“Yeah, then you'll be in trouble!” Emma assured her.

      
“Oh I do not doubt that there could be a great deal of unpleasantness,” Kate said evenly, “as soon as Mrs Drayton finds out that you have spent the afternoon playing cards with two clerks in their cabin when you should have been attending to her possessions. In fact, I'm quite certain she won't be pleased at all.”

      
“You not tellin' no one,” Susan informed her, raising one finger. “I'll see that you don't!”

      
“Whether I do, or whether I do not, is yet to be seen,” Kate moved passed them. “Now, you will excuse me, ladies; I have much to attend to.”

Chapter Four

      
Nichols had ordered the boarding stage removed, and singled up to the bower anchor just after six bells in the morning watch. Topgallant masts had been sent up, along with the topgallant and royal yards, which were squared. The hands were back from an early breakfast, and now, with the tide set nicely and what appeared to be the pilot boat approaching, it finally began to feel as if they would actually be leaving. His glance swept about the ordered deck, looking for anything that might detain them further. Nichols had served aboard merchant ships for all his time at sea, with the last four trips being in Indiamen. It was the life he enjoyed, certainly markedly better than any experienced on land, and he was keen to be leaving.

      
The boat passed by their counter and came up on the starboard side just as the lookout hailed, and Nichols started slightly when he realised it was not the expected pilot. He looked towards the starboard entry port, worried in case, even at the last moment, something might have appeared that must detain them. All passengers due to board at London had done so. Possibly this was just the confidential signal instructions and order of sailing from Leadenhall Street, although it was customary for Company communications to come
via
the pilot who was their own employee. Without the landing stage, and with no man rope rigged, anyone trying to board would have a hard time of it. He glanced down into the boat and received his second surprise of the morning. A woman, long fair hair flying in the breeze, and dark skirt just visible under the oilskin wrapped about her, was sitting in the stern surrounded by an assortment of luggage. Nichols was not pleased.

      
“You there, rig a man rope, and prepare to take a visitor.” The seaman knuckled his forehead, and grabbed the length of line set ready. Soon they were prepared, and Nichols watched as the woman stood uncertainly in the tipping craft, bracing herself for the climb.

      
It would be one of those hard-faced females, he told himself. Out to preach the Gospel, or whatever other rubbish they had ingested. Probably travelling defiantly alone, trusting their safety to God and all who were unfortunate enough to accompany her. He took a turn across the deck while his mind continued on a familiar track. She would be gripped with a passion to convert the heathens and happy to start with every man on board. Well, she was not expected and would not be welcomed; he would see to that.

      
The woman had reached the man rope and now held it gingerly in one delicate hand She looked up and, for the first time, Nichols saw her face. It was pale, almost childlike, and so concerned with boarding the ship without falling into the sea that he was able to look, to stare almost, without fear of being noticed. The boat was tipping slightly, and the rise and fall made mounting the entry steps difficult. For a moment, he considered rigging a whip and bringing her aboard in a boatswain's chair, but her other hand went out and took a firm hold of the ship; then she launched herself, not expertly, but with enough force, on to the steps.

      
“Eyes in the boat, there!” His shout was involuntary but loud enough to cause the boat's crew to look hurriedly away while their passenger clambered up
Pevensey Castle
's side in a mass of billowing fabric.

      
“Pass the word to the captain,” he spoke to Drummond, a midshipman barely in his teens. “My compliments, and we appear to have taken on an extra passenger.”

      
Nichols doubted that he would get much reaction from Rogers at this hour, but it was right that he should be advised. The woman was almost aboard now, and he walked down towards the gangboard to meet her.

      
“Captain Rogers?” she asked, as she reached the deck and began to remove the oilskin.

      
She wore a white lacy blouse, totally unsuitable for shipboard life of course, although Nichols noted that, with the dark blue cotton jacket, grey skirt, and fair hair that was surely the longest he had ever seen, she looked remarkably presentable.

      
“Ah, Nichols, madam.” His customary awkwardness when dealing with those of the feminine gender came to the surface. “I am the fourth mate.”

      
“Well, good morning to you, Mr Nichols.” She was struggling to retain some of her hair which was flying about her head like an unruly horse's tail. “Forgive me, my comb was loosened in the journey over.”

      
Nichols was unsure if polite conversation demanded any reply and shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot.

      
“You will oblige me, madam…” he began. How to put it? Who was she? What was she doing here? Whatever he asked would sound rude, but then as much could be said of a person who plants themselves unannounced on the deck of a ship when she is about to sail.

      
“I should explain.” The hair was under better control now, and being roughly plaited while she spoke. “I was erroneously scheduled to join you at Deal, or so I believe. There was some confusion at East India House; my original application was for London. I sent word to Leadenhall Street when the boarding pass came through for the Downs. They agreed to the change, and said you were to be advised.”

      
“We have heard nothing, I fear,” he said. “Indeed, it is more customary to join at Deal, as the passage about North Foreland is not known for comfort.”

      
“I see. Well, it is no matter,” she smiled. “I am sure you would not have me depart now, only to join with you again later?”

      
No, of course that would be ridiculous, although Nichols was uncertain exactly what he should do and, for the first time since joining
Pevensey Castle,
he actually wished that Rogers was on deck.

      
“My name is Elizabeth Hanshaw,” she said, detecting his discomfort. “I assume you have note of me, and accommodation will have been reserved, from Deal at least?”

      
“Doubtless, madam, doubtless.” Nichols blustered, and he knew his face was glowing. It would take little effort to find the passenger list and discover where she was to be put, although again his natural gracelessness had asserted itself, making him appear a fool in her eyes as well as his own. He swallowed. “I will check forthwith and…and arrange for your baggage to be brought aboard.” He turned and sought out Drummond who seemed especially eager to assist the young woman. She was reaching into a small bag when he looked back.

      
“If you would be so kind?” Miss Hanshaw was holding a silver coin to him and, in a morning full of surprises, it rated highly.

      
“Madam that will not be necessary,” he stumbled, looking for the right words while his frustration turned to anger. What did she think he was, a hired hand; a street entertainer who must be tipped to perform? He knew that his face was properly red now, and the woman, however beautiful he might find her, had clearly noticed and was smiling. “As a passenger in this ship you are entitled to certain services and…”

      
He stopped suddenly. There was a slight and annoyingly attractive twinkle in her eye.
 

      
“It is for the boatman,” she said.

* * *

      
Seagrove had been up once, presumably to check that all was in order, but was now below again. Paterson stood next to King on the quarterdeck while Nichols who had appeared unusually keen to leave the deck, ate a hurried meal in the mess. The two young officers had spent most of the evening and some of the night drawing up a workable watch list and quarter bill. With fewer than eighty men on board, a ludicrously small number in King's eyes, care was needed to ensure there were enough experienced hands at every station, whatever the need. Paterson assured him that fewer were required in a merchant.
Pevensey Castle
might be an armed ship, but her twenty-eight, eighteen-pounder cannon were lighter pieces than the Navy type, and only needed a small crew to serve them. Besides, eight of the weapons were currently lying disassembled in the hold. They might be rigged at Portsmouth, when the last of the passengers were due to board or, more probably, conveniently forgotten. Officially, Rogers was liable for a fine of forty pounds per great gun not mounted, but it was unlikely that any check would be made, and if such an instance should occur, the cannon could be ready and in place within a day or so. The convoy they were to join at Portsmouth would be large; twelve John Company vessels at the last count, and maybe more if troops were also to be shipped. It was a size that deserved a powerful escort force, at least until they were clear of the Moroccan coast, and possibly as far as St Helena, so the loss or gain of eight guns seemed immaterial.

      
Willis now made an appearance, touching his hat in reply to the two officers, but saying nothing. King thought he looked a little under the weather, but then his slightly pale complexion might have been caused from a lack of exposure to the elements. An approaching boat was hailed, and soon the pilot, a stout, ruddy man well into his forties, was making steady progress up the side and on to the quarterdeck.

      
“Captain Rogers?” he asked.

      
“The captain is below,” Willis said, his voice void of expression. “I am the first officer and will be supervising our departure.”

      
“As you will,” the pilot replied. He had taken so many of the Company's ships along to Deal that he could do it almost without his charts, and certainly didn't need some puffed-up blue coat breathing down his neck. “Just got to wait for the Navy signal, then we's off.”

      
“Very good.” Willis glanced at the glass. “Retain the watch at eight bells and pipe topmen aloft,” he said. Paterson nodded. A frigate could now be seen coming from the west. Presumably this was their escort as far as the Downs. The other two Indiamen were making ready to go.
Coventry
had even manned her yards, so it could only be a question of minutes.

      
“Ah, and I have a package for you,” the pilot said, just as eight bells rang and the new watch began to assemble. He brought out a canvas-covered envelope, heavily sealed and tarred, and passed it to Willis. This would contain confidential signals for the convoy, as well as any last-minute instructions and doubtless notice of the arrival of Miss Hanshaw, the woman Nichols had taken on board. The chief mate scrawled a receipt and handed it to the pilot, while all waited for the signal.

      
“There it is!” King shouted suddenly. The frigate was almost level with the
Admiral Hayes
, when a string of bunting broke out from her foremast.

      
“Make sail!” Willis’s voice cracked slightly, but soon the cacophony of whistles and shouts left no one in any doubt as to the task in hand. Within moments, the yards were covered with topmen, eager to be back in their natural environment, while the afterguard formed up ready at the braces, and what few that were left began to haul the hemp anchor cable in with the capstan. King watched intently. The breeze was light and coming from the west; it should be an easy run down the Thames, although he had no idea as to the amount of sail
Pevensey Castle
would need.

      
“We'll take her along Gravesend Reach, then head north, join the Sea Reach, weatherin' Blythe Sands,” the pilot told Willis. The other officers took the information in, but made no comment; the man should know his business well enough.

      
The slow but regular clank from the capstan all but stopped as the call, “Up an' down!” came from the bow.

      
“Topsails!” It was Willis’s voice, and again it hardly carried, but the men knew what they were about, and the ship soon began to gather way as her last contact with solid ground was painfully brought up from the riverbed.