Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (30 page)

      
“Yes, two parties,” King said with sudden decision. “You four and Crowley take the for'ard ladder; Drummond, you'll be in charge. I'll take the stern with the rest. Clegg, stay at the wheel and try to keep her steady.” The midshipman blinked in confusion for a moment while he took in what was said. King realised that this must be his first time in action and slowed down. “Take your men down the hatchway, but no further. Do nothing until you hear us begin, then join in as fast as you can. No one is to use firearms unless they have to. But if it comes to it, don't forget that we have men at the pumps.”

      
The lad nodded, and the men separated. King made for the stern hatch.

      
“May I suggest, sir?” Crowley was pointing to the fife rail where a row of empty belaying pins sat ready. There were no small arms to hand other than the blunderbusses and the boy's sword, but the short wooden staves would make excellent weapons.
 

      
“Yes, take one each if you wish.” The unarmed men helped themselves, although King knew that their blood was up and that the seamen would fight well enough with their bare hands if need be. The forward group moved swiftly across the deck.

      
The only part of the fight which might have been seen from the privateer was that one misfire, but sound could carry great distances at sea, and they had not been silent. The Frenchmen below might also be wondering what was happening, and how long it took to launch a simple rocket. Some may even have come to investigate and seen that the British were in control of the upper deck. Then there was the not inconsiderable point that
Pevensey Castle
was slowly sinking. Even if the British dealt with the prize crew below, they must then attend to that damned seacock, as well as making preparations to receive the Frenchmen from the privateer when they came to retake the ship. Time was certainly of the essence.
 

      
He peered down to the deck below; no one was apparently waiting. Ahead he could see Crowley and Drummond in position at the mouth of the forward hatch. He raised his hand to them, then walked slowly down the steps, his sword held hidden against his leg.

      
Below the French were still grouped about the entrance to the hold, while the monotonous drone of the pumps continued, masking much of the sound of their conversation. Ahead, King could see Drummond cautiously leading his men down the forward ladder. He reached the deck without attracting attention and slipped into the shadows next to the steerage mess. Slowly his men formed up behind him. He paused, looked back and then strode boldly out into the centre of the deck. His boots sounded noisily on the hard deck, but he continued forward, conscious that each step he took brought him closer and made the job easier. He came to within ten feet of the group when one looked round and called out in surprise. Marcel's face was visible for a moment, and he said something that King did not catch. It was time.

      
With a yell that was very close to a scream, King launched himself forward, swinging the short sword out in front of him. He could hear the thunder of bare feet as those behind followed; and there was Crowley closing in from forward, passing the bemused men at the pumps, while he singled out an opponent. The crowd of Frenchmen broke as they turned to meet them, reaching for their weapons. King noticed Marcel drawing his sword. There was no time for niceties; he made for the man and crashed into him, knocking his body sideways and the weapon to the deck. The crack of fist on bone came from the other group, and one of the British yelled as a cutlass slashed across his chest. King recovered himself, and struck out wildly at one of the guards who was raising a pistol. The blade caught the Frenchman on the forearm, and the weapon tumbled out of his limp hand. Someone fell, knocking King sideways as he went. Then Marcel clambered to his feet, and began to shout in guttural French, before Crowley, striking from behind, silenced him forever with a belaying pin.

      
The fight ended as suddenly as it had begun. The pumps had ceased to turn with King's attack, the men having abandoned the hated machines in order to join their comrades. For a moment, there was a stunned pause; then all began shouting and slapping each other in victory. King knew it was time to take a hand and called for order. Once more, the injured Frenchmen were secured and roughly moved to a nearby cattle stall.

      
“Fresh hands to the pumps,” King continued, conscious that the men were ready to respond to him, whatever he ordered. He glanced down at the hold; there was no visible change in the water level, but that seacock must be closed without further delay. “Does anyone here swim?” he asked vaguely.

      
“Yes, sir.” It was Johnston and, despite the circumstances, King found himself suppressing a slight smile. He was well aware of the persistent deserter’s talents in that department. But Johnston was injured, a cut to his left forearm was bleeding freely, despite his efforts to contain the flow with his right hand.

      
“See to your wound, Johnston; I will need someone else.”

      
The man was about to complain, but another was there ahead of him.

      
“I do, sir.” King considered Khan, the boatswain, briefly. The man was clearly tired from pumping, but he also carried an air of competence that was obvious to all.

      
“The stern sweetening cock is half opened,” King told him. “Do you know where it is?”

      
“'Ere, you can't send Abdul, there's nothing of him,” Ward complained, and Johnston was looking mildly disgruntled.

      
“Do you swim, Ward?” King asked. The boatswain's mate shook his head. King glanced at the other men, but none met his eye.

      
“The valve you mentioned is below the bread room, sir,” Khan said softly.

      
King turned back to him. “Indeed. Can you reach it?” What he actually wanted to know was, did Khan have the strength to close the thing, although to ask such a question of another male was almost impolite.

      
“I believe so, sir,” the man replied.

      
King looked about. Both pumps were working again, but it would not be long before the water came up to the level of the lower deck. The longer they waited, the harder Khan's task would become, the deeper
Pevensey Castle
settled, and with the increase in pressure, the faster more water flowed in through the valve.

      
“Very well, Khan. Do your best; but don't take too many risks. If it cannot be closed there will still be a little time, although we might need to defend the ship shortly.”

      
Khan nodded and lowered himself until he was sitting on the hatch coaming, dangling his bare feet above the water. He slipped his cotton top off and handed it to Johnston. The Lascar grinned at him and then gently eased himself over the side. A slight splash, and he swam away into the black depths of the hold and out of their sight.
 

      
King reckoned he could remain on the surface for a spell, at least until the deckhead became too low. After that, he would have to continue underwater and in total darkness. The sweetening cock was several feet down; it must be located and heaved shut. King had found it a hard enough job to open: Khan must close it several feet down, before finally returning to the surface. There was a deep ripple as the Lascar's lithe body slipped under the water. Then he was gone.

Chapter Thirteen

      
All the men were crowded together in the raider's hold. Counting officers, passengers and the remainder of
Pevensey Castle
's crew, it amounted to almost fifty. Although the
Espérance
was nearly empty of stores, there was hardly room for half that number. One lantern lit the dismal scene. The seamen had taken to the forward end and made themselves relatively comfortable, even to the extent of rigging makeshift hammocks from the slimy line and scraps of canvas they had found. The gentlemen passengers were next; uncomfortable and in the most part cold, they sat close together and muttered bitterly of the circumstances which had put them in such a position. Several were military men, and nearly all mourned the fact that they had failed to get to grips with the enemy. To have surrendered without a shot being fired, or any form of resistance offered, offended their pride and made the captain's expulsion to the very end of the officers' section inevitable.

      
He sat there now, alone and for a number of reasons ignored, while Paterson, Nichols and Langlois talked softy in the half-light. Willis slept nearby, and Drayton, who had naturally assumed the status of officer, chewed on the very last of his ration of salt horse. Keats and Manning were not present, having been called for some while ago. They were thought to be treating an injured member of the French crew. The ship gave a slight heave, alerting the sailors present, and then a succession of shouted orders filtered down from above.

      
“Sounds like a change of course,” Paterson said flatly. This was nothing to be surprised about. The privateer was beating into the wind and they were accustomed to tacking regularly. Nichols withdrew his watch and peered at it in the uncertain light.

      
“A little early,” he said. “Belike the wind has shifted slightly.” This also was in no way unusual, and the three were content to let the matter drop when Langlois spoke.

      
“She is not turning,” he said, his clear voice edged with certainly. “I'd chance they are backing sails.”

      
There was silence as all considered the implications. The only reason most could think of for the privateer to purposefully slow her progress was trouble aboard
Pevensey Castle
. The merchant might have lost a spar or some other piece of her tophamper, or there could be problems with the British crew. Then the unmistakeable sound of gun carriages being run out came to them.

      
“I'd say something was up,” Paterson chanced. The others nodded and stirred themselves in their cramped seats. Langlois rose, stretching his legs and looking about. The captain was still sitting morosely to the stern, his head down and arms wrapped about his body. They must have been cooped up for almost a day, and yet the only contribution he made was pushing himself forward to be first for the provisions and, inevitably, the necessary bucket. Willis still slept, but Drayton was alert and caught the fifth mate's eye.

      
“Changes aloft,” Langlois said briefly. “Might be nothing, or there could be trouble in the old
Pevensey.
”

      
Now he had the attention of some male passengers, several began to mutter to each other, while two eased themselves up and stretched.

      
“I don't think there is need for alarm, gentlemen.” Paterson's voice rose slightly. “Perhaps it is just a manoeuvre.” Panic, in such a confined space, was dangerous. Willis woke and yawned generously, looking about for some reason for the movement, and Drayton clambered to his feet.

      
“I feel we should make ourselves ready,” he said, in a quiet but commanding voice. “We heavily outnumber our captors, and this might be the chance we need to fight back.”

      
His words found a home with many of the men, although Rogers still sat disconsolately at the end of the line.

      
“We have no arms.” Willis was properly awake now, but showed no inclination to rise. Paterson was up and alert.
 

      
“Maybe some could be improvised,” he said. “Are all these casks full?”

      
Men began to shake what barrels remained in the nearest tier. All appeared sound; it would be difficult to broach or break them down to individual staves without crows of iron. Then one of the seamen found a half-opened crate containing jars of preserved cabbage. Using nothing more than his bare hands and determination, he ripped two of the short planks free, before using them to lever apart the others. In no time there were forty short pieces of heavy wood; not ideal hand-to-hand combat weapons, but potentially useful nonetheless. The ship heeled again, and there were further shouts from above. Paterson and Nichols exchanged glances; something was definitely up. They both made their way forward and stood under the hatch cover. It was securely closed, and more than six feet above their heads, so even reaching it was difficult. Paterson looked about.

      
“Here, let's have a couple of those barrels down,” he said, pointing to the water casks nearby. “You two men ease one from the top and let it fall—stand away below or you'll end up under. Then roll it over here.”
 

      
The men moved cautiously in their cramped confinement, but soon a cask was dislodged and fell heavily on to the shingle. Planting it securely under the hatch, Paterson pulled himself on top and half crouched under the closed cover. He reached up and pressed gently. It gave not an inch. He shook his head.

      
“Firmly secured,” he said. “We shall have to force it.”

      
“Won't that alert the guards?” Willis’s voice came from below. Paterson shrugged.