Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (34 page)

      
The cook had been wounded in the fight, so Susan and Emma were helping at the stove. Mrs Drayton had prevailed upon her husband to donate a side of bacon to provide a decent breakfast, and the heavily salted rashers were even now hissing on a large round copper pan atop the range. A bucket of eggs was supplied by another passenger, even though many of the ducks and chickens that had produced them had been slaughtered by the French in their lust for fresh meat.

      
Susan rolled her eyes as an apron-clad Mrs Drayton directed and instructed from afar, but she scraped the rashers up carefully enough, while Emma produced another pan and added some of the cook's slush for the eggs. The smell of hot food permeated throughout the ship, and slowly a better feeling followed, although it would take more than a good meal and the knowledge that they now had a fair chance of survival to wipe away the memories of the last few days.

* * *

      
King was in the privateer and strode the quarterdeck with a proprietary air. He knew of Nichols's wound, but was far enough away from its reality to enjoy the fruits of success. Responsibility for the prize had been passed to him from the outset, and now that there was time to examine the vessel properly, he was extremely pleased with her.

      
Built almost exclusively for her sailing qualities, the hull was slimmer than most with the armament—a main deck of six-pounder long guns plus a handful of swivels—seemingly added later as an afterthought. Her three masts were higher in proportion to those found on similar British-designed craft, and though she might appear fragile and could well be sensitive and delicate to sail, her performance should be that of a thoroughbred compared to the old
Pevensey Castle
. And, like a racehorse, it would surely be worth putting up with a small amount of careful handling to gain that vital edge. She was at rest in the water now, the seas lapping against her sleek hull and the wind whispering past the raked masts and light spars, but it would take only a few orders from him to set her free. Despite a tiring night when he had brushed close with death on more than one occasion, King simply longed for the opportunity.

      
Crowley appeared on the quarterdeck with Drummond, one of the midshipmen from
Pevensey Castle
also detailed to the privateer.

      
“There's a boat headin' across,” King said conversationally as the two joined him. It was not an unusual occurrence—for the past few hours there had been a great deal of traffic between the two ships.

      
“Looks like Mr Langlois,” Drummond said, peering down at the cutter as it came alongside. Sure enough, the iron grey hair was unmistakable, and even after such a night, the mate looked immaculate in his frock dress coat.

      
“Lively little craft you have here,” he said as he joined King on the quarterdeck. “Give you longings for the Navy, does she?”

      
King regarded his friend easily enough, although the suspicion that he might have come to relieve him of command lurked at the back of his mind.

      
“How are things in the
Pevensey
?” he asked. “What news of Nichols?”

      
“Not good I fear.” Langlois’s voice was suitably low. “Mr Keats feels it unlikely he will last out the day.”

      
Nothing was said for a moment, then Langlois raised his eyebrows. “But an interesting situation elsewhere.” He motioned King away from where Crowley and Drummond stood at the binnacle.

      
“Shall we go below?” King asked, guessing that some degree of confidentiality was called for.

      
“A capital idea, Tom. Lead the way.”

      
It was certainly private in the captain's quarters, and a deal more comfortable as well. King sank down into a soft horsehair armchair, while Langlois selected the upholstered bench under the tiny stern windows. He lay back on the deep buttoned leather seat, with one arm gracefully draped along the sill, as if he were relaxing at his club after a particularly satisfactory meal. King felt he only needed a cigar and a glass of brandy to complete the picture.

      
“Yes, we have enjoyed some rare conversations,” he said amicably when they were settled. “Captain Rogers has surprised us again, although as that is so much in his nature, I chance that it is no surprise at all.”

      
“Is he in command?” King asked.

      
“Ah, no. No, he is not.” Langlois gave a half smile. “Mr Drayton has dismissed him, though it took an hour or two to come to that decision and make it stick.”

      
“Can he do that? I mean, Drayton is the ship's husband and I understand has quite a senior position, but Rogers is employed directly by the East India Company, surely?”

      
The look stayed on his face as Langlois replied. “Whether he can or whether he cannot, he has done so, and, may I add, he has the full support of all, be they officers, passengers or men. Mr Rogers’s status is now no more than that of a passenger, though I note he has not given up the captain's quarters. Any legal niceties can be sorted out later, but we are in a perilous position and reliable command is paramount to our survival.”

      
“Does Willis have it?”

      
Langlois shook his head. “No, it is Paterson. Willis is to remain chief officer, in name at least, though I fear we will all have to keep an eye on him. And young Taylor will be acting up to stand watch with a master's mate.”

      
It was King's turn to raise his eyebrows now. “I'm sure that went down well with the premier,” he said.

      
“It’s the way it has to be. Willis is a fool, and potentially almost as much of a liability as Rogers. He thinks himself a better seaman than he actually is, and the people hold no respect for him. Were it not for the lack of senior men, I think he would have joined his late captain.” Langlois’s words, though quickly spoken, carried a weight of emotion. “We have two ships to man, and a crew barely large enough for one.
Pevensey Castle
requires attention and is still heavy with water. And there is a fair old distance to travel until we can call ourselves safe. This is not the time for salving hurt feelings.”

      
King nodded. What Langlois said made sense, but he was glad to have been in the privateer whilst it was being sorted out. “So what goes now?” he asked.

      
“A council of war was held,” Langlois continued. “Regrettable that you could not be involved, of course, but I think you will agree with the outcome.”

      
King waited expectantly.

      
“We intend to sail for the nearest naval force, which we reckon to be Lord St Vincent's at the Tagus.”

      
“Do you know him to be at Portugal?”

      
“Indeed not, he might equally be off Cadiz, Gibraltar or even back in the Mediterranean b'now, but there will be a presence at least, and we should find shelter.”

      
King mused; Lisbon was still several hundred miles away.

      
“Estimates vary of course, and a lot will depend on what speed the old girl can make,” Langlois continued. “Once there we will await escort and probably continue to Gibraltar; I cannot see Jervis sparing any of his ships to take us to Madeira. Still, there is more extensive warehousing at the Rock.
Pevensey Castle
will need to be unloaded, re-provisioned and her cargo examined. I chance that a few amongst her passengers will not wish to continue with her; and, of course, there is the Rogers question to sort out. I expect us to remain a month or more until all can be sorted.

      
King was thinking through Langlois’s words when he noticed the fifth mate's eyes fixed intently upon him.

      
“Tell me, Thomas; how many men do you have in this ship?”

      
“Seventeen, not counting myself or Drummond,” he answered readily.

      
“Is it enough?”

      
“To sail her, yes, though I would not wish to come across any form of bad weather, nor action, if it came to it.”

      
“Which it very well might,” Langlois conceded. He nodded, thinking for a moment while King tried to suppress the question that was simply bursting to come out. Finally it could wait no longer.

      
“Are you to take command?” he asked.

      
“Of this ship?” Langlois regarded him with mild surprise. “No, Tom, I fear that is down to you, and by unanimous decision I might add.”
 

      
King drew a silent sigh of relief as the mate continued. “You have handled a prize on more than one occasion, I understand. None of the other officers have experience of command or even Navy training, save Rogers and myself. No one would consider him worthy, and the idea has little appeal to me.”

      
“I had not guessed you to be Navy,” King said.

      
“Oh yes. I was written in the books of several ships for all of eight years before I finally stepped aboard one. My uncle was the premier of the old
Glorious
, and ended up following Dixon until he was yellowed.”

      
King nodded encouragingly. This was a fresh side to the fifth mate, one he had yet to hear about. “And then?” he asked.

      
Langlois sat back, drawing his knee up in his clasped hands while he thought. “Well, I served as captain's servant in two seventy-fours and was finally appointed midshipman in the
Panther,
” he smiled. “Passed my board in 'eighty-seven, but only ever acted as lieutenant, and that for the briefest of periods.”

      
King shook his head. “Then you switched to the Indiamen?”

      
“Aye, and remained with them ever since,” he grinned, noticing King's enquiring look. “And rose no higher than a fifth mate, if that is what you are thinking.”
 

      
King looked away, mildly embarrassed as Langlois continued. “Reasons there be, Tom, but this is not the time to talk of them. Perhaps one day we will speak again?” In a profession where both space and privacy were at a premium, Langlois was not alone in wanting to conceal his past.

      
“Of course,” King said automatically.
 

      
“But I will say this now—the two lives are very different,” Langlois mused, his eyes searching the deckhead of the tiny cabin. “It takes one type of man to be an officer in an Indiaman and another completely separate to serve in a man of war.”

      
King tried to remember when he had heard a similar statement.

      
“And you are one of the latter,” Langlois continued, his gaze dropping until he looked at King directly. “Not that you have failed in any way; the very reverse in fact. But it is obvious to all that your heart does not lie with the Honourable East India Company.”

      
“In truth, it was not my first choice,” King admitted. “I would have preferred an appointment elsewhere.”

      
“I thought as much, and should hate for you to take
Pevensey Castle
for a typical example; indeed, there are many better, and few worse. But you will not find the Royal Navy in John Company. It is a different world, with different tasks. The Bombay Marine comes close, I suppose, but the openings are as restricted there as in His Majesty's ships.”

      
King moved uncomfortably, conscious that Langlois’s percep-tion was remarkably accurate. “I am sorry. I have not offered any refreshment,” he said hurriedly.
 

      
The older man stood and shook his head. “Neither did I expect any. Besides, they gave us a fine breakfast; and I will be back in time for a late bever.” He patted his flat stomach appreciatively.

      
King pulled a face. “Ah, such luxury!”

      
“Aye, well, I have much to do; an examination of stores awaits me.” He paused and grew suddenly serious. “Some cully was foolish enough to open a seacock; ruined our dry goods and made no end of a mess of the rest. Might cost thousands to set right, so they are saying.”

      
King considered him uncertainly while the man hastened out of the small room. He turned as he was about to duck through the low doorway and grinned once more.

      
“Ask me, Tom, I'd say this little tub is the best place. I'd stay where I was, were I you.”

* * *

      
Elizabeth sat in the darkened sickbay. She held Nichols’s hand in hers, and it was all she could do not to grip it so tight as to cause him further pain. His face was quite white; even his lips were without colour, although the eyes that she loved so much still glowed back at her with a deep warmth.

      
“Won't you have some more to drink?” she asked, her voice soft. He shook his head slightly and winced from the effort. For the past hour or so he had hardly spoken a word, and yet when she first came to him they had chatted like children. A shadow fell over her, and Mr Keats knelt down beside them. Elizabeth released Nichols’s hand to the surgeon, who began to measure the pulse against his watch. She looked at him eagerly, but Keats shook his head and said nothing.