Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (11 page)

      
“You're an evil bitch, you know that, don't you?”

      
Kate looked up sweetly. “Or I have heard a long ride on a bay mare works wonders,” she said simply, and continued with her meal.

* * *

      
Despite an initial increase in both wind and the motion of the seas, Paterson remained on deck while
Pevensey Castle
headed uncertainly down the Gull Stream. He still felt giddy and nauseous; still longed for the moment when the universe stopped moving about him, and still hated all and everyone who were so annoyingly healthy in his distorted world, but the effects were slowly dissipating and he was able to make a passable impression of an officer of the watch.
 

      
Of course, the pilot had charge of the ship. Paterson's only duties were to implement his orders, and see to any emergency that might occur. Rogers seemed strangely happy to leave him, taking Willis and Seagrove below with sarcastic advice against the over-feeding of fish. Paterson was not totally without support, however; Nichols, due to relieve him at eight bells, had come on deck early. In company with King who was also apparently at a loose end, he was taking much of the responsibility, leaving Paterson to his misery. An hour ago, they ordered the topgallants taken in, and all thought it likely to follow with a reef in the topsails, although this had proven unnecessary. The pilot who had been standing on the quarterdeck for more than twelve hours without any sign of fatigue, had just taken another bearing, and was talking to them now, while the third mate watched from the shelter of the weather bulwark.

      
“South Foreland Light!” King turned and yelled at him, pointing ahead. Paterson dutifully peered out to sea. Sure enough, even through the dizzy haze of his nausea, the dim gleam of a lighthouse could just be made out. Paterson stepped forward. The deck heaved and swayed when he moved, but the motion was certainly less; either that or he was starting to become accustomed to it.

      
“Keep that dead ahead an' we'll come through to the anchorage,” the pilot was telling the other two as he approached. The elderly man seemed pleased. Paterson assumed that this was just a normal day's work for him, and wondered how anyone could repeat such a dreadful passage on a regular basis. He took a firm grip on the reassuringly solid binnacle. The other three ships were still in sight.
Shearwater
, almost dead ahead, had seemingly decided that the merchants were no longer in need of her protection and was simply heading straight for safety.
Admiral Hayes
and
Coventry
were a little way behind. Paterson thought
Coventry
might be drifting slightly too far towards the Brake Sands, but he was in no position to judge and had enough to do on his watch to bother about other shipping.

      
“I see lights!” It was King. Paterson peered forward again, but could make out nothing further through the heavy rain.

      
“That'll be the first of the moored shipping,” the pilot replied, almost smugly. “You're to anchor off the western bank; it won't be long now.”

      
A rocket went up from
Shearwater
, followed by a series of lights at her mainmast. After a pause of no more than a minute, a deep blue glow shone out from the shore, was shielded for several seconds and then appeared again. Paterson held tight to the side of the binnacle while a fresh wave of sickness began to gather. They had announced their arrival, and the pilot was right; it would not be long now.

Chapter Five

      
The dining room cuddy was really quite impressive with the candles alight. Rogers allowed his gaze to sweep about the room, and gave a self-satisfied smile to the assembled guests. The silverware was only plate, of course; one does not waste the best for sea travel. But, his servant had made it shine bright enough, and the white muslin tablecloth contrasted well with the darkness of the beams. It was customary for the captain, senior officers and important passengers to have the main meal of the day at four bells in the afternoon watch—two o'clock—although Rogers had called this first introductory dinner during the evening to allow the new arrivals to acclimatise to the ship. Besides, he always preferred to eat later, when the aftereffects of any drink he might have taken would be numbed by sleep.
 

      
And this really was the most splendid of evenings. The food, having in the main been taken aboard that morning, was just as good as any on land, and it had been worth broaching that case of claret which was intended for his arrival in India. Drayton certainly seemed to appreciate it, along with the port that was now making its tortuous journey round the table. Tradition was that the base of the decanter must not leave the surface of the table, on fine of the purchase of the next bottle. Rogers watched the progress with interest. His port was of the highest quality and could never have been considered cheap.

      
“Five guineas that robber wanted, for to take us out here,” an elderly army officer was broadcasting to the table in general. “I told him to take a powder, but it seems they are thick in their trade, and have the monopoly.”

      
“Landlord knew how to charge at the George,” the fair haired son of a factor confirmed. “If
Pevensey Castle
hadn't made it by the end of the week, I'd have been following a 'whereas'.”

      
The army officer looked at him strangely. “Whatever do you mean by that?”

      
The younger man grinned. “Following a whereas? Don't you read
The Gazette
? Whenever there is a notice starting 'Whereas', you know some poor Joe is about to be announced bankrupt.” The company gave a good-natured laugh, although the officer appeared mildly cross. Rogers continued to watch the decanter, now very much on the home straight as far as he was concerned.
 

      
“You were to tell us of your time in
Vigilant
, captain,” Drayton prompted him, setting his own glass down and selecting an apple from the bowl.

      
“Ah yes.” Rogers leant forward and beamed generously. It was the ideal occasion; his senior officers and most of the better class of passengers were present, including that darling little yellow mot who had come aboard at Gravesend. She was actually only a steerage-class traveller and had no right to be at his table at all, but on first seeing her he made certain she would be invited. She was sitting there now, at his right hand, and just waiting to be impressed. He paused until the full attention of the table was his, then he began to speak.

      
He made it good, very good. First, the events that led up to the action; his ship protecting the gallant merchants, the dividing of the convoy, and finally one heroically small two-decker charging in to beat off all those nasty Frenchmen. The captain was killed early in the fray. Dyson, the first lieutenant, was not a fighting man and proved rather short of the mark. Therefore, it had fallen on Rogers, as second lieutenant, to take charge.
Vigilant
suffered severely, of course, and many of the crew were dead or wounded, but with Rogers in command, they caused enough damage to the enemy squadron to make their eventual destruction inevitable.
Vigilant
finally limped back with a returning convoy to the thanks of a nation. Of course, it was unfortunate that full recognition was not given to him, he looked about deprecatingly, but he was still officially only second in command and Lieutenant Dyson had written the report.

      
The company were quite fascinated by his performance, with only the occasional whistle or sigh from Seagrove or Willis, both of whom had heard the story at least once before, to break the respectful silence. As he finished Rogers wondered if he might have exaggerated his part slightly too much; but, on reflection, and after receiving the decanter for the second time, he told himself he had pitched it about right.
 

      
Drayton's apple lay on his plate untouched. “It seems the merchant navy has much to be grateful for,” he said, collecting his glass and twirling it in his hand meditatively. “And the East India Company must have been especially pleased when you applied to become a commander in their service.”

      
“I was equally delighted,” Rogers hurried to assure him. “To be honest I expected promotion following my actions. When none was forthcoming, I decided my true destiny lay elsewhere, and was very pleased to accept their offer.”

      
Drayton nodded. “I was returning from China at that time, but was soon made aware of your joining the Company, of course.”

      
He caught the man's eye, and for a moment nothing was said. Then, Drayton turned away, and began a neat dissection of his apple. For the first time, a doubt began to form in Rogers’s mind. Might he have gone too far? There had been no direct approach as such; no tempting proposal from Leadenhall Street following valiant, yet unrewarded service. His formal application to become a ship's master was made in the usual manner, and even initially rejected. Several times, in fact. The lengths that his father eventually went to in securing his command were considerable, and might well be common knowledge in the higher circles of the Company. Drayton was known to have both status and influence; it was one of the reasons Rogers was pleased to have him on board, but just how far did it reach? And rather than do him good, could it possibly be dangerous?
 

      
The uncertainties began to multiply in the rather fuddled regions of Rogers’s mind until the sober parts temporarily, regained control. He reached out and downed the rest of his port in one swallow. This would not do. It would not do at all. As soon as he allowed another person to exercise power over him, he would be lost. He closed his eyes while the drink made its way past his throat. Whatever Drayton might or might not know, Rogers was the captain of this ship, and while he remained so, there was nothing the man could do to harm him.
 

      
“Well, I think we must all be very glad to have you in command, Captain Rogers.” The voice came from further down the table. It belonged to a rather harsh northern woman travelling with her husband, a small man who traded in tea and had a hair lip. Rogers’s delay in asking the ladies to retire was due partly to the lack of suitable quarters to receive them; although, in truth, he was quite content for them to stay, as it gave him greater chance to impress. In fact, this particular woman's husband was not present, still suffering from the aftereffects of seasickness apparently. Rogers might have no current intention of exploiting her, but who could tell what the future might bring? What was their name, Cralltree? Coltree? Crabtree; that was it.
 

      
He lowered his head and muttered a brief, “Thank you, ma’am.” Miss Hanshaw's reaction was far more important to him at present. He glanced to his right and was delighted to see an expression of stunned surprise on her face. He gave her one of his more caring looks.

      
“Did you enjoy your meal, Miss Hanshaw?”

      
The girl seemed to jump slightly as she was addressed. “Why yes, captain; thank you, it was quite delightful.”

      
“You have a cabin in steerage, have you not?” He was every bit the dutiful, concerned commander.

      
She raised one eyebrow delightfully. “Indeed, sir, what of it?”

      
Rogers’s expression deepened. Talk had begun about the table, and he lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “Can get a little noisy down there, and crowded; of course, what with the animals…”

      
The girl was looking at him doubtfully now. “My quarters suit me admirably, captain, I do assure you.”

      
“There is, I believe, a spare position in the roundhouse,” he persisted in little more than a whisper. “On this deck and with excellent stern windows. You will have light and air and be able to take meals at this table. It really would be far more comfortable.”

      
“If better accommodation is available, captain, I would know of it.” Mrs Crabtree's ears were clearly as powerful as her voice. He leant back and surveyed the woman.
 

      
“Sadly, madam, the quarters are designated for one only, and I should be the last to separate a wife from her husband.”

      
The woman gave out a giggle that was horribly skittish. “Oh, I might have no objection, sir,” she said, amidst slightly awkward laughter from those around her. Rogers bowed his head again, making a mental note to treat Mrs Crabtree very carefully in future. She would be saved for extreme emergencies only.

      
He turned back to the contrast that was Miss Hanshaw. Her blonde hair was dressed in the most elegant manner, and he almost had to physically restrain his hand from reaching out to touch it.

      
“Let me make enquires, my dear,” he continued. “I will speak with the officer responsible for cabin allocation and see if a change cannot be made.”

      
“It is kind of you, sir.”