Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (17 page)

      
“They're trained, though?”

      
“Oh yes,” the officer assured him. “Most 'ave done several trips, an' can 'and, reef, an' steer with the best of them. Feel the cold somethin' awful, mind. An' wind blows 'em away easy as sneezin'. Lost two in Biscay just the other night, an' three to the fever since Helena.”

      
“Fever?”

      
He grinned. “Na, not real fever; we'd call it a cold or a chill; drop of burnt rum and a dab of butter would 'ave sorted an Hinglishman out, but not these little fellows.” He looked at the last as they settled themselves in the boat. “Na, as seamen they're more 'elp than hindrance, but not my choice for shipmates. I wish you joy of 'em.”

      
The Lascars were all aboard now, and King ordered the cutter off. Johnston caught his eye as he leant into his stroke.

      
“Ain't as bad as he says,” the seaman muttered. “I known a few good uns in my last passage, and most can handle theirsel's on deck sound enough. Though 'e's right about the sickness. Get 'em near fever, or action come to that, an' they're sure to let you down.”

      
King looked at him questioningly. “How so?”

      
“It's the one thing everyone agrees about Lascars,” Johnston told him. “They're always the first to die.”

* * *

      
The convoy, now considerably better manned, was back on the wind by the time the sun began to lower in the sky, and with dusk they had left the homebound ships far behind. A group of fresh passengers who had gathered at the rails to take their last look at England stayed to be heartily sick over the side when the regular chop of the Channel asserted itself. And as the first call went out for supper, there were noticeably few takers. Paterson, now seasoned to the motion, had already eaten and sat in the steerage mess, working through yet another draft of the watch bill with King, while Kate stole a few clandestine moments talking quietly with Manning over the light of a shielded pusser's dip. Langlois, the new fifth mate, sat at a table on the opposite side of the small room and appeared to be sketching on a white tablet of paper. King leant back from his work and rubbed his eyes.

      
“We've all passengers aboard now,” he said, turning to the couple in the corner of the mess. “An' I can certainly fix it so that cabin I mentioned is free.”

      
Kate looked up, and Manning grinned. “Is that right, Tom?”

      
King nodded. “Reckon so.”

      
Paterson glanced round. “Mind, it would only be for the one. If the captain gets to hear of you sharin' there'll be the devil to pay, an' no pitch hot enough.”

      
“Still, t'would be a marked improvement,” Kate sighed.

      
“We're not too filled with passengers, then?” Langlois asked.

      
“No.” King consulted another list. “Several that had been marked down were actually taken in the
Surrey
or the
Glen Eden,
and that detachment of troops never did materialise
.
”

      
Manning looked up. “Strange, surely?”

      
King shrugged. “Not for us to know the goings on in higher circles. Maybe Mr Rogers has caused some upset.”

      
“Maybe he has,” Langlois agreed. “Or perhaps other captains offered better terms.”

      
“Quite possible,” King nodded. “But we are certainly left with a deal of space; I'd say it must be twenty or so light at the very least.”

      
“Those are homeward numbers,” Paterson grunted. King looked at him, and he explained, “Always get more going out than coming back; it's usually two-thirds or so. At this rate, we'll be returning to England empty.”

      
“Do that many stay?”

      
Paterson shook his head. “That many die,” he said bluntly.
 

      
“But then this is the captain's first trip,” Manning added. “Surely he has not had time to properly make his mark?”

      
“Even this far into the voyage his reputation will be established,” Paterson continued. “He might claim the breeding, but ain't got the prestige; doesn't know how to handle the better class of passenger.”

      
“And I suppose word soon gets around,” Manning agreed. “Surgeon said he heard all manner of stories when he were ashore at Pompey.”

      
“But we've hardly been clear of Gravesend more an' a week.” King was still not convinced. “And we only called at Deal before Portsmouth; how can rumours spread so wild?”

      
“Bad word knows no bounds,” Paterson replied enigmatically. “And it seems to me that our dear captain's repute started some while ago.”

      
“I should chance that a man in his position has to be more than just a seaman,” Kate mused. “There is also a need for diplomacy, and Mr Rogers seems somewhat remiss in that quarter.”

      
“Aye, his position is far more complex than it might appear.” Paterson sat back in his chair. “The seamanship he can leave to us, but he must manage the passengers, in the same way he does the crew. Respect is every bit as important in a merchant as a warship—probably more so. When folk are paying a good deal and risking their very lives, they don't want some puffed-up drunkard in command telling tales of derring-do.”

      
Langlois regarded him over his sketchpad. “And that is how you consider our captain?”

      
The third mate pulled a wry face. “There I go again; speakin' out of turn: it’s a fault with me I am aware, and I apologise for it,” he said, a little abashed. “But, in truth it is hard to respect such a man.”

      
“I fear John is right,” King added. “The voyage is hardly started, and Mr Rogers has already worked up quite a feeling.”

      
“Mr Keats said you was a-staying at the George.” Manning looked at Langlois. “Along with Mrs Drayton; did you hear anything?”

      
“Not that I can recall.” Langlois began to take more of an interest in his work.

      
“You were with Mrs Drayton's party, though?” Paterson asked.

      
“On the same floor,” the new man agreed vaguely.

      
Paterson looked round from the watch list. “Drayton's pretty high up with the Company, ain't he?”

      
“So I believe.”

      
“Odd then that he chose to sail with us, don't you think?”

      
“In the extreme.” Langlois looked up and met his eyes. “But then I have learnt not to anticipate the workings of the Company.”

      
“You seem quite experienced,” Paterson persisted. He had turned in his seat and was speaking to Langlois directly. “And yet you are only rated fifth; can I ask, is there a reason?”

      
The man laughed and placed his pad down on the table. “Call it a lack of dedication, I suppose, but my aim has never been promotion.” He regarded Paterson genially and then, sensing that more was called for from him, addressed the room in general. “Tis one life that we are given and one only; that of an officer in an Indiaman suits me fine. I get the opportunity to travel, a fair wage, and a chance to practice my art.” He indicated the sketchpad on the table in front of him. “I do not ask for more.”

      
“Can I see?” Manning made to collect the pad.

      
“You may indeed,” Langlois nodded, sitting back. “And can keep it, should you so wish.”

      
Manning lifted the pad and gave an involuntary gasp at the image. It was Kate, sitting in the corner of the mess, just as she was now, and with that look of beauty and purpose that he found so attractive.

      
“It is very good,” he said, eyeing Langlois somewhat suspiciously.

      
The new man stretched and yawned. “Alas my work is hardly equal to the subject,” he smiled at Kate. “But do keep it, if it pleases you.”

      
Manning nodded and carefully removed the paper from the tablet. The drawing was certainly of a high standard; in no more than a collection of lines the man had captured her mystery exactly. It was an act that, as her husband, Manning felt mildly disconcerting.

      
Kate reached across and took the paper from him. She pulled a face and gave a short snort. “Don't look nothin’ like me,” she said, holding it up for all to see. King and Paterson laughed more from embarrassment than anything. It was plain to them that the sketch was indeed good, and no one could ignore the air of tension which was suddenly present in the mess. Manning took the drawing back and looked at it once more. Kate was wrong, it was her to a tee and almost indecent in its perception. He looked across at his wife noticing that her face was now a shade darker, and made a mental note to treat Langlois with a deal of caution from now on.
 

* * *

      
“Not in 'ere, Abdul,” Ward told him. “This is for senior 'ands and warrant officers only.” The Lascar paused, uncertain. “Down in steerage,” the boatswain's mate continued. “That's where you lot berth.”

      
“It is the deck below.” Johnston sounded out each syllable separately while he pointed downwards with his finger.

      
“Would you want me to show you?” Crowley, the steerage mess steward, asked him, not unkindly.

      
“Thank you, no.” The newcomer placed his small canvas bag down and looked about. “This will suit me very well, thank you, gentlemen.”

      
Ward raise himself up in his hammock. “You don't understand, matey. It's for senior 'ands; Hing-glish-men.” He sounded the word out and raised his eyebrows. “
Comprehende
?”

      
The man's deep brown eyes were made darker by the poor light. “I am an officer,” he said quietly.

      
Johnston looked across at Ward and Crowley, then back at the man. Certainly, he was better dressed than most of those who had recently embarked, but there was little about his small skull cap and loose-fitting clothes that spoke of rank or station. “You're a Lascar,” he said bluntly. “A native.”

      
“I am a serang,” the man replied with dignity. “I take charge of my countrymen, and anyone else below. For that duty I was originally treated as a bosun by my masters, and I have learnt such skills to make the entitlement fair.”

      
Johnston gave out one loud laugh and clapped his hands together, as he grinned across at Ward, who looked distinctly disconcerted.
 

      
“Belike he has us there!” the Irishman said, smiling also.

      
The boatswain's mate scratched at his chin. “Bosun, you say? No rapper?”

      
“On my word,” the Lascar replied seriously. “No rapper.”

      
Ward threw himself out of the hammock and straightened up. “You'll have to excuse us, we weren't aware.” He stepped across and extended a hand. “Name's Ward, bosun's mate. This 'ere's Johnston. 'E's rated able, but there ain't a finer Jack aboard, and Crowley which is Irish, but not completely useless for all that.”

      
The boatswain shook hands with the men. “I am pleased to meet with you. I am Khan,” he said. “Though you can call me Abdul if it pleases you.”

      
The men looked at him dubiously. “He didn't mean no disrespect,” Crowley began.

      
“And none was taken,” Khan nodded. “Abdul is also my name; I was most impressed by your perception.”
 

      
Johnston laughed again and pointed to a bench, “Get yourself sat, Abdul,” he told him, although Ward continued to view the stranger cautiously.

      
“Thank you, but I must see that my men are provided for. I may leave my bag here?”

      
“Of course,” Ward told him. “An' if you got a chest, we'll strike that below, or 'ave it in the mess; there's plenty of space.”

      
“Thank you; this is all I own,” he smiled briefly. “We natives do not have the need for many possessions.”
 

* * *

      
It had been another difficult evening with the captain. Even now, as she changed into her nightdress and brushed out her long fair hair, she could still smell his breath and the very odour from his oily body. The cabin was fine; she liked the fresh air and the fact she did not have to bend double to stand. However, when all roundhouse passengers shared the same dining table in the cuddy, and her place was inevitably laid so convenient to the captain's right, and increasingly nomadic, hand, Elizabeth wondered if she might not be better returning to her allotted berth in steerage. And if she must listen to that tale again, the one about how he had fought off the ravaging pirates virtually single-handed, she knew she was going to scream. The actual event had only happened a day or so ago, and already she could repeat the story word for word. They had taken on the final passengers, but even that had not changed things. Some were clearly prosperous, and she expected her constant rebuffs to Rogers’s advances to have weakened her position in some way. But, the newcomers were found cabins elsewhere, while she, with her standard ticket and minimal furniture, was allowed to enjoy all the benefits of roundhouse accommodation, together with the captain's apparently undivided attention.