Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (21 page)

      
“Take in a single reef, Mr Willis?” he asked.

      
“No, fully reef her,” the senior mate replied. “And look sharp!”

      
The boatswain’s pipes whistled as the topmen clambered up to the topsail yards. The seamen, now thoroughly wet, leant over the swaying yard, and pulled up the heavy sails, breaking nails and skinning fingers as they did. The lack of pressure from aloft made the ship roll further, and her speed dropped considerably
 

      
“Signal from flag.” Drummond was the midshipman of the watch and pressed his eye to the deck glass as a string of bunting broke out from the leading ship. “Make all sail commensurate with the weather.”

      
It was clear that the commodore intended to run the storm out; a bold move when commanding a convoy of Indiamen. Paterson cursed softly to himself, it meant another trip up for the topmen. They were under topsails with forecourse, jib and staysails also set, so there was nothing else for it but to shake out those reefs. He looked to Willis, but the senior mate gave no sign of having heard the midshipman, or countermanding his last order. Drummond spoke again—a further signal from the flag, this time for a change of course.

      
“Steer three points to starboard,” Paterson yelled. “Braces there!” The wind moved across their quarter as they turned, until it was blowing almost directly over the taffrail.
 

      
“Take in stays an' jib,” Willis added, when the canvas fell flat.
Pevensey Castle
was before the wind now and falling behind very slightly. Already the head of the convoy was all but obscured in the gathering storm.

      
“Chance is we shall keep running till night fall, then heave to and head south again.” Paterson spoke conversationally and with little hope of an answer. He was not disappointed: again Willis affected not to hear. Paterson raised his eyes to heaven; clearly the first mate was in no need of advice, even if it had been a fair assumption.

      
But when the second dogwatch was called, and the convoy was clearly slipping away, there had still been no signal. Willis had gone below some time ago, and Langlois, the current officer of the watch, began to grow worried. The convoy could still be seen under the faintest of running lights, but darkness was closing fast about them.
Pevensey Castle
was decidedly last and even
Shearwater
, the sternmost escort, was gathering speed and now could only be dimly perceived off their larboard beam.

      
“Afraid of losing the rest.” Nichols, who had stayed on after standing the first dog, pointed at the frigate. “She'll be passing us in a trice. Belike we should shake out those reefs.”

      
“Signal from
Shearwater.
” Taylor, the curly haired midship-man of the watch, peered through the gloom as a series of lights appeared on the frigate. He was relatively inexperienced in signals, and had yet to master the complex system of lights used for night time communications. There was a distinct pause while he flipped through the book, conscious of the eyes of his superiors upon him.

      
“Take your time, lad,” Nichols told him, with only a trace of irony.

      
The boy picked up the book from where it had fallen, then miraculously found the correct place almost at once.

      
“Our number, sir. Keep better station,” the lad reported, trying to keep any hint of disapproval from his voice.

      
“Very good, Mr Taylor,” Langlois replied, equally formally. “Thank you.”

* * *

      
“I think we should call the captain once more,” Langlois said, some while later. The sky had darkened completely, and there was now no other ship in sight. “The rest have reached ahead of us. If we miss the signal to change course we shall be lost.”

      
“Signal will be by lights,” Nichols reminded him. “And bound to be repeated by
Shearwater
and the other escorts.”

      
“But the commodore's ship is way off. For all we knows the signal's been made, the head's turning and we're left ploughing on regardless.” Langlois ducked while a rogue wave broke over them. “We could summon Willis again at least,” he said, brushing the water from his watchcoat as if it were fine woollen broadcloth.

      
Nichols nodded and despatched Taylor, who had taken to sheltering by the bulwark.

      
The first mate appeared shortly afterwards, this time already wearing his oilskins. The ship lurched as he gained the quarterdeck, although that hardly explained the stumble that almost sent him sliding into the lee scuppers. Langlois stepped forward and extended a hand, which was roughly brushed away as the man staggered to his feet.

      
“Leave me!” he shouted with unnecessary force, while he made his way uncertainly to the binnacle.

      
“We are concerned about losing the convoy,” Nichols explained. “
Shearwater'
s already censured us for falling behind, and we've slipped further since. The last time we called the captain was some time back, but he has yet to appear.”

      
Willis shook his head determinedly, then his eyes opened wide and he took a firmer hold on the binnacle. “Has there been any instruction from the commodore?” he asked, thickly.

      
“No signal yet, though one could have been made, and not seen.”

      
Willis stared at them both with a belligerent expression. “If you've missed it, I'll see you in the fo'c'sle!” he said.

      
Langlois looked about. The sea was rising around them, huge Atlantic rollers all but engulfed the ship on either side; the storm was certainly growing to its peak. Willis collected the speaking trumpet from the binnacle and leaned back.

      
“Masthead! What do you see of the convoy?”

      
The pause lasted far too long, and for a moment Langlois wondered if Willis had even been heard. Then a faint but hoarse voice replied. “No sign. Last sighting was fine on the larboard bow.”

      
“We appear to have lost them,” Langlois said. “I agree with Mr Nichols; the captain must take charge.”

      
Willis placed a hand to his forehead. “The captain is not well,” he mumbled. “We were dining together and his wound troubles him greatly.”

      
“Then it’s up to you,” Nichols said bluntly. “The commodore must surely have ordered us south by now. We should turn; then at least may heave to and gain some respite. To carry on as we are only takes us deeper into the Atlantic.”

      
Willis glared about the deck as if wishing to find something to blame. He snatched up the traverse board; the wooden pegs that indicated heading and speed, were set firm, but any comments that might have been chalked on the slate had been made illegible by the flying spray. “You're certain there was no signal?”

      
“We saw none, but you can judge the conditions for yourself,” Langlois said, marvelling at the man's stupidity. The creaking in the yards told how, even fully reefed, the remaining sails were straining. If they did not heave to, they would have to continue under bare poles. “Reefing the topsails early put us behind; the signal might well have been made, and missed.”

      
“In which case you will answer for it, Mr Langlois,” Willis all but spat the words out. Then he sighed and lowered his head for a moment. “Take her to larboard, damn it, and bring her to. Back mizzen,” the order came out slowly and without emphasis. The other officers had to struggle to hear.

      
“Mizzen, sir?” Nichols felt obliged to ask. The mizzen crossjack yard would be liable to foul the main, making the ship more likely to fall off. The first mate looked up and glowered at him.

      
“Very well, damn you. Back main!”

      
Nichols touched the brim of his sou'wester and gave the order, and the ship began to turn as the braces were heaved round. The wind was coming over their larboard quarter now, and the waves struck her hull at a slight angle, although in a world that was filled with turmoil, the pressure on the sails kept them relatively steady. Both Nichols and Langlois drew a sigh of relief, the headlong rush into the Atlantic had ended, and they would remain comparatively stationary while the storm raged about them.

      
“Double the lookout.” Willis, who appeared anything but eased, was still standing, clutching to the binnacle cabinet as if it, rather than him, was liable to fly away. “I want to know as soon as we spot the convoy.” He paused, as if momentarily unwell, “And if we fail to have sight at dawn, you can both expect to finish the trip in different accommodation.”

      
The first mate turned and made an uncertain passage back to the roundhouse cuddy. Langlois and Nichols exchanged glances as Midshipman Taylor was despatched to the masthead.

      
“It'll be a spell afore we knows,” the fourth mate said, while the youngster started up the larboard shrouds. “Eight hours of darkness at the very minimum, and not much relief after if this lot keeps up.”

      
Langlois nodded, and shook the spray from the front of his watchcoat. “Then we shall just have to pray that it does not,” he said.

* * *

      
But the morning brought no comfort, and very little light.
Pevensey Castle
was still riding tremendous waves, while the wind blew strong and hard, pressing her hull over, making the yards creak and causing the lines to scream like a thousand ill-tuned fiddles. Paterson had the morning watch and found himself joined by Nichols, Langlois and King when eight bells was about to be rung.

      
“Black as Hades's knocker,” Nichols grumbled as the four officers stood on the drenched deck. The new masthead lookouts had already reported no sightings, and it was clear that the bad weather would remain for a good while longer.

      
Langlois looked at the traverse board and shook his head. “It will be down to dead reckoning; no chance of a sight now, nor probably at noon.” By mutual agreement, the group moved to the dubious shelter of the weather bulwark where some form of conversation would be easier.

      
Paterson was the first to speak. “We've been lying to for so long I'm not sure what Seagrove will make of it.” The others nodded. Having been at the mercy of currents for more than twelve hours, the ship might have been swept a hundred miles or ten; even the exact direction was hard to calculate. Responsibility for navigation fell to the second officer, although it would take as much intuition as skill to place them within a fifty-mile radius.

      
“Captain's not going to be pleased about this,” King added, glumly.

      
“Captain has to take responsibility,” Nichols replied. “Right now it should be him and the other two up here getting their faces washed.”

      
“He must know we're not under convoy.” Langlois was conscious that it was during his watch that they had lost sight of the other ships.

      
“Willis will have to speak for that,” Paterson said quickly. “It was his decision to shorten sail when we did.”

      
“We won't be the only ones.” Nichols brushed some of the surface water from his oilskins and adjusted his cotton scarf. “I'd be surprised if there is more 'an five of them together b'now. Escorts are going to have a lively time rounding them all up.”

      
“But the rest may well have changed course,” Paterson reminded him. “They could be miles away and heading Lord knows where.”

      
“We'll certainly be lucky to find them once this clears,”

      
“So what are we to do?” King asked. “Continue alone?”

      
“Escorts were to leave the convoy at thirty-seven degrees,” Langlois replied. “But I should not care to travel independently, even after that.”

      
“Well, we shall have to; that or make a run for a neutral port.” Nichols mused. “Or even over to Gibraltar if needs be.”

      
Patterson shook his head. “Too close to the North African coast for my liking.” He was due to go off watch and felt desperately tired. “Fat Indiaman sailing unprotected; pirates would be queuing up to meet us, that's if a privateer or national ship don't take us first.”

      
At that moment, the cuddy door opened and Rogers himself appeared on the quarterdeck. He was dressed in thick oilskins, with a sou'wester pulled tightly over his head and covering his ears. His face was quite exposed, however, and appeared pale and sickly. He stared about the deck, finally spotting the group cowering by the bulwark. As he glared at them, it was obvious that his white bandage had been replaced by a neat black patch.

      
“Talking of pirates…” Nichols said, as the officers rose to meet him.