Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (23 page)

      
His words were spoken with calm assurance, and Rogers felt his concern lessen as he noted the reaction from the other passengers.

      
“And if not, if we should have to continue independently,” Drayton's tone was lifting now, “then I think we can all be assured that Mr Rogers has proven his ability to defend us. One privateer has already felt the weight of our shot, and I am sure there is plenty more in store if it be needed, ain't that right, captain?”

      
The atmosphere was lightening considerably; even the crusty old officer could be seen to relax. “Indeed, sir,” Rogers was quick to reply. “Powder and shot a plenty, and men more than willing to fight. I cannot offer more!”

      
That was the way to finish such a gathering. The passengers were actually joking with each other when they stood to leave. Rogers looked his appreciation at Drayton.

      
“I thank you for your support, sir,” he said softly, as the last were quitting the cuddy. “It was not the easiest of meetings.”

      
Drayton rose stiffly and brushed some fluff from his jacket. “No captain, I should say not. But it needed to be held, and it would have been of little use if the passengers departed with anything other than confident hearts.” There were only the two of them in the room now, and he turned and regarded the captain for several seconds before continuing. “But I will say this to you, Captain Rogers; your performance, and that of your senior officers, has been a disgrace to date. I urge you to make every effort to regain the convoy and see us safely to our destination. Otherwise, you can discard any thoughts you might have entertained of continuing your career with the East India Company. Do I make myself clear?”

* * *

      
The second of Langlois’s sketches was more detailed. It showed Kate from the side, at a slightly acute angle, her long hair mildly adrift and with an expression set in deep concentration, although the beauty of her face was in no way diminished.

      
“When did he do this?” Manning asked, as he examined the drawing more closely.

      
“I have no idea,” Kate replied. She was sorting clothes and not particularly interested in pictures. “Maybe when I was working in the pantry?”

      
“You've been with him in the pantry?” Manning said the words and felt instantly foolish. “I mean, it must have taken some time.”
 

      
“The pantry, or maybe the mess, I really don’t know.” She finished folding the shirt and regarded him sternly. “He came by the afternoon following the storm,” she said. “And stayed no more than a moment. Just long enough to check on supplies of lamp oil, if I remember rightly.”

      
“But this is more detailed,” he said, looking again at the many intricate lines that captured her so perfectly.

      
“Yes, he is a fine artist; but I did not sit for him, if that’s what you mean. I don’t have the time, and if I did, would not waste it so.”

      
Manning felt more uncomfortable. What Kate said was absolutely right and made perfect sense, but he still could not reconcile the thought that another man should have taken such a careful study of her. She was his wife, after all.

      
“He is drawing all the while, Robert. Have you not seen?”

      
“Only the ones of you,” he said stubbornly.

      
“Well, there are many others. Members of the crew; there was one of an elderly passenger—I believe she gave him a considerable sum, though cannot be sure. And a rather good likeness of Mr Seagrove, though it might be better if he did not see it.”

      
“And they are all of people?” Manning asked.

      
“Yes, now you come to mention it, but then I chance that is his speciality. Some paint bowls of fruit, after all.”

      
He looked again at the picture. So detailed, so beautifully portrayed, so right. “He must have a memory for faces,” he said, almost meditatively.

      
“I think he probably has.” She looked again over his shoulder. “It would have taken quite a time.” Suddenly tender, she placed a hand upon his arm. “Robert, there is nothing between Mr Langlois and me,” she said softly. “I married you and it is you I wish to stay with. If you think otherwise…well, I find it rather annoying. Especially as we are so close to our wedding.”

      
He smiled and put down the paper. “I have never been one so very confident in these matters.” Reaching back, he placed one hand over hers. “Never been confident at all, if it comes to it. But when I have something so precious, so…”

      
She rested a finger gently across his mouth. “Let that be an end of it.” Her voice carried that mock firmness that he found so attractive. “Besides, I might hazard a guess that some of his other subjects interest Mr Langlois far more than I do.”

* * *

      
They sailed on for two days in light sunshine and steady winds, conditions that were as welcome after the storm as water in the desert. For more than two hundred miles a stable pace was kept. At no time was either sail or land sighted, and by noon on the third day they were reckoned to be forty-three degrees south. Longitude was less easy to estimate and varied considerably with each working, but it was generally considered that
Pevensey Castle
lay approximately a hundred miles from the coast of northern Spain. With the need to meet up with the convoy paramount, lookouts remained doubled throughout, and when the long-awaited call finally came, they were ready for it.

      
“Over on the larboard beam,” the masthead answered King's question instantly. “Comin' up fast an' sailing large with a quartering wind!”

      
King nodded to Taylor, the junior midshipman, who made for the roundhouse and the captain's cabin. It was five bells in the afternoon watch, and most of the officers had just finished dining. Paterson, on deck and taking the air, sauntered across to join the acting mate.

      
“Maybe the first of many, or just another straggler, but at least we seem to have found company,” he said.

      
“Assuming she is British,” King reminded him.

      
“Ah yes.” Paterson was relaxed after his meal and grinned rather sheepishly. “That was, perhaps, a premature presumption.”

      
The captain had yet to dine and came on deck with an angry countenance that made both officers stiffen.

      
“Where away?” he snapped.

      
“To the east, off the larboard beam.” King indicated where the unseen ship should soon be appearing to those on deck. Rogers snorted and glared about him.
 

      
“Take that down immediately,” he said, indicating the Com-pany flag currently flying from the main. “Hoist the commiss-ioning pennant and rouse out a Navy ensign.”

      
King gave the orders. They were sensible precautions to take. An Indiaman sailing alone was a rare enough sight, to disguise her as a British man-of-war was a simple matter and might fool a long-range inspection. Should the approaching ship be a privateer, or even a small national vessel, it might well be discouraged by what was apparently a powerful British frigate.

      
“What do you see there?” Rogers bellowed impatiently, as the long pennant was set and streamed out in the wind.

      
“Ship rigged; and t'gallants showing,” Clegg, one of the masthead lookouts replied. “Course seems to be to the sou-west.”

      
Paterson and King exchanged glances. A southwesterly course would intercept them; it was the typical behaviour of a warship intent on closing in the least possible time.

      
The passengers, who usually dined at three, were starting to assemble for their major meal of the day. There were already several small groups on the main deck, and the officers knew that the quarterdeck was soon to be alive with the more affluent, drinking their sherries and asking the most stupid of questions. Rogers took a pace or two, cursing under his breath.

      
“I have her courses now,” Clegg's voice again. “Not such a deep roach, but still I'd say she were a warship. Small though; me'be a sloop.”

      
King's mind began to race. A British ship of that size was unlikely to be alone in this part of the Atlantic unless escorting a convoy, and her course seemed to rule that out. Really, it was far more likely that they had met with another privateer.
 

      
These small, private, men-of-war had been acting indepen-dently for the past few years. The risks were high, and manpower hard to come by, although rewards for an enterprising captain or owner were vast—certainly worth the investment of obtaining and fitting out a vessel. Sizes ranged from barely more than open boats to three masted ships that might easily take on a frigate, and the fact that this one was apparently operating alone suggested something larger than the luggers they had seen off in the Channel. A sudden shout interrupted his thoughts.

      
“Damn it man, I have the business of the ship to attend to!” King looked up to see that Luck, Rogers’s servant, was on deck, presumably to call his master to dinner. He retreated, along with two passengers and an Indian servant who was clutching a small gong to his chest. Clearly King's thoughts were shared, and the captain was equally concerned.

      
“Summon all hands,” Rogers said, almost to himself. “Have that ensign bent and ready, and clear away the guns.”

      
“Every one, sir?” King asked.

      
“Every damn one, Mr King!”

      
The screams of pipes and rumble of bare feet on deck interrupted some of the passengers, who were just making their stately progress to dine. Others, still in their cabins, were surprised by parties of seamen who burst through the fragile doors of their quarters and began to clear away the trussed-up cannon that had been keeping them silent company since they arrived. Many of these heavy guns had been incorporated into the living arrangements, and were doing service as makeshift clothes driers and wardrobes, or simply draped with cloth to hide their murderous purpose. With few words and no apologies, the men brushed all personal items aside and made the weapons ready for action. Round shot was brought up from the hold and laid out in the garlands that were being used as shelves and contained books and assorted small possessions. Cots, beds and other domestic furniture were roughly pushed to one side to give the weapons, and those who served them, room to work. The guns stowed in the hold were all but beyond reach. It might take several hours to haul up the barrels and mount them on carriages, although
Pevensey Castle
would still be able to offer a reasonable broadside, in terms of weight as well as number.

      
“Mr King!” Back on the quarterdeck, the young man jumped when his name was called, and he turned as the captain continued, “We'll have the royals on her, if you please, and hoist the Navy ensign.”

      
King collected the speaking trumpet from its becket and bellowed the order. Soon the upper sails, dark rimmed across the heads from lack of use, were set and filling, and
Pevensey Castle
took on an extra measure of speed. It would not be enough to evade capture, however; already a brief smudge of masts and sails could be seen from the quarterdeck, to be gazed at and commented upon by the off-duty officers who were now starting to appear on deck. But the additional sails would buy them time; if they could string this out to darkness and another storm, or even a minor squall descended, it was possible they might escape completely.

      
“Take her to starboard,” The captain spoke again. “Heading…Oh, confound it, man; as far away as we can reach!”

      
“Steer southwest,” Paterson interrupted.

      
The helmsman turned the wheel, and the braces were brought round. Now that was taking things too far, King thought, when
Pevensey Castle
was settled on the same course as her pursuer. If the sighting was a privateer, there was no chance that their lubberly old tub would out-sail her, and any thoughts Rogers might have of disguising them as a warship were now lost. No British frigate would run at the first sight of a strange sail; the enemy must smoke them straight away.

      
“She's hull up now,” Clegg reported. “I see gunports, an' she's going a fair pace.”

      
“Colours?” King asked.

      
“Not yet,” Clegg replied, his bellow being heard and attended to by all on board. “Weathered sails, though her lines are certainly French.”

      
There were several small groups of both passengers and crew, and his report brought forth numerous discussions. Discoloured canvas meant very little; an active privateer could be expected to be showing worn sailcloth and, for a multitude of reasons, French lines were not uncommon in the British Navy.