Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (25 page)

      
Yes, they were going to be taken, sure as eggs were eggs, yet all Rogers felt able to do was stretch out the inevitable to the last possible moment, while sheltering himself in the lee of a mast. King glanced about for some support. There was Paterson, Nichols, Langlois; men he knew well, men he trusted; yet they were of merchant stock and seemed quite content to stand by and let the enemy take control.
 

      
“She's turning!” Seagrove called out, his voice little more than a screech this time as he pointed at the enemy. Sure enough, her yards were being hauled round while the neat bow was pointing straight for them. She held her course for several minutes, eating up sea room as she did, then continued on until the wind came hard over her beam, and she started to creep past
Pevensey Castle
's stern.

      
“She'll be taking us from starboard,” King spoke, fighting instinct overcoming any reticence he might have felt. His words were picked up and brought on a number of changes; the gun crews hurriedly abandoned the larboard cannon, and crossed to starboard and the men in the waist dutifully formed up and began to mount the starboard gangboard. Rogers glanced nervously back at the enemy, then moved very slightly so that the mizzen still stayed between him and any danger.

      
The privateer cut across them at a fair rate. Peering through the gloom, King noted that the same men who had left the braces were now running out the guns. With the wind heeling her masts over, these naturally pointed at
Pevensey Castle
's
hull rather than her tophamper. From his vantage point on the quarterdeck, he was starting to lose sight of her behind the poop when the first of a series of flashes pierced the darkening evening. “Here it comes!” he shouted, and a round shot hit them low in the stern. Another smashed through the thin bulwark of the poop, apparently destroying a poultry coop. A man's scream came from below, followed by another shouting hysterically; sounds which mingled oddly with the honking and clucking from assorted poultry that flapped about the poop and quarterdeck in attempted flight. The bulwark next to the larboard mizzen chains crumbled, several shrouds grew slack, and Seagrove staggered, horribly wounded, and fell to the deck.

      
“Bosun!” Paterson shouted. Willis went to help the second mate, but turned away suddenly to be violently sick. Khan appeared with Ward and Johnston, the latter carrying a length of line. King moved to the opposite side to see the enemy pass them. Her guns were still run out, the crews presumably being used once more at the braces as she turned. Soon she would be coming up on their starboard counter.

      
“The guns are empty,” he shouted at the captain. “They haven't reloaded—they don't have the crew!” Rogers stared at him stupidly, and even Paterson and Nichols seemed stunned. Only Langlois gathered the full meaning of King's words.

      
“We must turn to starboard,” he said. “Give her a broadside.”

      
Rogers took a step forward, and for one glorious moment King thought he might act. Then
Pevensey Castle
began to fall off the wind.
 

      
“Rudder's gone!” the quartermaster shouted as he turned the wheel to correct, only to find it spinning uselessly in his hands. The ship started to wallow and sails began to flap. A sudden creaking noise made itself known from the main yard, and slowly the spar separated by the maintop and the main topsail billowed out as
Pevensey Castle
lost speed.

      
“There's still a chance; starboard battery ready!” King shouted, moving up the quarterdeck and naturally assuming command of the great guns. Langlois was with him and seemed to be of the same mind. “Take the lower battery,” King shouted, pointing towards the waist. “Fire on my word; we'll give them a bellyful!” Despite King being the junior officer, Langlois readily accepted his authority and was off, throwing himself down the ladder and calling for the gun captains to attend. King looked back towards the Frenchman. Now was the time to turn and present their full broadside, but with the wheel gone and the ship's way all but spent, there was little he could do. He bent down and peered along the barrel of the nearest gun. It was trained round as far as possible, but the enemy remained just outside the firing arc.

      
“Leave it, Mr King.” Rogers’s voice caught him unaware, and he spun round in annoyance to see the captain standing right behind him. “Leave it, damn you,” he repeated and then looked down to where Langlois was standing, his hand raised, signalling the battery ready. Rogers shook his head and Langlois’s arm was slowly lowered, a look of mild confusion on the mate's face.

      
The captain moved back to where his officers were grouped by the binnacle. “Gentlemen, I am grateful for your support, but fear there is little now that can be done, and I, for one, do not wish to annoy our captors with needless violence.” He paused in a manner that might have been contrived, had King not noticed the pallor of his face, and the fact that his hands were visibly shaking. “Mr Willis; the colours, if you please.”

Chapter Eleven

      
They were taken.

      
The idea did not sit easily with King, as the privateer scraped alongside, and men he had been fighting moments before began to clamber aboard. Soon they were all over the ship, jubilant in victory, cheerfully shouting to one another while the male passengers were roughly disarmed, and gunners pushed away from their weapons. King supposed they were orderly enough, and even relatively well behaved; certainly British seamen would not have acted any better in the circumstances. But he knew instinctively that the act of invading their decks was just the start of many such minor pains of defeat that were to come. And the final insult was now very evident—there were so damn few of them.

      
The first to mount the quarterdeck appeared to be the privateer's captain; well dressed, with a long-tailed, olive green coat that looked vaguely military, white britches and a silk cravat. He was accompanied by two seamen armed with heavy, businesslike pistols. One also held a large lantern that shone brightly in the gloom of evening, lighting up the scene and making the French officer's black boots gleam. The captain regarded Rogers for a moment, then extended his hand, which was warily accepted.

      
“Forgive me for detaining you, gentlemen.” His smile included the officers grouped on the quarterdeck. “I did not expect to meet with such a fine vessel. My name is André Passon, my own ship is the
Espérance,
and you will understand that I carry the
lettre de course
.” The English was perfect, even if his strong French accent made some of the words sound strange.

      
Drayton, who had managed to separate himself from the other passengers, now appeared at the break of the quarterdeck and strode over to where they stood. A worried French officer, who looked no more than a boy, rushed behind him. Rogers’s head was bowed slightly, but he said nothing as Drayton approached and addressed the captain.

      
“Richard Drayton,
je suis le propriétaire de ce navire.”

      
“Ah, the owner of the ship!” The Frenchman exclaimed. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet with you.” He shook Drayton's hand, as if he were welcoming an honoured guest.

      
Rogers looked up sharply and scowled. “I think you will find my father owns this ship,” he said, glaring round at Drayton. “And I will thank you all to speak English.”

      
The captain nodded slightly. “I regret, gentlemen, the original owner, or 'husband' I believe you say—that is of no consequence now. And yes, we will continue in English
certainement
.”

      
Another Frenchman approached, not quite as well dressed as his captain, and resting a drawn sword over his shoulder.

      
“Ah, Marcel; there is no need for that.” Passon brushed the naked blade away with the back of his hand. “And perhaps these gentlemen could be relieved of their
encombrements
?”
 

      
The boy officer turned and took Paterson's hanger, while the mate housed his own weapon and reached out, neatly removing Rogers’s heavily decorated sword. For a moment, he stared in pleased surprise at the embellished hilt and blued, engraved blade, then stepped forward and grabbed greedily at the scabbard. Rogers drew back. The mate gave a short laugh and twisted the belt free.

      
“One is of little use without the other,” the French captain said soothingly. “A fine piece like this will raise good money in France.”

      
Rogers’s curse only made the mate chuckle further as he examined his plunder.

      
“Please, do not concern yourself,” the French captain said. “If you choose to cooperate with us, I shall be very happy to return the weapon.” His eyes flashed. “Otherwise, I might have occasion to use it.”

      
“What do you want with this ship?” Drayton asked.

      
“We shall be sailing her to France,” the captain said simply. “You will be well treated and should be able to return to your own country in very little time. I regret that I must detain your vessel, and all she carries, however. We will be heading for Bayonne, our homeport, where it will be sold, along with the cargo. My own ship has been at sea for several months. In that time we have been most fortunate, and met with others such as you.
En conséquence
we must now also go home. Many of my men have been forced to take those we have already captured, so we are in need of men as well as stores.”

      
King let out a brief sigh. “We thought you were undermanned.”

      
The Frenchman turned to him. “Whether we are or are not, your captain did well to surrender without firing on us. Had he done so I fear we should not be having this pleasant conversation.”

      
The French mate and boy officer collected the other's swords, while two seamen dragged Seagrove's body to the rail and unceremoniously tossed it over. There was a brief splash, but little more, and no comment from either side.

      
Drayton gave a start. “This ship is carrying passengers,” he said, his voice suddenly urgent. “Ladies amongst them, I demand that they be treated with respect.”

      
The captain's expression hardened. “We are not the Barbarians, sir, your women are as safe with us as they would have been under your care. All passengers will be transferred to my ship to ensure this; your senior officers are also invited to accompany them. As it has previously been our practice to send all prisoners back to France with their ship, there will be plenty of space.”

      
“And the others,” Rogers asked. “What of my people?”

      
“I regret that some of your men and all the junior officers will be needed aboard this vessel. There are repairs to be made and she has to be sailed; as I have already indicated, we are short of hands. But they are expected to behave themselves properly,” the man smiled archly. “I am sure you gentlemen will be able to persuade them to cause no trouble.”

      
“You seem to have everything well arranged,” Drayton said, with just a hint of appreciation.

      
“It is our business,” Passon agreed. “I do not say that I like it, but war, and the English insistence on blockade, has made such a thing necessary. Now, we will delay no longer, as there is much to do. We all have a busy night ahead of us.”

* * *

      
The first Kate and Manning knew of their capture was when the young French officer forced his way into the sickbay. The man on the operating table bore a splinter wound that ran straight across his chest. Keats had removed most of the debris, and Manning was now wiping down the torso while Kate began to thread a large, bent needle with horse hair.

      
The boy spoke rapidly in French although the meaning was clear by his very presence. Keats looked up in the act of taking the needle from Kate and addressed him.

      
“We are busy, you must leave.
Sortez!
”

      
The lad held a loaded pistol in his hand, and as he waved it in the air, he seemed to notice the bloody body on the table for the first time. He stopped, mouth half open, and gradually lowered the weapon, staring transfixed as the surgeon continued to work. Without a word, Keats deftly brought the jagged wound together and closed it with each successive stitch. The patient was still traumatised by the initial injury and gave a deep and constant moan of pain, but no words were spoken. Then, as Manning wiped a piece of cotton waste over the scar, the surgeon lifted the patient forward, and Kate began to wrap a bandage about the chest. Keats glanced across at the Frenchman.

      
“ We have work to do,” he said.
“Nous avons du travail à faire!”
He indicated the second man, waiting patiently on the deck, one hand clasped firmly about a wound to his upper arm.