Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (26 page)

      
The boy nodded, looked once more at the body and left.

* * *

      
In the hold, the lanterns were still alight, but the shadows they cast were starting to disconcert Elizabeth. The ghostly forms seemed to have a life of their own, moving between the tiers of casks and barrels with every flicker of the grubby flames. She had tried to close her eyes to rest, but the feeling of vulnerability was far too great. She longed for a chance for conversation, maybe even a return to the singing that kept them reasonably sane the last time they sought refuge; anything would be better than this dreadful waiting. However, all agreed that, with the privateers so dangerously close, it might be unwise to advertise their presence. Therefore the women sat, for the most part still and reasonably quiet, while shipboard noises and the strange, unexplained sounds of battle filtered down to them.

      
“If the raiders get on board, what will they do to us?” The sudden whisper almost made her jump—she peered into the darkness and decided that it came from one of Mrs Drayton's maids; the chubby one, Elizabeth didn't know her name. In the half-light, her face appeared drawn and pale, and she sat slightly hunched on her seat, clutching a small bag to her stomach as if it were both precious and dependant upon her.

      
“Do?” Elizabeth asked, with a perkiness that might have fooled some. “They will do nothing, not if they want to stay healthy, that is.”

      
The girl eyes her cautiously. “But they are pirates, you hear stories…”

      
“They are most certainly not pirates,” Elizabeth stated clearly. “And you can forget all that rubbish the chapbooks might tell you.” She noticed that others were leaning closer to hear her words, so she chose them carefully, speaking in a distinct but low voice.

      
“These will be privateers; they are regulated, and have to keep to very strict rules.”

      
“Will we be held as prisoners?” The voice came from further back, but Elizabeth could not spot the speaker.

      
“They may well detain us for a short while, but it will not be to their interest that we remain longer.”

      
“I could pay them,” a well-dressed woman spoke up. “My husband is carrying a goodly sum. Perhaps if we offered money?”

      
Elizabeth swallowed. “Madam, I fear that anything you might have will be taken.” The silence only lasted a few seconds, and then all began speaking at once. The noise grew into a mild hysteria, with several voices rising above the rest, and there were multiple outbursts of crying.

      
“Ladies, ladies, please!” Elizabeth tried to whisper through the din, but was unsuccessful. Several were speaking loudly now, and from further forward a small dog began to bark. Then the sound of a man's cry came from above and instantly brought a shocked silence to the cramped space.

      
“Below there!” The call was repeated; it was an English voice and one that Elizabeth recognised. There had been no gunfire for a while now. Was it possible that they had been victorious, and chased the Frenchman off? She stood and hurriedly made her way over the legs of the seated women until she stood under the open hatchway.

      
“Elizabeth, are you there?”

      
“George!” She looked up and could see him standing by the coaming, although he seemed to be looking back along the lower deck.

      
“Stay where you are,” he said, holding his hand out to her. “The French have taken us, they are coming aboard.”

      
Her heart fell. “What shall we do?” She tried to keep the hopelessness from her voice.

      
He looked down and shook his head. “I have no idea,” he said. “You might hide down there but they are bound to find you. Maybe it is better that you come up now? Where are the ladders?”

      
“I have them here.” She pointed to where they lay.

      
“Then you may as well: I will do all I can to intercede, and see that you are treated properly.”

      
Elizabeth reached for the first ladder and, helped by two others, raised it to the mouth of the hatchway. She climbed and hugged at George, but he roughly brushed her aside, as a group of strangers appeared, clambering down the steps to the lower deck.

      
“The French,” he said in explanation, and then the privateer captain approached with his mate and other seamen close by.

      
“These are all the female passengers?” Passon asked. Two ladies had followed Elizabeth and were now brushing down and rearranging their dresses.

      
“They are prisoners,” Nichols replied harshly. “I demand that they are treated with respect.”

      
“Sir, you insult me.” The captain's tone was low, although his voice remained as strong. “It is not our habit to wage war on females.” The second ladder appeared, and soon there were several women on the lower deck.
 

      
“
Mesdames
, kindly accompany my officer. You will be transferred to our ship and not harmed in any way although if you display any sign of
désobéissance,
I will not hesitate to have you dealt with in the harshest of manners.”

      
Subdued now, the women formed up and trailed behind Elizabeth as she made her way along the deck. Men from the French ship watched them as they went, some with curiosity and respect, while others held looks filled with lust and longing. And there were others they recognised—not only seamen from the
Pevensey Castle
, but male passengers who stood in groups under armed guard. Several women saw their husbands or brothers, and there were waves and calls. Elizabeth knew it to be a dangerous situation. Should any of the females be threatened, or give cause for the French to contain them, the British would be bound to rise up. Unarmed as they were, it would be a massacre.

      
They reached the upper deck, and assembled under the ship's boats. It was now quite dark, although a number of lanterns had been lit and were held by the French. Elizabeth felt a wave of relief when she saw Kate standing next to her husband and the surgeon.

      
“Is it right that we are going to the French ship?” she asked, as they came together and briefly embraced.
 

      
“It is—all senior officers and passengers, and some of the crew as well. We will be kept in separate confinement, though thankfully I seem to have been counted as one of the latter,” Kate replied. “Mr King and the juniors are remaining in charge of those left in
Pevensey Castle
.”

      
“Could he not just sail her away in the night?” Elizabeth was looking anxiously about her. Kate smiled.

      
“No, there will be a prize crew aboard, and I expect the ships to be travelling in close company.” She turned as a Frenchman on the gangboard began giving orders in a broad accent. “We shall probably be in France within a few days,” she added hurriedly.

      
Elizabeth could now see Rogers, along with Willis, the first mate. They were walking out along the starboard gangboard and, on reaching the entry port, began to clamber ignominiously off the ship. Mr Paterson followed, then Mr Langlois, almost elegant in his tailored watchcoat, and there was George, last in line. He looked down at her, paused and raised his hand briefly, before being prodded in the back with a pistol held by a French seaman. One last look then he was gone. A cold sensation ran down her and she had the strange intuition that she would never see him again.

* * *

      
The damage to
Pevensey Castle
's rudder was not critical, although it would take most of the night to repair. The carpenter had been called to attend and fingered the damage thoughtfully, while one of his mates, along with King and two armed Frenchmen, looked on.

      
“I'd say a round shot,” the elderly man murmured quietly, examining the edges of the damage. “Must have struck at an angle, so I'm surprised it even penetrated.”

      
“Larboard tiller sheave is done for.” His assistant collected the smashed block from where it lay, wrapped in a tangle of line. “'Ave to rebuild the fixin' an' mount a fresh block.”

      
“Sweep okay?” the carpenter asked.

      
The mate turned to the long, curved wooden beam that supported the tiller. “Aye, an' the rest's healthy enough. It's just the mountin'.”

      
“Four hours,” the carpenter said, turning to King. He held up the fingers of one hand and loudly repeated, “four” to the guards. They nodded and began to converse in French; the carpenter turned back.
 

      
“They might try rigging a relieving tackle,” he muttered to King. “Chains to the rudder 'orn, then mount a couple of blocks up to the poop; that'll work her right enough for a time, an' it would be the faster option.”

      
“If it came to it they could probably steer by the tiller,” King agreed, his voice low and guarded. “It wouldn't take much to rig a separate internal tackle.”

      
The carpenter looked at him doubtfully. “You gonna suggest it?”

      
“Oh no,” King rolled his eyes “I am in no rush to see France. Let us see if they can work it out for themselves.”

* * *

      
By dawn, the repairs were complete and
Pevensey Castle
was underway once more, beating back against the easterly breeze, with the privateer to windward, less than a cable off and ready to bear down upon her should she show the least sign of wavering. King was in the captain's cabin, which he now shared with Marcel, the French first mate. Both had little more than a smattering of the other's language, although the common currency of seamanship had been adequate to carry them through most problems.
 

      
The prize crew consisted of eighteen men, a relatively small number to contain the remaining British seamen, although the French were heavily armed and alert. On arriving in France,
Pevensey Castle
would bring the privateers a handsome profit, a fortune even, and they were determined not to let her slip from their grasp.
 

      
Their captives remained in two watches, with each spell of duty now running for six hours to reduce the number of times a watch was changed. The off duty men were confined below, supervised by the French equipped with loaded East India Company blunderbusses. The guards were also working watch and watch about, and had been split, with five stationed on deck and four in steerage. It was a tight system, and at any sign of insurrection, the privateers had made it clear that they would not hesitate to open fire.

      
Crowley entered with a tray of food; Luck, the captain's steward, having followed his master to the privateer. Marcel indicated Rogers's handsome desk and beckoned King to join him. There were some rather superior biscuits, far nicer that those normally issued, several types of cheese, what looked like a potted meat
pâté,
along with some rather sorry-looking pieces of fruit. Clearly, Crowley had been inspecting the captain's stores. On seeing the spread, King was reminded how hungry he was. He cared little where the food came from, in fact knowing it had been provided by Rogers actually gave it extra flavour. The pot of coffee added an aroma to enforce the point, and soon he was laying into his breakfast like a lad. Marcel, eating well but with slightly less enthusiasm, chuckled quietly as he poured a measure of red wine and water for them both.

      
“You eat, then you rest,” Marcel informed him, indicating the captain's sleeping cabin. “All officers together; I shall be here.” He pointed to the large couch in the main room. It would be hard to exit the sleeping cabin other than by passing the Frenchman. The off-duty deck guards from the prize crew were also berthed in the dining room cuddy, so communication with
Pevensey Castle
's people was all but impossible, except when they were on watch.

      
King nodded and bit into some more of the cheese. It seemed a reasonable enough arrangement; at least they weren't to be bound and gagged. The Frenchmen must fear the take over of their ship, but then he supposed they were also relying on the fact that passengers and officers were interned in the privateer; each ship was effectively carrying hostages for the other.

      
Crowley appeared again and spoke to Marcel in rapid French. King strained to translate, and then the steward addressed him directly.

      
“Your man here reckons it will be a good five days or so afore we reach port.”

      
King nodded. It was what he had been told, but why was Crowley mentioning it, and in such a direct manner?

      
“So I understand, Michael,” he said, eyeing the steward cautiously.

      
“Well, I think you'll be finding the men will be ready before then,” he continued.