Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (31 page)

      
“It is a risk worth taking,” he said. A further shout of orders came to them, followed by the sound of bare feet running on deck. Paterson smiled and looked down, “besides, I'd wager they have other matters to consider at present.”

* * *

      
Khan had been gone for several minutes, but that did not mean he had been under the water for that length of time. King fidgeted aimlessly next to the hold. Drummond and Crowley were up on deck, keeping an eye on the privateer. Last heard, she was holding her course, although that was a little while ago. For all he knew, she had turned and was bearing down upon them. Their defences would need to be organised, with men stationed ready when they came. King had already ordered the door to the spirit room to be broken down, and the small arms, cutlasses, pikes and pistols recovered: there was little more that could be done while he remained below. But then, beneath his feet a man was struggling underwater, fighting to close a valve that he himself had opened. Khan was risking his life to save the ship, and the least King could do was wait for him to return.

      
The sound of someone on the stern ladder made him turn. Drummond was hurling himself down the steps. He stumbled slightly on reaching the deck, but that did not stop him from scampering recklessly towards him.

      
“Frenchman's spilling her wind,” he spluttered when he reached King at the open hatch. “Must 'ave caught the drift of something; Crowley thinks they're going to turn.”

      
“Very good,” King replied, momentarily unsure of his next move. He could order
Pevensey Castle
to back sail or even alter course, but the act would confirm trouble aboard the ship, and any such manoeuvre must take time. With the ship waterlogged as she was, chances were strong that the privateer would find them half way through the operation.
 

      
He forced himself to think. The leak must have slowed the ship considerably. It was even possible that nothing untoward was suspected, and the enemy was simply allowing
Pevensey Castle
to head reach on them. He peered down at the dim waters that had taken Khan. This would not do. He should be on deck supervising, and must leave the Lascar to his fate. There was little he was actually achieving by standing by the hatch.
 

      
“You and Crowley can organise the men. I have to remain a moment longer.” Crowley was capable enough to order a defence, and he intended to join them directly. The pumps were still clanking monotonously while King's mind sped on. Even if the French were not coming now, they were bound to soon. Within half an hour matters must be settled either way, and
Pevensey Castle
was not going to sink in that time. He turned to the men at the pumps. “Up on deck with you lads, it sounds as if we’re expecting company.” The men willingly dropped the handles and followed Drummond.
 

      
The chains rumbled to a halt, and as he finally stood alone, King stared once more into the water which now seemed ominously dark and still. It had been too long, much too long, but he could waste no further time waiting. For a moment, he decided to leave and even took a step towards the stern ladder when something made him stop. Stop, throw off his jacket and remove his boots. His feet just touched the water, which felt icy cold, but he was able to ignore that as he slipped off the hatch coaming, and plunged his body into the depths beneath.

* * *

      
Crowley received the order from Drummond without comment. King was going to be with them as soon as possible; until then they must manage without him. The Irishman went to turn away, when he suddenly became aware that the lad was eyeing him cautiously. Crowley paused for a moment, before remembering that, despite their difference in age, the midshipman was actually the senior.

      
“I could take charge, if you wish Mr Drummond,” he said softly.

      
“If you would,” the lad replied, conscious that the older man outranked him in almost every other sphere.

      
Crowley nodded. “All right boys, spread out along the starboard rail, and let's see what the French have in mind.” The men responded instantly to the voice of natural authority, and Drummond drew a silent sigh of relief.
 

* * *

      
In the absolute black of the flooded hold, Khan was starting to lose his sense of direction. He had been in the water for no more than three minutes, and swimming strongly under it for less than one; by his own estimation, that put him in the general vicinity of the sweetening cock. Consequently, the side of a tier of crates that bashed him cruelly on the shoulder came as a shock. He had thought to be keeping to the middle gangway and past such obstacles. Immediately he pushed himself away, and tried to regain the central aisle, only to collide with another hard object to the other side. Despite the breath that was bursting inside his chest, Khan paused for a moment. For him to be amid the main bulk of the stores meant that he could not have progressed very far at all. It was still a fair distance to the sweetening cock. He pushed off once more, knowing that the time left was rapidly depleting. His chest was starting to hurt now, and he released some air to ease the pain. Again, his left shoulder was jarred by a sharp object, and more of the precious air unwittingly escaped as he controlled the instinctive reaction to gasp. But soon he must be clear of the stores, then the search for the valve could begin. His lungs were already fit to burst, and yet he knew that added depth only increased the pressure. Khan stubbornly closed his mind to all thoughts apart from reaching the stern. Once there he would switch to finding the valve. After that the thing must be closed, and then, only then, could he even consider the long journey back.

* * *

      
The moon was low and to the east as Crowley strode down the length of the quarterdeck and gazed forward at the ghostly spectre of the privateer
.
She had backed her main and was wallowing in the swell, while
Pevensey Castle
crept up on her. They might reduce sail, but the Indiaman was barely making steerage way as it was, and such an act would only arouse suspicion. Crowley was content to fight the ship on his own if it came to it, and the men were certainly game enough, but still he wondered what on earth could be keeping King.
 

      
A light appeared on the privateer, to be covered almost immediately. Then it reappeared and was left to burn brightly for several seconds, before being extinguished entirely. Crowley grunted to himself. It was clearly some sort of signal, and the French would be expecting another in return. He could try to discover what the correct reply was—some of the prisoners were now conscious and might be persuaded. Chances were strong that they would not speak the truth, however. The only signal Crowley knew of was the rocket, and that was clearly meant for distress. They were edging closer, already the hull and most of the privateer's tophamper were quite discernible. The men were formed up and waiting, in the most part sheltering behind the bulwarks. There were a fair number and all well armed and ready to fight, even though many were not experienced in hand-to-hand combat. Activity on the French ship caught his attention. They had brought her back to the wind, and she was starting to gather way. Crowley watched, transfixed, while the enemy's speed increased, and for a moment hope welled up inside him. Then he saw the yards move and her rudder started to bring her round in a wide, graceful, sweep. They had been rumbled; the French were turning back, and would soon have the wind with them as they swept down. A ship like that was built for speed; it would be no time before she was alongside. Slowly the immensity of what they were attempting became apparent. And where the hell was King?

* * *

      
The water seemed to grow even colder as it soaked into his shirt and trousers. King supposed he should have stripped completely, but there had been so little time. He swam forward in the dark; a few tentative strokes at first and then reached the first of the heavy frame beams that ran widthways across the ship. The solid oak was nearly a foot deep and almost touched the surface of the water. Ducking under, he emerged on the other side, and immediately banged his head on the deckhead, which was that much lower. The beam sealed off most of the light from the open hatchway, and as he swam forward, the darkness slowly became complete. He continued a little more cautiously, knowing he might reach another obstruction at any moment. It was difficult to judge exactly where he was in the ship; certainly, it would be a good few feet before he came even close to the seacock. The water level must have risen slightly since Khan tried, but not that much, and a feeling of guilt swept over him as he finally understood the difficulty of the task he had allowed the Lascar to attempt. Another frame, again he ducked under, and again the deckhead seemed lower on the other side. He turned and swam on his back, his face scraping against the rough planking while he fought for the very last of the air.
 

      
The solid wall of another beam stopped him, and he drew several deeper breaths. It seemed likely that there would be no space between the water and the deckhead on the other side. This was his last chance, before plunging down into the dark and searching for that accursed valve. Taking one final gasp, he ducked down and swam deep into the hold. Almost immediately he hit a cask, one of probably several that contained enough air to lift them from the shingle. He wriggled round it, but the act took much of his breath. Vainly he struck out again, but he knew that his reserves were too low to continue for much longer; certainly not as far as the sweetening cock. What to do, turn back, return to the other side of that last beam, then take in more air and try again? It seemed hopeless. He struck forward and hit another object. This time it was softer, probably a sack or a bundle of material. A firm shove pushed it to one side, but as he did so several things registered; the thing was warm, moving and strangely familiar. It was a man's body.

      
Any thoughts King might have for the seacock disappeared instantly. Reaching out, he found an arm, which reacted to his touch. He pulled at it, tugging the thing towards him, then slowly started to make his way back towards the hatch. There was some movement, but none that helped in any way. King's lungs were near to bursting now, but still he swam on, moving past the floating cask with effort. The deckhead was still keeping him under, but must surely begin to rise before long.

      
Painfully he scraped against the pine strakes. The all-enveloping dark was slowly robbing him of his sense of direction until he could only hope he was heading for the hatchway. Fantasies of light and blessed air threatened to take him over while he struck out again and again. The body followed him readily enough, but the movements were diminishing, and it was becoming disturbingly like a dead weight. Still the deckhead was too low, still it kept them under, and yet they could not be that far from reaching that final beam. For a moment, he considered releasing the body and making for air. He could draw breath and return for Khan later, although even while he thought, he rejected the idea. The Lascar might have some semblance of life left in him. Time would be lost, and King may not be able to find the body again. He swam on, his right hand desperately scooping water while the left tugged the lifeless mass behind. His chest hurt, and some unknown muscles began to force his mouth open and his lungs to breath. He wanted so much to gasp, to draw in anything that might satisfy the cravings in his chest. Then he was at the frame, the oak struck him on the side; he must have been swimming diagonally across the hold. He clambered under just as another spasm gripped him. It was no good; his mouth actually opened and, finally giving in to what had become inevitable, he inhaled deeply.

      
A noise, which must have been his own lungs, filled his ears, but it was not the dark water of the hold that flowed down his windpipe, but cold, clean air. He coughed, retched and gasped afresh, before breathing in once more, then pulled at the body until it was level with him. It was still pitch black; there was no more than an inch or two of air between the surface of the water and the deckhead, but he could breathe. He held Khan's face against the gap and pulled the body further forward. They continued, with the Lascar mumbling softly as each subsequent frame was negotiated until finally, unbelievably, they were under the hatchway.
 

      
King looked for some means to get the body up and on to the deck. Drummond's face appeared in the gloom above; the lad must have come down to see what was keeping him. King shouted out, holding his arm high.

      
“Over here, I can't reach you.” The young midshipman stretched out, but their hands remained a few inches apart. King heaved the body across. Khan moved suddenly, striking King a firm blow to the side of the face, but now the boy had a hold and was starting to drag the Lascar out of the water. King helped as much as he could, although Drummond was a strong lad, and the serang no more than a lightweight. Reaching for the coaming, King hauled himself up, pausing to gain breath when his face was level with the deck. Drummond was trying to roll the man to one side. For some reason this was not possible; then he realised that the Lascar was actually resisting, and attempting to clamber to his knees. King managed to swing a leg on to the deck. Drummond reached for him, and soon he was slumped on his side, panting like a dog in summer.