Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (33 page)

      
And Ward was one. In the past he might have wondered how he would behave in action, but it was only now, now that the prospect of a bloody fight was so dangerously close, that he knew for certain. He swallowed dryly and suppressed the urge to urinate. In a couple of seconds he was going to disgrace himself, and yet there was nowhere to go and nothing else he could do, so exposed was his position. He could feel his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and knew his breathing to be brisk and shallow. It could not last much longer, surely?
 

      
Then the slightest of shadows passed overhead. There was a loud crack that was replaced instantly by a horrible grinding noise, and
Pevensey Castle
shuddered and heeled. A whistle sounded, and Ward found all mundane thoughts swept away as he rose up to meet the oncoming rush of Frenchmen.

      
There were fewer than ten perched on the enemy's forecastle, although one fell to Clegg's pistol before he could even attempt to clamber up the Indiaman's sides. Then Johnston raised a boarding pike and stabbed down on another whose hands were reaching up to grab the top rail, and the shot of a blunderbuss, aimed by someone on the gangboard, accounted for two more. Ward glanced down and along the privateer's decks. The ships drew apart momentarily, and the Frenchman crept slowly by. Aboard her another group of twenty or so were waiting for them to close again by her mainmast. King was also looking and turned to Ward's group on the forecastle.

      
“Knock out all you can on our decks when they come across. Remember the enemy will be that much harder to fight on their own territory. So don't follow any back, or go on your own. Wait until you get the word.”

      
Ward nodded to himself. He saw the sense in that, and was certain not to get carried away—the very idea of carrying on the fight unnecessarily was quite abhorrent to him. A crash and another shudder, then the yardarms locked and both ships became entwined. This time there were more men reaching for
Pevensey Castle
's forechains. Johnston, backed by several others, was soon at work with his pike. The sound of a blunderbuss, wielded amidships, rang out above the din, and a tongue of flame from a French swivel gun lit the scene momentarily, although the weapon was aimed far too high and did no discernible damage. Clegg now held a cutlass and was slashing away madly at two men mounting the chains, while shouting the foulest of oaths at the top of his voice. Something caught Ward's attention; to his right a Frenchman had actually made it as far as clambering over the top rail. Instinctively he swung his own cutlass, catching the man on his shoulder while he struggled to stand. The privateer screamed and dropped his sword as his right hand went to the wound. Fired by success, Ward advanced and struck again, this time sending the man backwards over the rail, to fall on any others that might be following.
 

      
Now his blood was up, and there was neither the time, nor the need, to worry how he might fare as a fighter. He glared about, eager for another enemy, and immediately spotted one attempting to mount their larboard anchor. The man had a small axe slung about his neck while he used both hands to climb, and was an easy target. Ward wielded his cutlass again, and the Frenchman disappeared with barely a scream.

      
He looked to his left. Johnston was entwined with an evil-looking brute who was wrestling him for his pike. It was a simple matter to take the man from behind, swipe the hilt of the cutlass down on his neck and finish him off with the blade as he fell. Johnston looked his thanks, but there was no time for more. King, with Crowley by his side, was fighting with two Frenchmen who were apparently on the verge of being beaten back, while Clegg moved further forward, hacking at men as they attempted to board over the bowsprit. Johnston's pike was in use once again, but there seemed no immediate enemy for Ward. He glanced round, his mouth open and eyes wide. A moustachioed face appeared for a moment over the larboard anchor, but vanished just as quickly when its owner apparently lost his footing. Ward stepped forward and peered over the side and saw seven or eight Frenchmen grouped on the privateer's deck below. Some had been pressed back by
Pevensey Castle
's crew and were clearly wounded, others seemed unwilling to even try. He braced himself and grasped his cutlass even more tightly. His head was filled with fighting madness. They had won; the French were beaten off. Now was the time to press forward the advantage.
 

      
Stepping up and over the anchor, he paused for a second.
Pevensey Castle
's tumblehome, the rounded profile caused by a wide lower deck and narrower upper, meant there was a good three feet between her and the Frenchman, although the latter vessel sat much lower. He braced himself for less than a second before leaping forward, just as someone unknown shouted his name. The distance from his ship to the privateer was easily covered, and he landed with a sizeable thump, absorbing the shock with bended knees. His feet smarted from the hardness of the enemy deck, but Ward was more than ready and sprang up, cutlass raised and a cruel look on his face, to meet the Frenchmen. They stared at him, transfixed, for no more than a second, and he had time enough to fully appreciate their number and the folly of his action, before they killed him.

* * *

      
King, watching from
Pevensey Castle
's side, swore under his breath. The man was a fool, of course, but that didn't make the fact of his death any the easier to take. His damp clothes were finally becoming a nuisance, and he shivered suddenly in the chill of the night. He might have just seen off two boarders and the forecastle was now free of Frenchmen, but to take the fight to the enemy was another question entirely—as Ward had already discovered.
Pevensey Castle
was considerably higher than the privateer, and any attack they launched must be that much harder to retreat from. They would be committed, and the chance of failure was high. But then they had been committed from the moment Crowley first felled the guard—from the time King opened that seacock, come to that—and to throw away the advantage already earned would be foolish in the extreme.

      
“They're clear amidships,” Crowley shouted. King looked; sure enough the men at the larboard gangboard had also fought the French back, aided by those on the poop and quarterdeck. All were now without an enemy to fight. Seven seamen stood primed on the forecastle, with only one slightly wounded, and there were at least eleven further back who appeared just as ready to join them.

      
“Then now's the time, Michael,” King said, raising his sword high and looking back for the others to notice. They greeted his action with a roar and were immediately clambering across the bulwark. King too mounted the wooden wall, before launching himself over and down on to Frenchman's deck. A man was directly in front of him as he landed and King dodged the slash of a cutlass which would have all but taken off his arm. He knocked into Crowley as he avoided the blow, but the Irishman was ready with his weapon and cut the man down. King recovered and raised his own sword, sending another privateer, who was making for them, spinning to the deck. More appeared. One, wild eyed and yelling, swung a wicked-looking axe in a manner that seemed every bit as dangerous to the French as the English. Crowley neatly despatched him with a blow from the hilt of his cutlass, and the axe fell harmlessly to the deck. Two steps deeper into the enemy's territory and a pistol ball screamed by King's head. He turned, looking for the source, but saw a man heading for him with a pike instead. A quick side step, and another cutlass landed on the Frenchman's shoulder as he passed. Crowley drew back his sword without a word, and they advanced further.

      
“We must take the quarterdeck.” King shouted once he realised that the forecastle and main were theirs. The Irishman nodded. There were roughly twenty more Frenchmen towards the stern, some having retreated from the main, along with one well-dressed officer who looked like the captain. King had twelve fully fit men on the privateer's decks and it was hardly enough; especially when more enemy were liable to be waiting below. For a moment he considered withdrawing, but the Indiaman's sides were high, and the French were bound to take advantage of the first sign of retreat.

      
“Back with you lads, we're taking the officers!” Crowley clearly had no such thoughts and, raising his cutlass high, led the boarders in a rush. The Frenchmen on the quarterdeck were ready, some armed with pistols, while others held pikes and swords. King, running forward with Crowley, was preparing himself for a bloody fight when the first of the British prisoners appeared from the stern hatchway ahead of them.

      
It was Nichols, followed by what looked like Langlois and two Lascar seamen. The boarding party slowed slightly as more swarmed up. Some of the released prisoners turned back and even went to attack King's men until realisation dawned on them that they were friends. But most went straight for the quarterdeck and swamped the stunned French in a vicious onslaught.

      
The sheer volume of men, inflamed by their recent confinement, was more than enough to swing matters. Within minutes of starting, the fight was over, and the enemy, battered and bemused, began to surrender. King ran on to the quarterdeck just as the last of the Frenchmen were cornered. Nichols was there, his face flushed and an evil looking foreign cutlass in his hand.

      
“Well met, Tom!” he beamed at King.

      
“Well met, indeed,” King agreed as the shouting began to die down around them. “You came just in time.”

      
Langlois was collecting the remaining weapons from the Frenchmen, who sulkily gave them up as they nursed their wounds. King noticed that the captain was standing alone next to the larboard bulwark.

      
“No sword, sir?” Langlois asked him.
“Vous n'avez pas d'arme?”

      
The officer eyed him morosely, and then his left hand withdrew a small pistol from his belt. Langlois reached out for the weapon but rather than give it up the Frenchman clicked back the hammer with his right hand and fired.

      
The shot rang out in the relative silence, and the fifth mate looked down instinctively. But there was no wound opening in his belly, and no stab of excruciating pain. The ball must have passed him by no more than a whisker.

      
“Where is your damned honour, sir?” Langlois angrily demanded as he snatched the hot gun from the officer. The Frenchman opened his mouth to speak when a loud moan from behind made them all turn.
 

      
“My God!” Nichols was staring down, almost in surprise.

      
“Are you hit, George?” Langlois asked. Nichols’s look of astonishment was quickly replaced by one of agony. His hands grasped his stomach and he sank to his knees before tipping forward slightly and slumping unconscious to the deck.

* * *

      
Morning found them weary and strangely subdued. The night had been spent making both ships ready to sail again, and with the first light of dawn men started to stumble and grow quarrelsome. The French were secured in the merchant's forecastle, with some removed in rotation every half hour to attend to her pumps. Consequently
Pevensey Castle
now drew less than four feet in her well, and the prisoners, suitably exhausted, were quiet. A permanent armed guard was placed over them and Kate, at her insistence, took over their supervision, losing no time in introducing some to the wonders of the necessary bucket.

      
Running repairs were needed in both ships. Several shrouds had parted, which Khan, who seemed fully recovered, attended to, while the carpenter returned to the tiller flat, replacing and improving much of the work carried out when the ship was under French command.
 

      
In the sickbay Keats and Manning had also been busy. Besides Nichols, a number of men required treatment. Two arms, so shattered as to be useless, were removed, and numerous cuts and gashes treated. There was only one other bullet wound—a French topman who had taken a blunderbuss shot to the shoulder. It was a relatively easy matter to pull the thing out, and both surgeons were hopeful for a good recovery. Nichols's wound was far more complex however; the pistol ball was lodged somewhere deep in his lower abdomen, and he was not expected to survive.
 

      
The British lost eight men in the attack, and there were several quite severely wounded, although all were expected to pull through apart from the fourth mate. The fact that he was about to die played upon the feelings of everyone, so there was little jubilation following their victory. Any relief that they were no longer prisoners was more than countered by the knowledge that another—one who was known to them all and with them even now—was also about to pay the ultimate price for their liberty.
 

      
The feeling spread even to the passengers, who readily accepted that their cabins could not be restored until the ship was serviceable again and were eager to cooperate in any way they could. Now, with both ships hove to within a cable of the other, and the scent of wood smoke in the air from the galley fires, most were stood down for the first time, and they finally rested.