Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (42 page)

      
Espérance
would have to alter course. He had every confidence in both ship and crew and knew that there were few vessels he could not outrun, but they were no match for an actual opponent. The diversion must take them deeper into the Atlantic and, more importantly, would delay their arrival in England.

      
“Very good,” he muttered softly. “We'll take her to larboard,”

      
Khan, who was preparing to take the noon sight, responded instantly. “Braces there!” The men reluctantly turned away from the promise of grog, and went to attend to the sails while King consulted his chart. There were British ships a plenty in this part of the Atlantic, although the majority were likely to be following the coast, either to the north or the south. A ship heading southwest was probably a foreigner, possibly neutral, but more likely a privateer in search of convoys. Or she may even be a larger stray warship that had escaped from a blockaded harbour.
 

      
He must balance the likelihood that they could out-sail this mystery ship against the risk of falling into enemy hands. Manned as she was,
Espérance
could not face any but the feeblest of warships, but most, he knew, would be hard pressed to catch her in a chase. So, should he turn and run, abandoning the highly credible time made to date? Or only alter course to avoid the enemy and, placing total trust in his ship's exemplary sailing abilities, dash past her very bow, and on towards England.

      
In any event, there was little chance that the despatches would be taken. The package was weighted well enough for just such an eventuality and could be thrown over the side should the need arise. But the very fact that they were not delivered must count against him, and even influence his future employment. For a moment his mind hung in indecision, then sense took hold and he acted.

      
“Steer north by nor'west.” The solid helmsman had seen it all before and began to turn the wheel without comment or show of emotion. Aloft, the spars creaked. The braces were keeping the sails in the wind, and
Espérance
bucked slightly as the hull angle altered, and she began to cut into the heavy rollers.
 

      
For a moment King hesitated. He could still change his mind, still order her completely round. Heading on the same course as the sighting should see her sailed under the horizon in an hour or so. But by venturing deeper into the Atlantic, there was also more chance of heavy weather and further complications. His hands were pressed deep into his pockets, and he set his jaw determinedly as he told himself it was the right choice. The enemy might well close on them, but he felt they were fast enough to pass her by, before returning to their original heading. And the main point was they would still be making some degree of progress northwards.
 

      
He took a turn back and forth along the tiny quarterdeck, and the movement gave him strange reassurance. It was something he had seen other commanders do a hundred times, and he wondered for a moment how often the simple action disguised acute anxiety.
 

      
The thought stayed with him as he considered his options once more. All on board depended on his actions, but then it was the job of any commander to make such choices. He took another turn along the deck, and gradually the tension eased. Clearly, other members of the crew were aware of his quandary. Khan considered him with interest, while Barrow was anxiously looking at the horizon, beyond which the enemy was now bearing down on them. King's expression relaxed as he eased his hands from his pockets and placed them more elegantly behind his back. It was done, he had made his decision and was staying with it. There was certainly a risk, but a small one and definitely worth the taking. He would be careful to keep them out of range. Within a few hours they should have passed in front of the enemy and be able to set a more direct course for England once more. It should still be a remarkably good time, and he would make a reasonable impression as he delivered St Vincent's despatches. The mixture of concern and relief made him chuckle softly to himself, and Barrow and Khan smiled also. At that point no one knew it was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Chapter Eighteen

      
On hearing the masthead's report, Kate immediately abandoned any thought of distributing grog.

      
“Back to the pantry, if you please, Mr Webster.”

      
The man's sightless eyes filled with disappointment as he reached forward and felt for the cask. The temptation for her to rush below and find Robert was hard to resist, but she waited and guided the steward back to the hatchway, while about them men grumbled and muttered as they prepared to alter course.

      
“Can you manage the ladder?” she asked artlessly, and the man grunted in reply. He had been blind for less than two months, the result of a small powder explosion, although already he was able to find his way about well enough. She followed him through to the pantry, where he deposited the cask back on the counter.

      
“Thank you, Webster; we'll leave it here for now, though it will probably be called for soon enough.”

      
The man knuckled his forehead, and Kate followed him out of the small room, locking the door behind her.

      
In the tiny sickbay Elizabeth was passing a bowl of portable soup to Nichols, who was sitting up in the only fixed berth.

      
“There's a strange sail in sight to windward,” Kate said, as she ducked in through the doorway and looked around the room. “Might Robert be about?”

      
“He was here not a moment ago,” Elizabeth told her. “What kind of ship?”

      
“It sounds to be foreign,” Kate said vaguely as
Espérance
's heel lessened.

      
“And we are altering course,” Nichols spluttered, almost choking on the soup. “I must go on deck.” He brushed the bowl away and went to move.

      
Elizabeth's eyes widened. “But you haven't eaten,” she grumbled, returning the bowl.

      
“Neither have you, neither has anyone,” he all but snapped. “And it won't kill me if I miss the occasional meal.” He was pushing himself up from the bunk and clearly about to swing his legs off. “Really, both you ladies have been very kind, though I'm getting a bit tired of being treated like an invalid.”

      
Kate opened her mouth to answer, but Elizabeth was ahead of her.

      
“George, you must take things slowly,” she said reprovingly. “At least let me help.”

      
“You could get me my trousers,” he replied. His bare legs were now reaching down for the deck. “Else I'll have to go in just my shirt.”

      
“Here, wear this,” Kate passed him a greatcoat, then turned away while he stood to put it on.

      
“Whoa, she rolls!” Nichols had one arm through the coat when a sudden bout of dizziness caught him. He reached out and gripped Elizabeth's shoulder.

      
“Take it slowly,” she repeated. “You have been in bed a long time.”

      
“I’ll be fine,” he said. There was a shout from above. It seemed that King was ordering more sail. “And will be even better when I am able to see what is going on. My boots? Where are my boots?”

* * *

      
Espérance
was slicing through the dark waters, her stem cutting a fan of pure white spray that soaked all on deck, while her very timbers trembled as she powered through the rolling waves. The wind was now blowing on their starboard quarter. King had added jib and staysails, it was too strong for topgallants, and he told himself repeatedly that there was power and space aplenty to pass the enemy. He had just returned from a brief trip aloft, studying the sighting from the swaying maintop. Three-masted and carrying a good deal of sail, she was clearly a warship and equally obviously making to cut them off. The height of the fore and main topgallants marked her out as a Frenchman, as did her canvas, which was definitely of a foreign pattern, lacking the squareness of British sails. If he could maintain this speed, there seemed little likelihood of their getting within long range. All the same, several unsteady hours lay ahead before they could call themselves safe. King knew he would be in a state of constant tension for every second. The enemy should be visible from the deck shortly; it was an indication of the speed at which the two ships were closing, but then all would be so much clearer when his opponent was constantly in view.

      
“Carries a fair pace, don't she?” Standing next to him Crowley's eyes were ablaze. Both men were unusually conscious of the movement, as the ship bucked and dived beneath their feet. King envied him, remembering times when he had enjoyed the pure excitement of speed and pursuit. But previously there had always been the reassuring presence of a competent commander. Now that he found himself thrust into just such a position, the stimulus became somewhat less than pleasurable.

      
A movement forward caught their attention, and both men were surprised to see Nichols clambering painfully through the stern hatch.

      
“Good to see you, George,” King said, making towards him and extending a hand. “Are you right to be on deck in such weather?”

      
“If the women had their way, I should never see daylight again,” Nichols grumbled, while he let Crowley and King escort him to the lee of the starboard bulwark. “Haven't felt the breeze on my face in months, or so it seems, and with an enemy to windward I will end up touched if I stay below.”

      
“Well, see that you do not tire yourself,” King said as his friend reached up to grab hold of a shroud.

      
“I see her!” Barrow's shout alerted them all. The midshipman was on the forecastle, his body wrapped in a dark, soaked watchcoat. King turned to look over the rail and, sure enough, a small smudge could just be distinguished on the horizon.

      
Nichols shaded his eyes with his free hand as they all considered the oncoming ship. Crowley ran his tongue over his cracked lips. “It'll be a close one, so it will,” the Irishman said.

      
King nodded. The enemy had gained since he viewed her from the maintop. They would still pass a good two to three miles off her bow, but it was closer than he had planned. He glanced up at the sails and then at the weather vane. The wind was still holding strong and steady, although soft clouds to the east warned of change. He could order them a point or two to larboard and their lead might increase, but the moment they actually passed, and the time the enemy finally sank below the horizon, must also be delayed. And even an extra point to the west took them that much further away from their final objective. Enemy ship or not, King still was worried about making a good time to England.

      
“We'll keep her as she is,” he said, answering a question that no one had asked. He turned from the sight, not wishing to discuss matters further, although the doubts inside him were starting to multiply, and he stalked rather rudely away in case he should change his mind.

* * *

      
Khan saw him go and knew the reason. He could already guess the young man's indecision and was equally aware that no one could share either the worry or the responsibility—certainly not a petty officer from another world and culture.
 

      
But an empathy remained, nonetheless. The Lascar naturally acknowledged that he owed far more to King than a few minutes of instruction in celestial navigation would warrant, and regarded himself effectively in his debt. Arriving in England in good time was clearly vital to him, as was delivering the package, a thing that he seemed to treat with even more importance than most Britishers did their possessions. These were factors far beyond Khan's reckoning. He rarely encountered urgency, and ownership of anything beyond the most essential of items was completely against his personal ethos. But they were important to King, the man who had risked his own life to save his, and so assumed some form of reflected value to the Lascar. In the same way that one might play a game of chance with a friend, not for the game, but the company—so Khan was equally concerned that they made England quickly and that the canvas package was safely passed on.

      
He was also an experienced seaman and knew very well that King was taking a chance in trying to pass the enemy ship so close to her bow. In his mind he felt there was space enough.
Espérance
should clear the enemy ship with room to spare—certainly well out of the range of her guns—but that was assuming none of the many possible mishaps occurred. They could easily split a sail, a spar might spring, the wind alter or even die completely. The sea was an element built on change. It was the main reason Khan had first been attracted to it and, ironically, its ephemeral temperament did much to help him maintain something far more placid in his own countenance. But now that there was reason for worry, even though it be a reason borrowed, he was experiencing an unusual feeling of disquiet.