Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (43 page)

      
For probably the first time in his life Khan was acutely concerned about matters that he could not control. He felt a gnawing in his stomach that was quite foreign to him. It was probably a similar sensation to that when the English claimed hunger, although he knew that a simple meal would not ease the pain in any way.
 

      
A cry came from the masthead. The man stationed there had identified the type of ship and clearly the news was not being received well by the other members of the crew. Khan looked about uncertainly; another trait that was becoming all too common with him since the start of this voyage. Johnston was on the forecastle, and both were officially off watch, so there might be some benefit in keeping together. He stole towards him, an uneasy expression on his face, and Johnston seemed to greet him with relief.

      
“How come, Abdul?”

      
The Lascar relaxed slightly at the sight of the weather-beaten face.

      
“We have a race on, as I think you say.”

      
Johnston grinned at him. “Aye, that's a fact. An' one we're gonna win.”

      
Khan returned the look, and the two men stood companion-ably together while they watched the enemy ship gather detail as it bore down on them. It was certainly better than worrying alone.

* * *

      
By six bells in the afternoon watch, three o'clock, the enemy was in clear sight. King considered her through the deck glass. She was what he would term a light frigate, although the French doubtless used some other name for the type. She probably carried between twenty and thirty guns, either nine or twelve pounders, over sparred in the typically French manner, but with a sleek hull. And she could sail, there was no denying that. Her captain had her trimmed to perfection, and the ship sliced through the broad Atlantic rollers as if she were a toy yacht set free upon a millpond. As King watched his hesitation mounted. Yes, she was certainly fast, but not as fast as
Espérance,
he told himself
.
 

      
The wind was staying true, and they would not close for at least another hour, probably more. He watched the enemy craft powering through the water, aiming for a point some way ahead. It was a course which, if she raised the speed, should ultimately cut them off. He was still reasonably certain his little ship could pass out of range, but night was only a few hours off. They should start to lose the light in no time, and he wondered again if it might not be better to wear away now.

      
“Colours!” The shout came from somewhere forward, and King looked again. Sure enough a large tricolour could now be seen on the Frenchman. By his own command,
Espérance
was flying no flag of any type. Even the coveted 'despatches' pennant had been struck some while ago.

      
“An' a signal.” King was reasonably sure the voice belonged to Barrow, but was more interested in the Frenchman's activities. “Looks like a numeral, and two swallowtails that ain't in our book.”

      
Being the ship to windward, the frigate was making the private signal first.
Espérance
would be expected to respond with the recognised reply. Failing to do so was as clear an indication of her identity as any, and must wipe any doubts that might be remaining from the French captain's mind.

      
“Hoist a French ensign,” he said, without taking his eyes off the enemy ship. There was nothing wrong with the ruse at this stage; indeed, it was almost to be expected. He could then follow it up with the private signal he watched the luggers off the Downs exchange. Doubtless it was well out of date and probably irrelevant for this station, but it might encourage some indecision.

      
King took a turn along the deck as was now becoming his habit. The signal was made, but no response came from the Frenchman. He looked at her for some time, then took his eye from the glass and peered up at the sails and the weather vane. Yes, he would take her a point or two to larboard, that would lengthen things slightly, and might even bring the time of passing closer to nightfall. His mouth opened to give the order, and he was actually drawing breath when another call from the masthead stopped him.

      
“Sail ho, sail fine on the larboard bow!”

      
Instinctively he turned to look, but the blank horizon stared back at him.

      
“What do you make there?”

      
A pause followed. The lookout was Fowler, a former topman who must have been standing masthead lookout for many years. Though now well over thirty, and with a rupture that made the long climb a painful business, he still retained excellent eyesight, and King was glad to have someone so experienced on hand. Clearly Fowler had called a warning when he was reasonably certain it was another vessel. To define exactly what type, or course, would take a little time.

      
“Belike a brig, or maybe a snow,” he replied eventually. “Two masted, an' headin' north, I'd chance.”

      
King glanced down at the chart while Fowler gave the bearing. The second vessel was almost exactly in line with his current course, and they were closing with her at a considerable speed. The heading made it likely that she was a merchant, although why sailing independently, and not part of a convoy, was a mystery.

      
Nichols appeared again at the stern hatchway. He had gone below about an hour ago, and King was not expecting to see him again that day. Obviously the draw of an enemy actually in sight was too much for his curiosity. He pulled himself over the coaming and stood uncertainly on the weaving deck. Elizabeth followed close behind and King's impression was that, even if they were about to be set upon by an entire fleet, her attention would remain solely on her patient.

      
“How is it with you?” King asked as they joined him in the lee of the bulwark.

      
“Well enough, thank you,” he said. They both helped him to the side, although he was standing firmer now and seemed in no need of her support.

      
“We seem to have acquired further company,” King said, while Elizabeth buttoned up the greatcoat that Nichols had clearly just thrown on. He pointed forward. “There’s a brig sighted, heading north.”

      
“A trader, do you suppose?” Nichols asked.

      
“So I should say,” King replied. “And, if British, they will not thank us for bringing a Frenchman down upon them.”

      
“Deck there, I can see her tops'ls,” Fowler reported from the masthead. “An' I get a glimpse of her courses an' hull ever so often.”

      
“What is she?” Nichols shouted, then instantly gripped his belly in pain. Elizabeth grabbed his arm, but he brushed her away as King repeated the question with more force.

      
“A snow I'd say, an' a warship at that,” the masthead replied. “Showing a fair roach to the forecourse, and there be no way she were fully laden, not an' travellin' the speed she is.”

      
“Does that mean another Frenchman?” Elizabeth asked.

      
“There is no way of telling,” King shook his head. If so, their position had deteriorated considerably. He could not make that slight alteration now, in fact the only way to truly avoid capture was to turn to the southeast. It was away from England, and all thoughts of a quick passage must be forgotten. But if not, if some miracle had occurred and she turned out to be a Royal Navy warship, the odds had changed just as dramatically. Together they would be no match for even a light frigate, but if the other were properly handled, they might guarantee the escape of both.

      
“Strange place to find a brig of war.” Nichols shifted uneasily, and reached out to the bulwark for support.

      
“Aye, but she might make a deal of difference were she British.”

      
“Do you think that likely?”

      
“Starboard escort of a home-bound convoy,” King replied hopefully. “I'd not discount the situation. And we can’t be certain she is but a simple trader sailing independently.”

      
Nichols shrugged. “Like as not, we shall tell in due course.”

      
King felt a wave of apprehension stir within him. “You think different?”

      
“I'd say she were another privateer,” he said simply. “And I doubt that she is alone. We must be just off the northwest tip of Spain, is that not so?”

      
King nodded. “Finisterre bears not a hundred mile' to the east.” The doubts inside were beginning to grow.

      
“It is an area ripe with jackals,” Nichols mused. “Deep enough into the Atlantic to grab the larger Indiamen, yet close to their home bases, so it need not be a long run for safety. They often hunt in pairs; I'd say there will be another, maybe two, in sight of her.”

      
“But, if you are right, they will be oblivious to the frigate,” King said, clutching at a straw.

      
“Indeed, both forces will know nothing of the other,” Nichols agreed. “Though their presence must affect your actions, I'll be bound.”

      
He was right; the turn to larboard was out of the question now. Of course, he could wear round completely and head south with all sail, but such a move must only encourage a chase. Any well manned privateer would be a tough match for
Espérance
, with her crew of invalids and rejects, and that was discounting the powerful national ship that was also bearing down on them. The frigate could sink his little craft with a single broadside and hardly leave a mark upon her own paintwork.

      
“Wait, larboard ship's turning,” Fowler was speaking again. “Yards are amove. She's starting to tack.”

      
King looked again at the map. Presumably the brig was intending to bear round and head for their stern on the larboard tack; another ship, if there was another ship, could come down on their bow. Neither need know of the frigate's presence, they would be simply rounding up an adversary and guiding her closer to the shore, in the same way that a pair of dogs might gather in a wayward sheep. But it was only a question of time before the frigate's topmasts became visible to them. Then the situation must change considerably.

      
“Take those damned flags down!” King had forgotten all about his ruse. If anyone in the brig noticed the bunting, they would guess that another ship lay hidden from their view. For a moment he even considered using Duncan's trick. He could send up a signal announcing an enemy in sight, in the hope of fooling both. But the French were not so simple and might even be able to read the British code book. He would have to send a bearing. Which would it be? And why had he delayed so long in announcing the presence of the frigate?
 

      
“Shall I strike the Frog ensign as well, sir?” Barrow was hauling down the signal halyard himself as he asked.

      
“No you may let that stay. It may serve to add confusion.” King cleared his throat and was about to take a turn or two along the deck, but with Nichols and Elizabeth standing with him he felt unable to break away. The afternoon watch was ending in no time. Dusk would start to fall not long after supper, but night remained some hours off. He looked across at the French frigate, still pounding off their starboard bow. The ship's masts were especially tall, how long would it be before they noticed the brig, and maybe her consort, that had them neatly trapped?

      
“She's settled on the larboard tack,” the masthead reported. “Close hauled an' heading—wait, I see a signal!”

      
King felt the pain inside his belly grow.

      
“There're flags breakin' out, and she's hoisting French colours.”

      
Nichols let out a long sigh. It might be a ruse. A merchant captain could be trying to see off what he took to be a privateer.
Espérance
was still flying the French ensign, after all.

      
“Do you see anything else off our bow?” King bellowed.

      
A pause, then Fowler's voice came back to them again, although this time there was the slightest hint of umbrage. “No, sir. Just the two sightings…as reported.”

      
King and Nichols exchanged glances. The brig's signal and change of course might still be the gambit of a particularly game merchant captain, even if the evidence indicated otherwise. The two men considered the problem for a while, then Nichols broke the silence.

      
“I'd say we was in a fix.”

      
For the first time Elizabeth turned her attention away from her patient.

      
“Maybe you're right,” King said, meeting the looks of concern with an ironic grin. “But we have a few more cards to play yet.” He spoke the words automatically, as something a captain should say in such a situation, but the others took them well and almost seemed encouraged. Only he felt the ominous signs of approaching depression.