Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (47 page)

* * *

      
“Summon the watch below.” King's voice was soft, but the order it carried proved enough to turn the entire ship into turmoil. Johnston touched his hat and raised his pipe, before remembering the need for silence. He turned to a member of the afterguard resting nearby.
 

      
“Alert the lower deck,” he said, in a gruff whisper. “Turn out the larboard watch, an' anyone else who 'appens to be about.” The man ran off readily enough, while Johnston moved forward, peering through the gloom, to raise the watch on deck.

      
“Who’s at the wheel?” King asked as the rumble of bare feet died down.

      
“'Arris, sir.”
 

      
He nodded. It was the elderly quartermaster from the previous night. King was glad to have someone so skilled to hand.

      
“We're going to tack and head back past the French.” He was speaking in a normal voice, although the sound carried easily and the men were primed to listen. “With luck we will be past them by daybreak, otherwise there might be a spot of bother, but I don't think you will mind that so very much.”

      
A ripple of laughter came back to him, as he knew it would. The poor fools were in high spirits, clearly happy to risk all and expose the ship and their lives to the enemy.

      
“I cannot be certain of their exact position, and there is a chance we’ll meet with them before dawn. For that reason I want this ship to remain darkened, and repeat my order for silence. Any man who makes an unnecessary sound, or shows a light,” he paused, wondering what punishment was suitably harsh for something that might mean the death of everyone on board, “will make me very unhappy,” he finally added.

      
Another series of chuckles, the mood was certainly buoyant, but no bad thing for that. Each of them knew the position they were in and would do their utmost to see that the ship was not revealed without any additional threats from him. He caught sight of the elderly helmsman, his face faintly aglow from the single binnacle lamp that King allowed. Clearly the thought of action when he was expecting to retire had not daunted him in any way, and he was grinning widely. Even faced with an enemy that included a light frigate, and in a ship as small as the
Espérance,
he was confident, if not of victory, then at least that his life was not to be sold too cheaply.

      
“Very well, prepare to tack.”

      
“Ready about, stations for stays.”

      
King stepped back as members of the afterguard went about their work. Then the sound of Elizabeth's voice came up from below. For a moment he went cold, he had forgotten all about the women, and it came as a surprise to realise that there was more at stake than the lives of a few worn-out seamen.

      
“Ready, ease down the helm.”

      
He could still change his mind, of course. He was the one in command and nothing was irrevocable. But he waited while the ship moved steadily into the wind and gradually settled on to the opposite tack. The sails were sheeted home, and she gathered way smartly enough. The deck moved under his feet, and soon he felt she was even travelling faster on the larboard tack, although that might be purely an illusion, one evoked by the thought that an enemy was likely to be bearing down towards them. Harris was keeping the ship on a steady course, despite the fact that he could barely see the luff of the topsail a few feet above him.

      
“Three bells, sir,” Johnston muttered softly.

      
King nodded in the darkness. Three bells, half past one in the morning. If the frigate was on the course he estimated,
Espérance
would be passing her at any time from three o'clock onwards. They might not see her at all, she could slide by several miles off their beam, or so close that action and defeat were inevitable. Or they could survive the hours of darkness, only to be caught at first light, with the entire day for the enemy to close on them. He pressed his hands deep into his pockets, bent forward slightly and slouched his shoulders. It was going to be a long time until dawn.

Chapter Twenty

      
For a well-found ship, one that was fully crewed, well armed and with a predator’s eye, the hour before first light was always filled with excitement and expectation. Dawn could rise faster than any fleeing prey, revealing a tasty prize that might have wandered unwittingly close. Or for the hunted, daybreak might also signal the end of a nervous night; the cold darkness that had sheltered them disappearing to the warmth of the sun, leaving a horizon void of all danger.
 

      
And so it was to be for them, King told himself. The night was still black, although he knew it could only stay that way a short time longer; even now there was a lightening in the east, and the slight, low-lying mist was fast disappearing. When the day finally came, the enemy frigate would be several miles to leeward of them, of that he was growing increasingly certain. Probably beyond sight, but certainly out of range. Then they could enjoy a pleasant breakfast, safe in the knowledge that they had given a dangerous enemy the slip and were now well placed to continue for England, home and safety. Throughout the long hours he repeated the calculations in his head, each time reassuring himself of their accuracy and quality, while trying to drive out the
iota
of doubt that stubbornly remained to taunt, tease and tantalise.

      
Crowley appeared carrying a steaming china mug. King took it gratefully and bent down to sip. It was coffee; he had hardly tasted the stuff in weeks, and was not even aware there was any on board. The slight dizzy feeling it evoked was both stimulating and welcome. There had been no food since the biscuit and cheese he downed the previous evening, but he felt no hunger, and his watchcoat was keeping him tolerably warm.

      
He sipped again from the mug and looked about. Yes, there was definitely a hint of dawn in the sky. He took a turn or two along the deck. The new day would come in time, and nothing he might do could bring it forward, but the movement seemed to pacify him, and he continued to walk.

      
Nichols’s head appeared above the hatch coaming; proof of the growing light that enabled King to identify him so readily. He hauled himself on to the deck, with Elizabeth, dressed in a long dark coat that he had often seen Kate wear, following close behind.

      
“What cheer, Tom?” he asked.

      
King shook his head. “Nothing so far, though we shall doubtless know more afore long.” He studied the man in the gloom. “How is it with you, George?”

      
“Never better,” Nichols responded instantly, his voice painfully loud to those who had stood the quiet night on deck.

      
“I am glad.” His friend certainly sounded bright, and there seemed something extra added. King did not know the reason, but guessed that the young woman who stood near was somehow connected. “Glad, indeed,” he said again, with just a hint of envy.

      
A small sound came from above, one that was instantly cut short. Fowler was at the masthead, along with Barrow who had been sent to join him. The atmosphere became tense once more as King and Nichols exchanged glances. One of them, probably the boy, transferred himself to a backstay and was soon heading for the deck by the second fastest method. Both men looked about uncertainly; there seemed nothing untoward in the growing light, but those at the masthead would have a far better view, and clearly something had alerted them.

      
The lad hit the deck, having released his hold slightly too early, and stumbled clumsily. King and Nichols made towards him as he turned and recovered himself.

      
“Sail in sight,” he spluttered, pointing wildly. “Off the larboard bow, less than mile away, and headin' to the west.”

* * *

      
King felt the last sip of coffee catch in his throat. It was shockingly close. A wave of anger rose up inside him. By his estimations they should have been past and at least ten miles behind. The enemy had no right to be there.

      
“It were the frigate from last night,” Barrow continued, spewing his words between gasps of breath. “She's under topsails an I'd say were about to set t'gallants.”

      
King cursed silently; that was one thing not counted upon in his plans. The French must have shortened sail during the night, a rare act for a man-of-war. That, or given up the chase completely. He felt his face flush. If he had only kept
Espérance
on her original course, they should have been sailed well below the horizon by now.

      
But this was not the time for recriminations. The light was coming faster by the minute. King glanced round. Men stood ready at their posts and, for the most part, were watching him, some even stupid enough to think he had anticipated such a meeting. Less than a mile off. The fact continued to reverberate about his head like the echo of a loud and painful noise. It was no distance at all. They were in range of her broadside guns, and the enemy was still to windward.

      
“There she is!” It was Crowley's voice; the Irishman was on the far side of the deck. King peered out as the gloom slowly lifted. Yes, the dark patch was certainly a ship's hull, and the masts and yards were becoming clearer by the second. It was ridiculously near, and they were even closing as he watched.

      
“Take her about,” he shouted as the blood started to drain from his body. How could he have been so stupid? Why on earth had he not stuck to the safest course, rather than risk all in a foolhardy attempt to pass in the dark? “Stations for wearing ship!”

      
Espérance
shuddered as she was roughly turned and all but wrenched on to the starboard tack. The light was in the east, and a modicum of mist remained. There was the slightest chance that they were still hidden from the Frenchman, although King could hardly dare hope that was the case.

      
“She's adding royals.” Fowler's voice came from the masthead to haunt him. Clearly the lookout had abandoned all pretence at staying concealed. “An' shaving a point or so to have us in pursuit.”

      
There was nothing else for it. He must have left the turn too late, not accounted sufficiently for their lead, or allowed for the enemy shortening sail. But all was not lost. They could make a chase of it, and the interesting part was still to come.
 

      
The enemy could yaw and give them the benefit of their broadside, gambling the loss of speed and position against that of scoring an important hit. Or she might trail them, putting all her efforts into closing, whilst taking pot shots with her forward-mounted cannon—powerful guns that could easily rake such a small craft as
Espérance.
Even if they were not damaged, it was going to take some while to sail the Frenchman out of range, and probably the rest of the day to lose her completely. He glanced round the deck and noticed Nichols. The man was watching him closely, clearly concerned.

      
“Seems that our friends are not so easy to shake,” he said, with remnants of his previous good humour still evident.

      
“Aye, and they're looking for a sailing contest,” King forced himself to speak lightly, then turned to meet the eyes of those about him. “What say we show him a thing or two about seamanship?”

      
The men agreed and laughed readily, as was their right. All knew their craft well enough, and none had made such a colossal gaff as their captain.

      
“What news of the others?” he shouted up suddenly as a thought occurred. “Do you see either of the brigs?”

      
A pause, then Fowler continued slowly. “There's a smudge, but I can't rightly be sure, and couldn't mark it as a sighting,” he said.

      
King turned to Barrow. “Back to the masthead,” he snapped. “Take the deck glass and tell me what you make of it.”

      
The youngster was at the chains in seconds and soon flying up the shrouds at an impressive rate, the brass telescope swinging from the strap about his shoulders. King focused his attention on
Espérance
, which was settling on the new course.

      
“Mr Khan, we'll have the stuns'ls on her again, if you please,” the boatswain touched his hat and began to shout for his topmen. King must now forget all about a record passage home. The only way he could hope to escape capture was to run, and as fast as his little ship could carry him. “Quartermaster, steer sou'west.”
 

      
The extra points put the wind on her quarter, their best point of sailing, even if it was also directly away from England. The ship bucked slightly as the breeze caught the fresh canvas, and soon
Espérance
began to fly. Light was gaining steadily; already the frigate was plainly visible from the deck. King studied her intently; she was a well-found ship, beautiful in design and clearly heavily armed. When it came to fighting,
Espérance
could not withstand even one full broadside from those deadly guns. Despite the coffee, his mouth felt inordinately dry—they could expect her to open fire at any moment.