Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (48 page)

* * *

      
Khan looked back from his masts, where the freshly trimmed canvas was filling nicely. At least the wind still blew strong and benefited a light hull like theirs more than that of even a frigate.

      
“Keep your head down, Abdul,” Johnston grinned, as he joined him next to the mainmast. “Frenchie's gonna open up at any moment.”

      
The Lascar pursed his lips, even though his face showed little sign of immediate concern. If the enemy chose to fire on him, that was their business and completely beyond his power to control. But still he worried about Mr King. The young officer was standing on the quarterdeck barely feet from him. His body was tense and brittle, with head pressed unnaturally down upon his chest and ridged arms held tight against his sides. He was the very image of distress, and clearly blaming himself for the bad luck he had been allocated.

      
A commotion from behind drew their attention, and shortly afterwards the solid ring of a single gun reached them.

      
“They have us nicely,” Johnston said, and Khan turned forward to see the last of a substantial cascade of water collapse off and beyond their starboard bow. “That will be a ranging shot,” he continued. “From their bow chaser; checkin' we're within their grasp.”

      
“Will they continue to fire?” the Lascar asked, despite himself.
 

      
“Like as not,” Johnston replied; it was his turn to be nonchalant now. “They'll aim for our rig; Frenchies always do, and they seems to have the elevation. It's a bigger target than the 'ull, though still no sitting duck, even at this range.”

      
“We should make preparations, perhaps?” Khan asked, concern now switching to his precious masts and spars.

      
“We done all we can until they hits us,” Johnston reassured him. “But it's no sure fire bet; yon Mr King ain't so beetle headed as he makes out. He's got them nicely hidden on the quarter at the moment, that's the space between the reach of their bow chasers and broadside guns. The enemy will correct, you can be sure of that, but he'll alter course as soon as they do, and there ain't gonna be no fancy shootin', not while he keeps her so.”

      
Khan nodded, glad that another person was sensitive to King's predicament and that the man himself was still making rational decisions.

      
Another crack of gunfire, but this time the shot landed unseen.

      
“Must have been well off,” Johnston said. “But we'll be turnin' in no time; before the French gets their eye in. An' he'll keep dodging until they can't reach us no more.”

      
“How long will we remain in range?”

      
Johnston shook his head. “Can't rightly say, but it won't be forever,” he grinned again. “Even though it might feel like it.”

* * *

      
“Take her two points to larboard.” The time was certainly not dragging for King. There was too much to think about, too much to do. They must have gained a good half cable on the pursuing frigate and, although the constant changes of heading had slowed them slightly, none of the enemy's shot were landing close. Of course, there was something of an illusion in the last point. The French were aiming high, as was their fashion, so any that missed caused a splash some considerable way off. But some had been wide, extremely wide, and King drew comfort from the fact that he was not facing crack gunners.

      
Dawn was up now, and a mild sun just started to make itself known. Earlier on Fowler and Barrow had reported one of the French brigs in sight, fine off the larboard bow. She was coming up close hauled on the starboard tack, but still lay a good way off, and King felt he could ignore that particular threat for the time being.
 

      
Elizabeth was on deck. She was standing close to Nichols, after bringing him a cup of something from below. King considered ordering her down once more, but finally decided against it. If she were prepared to risk her life, then it was really not of his concern. Everyone made mistakes, after all.

      
“Should be clear of them afore long,” Nichols called across the deck after the second shot in succession had fallen a good way off. The evidence certainly indicated so, even though King felt they were still a way from being out of danger. But he knew that every change in direction threw the French gunners, and noticed that the first or second shots following a minor alteration were often poorly elevated. It was the sign of a bad marksman, and it might be supposed that the very best was being used at the bow chasers. Sure enough, the third was in line and actually passed through the small ship's maze of rigging lines. Fortunately, nothing was hit, and he hurriedly adjusted their heading. It was not an experience he wished to see repeated.

      
They were making a fair speed, however, and much of his earlier despondency was gone. The enemy was a good mile off by now and they would be properly out of range within the hour. Then he could abandon this zigzag trail and settle down to the long haul; one that he guessed must last the day and probably most of the night to come. By the time they were properly free and could turn back with confidence, several hundred miles will have been covered. It was quite a distance to make up, and doing so would certainly mean a poor passage time back to England. He was on the very verge of thinking about his commission once more, when the French fired their next shot. The sound that echoed across the empty water was no different to those that had gone before, except this time it was accompanied by a loud crack, and the snapping of lines from aloft.

      
King stared up, then jumped to one side as a heavy object fell to the deck, barely feet from where he was standing.

      
“Mizzen t'gallant!” Crowley shouted, tripping as he dodged out of the path of another falling block. King reached out and pulled him from the deck, while a series of loud crashes told where several more pieces of tophamper were raining down.

      
“Topmen!” King shouted, but Khan was already heading for the weather shrouds, with Johnston and Smith, the second boatswain's mate, following close behind.

      
“Watch the spar!” The call came from Harris at the wheel. He was staring up at the sky and pointing wildly. King followed his gaze. The yard and upper mast were free now and starting to fall, with much of the topgallant sail still attached.

      
“Stand away there!” King bellowed to no avail, but then it was hard to know which way to run, as the dark wooden beam speared down towards them. It landed squarely on one of the men, bending the soft body to the deck much as a badly wielded hammer might a particularly stubborn nail.

      
“Abdul!” Johnston's shout was nothing less than a scream. He rushed forward as the spar fell to one side, its work complete.

      
“Leave it, boy,” Harris at the wheel commanded. Indeed, there was little Johnston could do for his friend, but much remained wanting elsewhere.

      
“Axes, axes there!” A considerable amount of cordage and the topgallant staysail, were trailing over the side, slowing their progress. Two men made for the bulwarks and began to hack down on the tight lines. King looked about in momentary confusion; then he saw Elizabeth and Nichols.

      
She was lying in his arms as he bent down and attended to her in an odd reversal of roles. Blood was streaming from her head, and her eyes were open, but clearly seeing nothing. King consciously blocked the sight from him mind; he could spare them no time while the ship was in such imminent danger.

      
“Topmen!” He repeated his cry of thirty-seconds ago. Johnston was still attending to Khan's body, but Smith responded readily enough, and along with other hands, began to clamber up the weather shrouds.

      
“How does she feel?” King snapped at Harris. The old man turned the wheel either way.
 

      
“It’s a difference I can handle,” he said guardedly. “The bow is up slightly, an' I'd appreciate the stays'l replaced.”

      
“Very well, we'll see what can be done.” Of all of the tophamper, the mizzen topgallant was probably the least important, but that hardly eased the fact that they were hit. Any progress they made now was bound to be that much slower, and, probably just as important to the eventual outcome, the French would be encouraged. King felt the motion of the ship through his feet as he stood on the quarterdeck and glanced back at the oncoming enemy. Certainly,
Espérance
was maintaining her lead and might be even gaining slightly.

      
Another crack from the bow chaser. They were currently in the arc of the larboard gun, which was still firing every four minutes. Was it really that long since they were hit, or had their success hastened the French gunners? This time the shot fell to starboard and even a little short, so the damage might easily have been caused by fate—a freak combination of power and timing which had thrown what could even have been an irregular ball further and higher than normal.

      
Smith and the topmen were at the mizzen topmast now and appeared to be attempting to make some order from the mess.

      
“Can you rig a jury?” King asked.

      
Smith shook his head. “Not a replacement mast, sir. But I might be able to set a fresh stays'l if we has one.”

      
“We got a main t'gallant stay that'll serve.” Johnston's voice—he had finally left Khan's body and was looking up. “Rig a fall whilst I rouse it out.”

      
King nodded, then noticed Nichols and Elizabeth once more.

      
He had laid her on the deck and was foolishly trying to wipe the blood from her forehead, although the wound was clearly deep and continued to bleed.

      
“It was a fiddle block,” he said, almost conversationally as King joined him. “Fell from above and knocked her cold.”

      
“Is she breathing?” King asked.

      
“Aye, and there's a pulse.” King could see that Nichols's hands were shaking horribly and wondered how he could tell.

      
“We should get her below.” He looked about, but all appeared to be fully occupied.

      
“I'll take her,” Nichols said, and he began to scoop the light body into his arms.

      
“Wait, you’ll do your wound damage. I'll get Manning to come up.”
 

      
But Nichols was already gathering Elizabeth in his arms. He began to lift, then let out an involuntary cry as he slumped forward over her. He sobbed once, and went to try again. Then Kate joined them.

      
“Come, George, we can take her together,” she said, and King was momentarily struck by her white pallor. She pressed her arms under the girl, and with Nichols half lifting, half trailing, brought her up from the deck and started for the hatchway.

      
“Can I help?” King asked, feeling vaguely useless.

      
“You can attend to the ship, Tom,” Kate replied, not looking back.
 

      
Another shot came from the Frenchman, but that also fell short, and another after that. Then there was blessed silence, a silence that continued far longer than anyone could have hoped. Slowly, it dawned on them that
Espérance
was finally out of range.

      
The remains of the topgallant mast had been ditched over the side, and Johnston with two other men were manhandling a replacement staysail to the lower mizzenmast. Khan's body was still lying broken on the deck. Two older men made for it, but Johnston cried out angrily, and they let him be.

      
“Bloody Lascars,” Johnston swore softly to himself while he turned his attention to attaching the staysail to the line that Smith had sent down. “Always the first to die.”
 

* * *

      
King breakfasted a little later, and by the time he regained the quarterdeck, much had changed. The French frigate was still in clear sight, although the lead was now more than four miles. But coming up to larboard, seemingly with a firm breeze, the French brig was gaining fast.

      
“Take her two points to starboard,” King ordered, as he collected the traverse board from the binnacle. They were now heading almost due west and must be more than fifteen points off their original course. The brig was a nuisance, no more. Even with their damaged mizzen, he was confident of eventually out-sailing both vessels. And once that was achieved, there would be little point in repeating last night's disaster. Making England and delivering the despatches late was far better than not arriving at all.

      
He had left Nichols and Elizabeth in the sick berth. Manning had extended the small room to take in a good section of the lower deck, and already there were several takers. They were minor injuries mainly, men cut or bruised by falling debris, a splinter wound and one who had lost two fingers to another's axe. Elizabeth lay in the sick berth proper, out cold and seemingly many miles away. Nichols was attending to her and, quite understandably, had been rather short when King enquired as to her condition. Manning reassured him that there appeared to be no major damage, although little could be told for certain until she showed signs of consciousness. He, too, had been a little curt, but then this was his first time in overall charge of a sickbay, and King was well aware how heavily new responsibilities could weigh. The still small body of Khan was wrapped in a sheet awaiting the attention of Johnston, who claimed the Lascar as his tie mate and would later deal with him in the time-honoured fashion.