Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series (50 page)

      
King regarded him carefully. The man was clearly upset and had reason to be.

      
“I have to make every effort to avoid capture.” He felt as if he were explaining the situation to a simpleton, but then Nichols was not a King's officer, that must be considered.

      
“And to what end?” Nichols asked, looking at him directly. “What good will come of it? One good man has already been killed, many more wounded, and Elizabeth…” His words faltered.

      
“George, I have my duty…”

      
“Pah, 'tis a strange duty that is so reckless with human life,” he said. “Were you to have struck at first sight, no one would have thought the worse of you. We are no great prize to the enemy, all might have been back in England before the month was out. What do you think you have here, a squadron of battleships?” He gave a single, sharp laugh. “You have temporary charge of a hired ship, with a crew of invalids to man her, yet behave as if you were Lord Howe himself.”

      
“George, you are a merchant seaman. You cannot understand.”

      
“Oh yes, I am nothing more than a lowly mate on an Indiaman. My service hardly compares with your own valiant Navy.”

      
King felt his anger rise. “There are differences, to be sure. I doubt that a Navy crew would have surrendered
Pevensey
to privateers without a shot being fired.”

      
“Maybe not, Tom, Maybe not. But no one died.”

      
King's look was totally without humour. “So you think I should do the same now, just shrug my shoulders and strike?”

      
“You could have done so hours ago; it would not have been such a terrible thing.”

      
“George, you are concerned about Elizabeth, and with cause. But you must see that our duties are so very different. If there be an enemy, I must fight him. If I cannot win, I must run. That’s the way I’ve been taught.”

      
“And you are to continue now, when the odds are so very much against you?”

      
“If we take damage I shall surrender, but I intend to see it through…” he paused, realising what he was about to say, then added, “at least a little further.”

      
Nichols nodded and turned to go. “So be it, then I wish you joy, and trust that not too many men will fall while you follow your duty.”

      
“Deck there, sail on the larboard beam!” Both men's attention was so distracted that it took a moment or two for the information to sink in. King looked up to the masthead, but his mind was still set on Nichols’s words, and he saw no reason for excitement.

      
“Heading west-nor-west,” the lookout continued, somewhat disappointed that his announcement seemed to have caused so little reaction.

      
“What do you make of her?” Crowley asked eventually.

      
“Difficult to say for sure, looks to be a sizeable vessel—three masts. She's carrying royals and going a fair pace, considering the weather.”

      
King and Crowley exchanged glances for a moment. Knowing the luck they had enjoyed, it might only be another Frenchman coming to join in the fun.

      
“Do you mind if I take a look, sir?” Crowley asked.

      
King shrugged. “If you wish, Michael, though I am happy to send Barrow.”

      
“I have a sense about this one,” the Irishman explained, as he collected the glass from the binnacle and headed purposefully for the main shrouds.

      
Nichols smiled a little sadly as they watched him make the climb. “We come from very different worlds, Tom.”

      
“It's something I have been told often enough before,” King said, noticing a softening in his friend. “But I confess, did not truly believe it until now.”

      
“Each has advantages,” Nichols agreed. King nodded, then his eyes flashed wickedly.

      
“Though I note the Navy has won a fair few actions of late.”
 

      
Nichols was grinning now and laid a hand gently on King's shoulder. “Aye, and all we have done is to colonise a nation.”

      
The brig must also have spotted the strange sail. Indeed she probably had made her first, and was now busily turning. Soon she would soon be bustling away, close hauled and under as much canvas as she could carry. She might still pass close enough to
Espérance
for a broadside, but the change allowed King to gain a point or two to the south. His heart began to pound again and, as the order was given he glanced up to Crowley, who had just settled himself at the masthead. The man was studying the sighting and, in King's opinion, was spending far too long on such a simple task.

      
“She's a British frigate,” he said finally, turning from his glass and looking down towards the deck. “
Shearwater
, her what escorted us down south.”

      
The world began to swim slightly, and King reached for the solidity of the binnacle for support. It was all he could do not to break out into hysterical laughter.
Shearwater —
the escort
would have released their original convoy further south and probably picked up the next home-bound. It was highly likely that she was looking for the two ships they had sighted earlier on. But the absolute fact remained that there was a powerful friendly warship in sight. In sight, and shortly to be in range, and the French were already running.

      
“
Shearwater
's a thirty-six—big enough to swallow that Frog frigate whole,” Crowley was positively bellowing in elation. “And still have room for the brig as a chaser!”

      
The men on deck began to cheer, and Nichols, his hand still resting on King's shoulder, was laughing softly.

      
“Very good,” King said, almost to himself. Then, a little louder, “Take her to the southeast if you please, Mr Barrow; let us make their job a little easier.”

Epilogue

      
They had taken rooms at the Keppel's Head, a popular and friendly inn, known as 'The Nut' to most junior officers. But when King walked slowly down the Hard, he was in no rush to return. The spring sunshine was pleasant; certainly preferable to the heavy rain endured throughout their passage up the Channel, and Portsmouth seemed well scrubbed, and even presentable in the bright morning light.
 

      
His reception at the port admiral's office had gone well enough, he supposed. A commander, who must have been sixty if he was a day, had taken charge of the despatches and listened with apparent interest while King related his story of the passage home. Jackie Robson, captain of the
Shearwater
, had been ushered through to meet with more important folk, but then Robson was a senior captain, one currently with a ship, and further more he was responsible for capturing an enemy frigate. King could see the prize now as she was being made safe at the entrance to the docks, her sleek lines and graceful form hardly marred by the jury fore topmast that altered the simple symmetry of her rig.
 

      
The brig had escaped. At first King wondered if he might have done more to prevent her loss, but there had been no recriminations. In fact all his actions since leaving Portugal seemed to meet with universal approval. It had been a tiring voyage, however, and now his mind was starting to feel quite numb. Even the finer details were becoming indistinct, and he was just so glad to be back. His hands were reaching deep into his watchcoat pockets as he rested against a low brick wall. It was still early; there should be plenty of time for a decent breakfast when he returned to the inn.
Espérance
had come in yesterday, and he finally gave her up late last night. Nichols and Manning then insisted on a celebratory supper, and none of them had reached their beds until the early hours of the morning. King doubted if anyone else would be up for a while, although at that moment he felt no need for human contact. It was enough that they had made it home, delivered those damned despatches, and now all could begin again.
 

      
Elizabeth was recovering well, the wound already being barely noticeable under her hair. And the headaches that bothered her at first were now fading to the extent that she and Nichols were actually starting to make plans for the future. King supposed they were to be envied. He had no set ambitions, apart from ditching the East India Company uniform he seemed to have been wearing for an age and beginning the long, slow search for a fresh position in the Royal Navy.

      
He had made a start at the port admiral's office, and the commander had been reasonably polite. But little had changed since he was last in England. Seagoing positions remained at a premium and, without a word being said, it was clear that most were snapped up by those with connections. King had few influential friends, and suspected it was going to be a long hunt.
 

      
From somewhere far off a bell began to strike the hour. It was nine, time enough to be heading back and see if the others were up. King turned and found himself facing a Navy lieutenant treading purposefully along the pavement towards him. He drew back to give the man passage, but there was something in the officer's stance and gait that caught his attention, and he was smiling broadly before he had even properly registered the face.

      
“Michael, Michael Caulfield!”

      
The man almost staggered as he turned in the act of passing, and it was only then that King realised the expression had been strangely occupied, as if his thoughts were complex and many miles away.

      
“Beg pardon, sir?” The face cleared. Then the eyes grew less distant, and were brought to focus on King, standing by the wall in his tattered watchcoat.

      
“By Jove, its Tom!” The lieutenant grinned and extended his hand. The months ashore had taken much of Caulfield's tan, and his belly might have been a touch more noticeable, but the man himself seemed fit and lively enough. “Why, I'd expected you to be off the coast of Africa b'now!”

      
They shook hands warmly, even if Caulfield seemed strangely eager to move on, shuffling from foot to foot as they spoke. “So what brings you back from the clutches of John Company?”

      
“A long story. Would you have me tell it?”

      
Caulfield shook his head, “Sadly there is not the time. I have an appointment and cannot be late; but walk with me.”

      
King quickly fell into his step, which was a fast one, and the sun seemed to shine even more warmly as they bounded along the Hard together.

      
“So what of Robert and Kate, did you leave them well?” Caulfield asked.

      
“I did.” Despite being physically fit, King was not used to walking quite so quickly without a break. “And not more than an hour or so since,” he puffed. “We're staying at The Nut.”

      
Caulfield stopped suddenly and turned, causing King to all but jump to one side in avoiding him.

      
“So Robert is back in England also?”

      
“Indeed.”

      
“And are you both still on the Company's books?”

      
“We left
Pevensey Castle
at Lisbon. I have no desire to return, and believe he feels likewise.”

      
Caulfield tapped King smartly on the chest with the back of his hand. “Then you'll both be wanting a posting, I'd wager!”

      
King gaped. They had only been back on British soil a matter of hours. “I—I cannot speak for Robert; Kate is with child, and her father not long departed.”

      
“But how are you set?”

      
He felt the need to think, although there really was little to consider. Nothing on land held him back in any way. His only commitment was to find a posting, and here was one apparently on offer. “I am at liberty,” he said.

      
“Would you consider the Navy, that is after the luxury of John Company travel?”

      
“The Navy?” King brightened further. “I surely would.”

      
Caulfield's expression returned to the well remembered smile. “Sir Richard has been given a ship, a seventy-four, she is fitting out even as we speak.”

      
“But how so? What of his plans for parliament? I thought he had intended to stand?”

      
The older man shrugged, “Who can anticipate the actions of the blessed? I received a letter a week or so back, and am going to meet with him now. You must come with me.”

      
But King's inherent pessimism was not to be denied. “He may have favourites and not require any further.”