Cut and Run: The Fourth Book in the Fighting Sail Series by Alaric Bond Page A

way?”
           “No sir.” Willis’s complexion had grown slightly darker. Clearly, the fresh morning air was doing him some good. “You will be very welcome.”
           “Mr Rogers is not abroad?” Drayton asked.
           “He has matters to attend to in his cabin.” Willis appeared slightly awkward. “Shall I send for him, sir?”
           “Thank you, no. It would be better that he were not disturbed.” Drayton's voice was low and quite without emotion. “I am sensible to the heavy responsibilities a man such as he must carry.” He treated the group of officers to a genial look. “Sure, he will be busy enough later, let him take his rest while he may”
     
    * * *
     
           The convoy made steady progress, but by four bells in the afternoon watch, was only just passing the anchored shipping at the Nore. King looked out at the well-remembered scene. Less than a year ago, and in the very same channel that they now navigated, his previous ship, Pandora had been forced out to sea in the dead of night. The threat that caused their sudden departure had not come from any foreign force: Pandora was actually running from British seamen. Led by Richard Parker, himself a former junior officer, they had disgraced themselves by daring to defy the Admiralty and hold their own countrymen to ransom. King recalled the night well. The lack of wind meant the frigate had to be towed as far as the estuary, and he had been a lieutenant in charge of one of the boats. It was a bad time for the ship, the service, and the country in general. All appeared lost, and imminent invasion seemed certain. Much had happened since, of course; but now, as they passed the dockyards at Sheerness, King questioned whether his own position had actually improved.
           At that moment Paterson who was not on duty for some time, appeared on the quarterdeck, and walked across to join him. King had only known Paterson for a matter of days. At first, he had been put off by his somewhat direct approach, although their common purpose in getting Pevensey Castle ready for sea, as well as the conflict between them and Rogers, had started to forge a friendship.
           “Slow work, Tom,” Paterson said. His voice was loud, and Willis who had the conn, stood with the pilot barely twelve feet away. “By this rate, it will be ten hours or more before we make the Downs.”
           “There might be a better wind presently.”
           “Aye, and rain, if I'm not mistaken. T'will mean rounding North Foreland in darkness, then we have to negotiate the Goodwins; not my favourite sport on a winter's night.”
           “How long do we stay at the Downs?”
           “As little time as possible,” Paterson replied. “A day or so to take on passengers, then off for Pompey just as soon as the wind sets fair. We may be lucky and gone within a day or so, 'though I've known ships trapped at Deal for almost a month.”
           “Do we collect more at Portsmouth?”
           “Aye, an' the rest of the convoy. Reckon a few more escorts as well; can't be too many for my liking.”
           King had served in warships detailed to protect convoys and did not remember overly enjoying the work, although now he was starting to see the other side of the coin. Pevensey Castle might be the size of a heavy frigate, but there all similarity ended. Her armament was modest, her crew would have been considered insufficient for a warship half her size, and the last few hours had already shown that she possessed many of the sailing qualities of a house brick. The idea of her putting up a reasonable defence against a determined force was frankly laughable, and he shared Paterson's wish for a strong escort force. The wind was growing more fitful by the minute and was slowly veering.
           “So, ten hours to the Downs?” he asked.
           “At least that. We have to round North Foreland