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

first, and I reckons that'll take us six.”
           King glanced at Shearwater , valiantly holding herself in check while she waited for the clumsy merchants to catch up. Paterson was right. It was slow work indeed.
     
    * * *
     
           In fact, it was all of eight hours later, and Paterson had the deck when the pilot finally ordered them round the tip of the north Kent coast. In the absolute black of night little could be discerned apart from a single guiding light off to starboard, a visual anchor for them all to centre upon.
           “Eighteen lamps a burning there,” Paterson told King who had brought him a mug of hot tea. “An' bless the Lord for each an' every one of 'em.”
           The wind grew steadily and was blowing from the northwest as they settled on to the new course, and soon Pevensey Castle began to wallow in the slow chop. The pilot took a bearing on the light and looked forward to the frigate, several cables ahead. Rogers appeared, his second visit of the evening, although this time he was more suitably dressed in a heavy watch coat and tarpaulin hat. Seagrove was with him, and they beckoned Paterson and King to join them as they approached the pilot.
           “Navy's cutting it close, usual,” the older man was saying. “I'd prefer to give them sands to starboard a wider berth.”
           “The Goodwins?” Willis asked brightly. The pilot stared at him in mild contempt.
           “That's the Goodwins,” he pointed over the larboard bow. “We's headin' for the Gull Stream what runs between them.”
           “The Gulf Stream? Surely not?” Seagrove gave a slight laugh that was stilled by a stony stare from the pilot.
           “Gull—like in the bird,” the disdain was evident. “It'll take us into the Downs an', hopefully, a safe anchorage.”
           Rogers looked up at the weathervane. “Should we be concerned?”
           The pilot shook his head. “Na, cap'n; not at present, though I'm not taking her any closer. Ask me, the Navy's more afraid of the French than runnin' aground, or they wouldn't be holding such a tight course. But, the Frogs can come and go, whereas the sands is always with us.”
           The man was probably right, but still King felt a measure of sympathy for their escort. It was a thankless task, shepherding three rolling merchants through difficult waters, and on a night when all of them would have been far happier abed. However, it was not unheard of for privateers, or even small enemy national vessels, to take such an opportunity to snap up a fat prize. Shearwater must keep an eye out for just such a threat, as well as watching the weather, the tide, and the treacherous shoals through which they were heading.
           King looked across at the pilot's chart. A small mark showed their present position, and it was clear that it was going to be a delicate business, threading through the channel to their final destination. Paterson also peered over his shoulder, although the others seemed content for the pilot to continue managing the ship without their assistance. King was about to comment when, quite abruptly, the third mate turned and rushed for the lee rail, dropping his mug with a clatter as he went. They watched in surprise while he leant deep over the side.
           “Something he ate?” Willis said, in a voice void of concern.
           “It appears that Mr Paterson is unwell,” Seagrove was quick to join in. “Belike he is not so experienced with the sea as he might have us think.”
           King stirred uneasily. There was little shame in seasickness; a condition famous for being no respecter of rank or station. It could spring up without notice, setting its evil claws into the least suspecting and most seasoned of men, and was relatively common during the first few days of any commission.
           Rogers snorted. “Takes our first blow to settle the wheat