A King's Cutter (2 page)

‘Good heavens yes, Mr Jessup. I've served extensively in cutters. You'll not find me wanting there.'

Jessup sniffed. Somehow that indrawn air allowed him the last word, as if it indicated a secret knowledge that Drinkwater could not be a party to. Yet.

‘Here's the boat, sir, with your traps.' Jessup walked over to the side to hail it. To seal the advantage he had over the newcomer he spat forcefully into the gliding waters of the Thames.

Shortly before noon the following day the captain had come on board. Lieutenant Griffiths removed his hat, ran a searching eye over the ship and sniffed the wind. He acknowledged Drinkwater's salute with a nod. The lieutenant was tall and stoop-shouldered, his sad features crowned by a mane of white hair that lent his sixty-odd years a patriarchal quality. A Welshman of untypical silences he seemed to personify an ancient purpose that might have been Celtic, Cymric or perhaps faerie. Born in Carnarvon he had served as mate in Liverpool slavers before being pressed into the navy. He had risen in the King's service by sheer ability and escaped that degree of intolerance of his former messmates that disfigured many of his type. Lord Howe had given him his commission, declaring that there
was no man fitter to rise in the navy than Madoc Griffiths who was, his lordship asserted in his curious idiom, an ornament to his profession. Whatever the idiosyncracies of his self-expression ‘Black Dick' was right. As Drinkwater subsequently learnt there was no facet of the cutter's activities of which Griffiths was not master. A first, superficial impression that his new commander might be a superannuated relic was almost instantly dispelled.

Drinkwater's reception had been guarded. In a silence that was disconcerting Griffiths examined Drinkwater's papers. Then he leaned back and coolly studied the man in front of him.

A week short of twenty-nine Drinkwater was lean and of medium height. A weathered complexion told of continuous sea service. The grey eyes were alert and intelligent, capable of concentration and determination. There were hints of these qualities in the crowsfeet about the eyes and the pale thread of a scar that puckered down from the left eye. But the furrows that ran down from the straight nose to the corners of a well-shaped mouth were prematurely deep and seemed to constrain more than a hint of passion.

Was there a weakness there? Griffiths pondered, appraising the high forehead, the mop of brown hair drawn back into a black ribboned queue. There was a degree of sensitivity, he thought, but not sensuousness, the face was too open. Then he had it; the passion of temper lurked in the clamped corners of that mouth, a temper born of disappointment and disillusion, belied by the level eyes but recognisable to a Welshman. There was something suppressed about the man before him, a latent energy that Griffiths, in isolating, found reassuring. ‘
Du
but this man's a terrible fighter,' he muttered to himself and relaxed.

‘Sit you down, Mr Drinkwater.' Griffiths's voice was deep and quiet, adding to the impression of other worldliness. He enunciated his words with that clarity of diction peculiar to some of his race. ‘Your papers do you credit. I see that your substantive rank is that of master's mate and that you held an acting commission at the end of the American War . . . it was not confirmed?'

‘No sir. I was given to understand the matter had been laid before Sir Richard Kempenfelt but . . .' He shrugged, remembering Captain Hope's promise as he left for the careening battleship. Griffiths looked up.

‘The
Royal George
was it?'

‘Yes sir. It didn't seem important at the time . . .'

‘But ten years is a long while to keep a sense of proportion.'
Griffiths finished the sentence for him. The two men smiled and it seemed to both that a hurdle had been crossed. ‘Still, you have gained excellent experience in the Trinity Yachts, have you not?'

‘I believe so, sir.' Drinkwater sensed his commander's approval.

‘For my personal satisfaction,
bach
, I require your oath that no matter discussed between us is repeated beyond these bulkheads.' Griffiths's tone was soft yet uncompromising and his eyes were briefly cold. Drinkwater closed his imagination to a sudden vision of appalling facts. He remembered another secret learned long ago, knowledge of which had culminated in death in the swamps of Carolina. He sighed.

‘You have my word, as a King's officer.' Drinkwater stared back. The shadow had not gone unnoticed by Griffiths. The lieutenant relaxed. So, he thought, there was experience too. ‘
Da iawn
,' he muttered.

‘This cutter is under the direct orders of the Admiralty. I, er, execute an unusual office, do you see. We attend to certain government business on the French coast at certain times and at certain locations.'

‘I see, sir.' But he did not. In an attempt to expand his knowledge he said, ‘And your orders come from Lord Dungarth, sir?'

Griffiths regarded him again and Drinkwater feared he had been importunate. He felt the colour rising to his cheeks but Griffiths said, ‘Ah, I had forgotten, you knew him from
Cyclops
.'

‘Yes, sir. He seems much changed, although it is some years since I last spoke with him.'

Griffiths nodded. ‘Aye, and you found the change intimidating, did you?'

Drinkwater nodded, aware that again Griffiths had exactly expressed his own feelings. ‘He lost his wife, you know, in child-bed.'

Drinkwater did not keep pace with society gossip but he had been aware of Dungarth's marriage with Charlotte Dixon, an India merchant's daughter of fabled wealth and outstanding beauty. He had also heard how even Romney had failed to do her likeness justice. He began to see how the loss of his countess had shrivelled that once high-spirited soul and left a ruthless bitterness. As if confirming his thoughts Griffiths said, ‘I think if he had not taken on the French republic he would have gone mad . . .'

The old man rose and opened a locker. Taking two glasses and a decanter he poured the sercial and deftly changed the subject. ‘The vessel is aptly named, Mr Drinkwater,' he resumed his seat and
continued. ‘
Falco tinnunculus
is characterised by its ability to hover, seeking out the exact location of its prey before it stoops. It lives upon mice, shrews and beetles, small fry, Mr Drinkwater,
bach
, but beetles can eat away an oak beam . . .' He paused to drain and refill his glass. ‘Are you seeing the point of my allegory?'

‘I, er, I think so, sir.' Griffiths refilled Drinkwater's glass.

‘I mention these circumstances for two reasons. Lord Dungarth spoke highly of you, partly from your previous acquaintance and also on the recommendation of the Trinity House. I trust, therefore, that my own confidence in you will not prove misplaced. You will be responsible for our navigation. Remonstrations on lee shores are inimical to secret operations. Understand, do you?'

Drinkwater nodded, aware of the intended irony and continuing to warm to his new commander.

‘Very well,' Griffiths continued. The second reason is less easy to confess and I tell you this, Mr Drinkwater, because there is a possibility of command devolving upon you, perhaps in adverse circumstances or at an inconvenient time . . .' Drinkwater frowned. This was more alarming than the previous half-expected revelations. ‘Many years ago on the Gambier coast I contracted a fever. From time to time I am afflicted by seizures.'

‘But if you are unwell, sir, a, er . . .'

‘A replacement?' Griffiths raised an indignant eyebrow then waved aside Drinkwater's apology. ‘Look you, I have lived ashore for less than two years in half a century. I am not likely to take root there now.' Drinkwater absorbed the fact as Griffiths's face became suddenly wistful, an old man lost in reminiscence. He finished his glass and stood up, leaving the commander sitting alone with his wine, and quietly left the cabin.

Overhead the white ensign cracked in the strong breeze as the big cutter drove to windward under a hard reefed mainsail. Her topsail yard was lowered to the cap and the lower yard cockbilled clear of the straining staysail. Halfway along her heavy bowsprit the spitfire jib was like a board, wet with spray and still gleaming faintly from the daylight fading behind inky rolls of cumulus to the westward. The wind drove against the ebb tide to whip up a short steep sea, grey-white in the dusk as it seethed alongside and tugged at the boat towing close astern. The cutter bucked her round bow and sent streaks of spray driving over the weather rail.

Acting Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater huddled in his tarpaulin
as the spume whipped aft, catching his face and agonising his cheek muscles in the wind-ache that followed.

He ran over the projected passage in his mind yet again, vaguely aware that an error now would blight any chances of his hoped-for promotion. Then he dismissed the thought to concentrate on the matter in hand. From Dover to their destination was sixty-five miles, parallel with the French coast, a coast made terrible by tales of bloody revolution. In the present conditions they would make their landfall at low water. That, Drinkwater had been impressed, was of the utmost importance. He was mystified by the insistence laid upon the point by Lieutenant Griffiths. Although the south-westerly wind allowed them to make good a direct course Griffiths had put her on the larboard tack an hour earlier to deceive any observers on Gris Nez. The cape was now disappearing astern into the murk of a wintry night.

Drinkwater shivered again, as much with apprehension as with cold; he walked over to the binnacle. In the yellow lamplight the gently oscillating card showed a mean heading of north-west by west. Allowing for the variation of the magnetic and true meridians that was a course of west by north. He nodded with satisfaction, ignoring the subdued sound of conversation and the chink of glasses coming up the companionway. The behaviour of his enigmatic commander and their equally mysterious ‘passenger' failed to shake his self-confidence.

He walked back to the binnacle and called forward, summoning the hands to tack ship. A faint sound of laughter came up from below. After his interview, Griffiths had withdrawn, giving the minimum of orders, apparently watching his new subordinate. At first Drinkwater thought he was being snubbed, but swiftly realised it was simply characteristic of the lieutenant. And the man who had boarded at Deal had not looked like a spy. Round, red faced and jolly he was clearly well-known to Griffiths and released from the Welshman an unexpected jocularity. Drinkwater could not imagine what they had to laugh about.

‘Ready sir!'

From forward Jessup's cry was faintly condescending and Drinkwater smiled into the darkness.

‘Down helm!' he called.

Kestrel
came up into the wind, her mainsail thundering. Drinkwater felt her tremble when the jib flogged, vibrating the bowsprit. Then she spun as the wind filled the backed headsails,
thrusting her round.

‘Heads'l sheets!'

The jib and staysail cracked until tamed by the seamen sweating tight the lee sheets.

‘Steadeeee . . . steer full and bye.'

‘Full an' bye, sir.' The two helmsmen leaned on the big tiller as
Kestrel
drove on, the luff of her mainsail just trembling.

‘How's her head?'

‘Sou' by west, sir.'

That was south by east true, allowing two points for westerly variation. ‘Very well, make it so.'

‘Sou' by west it is, sir.'

The ebb ran fair down the coast here and the westing they had made beating offshore ought to put them up-tide and to windward of the landing place by the time they reached it, leaving them room to make the location even if the wind backed. Or so Drinkwater hoped, otherwise his commission would be as remote as ever.

Towards midnight the wind did back and eased a little. The reefs were shaken out and
Kestrel
drove southwards, her larboard rail awash. Drinkwater was tired now. He had been on deck for nine hours and Griffiths did not seem anxious to relieve him.

Kestrel
was thrashing in for the shore. Drinkwater could sense rather than see the land somewhere in the darkness ahead. It must be very near low water now. Drinkwater bit his lip with mounting concern. With a backing wind they would get some lee from the cliffs that rose sheer between Le Tréport and Dieppe and it would be this that gave them the first inkling of their proximity. That and the smell perhaps.

In the darkness and at this speed
Kestrel
could be in among the breakers before there was time to go about. Anxiously he strode forward to hail the lookout at the crosstrees. ‘Who's aloft?'

‘Tregembo, zur.' The Cornishman's burr was reassuring. Tregembo had turned up like a bad penny, one of the draft of six men from the Nore guardship that had completed
Kestrel
's complement. Drinkwater had known Tregembo on the frigate
Cyclops
where the man had been committed for smuggling. He was still serving out the sentence of a court that had hanged his father for offering revenue officers armed resistance. To mitigate the widow's grief her son was drafted into the navy. That he had appeared on the deck of
Kestrel
was another link in the chain of coincidences that Drinkwater found difficult to dismiss as merely random.

‘Keep a damned good lookout, Tregembo!'

‘Aye, aye, zur.'

Drinkwater went aft and luffed the cutter while a cast of the lead was taken. ‘By the mark, five.'
Kestrel
filled and drove on. There was a tension on deck now and Drinkwater felt himself the centre of it. Jessup hovered solicitously close. Why the devil did Griffiths not come on deck? Five fathoms was shoal water, but it was shoal water hereabouts for miles. They might be anywhere off the Somme estuary. He suppressed a surge of panic and made up his mind. He would let her run for a mile or two and sound again.

‘Breakers, zur! Fine on the lee bow!'