A King's Cutter (6 page)

He grinned back. ‘I shall not be foolhardy, Bess, I promise.'

‘No, of course not,' she said taking the coffee cup from him. And as he withdrew his hand the mark of the splinter was still visible on his palm.

‘
Hannibal
, sir, Captain Colpoys, just in from a cruise. Missed Christmas, poor devils.' Both men regarded the battleship anchoring across the Sound.

Griffiths nodded. ‘The big boy-o's have all shaken the cobwebs from their topsails and are back to ground on their own chicken bones again. It's time we put to sea again Mr Drinkwater. This is a time for little birds with keen eyes; the elephants can wait a while longer. D'you have my gig ready in ten minutes.'

Waiting for Griffiths to return from the port admiral's Drinkwater paced the deck. The hands were making preparation to sail, skylarking until sent below by a fine drizzle, while he was oblivious of the grey pall that rolled up the Hamoaze.

Farewells, he concluded, were damnable.

Tregembo came aft and stood uncertainly next to him.

‘What is it Tregembo?'

The seaman looked unhappily at his feet. ‘I was wondering, zur . . .'

‘Don't tell me you want leave of absence to see your doxy?'

Tregembo hung his head in assent. ‘Damn it Tregembo, you'll get her with child or catch pox. I'm damned if I'll physic you!' Drinkwater instantly regretted the unkindness caused by his own misery.

‘She ain't like that, zur . . . and I only want a quarter hour, zur.'

Drinkwater thought of Elizabeth. ‘Damn it Tregembo, not a moment more then.'

‘Thank 'ee, zur, thank 'ee.' Drinkwater watched him hurry off. Idly he wondered what the future held. The shots at Beaubigny might have formed a pretext for war, for
Kestrel
's broadside had been an aggressive act. It was odd that the French had not made more of it, at least one of their men had been killed. But the advantages of peace were being protested by Pitt and such an insignificant cruiser as
Kestrel
could not be allowed to provide a
casus belli
. That, at least, had been the British position, and she had been kept refitting at Plymouth until the air cleared. All the same it was deuced odd that the French had failed to capitalise on the violation of their littoral.

He dismissed the thought. Now the cutter was ordered to join the growing number of brigs and sloops of war keeping the French coast under observation. Since Lord Hood had cruised with home-based frigates and guardships in the summer, the dockyard had been busy. Thanks to the Spanish and Russian crises of the preceding three years the fleet was in a reasonable state of preparedness. Across the
Channel the Paris mob had massacred the Swiss guard and in September the French had invaded Savoy. It was known that Rear-Admiral Truguet had been ordered to sea with nine sail of the line. In November the Austrian Netherlands were overrun and the French seized control of the Scheldt. This made the whereabouts of all French naval squadrons crucial to the defence of Great Britain. There were thirty-nine battleships at Brest, ten at L'Orient and thirteen at Rochefort. As 1793 approached the Admiralty was taking a close look at them.

The grey overcast of Saturday 29th December 1792 seemed leaden, but the wind had backed into the north-west, the showers had ceased and the cloud was beginning to disperse. Griffiths and Drinkwater stood watching a brig-sloop running down the Sound for the open sea.

‘
Childers
, Commander Robert Barlow,' muttered Drinkwater half to himself.

Griffiths nodded. ‘Off to reconnoitre Brest Road,' he added confidentially.

On the last day of the old year, the wind veered northerly and blew from a clear sky. At noon a guard boat brought Griffiths the orders he had been expecting. By sunset
Kestrel
had left Smeaton's Eddystone lighthouse astern and was scudding south to the support of
Childers
.

During the night the wind freshened to a severe gale and
Kestrel
was hove to, her bowsprit reefed, her topmast and yards sent down and double breechings securing her guns. At first light a sail was seen to the westward and an exchange of signals revealed her as
Childers
. Taking the helm himself Griffiths steered
Kestrel
under the brig's lee and luffed. In his tarpaulin Barlow bellowed at them: ‘Fired on by French batteries at St Matthew . . . honour of the flag, return to port . . . making for Fowey . . .' His words were ripped away by the gale.

‘Probably of the opinion he's the first to be fired on, eh, Mr Drinkwater?' growled Griffiths, regarding his junior from beneath a wet and bushy white eyebrow.

‘Aye, sir, and hastening home to make a noise of it if I'm not mistaken.'

Griffiths chuckled. Barlow's indignation was clear, even across the strip of white and foaming water. ‘He'll be in a post-chaise before that brig's fetched an anchor, I'll warrant,' said Griffiths, heaving on
the tiller and calling two men to relieve him.

The two little ships parted, plunging to windward with the spray shooting over them, the sea streaked pale by parallel lines of spume that tore downwind. Here and there a fulmar banked and swooped on rigid, sabre-shaped wings, breaking the desolation of the view.

Three weeks later Louis XVI was guillotined and on the first day of February the French National Convention declared war on the Dutch Stadtholder and His Majesty King George III.

‘Cap'n's compliments, sir, an' he'd be obliged if you'd attend him in the cabin.' Odd that a little cutter could produce a servant as diplomatic as Merrick. Drinkwater turned the deck over to Jessup and went below, crabbing down the companionway against the heel.

‘Nothing in sight, sir,' he said removing his hat ‘apart from
Flora
, that is.'

Griffiths nodded without looking up from his orders just received from the frigate. ‘Sit down, Mr Drinkwater.'

Drinkwater eased himself onto the settee and stretched. Griffiths pushed a decanter across the table without a word, flicking a glance in Drinkwater's direction only to see that the latter had hold of it before he let go. Claret from their last capture, an unhandy little
bugalet
bound to the Seine from Bordeaux. Good wine too, and a tidy sum made from the sale. Drinkwater sipped appreciatively and watched his commander.

In the months since
Kestrel
had become a lookout cruiser and commerce raider, a gatherer of intelligence and a dealer of swift demoralising blows, Drinkwater and Griffiths had developed a close working relationship. The acting lieutenant had quickly realised that he shared with his commander a rare zeal for efficiency and a common love of driving their little ship for its own sake.

Griffiths folded the papers and looked up, reaching for the claret. ‘Our orders, Mr Drinkwater, our orders. Another glass, is it . . . ?' Drinkwater waited patiently.

Referring to the frigate's captain Griffiths said, ‘Sir John Warren has sent a note to say that he's applied for us to join his flying squadron when it is formed.'

Drinkwater considered the news. Operating with frigates might be to his advantage. It all depended on how many young lieutenants were clamouring for patronage. Captains commanding Channel cruisers could have the pick of the list. So perhaps his chances were not very good. ‘When will that be, sir?'

Griffiths shrugged. ‘Who knows,
bach
. The mills of Admiralty grind as slow as those of God.'

Clearly Griffiths did not relish the loss of independence, but he
looked up and added, ‘In the meantime we have a little job to do. Rather like our old work. There's a mutual friend of ours who wishes to leave France.'

‘Mutual friend, sir?'

‘You know, Mr Drinkwater, fellow we landed at Criel. He goes under the name of Major Brown. His commission's in the Life Guards, though I doubt he's sat a horse on the King's Service. Made a reputation with the Iroquois in the last war, I remember. Been employed on “special service” ever since,' Griffiths said with heavy emphasis.

Drinkwater remembered the fat, jolly man they had landed on his first operation nearly a year ago. He did not appear typical of the officers of His Majesty's Life Guards.

Griffiths sensed his puzzlement. ‘The Duke of York, Mr Drinkwater, reserves a few commissions for meritorious officers,' he smiled wryly. ‘They have to
earn
the privilege and almost never see a stirrup iron.'

‘I see, sir. Where do we pick him up? And when? Have we any choice?'

‘Get the chart folio,
bach
, and we'll have a look.'

‘God damn this weather to hell!' For the thousandth time during the forenoon Griffiths stared to the west, but the hoped-for lightening on the horizon failed to appear.

‘We'll have to take another reef, sir, and shift the jib . . .' Drinkwater left the sentence unfinished as a sheet of spray whipped aft from the wave rolling inboard amidships, spilling over the rail and threatening to rend the two gigs from their chocks.

‘But it's August, Mr Drinkwater, August,' his despairing appeal to the elements ended in a nod of assent, Drinkwater turned away.

‘Mr Jessup! All hands! Rouse along the spitfire jib there! Larbowlines forward and shift the jib. Starbowlines another reef in the mains'l!' Drinkwater watched with satisfaction as the men ran to their stations, up to their knees in water at the base of the mast.

‘Ready, forrard!' came Jessup's hail.

Drinkwater noted Griffiths's nod and watched the sea. ‘Down helm!'

As the cutter luffed further orders were superfluous.
Kestrel
was no lumbering battleship, her crew worked with the sure-footed confidence of practice. With canvas shivering and slatting in a trembling that reached to her keel, the cutter's crew worked furiously.
The peak and throat halliards were slackened and the mainsheet hove in to control the boom whilst the leech cringle was hauled down. By the mast the luff cringle was secured and the men spread along the length of the boom, bunching the hard, wet canvas and tying the reef points.

Forward men pulled in the traveller inhaul while Jessup eased the outhaul. By the mast the jib halliard was started and waist deep in water on the lee bow the flogging jib was pulled inboard. Within a minute the spitfire was shackled to the halliard, its tack hooked to the traveller and the outhaul manned. Even as the big iron ring jerked out along the spar the halliard tightened. The sail thundered, its luff curving away to leeward as
Kestrel
fell into the trough of the sea, then straightened as men tallied on and sweated it tight. ‘Belay! Belay there!'

‘Ready forrard!'

Drinkwater heard Jessup's hail, saw him standing in the eyes, his square-cut figure solid against the pitch of the horizon and the tarpaulin whipping about his legs, for all the world a scarecrow in a gale. Drinkwater resisted a boyish impulse to laugh. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Jessup!'

He turned to the helmsman, ‘Steady her now,' and a nod to Poll on the mainsheet.
Kestrel
gathered way across the wind, her mainsail peak jerking up again to its jaunty angle and filling with wind.

‘Down helm!' She began to turn up into the wind again, spurred by that sudden impetus; again that juddering tremble as her flapping sails transmitted their frustrated energy to the fabric of the hull. ‘Heads'l sheets!'

‘Full an' bye, starboard tack.'

‘Full an' bye, sir,' answered the forward of the two men leaning on the tiller.

‘Is she easier now?'

‘Aye sir, much,' he said shifting his quid neatly over his tongue in some odd sympathy with the ship.

Kestrel
drove forward again, her motion easier, her speed undiminished.

‘Shortened sail, sir,' Drinkwater reported.

‘
Da iawn
, Mr Drinkwater.'

The wind eased a little as the sun set behind castellated banks of cloud whose summits remained rose coloured until late into the evening. In the last of the daylight Drinkwater had studied the
southern horizon, noted the three nicks in its regularity and informed Griffiths.

‘One might be an armed lugger, sir, it's difficult to be certain but he's standing west. Out of our way, sir.'

Griffiths rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘Mmm. The damned beach'll be very dangerous, Mr Drinkwater, very dangerous indeed. The surf'll be high for a day or two.' He fell silent and Drinkwater was able to follow his train of thought. He knew most of Griffiths's secrets now and that
Flora
's order had hinged on the word ‘imperative'.

‘It means,' explained Griffiths, that Brown has sent word to London that he is no longer able to stay in France or has something very important to acquaint HMG with,' he shrugged. ‘It depends . . .'

Drinkwater remembered the pigeons.

‘And if the weather is too bad to recover him, sir?'

Griffiths looked up. ‘It mustn't be, see.' He paused. ‘No, one develops a “nose” for such things. Brown has been there a long time on his own. In my opinion he's anxious to get out tonight.'

Drinkwater expelled his breath slowly, thinking about the state of the sea on the landing. He stared to the westward. The wind was still strong and under the windsea a westerly swell rolled up the Channel. He was abruptly recalled from his observations by the lieutenant. Griffiths was halfway out of the companionway.

‘Come below, Mr Drinkwater, I've an idea to discuss with you.'

‘Let go.' The order passed quietly forward from man to man and the cat stopper was cast off.
Kestrel
's anchor dropped to the sandy bottom of the little bay as her head fell off to leeward and the seamen secured the sails, loosing the reefs in the mainsail and bending on the big jib.
Kestrel
had stood slowly in for the rendezvous immediately after dark. Now she bucked in the heavy swell as it gathered up in the shelving bay to fling itself into a white fury on the crescent of sand dimly perceptible below the cliffs that almost enclosed them.