“You’re expecting rough weather?” Hawkwood asked, his heart sinking at the prospect.
Stuart laughed. “It’s the English Channel and it’s October. What else would I be expecting?”
Hawkwood knew his expression must have reflected what was in his mind for Stuart said immediately, “Don’t worry, Griffin might not be the youngest or the largest cutter in the fleet, but she’ll get us there.” Stuart patted the high bulwark affectionately and looked over his shoulder. “You may ready the mains’l, Mr Welland.”
“Aye, sir.” The acknowledgement came from a burly man with long side whiskers and dark jowls, dressed in a pea jacket and dun-coloured breeches. The ship’s bo’sun, Hawkwood guessed. He looked older than his commanding officer, by at least ten years.
“All right, you idle buggers. You heard the lieutenant – stand by. That includes you, Haskins, if you’re not too busy.”
Hawkwood saw the corner of the lieutenant’s mouth twitch as the order was relayed.
There had been no raising of the voice, Hawkwood noted, as the crewmen readied themselves, and no tongue lashings. The order – even the aside to seaman Haskins – had been spoken rather than shouted and yet every word had carried the same quiet authority. The tone had been more reminiscent of a schoolmaster coaxing his pupils to open their text books than a hardened warrant officer demanding unconditional obedience. Hawkwood knew that only a man with many years of experience under his belt could draw that amount of respect. It also said a lot for the quality of the cutter’s crew that they were anticipating the commands before they were given and were reacting accordingly: with speed and efficiency and in relative silence. There was little doubt that they’d been well drilled.
“Volunteers?” Hawkwood said, taking a guess.
If Stuart thought the question surprising or impertinent he didn’t let on. Instead he looked faintly pleased and nodded. “Not a pressed man among them and locals mostly, save for the master. They know these English coastal waters like the backs of their hands. That’s not to say there aren’t a few former scallywags, but I’ve no interest in what mischief they might have got up to in their past lives. It’s how they conduct themselves on board that matters and, right now, I wouldn’t trade a single one of them.”
“Including Haskins?”
The lieutenant grinned. “Including Haskins. Not that I’d trust him with my sister, mind you.” The grin was replaced by a soft chuckle. “Or my mother, come to that.”
Stuart’s reply took Hawkwood back to his army days. He’d commanded soldiers with similar reputations; practitioners of every vice, from gamblers and horse traders to poachers, rustlers, bigamists and thieves, and some blackguards whose exploits would have made a tinker blush, but in a fight, for the honour of the regiment, there were no better men to have at your back. Stuart’s comment was proof that the maxim applied to the Royal Navy as well.
Welland’s voice cut into his reminiscences. “Hoist mains’l!”
A squeal came from the blocks as the huge four-cornered sail rose from the boom, followed by a sharp crackle of spreading canvas as Griffin completed her turn. He looked over the cutter’s long running bowsprit towards the entrance to the narrow passage that ran down between the port’s north and south piers and linked the inner basin to the harbour mouth.
Stuart turned towards his helmsman. “Steady as you go, Hodges.”
Hawkwood felt spray patter against his face. The breeze, forced along the funnel created by the converging pier walls, had found its teeth. The bite was not strong enough to impede the cutter’s progress, however. With infinite slowness, Griffin continued on towards the twin signal lights that marked each side of the gap in the harbour wall; through which Hawkwood could see only a funereal darkness.
He stared back over the taffrail. There was something strangely comforting in the huddled shapes of the lantern-lit buildings they were leaving behind. He wondered when, or even if, he would see them again.
The cutter’s bow lifted; the swell increasing the closer they got to the harbour entrance.
“Stand by fores’l halliard!” Welland’s voice again, encouraging, not strident.
Stuart addressed his helmsman once more. “All right, Hodges. Easy on the helm.”
“Hoist fores’l!”
Griffin’s crew sprang into action.
“Smartly does it, boys! Secure that halliard! Stand by braces!”
Gripping a stanchion to steady himself, Hawkwood watched the triangular sail unfurl like a great leaf, snap briefly and then continue to draw taut. A tremor ran through the hull. For a brief second the cutter hung suspended upon the uproll and then, like a hound loosened from the slips, she swept forward, out from the harbour mouth and on into the jet black waters of the English Channel.
Bound for France.
Chapter 5
“There,” Stuart said, sounding almost eager and jabbing the chart with the end of his forefinger.
They were in the cramped cabin. The chart was laid across the table, held down by a brace of glass paperweights, a set of dividers and two half-full mugs of scalding coffee, courtesy of Griffin’s cook.
Stuart continued. “That’s our destination. We’ll lay off shore and ferry you in using the jolly boat. There’s a small hamlet – Wimereux – not much more than a couple of dozen houses in all, but we’ve an agent there so you’ll be met. We’ll be landing to the north of the ville. There’s a cove, protected by cliffs, and a small headland called La Pointe aux Oies. It’s a place we’ve used before.”
Hawkwood stared down at the whorled lines and symbols that looked as though they’d been drawn by a battalion of inebriated spiders. It occurred to him that he was entirely in Lieutenant Stuart’s hands and in an environment that was as foreign to him as the far side of the moon, or even the coastline of France, come to think of it; a place he’d only ever seen as a dark smudge on a distant horizon.
“When we’re close, we’ll hoist French colours,” Stuart continued. “We’ve the advantage in that the Frogs have cutters too, so if they see us it’s likely it’ll take a while before we’re challenged. With luck, we’ll be in and out so fast that even if they do have doubts about the cut of our jib, you’ll be on your way and we’ll be homeward bound before they can do anything.”
“What about French ships?” Hawkwood said.
Stuart shook his head. “They’re unlikely to give us trouble. The Frogs don’t tend to patrol their Channel coast as we do. Their heavy vessels are either based further north, in Flushing, or to the west in their main dockyards at Brest and Rochefort, which give them access to the Atlantic or southwards and the Cape. That’s not to say there aren’t small fry darting about. The nearest danger will probably be the privateer base at Dunkerque. The others are Saint-Malo and Morlaix. But they’re irritants, nothing more. I doubt we’ll be bothered. We might spy a free trader or two trying to slip in under cover of darkness, but chances are they’ll be more interested in avoiding us than coming closer. The likelihood is they’d take us for a Revenue cutter and steer clear.” Stuart sighed. “Not that we haven’t had our run-ins with the beggars, mind you. When we’re not transporting you fellows to la belle France we lend assistance to the Waterguard. It’s what you might call the legitimate part of our business.”
Hawkwood wondered what Lasseur would have thought about being described as an irritant.
Stuart hadn’t finished. “As you were probably informed, from Wimereux you’ll be taken to Boulogne to board the diligence which will convey you to Paris. It’ll take you a few days –French coaches ain’t the speediest in the world, but they’re comfortable enough . . . or so I’m told.”
Hawkwood