The deck corkscrewed and he swore under his breath. Previous voyages he’d been forced to undertake on military transports came to mind, prominent among them being the passages to South America and Portugal; not one of which could have been described as pleasant. And judging from the creaks and moans coming from within the hull it sounded as if Griffin was voicing her own dissent at having to run the gauntlet of a worsening wind and tide.
The clang of a bell sounded from the forecastle. Hawkwood knew it was an indication of the time, but what hour the single note represented he had no idea. He wondered if it signified a change of watch as well. He tried to remember from his limited maritime experience what it might mean. Given that he’d probably managed at least a couple of hours’ sleep, it obviously heralded some god-forsaken early hour of the morning.
Mindful of his footing, he groped his way from cabin to companionway and emerged on to the cutter’s heavily slanted deck, where he was immediately struck by a barrage of cold spray as Griffin punched her way into an oncoming roller. Blinking water out of his eyes, he looked aft to where the cutter’s young commander was standing, legs apart, steadying himself against the binnacle as he watched Griffin’s bowsprit pierce the darkness ahead of them.
Hawkwood glanced heavenwards. There were no stars from what he could see and the moon, hidden behind clouds, was visible only as a wraith-like glimmer high in the ink-black sky.
He lowered his gaze. Griffin was running close hauled on a port tack. Her main and foresail were set fore and aft, her long boom braced tight so as to gather as much speed under her keel as the wind would allow. On either side, there was nothing to see except dark, roiling waves tipped with a frenzy of whitecaps that tumbled along the breaking crests like small avalanches. There were no lights visible that might have suggested the existence of other vessels; nor was there any sight of land.
There were perhaps a dozen or so crewmen in evidence, among them Lieutenant Weekes and the bo’sun, Welland. Most, like their commander, were clad in tarpaulin jackets and all looked wet through, some more bedraggled than others. As when he’d first come on board, none of them paid Hawkwood any notice, save for the bo’sun, who rewarded him with a brief nod of recognition.
Hawkwood slithered as the cutter lurched and then recoiled as a huge wave rose high above the starboard bulwark and cascaded in torrents along the steeply canted deck. With the ship leaning hard over he looked towards the lee scuppers and saw that the water was even forcing its way through the gaps around the edges of the sealed gunports.
As Griffin rose and then plunged down into yet another watery trench, her commander acknowledged Hawkwood’s arrival with a thin-lipped smile. “The glass is dropping fast. There’s a storm moving in.”
“Can we outrun it?” Hawkwood asked, and saw by the expression on Stuart’s face what the answer to that was.
“How far have we come?” Hawkwood asked, trying to steady himself and not let his apprehension show.
“Not far enough. By my reckoning Cap Gris Nez should be about two leagues off our port beam.” Stuart swayed and pointed. “Perhaps a little less.”
Hawkwood tried to picture the chart in his mind. If Griffin’s commander was correct in his calculations they were still some distance from their destination. Though he knew the gesture was useless he looked to where the lieutenant had indicated. All he could see were endless herds of white horses galloping away into the Stygian darkness.
“There’s nowhere we can run to?”
The lieutenant shook his head. His face serious, he looked up towards the great spread of canvas suspended above them like a vast Damoclean blade.
A bulky figure materialized from behind the upturned hull of the jolly boat that had been stowed amidships. It was Tredstow, the acting-master.
Rolling with the ship, the Cornishman made his way aft. “Time we came about, Captain.”
Stuart nodded. “Very good, Mr Tredstow.” The lieutenant, his dark hair ruffling, looked Hawkwood’s way. His voice rose in a warning. “Hold on and keep your head low, else you’ll lose it to the boom.”
Hawkwood looked to the side and saw that a second crew member had joined the man at the tiller bar. Neither of them was the previous incumbent, Hodges, indicating that there had indeed been a change of watch since Hawkwood was last on deck.
Stuart called to his helmsmen. “Bring her up two points!”
“Two points it is, sir!”
The lieutenant turned to his bo’sun. “Mr Welland!”
“Standing by, sir!”
Stuart’s hand swept down. “Helm-a-lee!”
Welland yelled, “Let go and haul!”
The helmsmen heaved the tiller over. The cutter’s bow lifted. The deck was a confusion of bodies, or so it seemed to Hawkwood as he watched Griffin’s crew fight to turn her through the eye of the wind. For a few chaotic seconds the ship yawed as the bow swept round, causing the mainsail to flap like a broken wing, then the whole world tilted in the opposite direction as the boom, braces slackened, catapulted across the deck. Hawkwood ducked instinctively and although the boom was set some way above his head he was shocked at the speed of the manoeuvre. He saw he wasn’t the only one taken unawares. Caught off guard, two crewmen also lost their footing. Soaked, jackets and breeches plastered to their bodies and looking faintly embarrassed, they clambered to their feet from the scuppers where they had fallen, still holding on to their ropes.
The ship slewed violently.
Stuart yelled at his helmsmen: “Hold her! Hold her!”
Hawkwood hung on grimly. As the bow came up and the mainsail was sheeted home, he straightened, bit back the sour taste that had surfaced at the back of his throat, and found he was sweating profusely beneath the coating of spindrift.
“How was that, Mr Smith?” The lieutenant, one hand thrust into his jacket pocket, the other still attached to the binnacle, gave one of his trademark grins, though Hawkwood thought it might have been a little forced. “Bracing enough for you?”
At that instant a white-hot bolt of lightning shot across the cutter’s starboard bow. In the space of a heartbeat night became day, followed a split second later by a colossal thunderclap that sounded as if the entire sky had split asunder.
Several of the cutter’s crew flinched; some ducked as though expecting an enemy broadside.
“Lord save us!” Tredstow exclaimed loudly. He stared heavenwards.
Hawkwood wasn’t certain if it was the reflection from the lightning that had turned the lieutenant’s face pale or if the blood had drained away of its own accord.
Griffin’s commander found his voice. His jaw tightened as he said hollowly, “It would seem the storm’s a lot closer than I’d thought.”
A profanity hovered at the tip of Hawkwood’s tongue. He swallowed it back quickly and let out his breath.
“Which places us in a dilemma . . .” Stuart continued. “We’ve still a fair distance to cover. In clement weather I’d raise more canvas, but with the storm upon us, I can’t risk it. I’ve no option but to reduce sail. We’ll do our best but it could be that our only option is to try and ride it out.”
The words had barely been uttered when the rain began to lance down.
It shouldn’t have come as a shock. Its arrival had been prophesied only a few hours before, but the sheer force of it took every man by surprise.
God really does have a sense of humour, Hawkwood reflected bleakly, as icy needles rattled against his face and shoulders with the force of grape shot.
“At least it’ll keep the Frogs at bay,” Stuart said, grimacing at the sudden