Rebellion

The lieutenant took off his hat to reveal a mop of unruly dark hair, and led the way past the tied-down carronades towards the cutter’s stern and an open hatchway. Hawkwood noticed that none of the crew were paying much attention to his arrival. As he followed the lieutenant across the deck, he wondered if that meant they’d become used to passengers embarking in the dead of night.

The lieutenant drew Hawkwood’s attention to the top of the ladder. “Watch your step.”

Hawkwood, reminded of the last time he’d been below decks, nodded dutifully before following Stuart down the near vertical companionway.

Stuart said over his shoulder, “As you see, it can get a mite cosy at times. We’re not rigged to carry passengers. Though we’ve had our fair share,” he added conspiratorially. “Mind your head.”

It’s still not as bad as a prison hulk, Hawkwood thought, as he ducked below the beam, but he didn’t tell Stuart that.

Stuart opened the door to the cabin and stood aside to allow Hawkwood to enter, which he did, shoulders lowered.

“You’ll forgive me if I leave you to get settled,” Stuart said, remaining by the companionway. “I must return to my station.”

Without waiting for an answer the lieutenant, with another hesitant smile, turned and made his way topside. Hawkwood surveyed his quarters.

The lantern-lit space was just about large enough to accommodate the single narrow cot, table and locker. If he’d been of a mind to assume the crucifix position in the middle of the cabin, Hawkwood was quietly confident his palms would have touched the opposing bulkheads. Not that there was much space to stand upright, save for the square of deck immediately beneath the closed skylight. The thought struck him that if there was a cat on board, there’d be precious little room to swing it. The air smelled vaguely of bilge water, candle grease, tobacco and sweat.

Footfalls sounded throughout the ship as the crew made last-minute haste, stowing and making fast all items not required in getting the vessel underway. From somewhere – Hawkwood presumed it was the galley – there came the ringing clatter of a pot falling to the deck, followed by a sharp, one-word obscenity, quickly hushed.

A low call sounded from above and Hawkwood caught the order: “Let go forrard!”

The deck moved beneath him and the light in the cabin dipped as the lantern swung. As he held on to the side of the cot for support, he was reminded, not for the first time, why sea voyages failed to excite him.

And we haven’t even left the bloody harbour yet, he thought dismally.

A drawn-out groan came from close by and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled before he realized it was only the rudder turning below the transom on the other side of the bulkhead. Slowly, Griffin’s bow began to come around.

Another directive sounded from on high: “Let go aft!”

There were no stern windows in the cutter and thus no means of fixing upon either the horizon or an aligned point in order to counteract the movement of the ship, save for the deckhead lantern which continued to swing gently on its hook as though it had a mind of its own. Hawkwood had the sudden overwhelming desire to feel cool air against his cheek. Leaving his unopened valise on the cot, he left the cabin, closed the door behind him and made his way back up the companionway and on to the deck, in time to see one of the hands hauling in the last few feet of stern line.

Reliant on the momentum of the tide and the helmsman’s control of the tiller bar, the cutter continued her gradual revolution. The quayside, Hawkwood noted, looking over the rail, remained dark and empty, unlike the rest of the dockyard where random lights flickered like tiny glow worms. Hawkwood supposed that was why the Griffin had had the isolated mooring to herself. So that their departure would go unnoticed.

His gaze travelled beyond the quay, up over the congested, smoke-stained rooftops and on towards the Western Heights, the near vertical rock face that rose behind the port like the encircling tiers of a vast and moonlit amphitheatre.

“Found your sea legs, Mr Smith?” The enquiry came from Lieutenant Stuart, who was standing by his shoulder. “Chances are you’ll need them before the night’s out.”

“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 looked at him.

The young lieutenant smiled. “We run passengers both ways.”

“Are they called Smith, too?”

“Not all of them,” Stuart replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. “We do get the occasional Jones and Brown. Not to mention the odd Jacques and Pierre, when the need arises.”

Which, Hawkwood supposed, went some way to answering his question.

“Are you familiar with this part of the coast?” Stuart asked.

Hawkwood shook his head, bracing himself against the cot as the cutter drove down through a trough. “No.”

His mind went back four months, to the last time he’d set sail across the Channel, on board Lasseur’s ship Scorpion in an attempt to intercept the smuggling cutter, Sea Witch. The privateer’s speed had won the day. Sea Witch had been overtaken and boarded fifteen miles from the French port of Gravelines. Fifteen miles; it might as well have been five hundred for all the intelligence it had afforded him.

“By your answer, am I to assume that this is your first, er . . . intervention?” Stuart enquired, somewhat cautiously.

“Intervention?” Hawkwood said. “That’s what they’re calling it?”

Stuart smiled. “I confess you don’t look much like a Smith or a Jones.”

“Is that so? And what do they look like?”

“Actuaries and lawyers, for the most part.”

“And Pierre and Jacques?”

“Frog actuaries and lawyers.”

Hawkwood laughed. He couldn’t help himself.

“And if I may say so,” Stuart said, eyeing the scars on Hawkwood’s cheek, “you don’t look much like an actuary.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a look of mortification flooded the lieutenant’s face. “My apologies. That was impertinent of me. It is of course no business of mine what your profession might be. I spoke out of turn. I meant no offence.”

“None taken,” Hawkwood said. “From what I know of actuaries, I should probably be flattered. And you, if I may say so, look too damned young to be the captain of this ship.”

Stuart drew himself up. When he spoke the pride was back in his voice. “Griffin’s my first command.”

“How long?”

“Seven months. I was First Lieutenant on the Aurora. I had thought that my next promotion would be to a fourth rater, a third if I was lucky. I did not think I would be given my own ship and that she would be engaged upon special duties.”

“Someone once told me that those who seek advancement should be careful what they wish for,” Hawkwood said.

Stuart smiled. “I’m familiar with the saying, but I have no regrets. Indeed, I consider myself most fortunate. I’ve a sound ship, an able crew and a purpose to my endeavours. What more could I wish for?”

Before Hawkwood could respond there was another muted groan from the timbers and the deck listed once again. Both men made a grab for their drinks with one hand and the overhead beam with the other. The attempt was not entirely successful. Recovering his balance, and using his sleeve as a mop, Stuart wiped the chart where liquid had slopped over the rim of his mug.

“I’d settle for fair weather,” Hawkwood said. He risked a sip from his own salvaged drink. The liquid was strong and bitter and he could taste coarse coffee grounds at the back of his tongue.

“Ah.” Stuart looked almost apologetic. “I’m afraid in that regard, we must place our trust in the Almighty.” An expression of sufferance moved across the lieutenant’s face. “Though if you want my opinion, I’m not sure the English Channel pays deference to anyone, be they mortal or celestial.”

Hawkwood tried to ignore the queasy feeling that was beginning to worm its way through his insides. It had been a bad idea to take that last sip of coffee. He wasn’t sure eating the plate of cold beef provided by the galley had been a wise move either. He stared again at the chart. Wimereux lay in the Pas de Calais, on France’s northern coast. As the crow flew, it didn’t look much more than thirty or so miles from Dover, but Hawkwood knew that ships very rarely, if ever, travelled in straight lines. What Griffin’s eventual track might be was anyone’s guess.

“How long is this likely to take us?”

Stuart hesitated then said, “The Channel’s a fickle mistress at the best of times, particularly at night. The wind and tide are her henchmen and we’re at their mercy. They can be notoriously cruel . . .”

“So you’re telling me there’s no way of knowing?” Hawkwood said flatly.

The lieutenant pursed his lips, though he looked for the most part unflustered by Hawkwood’s less than ecstatic rejoinder. “The glass is dropping, the wind is increasing and there will be heavy rain before the night’s out. Our passage is unlikely to be a smooth one.”

“Not good then?” Hawkwood said.

“Nothing we haven’t met before,” Stuart responded.

Hawkwood wondered if the lieutenant was as confident as he made out. “You expect me to be reassured by that?”

Stuart drained his mug. “Admiralty orders. It’s my job to get you there, come Hell or high water.” He nodded towards the cot. “If I were you, I’d try and get some sleep. There may not be a chance later, if the weather worsens.” Swaying in rhythm with the ship, the lieutenant rolled up the chart and headed for the door.

“If?” Hawkwood said.

Stuart paused on the threshold and grinned at Hawkwood’s jaded expression. “There you go, Mr . . . Smith. I do declare we’ll make a seaman of you yet.”

A loud crash brought Hawkwood awake. For a brief second, he had no idea where he was and then the cabin tipped to one side and he heard the familiar grinding sound from the rudder behind his ear, and he remembered, and groaned.

He was still on the bloody ship. He’d been awakened by waves pounding against the outside of the hull.

He sat up quickly and held on to the edge of the cot as the deck pitched violently once more. His stomach churned and then steadied. Looking up at the skylight, he watched as spray sluiced across the glass. It was still dark – with little moon from what he could see – which told him that dawn had not yet broken. He could also hear a strange keening sound, which confused him for a moment until he realized it was the wind searching for a path through the ship’s rigging.

How long had he slept? He’d no recollection of dozing, no memory of any last-minute tossings and turnings before sleep had overtaken him. It was a measure, he supposed, of how tired he’d been following the journey down from London.

He’d been introduced to more of Stuart’s senior officers at the wardroom table; the acting-master, George Tredstow, a stout, ruddy-cheeked Cornishman; Lucas Mendham, Griffin’s quartermaster, a broad shouldered, former gunnery captain with a shock of sandy-coloured hair, and the purser, Miles Venner, a fair-skinned, donnish-looking man with startling blue eyes, who looked almost as young as his commander and who doubled as the ship’s clerk.

When he’d been introduced as Smith, the pronouncement had drawn subdued nods of welcome as well as, somewhat inevitably, the raising of more than one cynical eyebrow. The conversation had been polite and uninvolving and Hawkwood, accepting that he was the interloper, had expected nothing less. In that regard, Griffin’s wardroom was no different to an army mess. The rules of military and naval etiquette dictated that visitors were made welcome, but they would never be regarded as family.

Following dinner and armed with their coffee mugs, Hawkwood and the lieutenant had moved from the wardroom to the cabin, where Stuart had produced the chart and outlined his plan of campaign.

A small stub of candle was still burning. Hawkwood pulled on his boots in the lantern’s sickly light. Standing, he reached for his coat. The temperature in the cabin was bearable but he knew it would be a lot colder on deck. As he shrugged the coat on, a large drip from the corner of the skylight splashed on to his sleeve, warning him it was going to be considerably wetter out there, too.

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.