Hawkwood wondered what Lasseur would have thought about being described as an irritant.
Stuart hadnt finished. As you were probably informed, from Wimereux youll be taken to Boulogne to board the diligence which will convey you to Paris. Itll take you a few days French coaches aint the speediest in the world, but theyre comfortable enough . . . or so Im 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 hed set sail across the Channel, on board Lasseurs ship Scorpion in an attempt to intercept the smuggling cutter, Sea Witch. The privateers 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. Thats what theyre calling it?
Stuart smiled. I confess you dont 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 couldnt help himself.
And if I may say so, Stuart said, eyeing the scars on Hawkwoods cheek, you dont look much like an actuary. No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a look of mortification flooded the lieutenants 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. Griffins 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. Im familiar with the saying, but I have no regrets. Indeed, I consider myself most fortunate. Ive 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.
Id 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. Im afraid in that regard, we must place our trust in the Almighty. An expression of sufferance moved across the lieutenants face. Though if you want my opinion, Im 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 wasnt 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 Frances northern coast. As the crow flew, it didnt look much more than thirty or so miles from Dover, but Hawkwood knew that ships very rarely, if ever, travelled in straight lines. What Griffins eventual track might be was anyones guess.
How long is this likely to take us?
Stuart hesitated then said, The Channels a fickle mistress at the best of times, particularly at night. The wind and tide are her henchmen and were at their mercy. They can be notoriously cruel . . .
So youre telling me theres no way of knowing? Hawkwood said flatly.
The lieutenant pursed his lips, though he looked for the most part unflustered by Hawkwoods less than ecstatic rejoinder. The glass is dropping, the wind is increasing and there will be heavy rain before the nights out. Our passage is unlikely to be a smooth one.
Not good then? Hawkwood said.
Nothing we havent 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. Its my job to get you there, come Hell or high water. He nodded towards the cot. If I were you, Id 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 Hawkwoods jaded expression. There you go, Mr . . . Smith. I do declare well 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. Hed 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 ships rigging.
How long had he slept? Hed 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 hed been following the journey down from London.
Hed been introduced to more of Stuarts senior officers at the wardroom table; the acting-master, George Tredstow, a stout, ruddy-cheeked Cornishman; Lucas Mendham, Griffins 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 ships clerk.
How long had he slept? Hed 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 hed been following the journey down from London.
Hed been introduced to more of Stuarts senior officers at the wardroom table; the acting-master, George Tredstow, a stout, ruddy-cheeked Cornishman; Lucas Mendham, Griffins 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 ships clerk.
When hed 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, Griffins 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 lanterns 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 hed 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 hed 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 cutters 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 cutters young commander was standing, legs apart, steadying himself against the binnacle as he watched Griffins 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 bosun, Welland. Most, like their commander, were clad in tarpaulin jackets and all looked wet through, some more bedraggled than others. As when hed first come on board, none of them paid Hawkwood any notice, save for the bosun, 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 Hawkwoods arrival with a thin-lipped smile. The glass is dropping fast. Theres a storm moving in.
Can we outrun it? Hawkwood asked, and saw by the expression on Stuarts 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 Griffins 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.
Theres 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 Hawkwoods way. His voice rose in a warning. Hold on and keep your head low, else youll 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 bosun. Mr Welland!
Standing by, sir!
Stuarts hand swept down. Helm-a-lee!
Welland yelled, Let go and haul!
The helmsmen heaved the tiller over. The cutters bow lifted. The deck was a confusion of bodies, or so it seemed to Hawkwood as he watched Griffins 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 wasnt 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!