Three weeks later Louis XVI was guillotined and on the first day of February the French Naval Convention declared war on the Dutch Stadtholder and His Majesty King George III.
Chapter Four
A Hunter Hunted
'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 on to 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 surefooted 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.'