Rebellion

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.

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.