A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Read Free Book Online Page B

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