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

support of
Childers
.
    During the night the wind freshened to a severe gale and
Kestrel
was hove to, her bowsprit reefed, her topmast and yards sent down and double breechings securing her guns. At first light a sail was seen to the westward and an exchange of signals revealed her as
Childers
. Taking the helm himself Griffiths steered
Kestrel
under the brig’s lee and luffed. In his tarpaulin Barlow bellowed at them: ‘Fired on by French batteries at St Matthew . . . honour of the flag, return to port . . . making for Fowey . . .’ His words were ripped away by the gale.
    â€˜Probably of the opinion he’s the first to be fired on, eh, Mr Drinkwater?’ growled Griffiths, regarding his junior from beneath a wet and bushy white eyebrow.
    â€˜Aye, sir, and hastening home to make a noise of it if I’m not mistaken.’
    Griffiths chuckled. Barlow’s indignation was clear, even across the strip of white and foaming water. ‘He’ll be in a post-chaise before that brig’s fetched an anchor, I’ll warrant,’ said Griffiths, heaving onthe tiller and calling two men to relieve him.
    The two little ships parted, plunging to windward with the spray shooting over them, the sea streaked pale by parallel lines of spume that tore downwind. Here and there a fulmar banked and swooped on rigid, sabre-shaped wings, breaking the desolation of the view.
    Three weeks later Louis XVI was guillotined and on the first day of February the French National Convention declared war on the Dutch Stadtholder and His Majesty King George III.

Chapter Four
March–September 1793
A Hunter Hunted
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 onto 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 helooked up and added, ‘In the meantime we have a little job to do. Rather like our old work. There’s a mutual friend of