Читать книгу Rebellion - James McGee - Страница 10

Chapter 5

“There,” Stuart said, sounding almost eager and jabbing the chart with the end of his forefinger.

They were in the cramped cabin. The chart was laid across the table, held down by a brace of glass paperweights, a set of dividers and two half-full mugs of scalding coffee, courtesy of Griffin’s cook.

Stuart continued. “That’s our destination. We’ll lay off shore and ferry you in using the jolly boat. There’s a small hamlet – Wimereux – not much more than a couple of dozen houses in all, but we’ve an agent there so you’ll be met. We’ll be landing to the north of the ville. There’s a cove, protected by cliffs, and a small headland called La Pointe aux Oies. It’s a place we’ve used before.”

Hawkwood stared down at the whorled lines and symbols that looked as though they’d been drawn by a battalion of inebriated spiders. It occurred to him that he was entirely in Lieutenant Stuart’s hands and in an environment that was as foreign to him as the far side of the moon, or even the coastline of France, come to think of it; a place he’d only ever seen as a dark smudge on a distant horizon.

“When we’re close, we’ll hoist French colours,” Stuart continued. “We’ve the advantage in that the Frogs have cutters too, so if they see us it’s likely it’ll take a while before we’re challenged. With luck, we’ll be in and out so fast that even if they do have doubts about the cut of our jib, you’ll be on your way and we’ll be homeward bound before they can do anything.”

“What about French ships?” Hawkwood said.

Stuart shook his head. “They’re unlikely to give us trouble. The Frogs don’t tend to patrol their Channel coast as we do. Their heavy vessels are either based further north, in Flushing, or to the west in their main dockyards at Brest and Rochefort, which give them access to the Atlantic or southwards and the Cape. That’s not to say there aren’t small fry darting about. The nearest danger will probably be the privateer base at Dunkerque. The others are Saint-Malo and Morlaix. But they’re irritants, nothing more. I doubt we’ll be bothered. We might spy a free trader or two trying to slip in under cover of darkness, but chances are they’ll be more interested in avoiding us than coming closer. The likelihood is they’d take us for a Revenue cutter and steer clear.” Stuart sighed. “Not that we haven’t had our run-ins with the beggars, mind you. When we’re not transporting you fellows to la belle France we lend assistance to the Waterguard. It’s what you might call the legitimate part of our business.”

Hawkwood wondered what Lasseur would have thought about being described as an irritant.

Stuart hadn’t finished. “As you were probably informed, from Wimereux you’ll be taken to Boulogne to board the diligence which will convey you to Paris. It’ll take you a few days –French coaches ain’t the speediest in the world, but they’re comfortable enough . . . or so I’m 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 he’d set sail across the Channel, on board Lasseur’s ship Scorpion in an attempt to intercept the smuggling cutter, Sea Witch. The privateer’s 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. “That’s what they’re calling it?”

Stuart smiled. “I confess you don’t 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 couldn’t help himself.

“And if I may say so,” Stuart said, eyeing the scars on Hawkwood’s cheek, “you don’t look much like an actuary.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a look of mortification flooded the lieutenant’s 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. “Griffin’s 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. “I’m familiar with the saying, but I have no regrets. Indeed, I consider myself most fortunate. I’ve 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.

“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.

“How was that, Mr Smith?” The lieutenant, one hand thrust into his jacket pocket, the other still attached to the binnacle, gave one of his trademark grins, though Hawkwood thought it might have been a little forced. “Bracing enough for you?”

At that instant a white-hot bolt of lightning shot across the cutter’s starboard bow. In the space of a heartbeat night became day, followed a split second later by a colossal thunderclap that sounded as if the entire sky had split asunder.

Several of the cutter’s crew flinched; some ducked as though expecting an enemy broadside.

“Lord save us!” Tredstow exclaimed loudly. He stared heavenwards.

Hawkwood wasn’t certain if it was the reflection from the lightning that had turned the lieutenant’s face pale or if the blood had drained away of its own accord.

Griffin’s commander found his voice. His jaw tightened as he said hollowly, “It would seem the storm’s a lot closer than I’d thought.”

A profanity hovered at the tip of Hawkwood’s tongue. He swallowed it back quickly and let out his breath.

“Which places us in a dilemma . . .” Stuart continued. “We’ve still a fair distance to cover. In clement weather I’d raise more canvas, but with the storm upon us, I can’t risk it. I’ve no option but to reduce sail. We’ll do our best but it could be that our only option is to try and ride it out.”

The words had barely been uttered when the rain began to lance down.

It shouldn’t have come as a shock. Its arrival had been prophesied only a few hours before, but the sheer force of it took every man by surprise.

God really does have a sense of humour, Hawkwood reflected bleakly, as icy needles rattled against his face and shoulders with the force of grape shot.

“At least it’ll keep the Frogs at bay,” Stuart said, grimacing at the sudden inundation. “If they’ve any sense, they’ll still be a-bed.”

Which is where I should bloody well be, Hawkwood thought. On dry land, if possible.

“Perhaps you’d rather go below?” Stuart offered.

Hawkwood suspected that the lieutenant had made the suggestion not so much to keep him out of harm’s way as to prevent his one and only passenger from getting under everyone’s feet and jeopardizing the safety of the ship.

The prospect of returning to the cabin’s claustrophobic interior held little appeal. The combination of the ship’s gyrations and the odours below deck would more than likely result in him spewing his guts out the minute he lay down. Retreat, he decided, was not an option.

He shook his head. “If it’s all right with you, Captain, I think I’d prefer to remain upright.”

At first, Hawkwood thought the lieutenant was about to deny him the choice, but his feelings must have been evident in his expression for Griffin’s commander merely nodded. “Very well. In that case, I’d be obliged if you’d keep your movement about the deck to a minimum. We don’t want any accidents.” The lieutenant’s gaze shifted. “Stand by to reduce sail, Mr Welland, if you please!”

“Aye, sir!” Welland raised a hand in acknowledgement. From the speed of the response, it was clear the bo’sun had been waiting for such a signal. He yelled across the deck: “Stand by fores’l!” He turned and eyed his lieutenant expectantly.

Stuart nodded. “Now, Mr Welland!”

The bo’sun’s face streamed with spray. He turned back towards the men waiting by the ropes. “Take in fores’l!”

Blocks squealed like stuck pigs as the jib and bowsprit were hauled in. Hawkwood marvelled at the men’s skill. He stared up at the mast and yards and the huge mainsail and the spider’s web of rigging and pulleys radiating from them. It was a miracle, he thought, how anyone could tell one rope from another. Nautical jargon had never failed to confuse him, nor, if he were honest, had it held much allure. It was a language as foreign as any he’d encountered during his long army service.

And yet, he wondered, would it be any different for a sailor who found himself marooned on a battlefield? Was army slang any more intelligible to the uninitiated? Probably not, he decided. And, be he sailor or sapper, so long as every man knew what he was doing, what did it matter?

Hawkwood became aware that someone was leaning towards him. It was Tredstow. Water coursed in shiny rivulets down the seaman’s grizzled cheeks. He put his lips close to Hawkwood’s ear, while a hand gripped Hawkwood’s arm like a steel claw. “I were you, I’d hang on tight. This ’un’s going to be a right cow!”

Hawkwood had once been told that on clear days, depending on the location, it was possible to stand on an English clifftop and view the other side of the Channel. Sometimes, it was said, France looked close enough to touch.

Had he first heard that from one of Griffin’s crew, he’d have considered the man at worst a liar, at best an imbecile. Cloaked in darkness and dwarfed on every side by waves almost as high as the cutter’s main yard, the prospect of an imminent landfall looked an unlikely prospect. For all the headway she was making, Griffin might as well have been not two leagues from France but two hundred. But she was trying her best to get there.

Cutters, Hawkwood knew, were built for speed. It made them ideal for patrols and the carrying of dispatches. He did not know, however, how many men it took to crew one. If pushed, he’d have hazarded a guess and estimated about forty. From what he could see, every man jack of them appeared to be topside, including, he supposed, Purser Venner, though it wasn’t easy to make out features in the tumult and the darkness. Either way, every spare inch of decking looked to be occupied, with the men at their stations, ready to defend the ship against the elements; which they were doing, heroically.

From the moment of its opening salvo the storm had raged without let-up, increasing in strength with each passing minute. Under the relentless assault from wind, rain and waves the deck had become as treacherous as an ice sheet. All hatches had been battened down and it would have been a foolish man who tried to make his way from bow to stern unaided, so safety lines had been rigged, running fore and aft. With a dark and angry sea only too eager to ensnare its first victim, the men of the Griffin were clinging on for dear life.

Hawkwood knew that in the running of the ship he was no more than excess cargo. The knowledge didn’t sit well. He’d never been comfortable with the role of spectator. It was one thing to relinquish all responsibility for transporting him to his destination to the lieutenant, but to entrust his safety to another party made him distinctly uneasy. He needed to be doing something.

So he’d put his proposal directly to Griffin’s commander.

“I’m a spare body, Captain. Put me to work.”

The lieutenant had been about to dismiss Hawkwood’s offer out of hand but then, as before, the look on his passenger’s face had made him pause. After an exchange of meaningful looks with his second-in-command, he’d nodded, turning quickly to his two helmsmen.

“Fitch! You’ve a new volunteer! Bates, you’re relieved! Report to Mr Welland for new duties! Before you do, find Mr Smith a tarpaulin jacket.” To Hawkwood, he said, “It’ll be less cumbersome than that riding coat you’re wearing.” Adding, “Please do exactly as Fitch tells you. No more, no less. Is that clear? Anything happens to you, they’ll have my innards for garters!”

“He yells pull, I pull,” Hawkwood said.

Stuart nodded. “You have it. Tell me, Mr Smith, do you know your opera?”

Hawkwood stared at him.

“‘Heart of oak are our ships . . .?’ It’s something my father used to sing to me. I suspect we’re about to discover if the words hold true. Bates! Hurry up with that damned coat!”

The moment the helmsman, Fitch, moved along, allowing him room to grasp the tiller bar, Hawkwood discovered why it was a two-man job. Above him, Griffin’s mainsail still stretched between gaff and boom but under the lieutenant’s orders the sail had been reefed in tight, leaving just enough canvas aloft to enable the helmsmen to preserve some semblance of authority. Trying to maintain steerage-way, however, was like wrestling a bucking mule. It felt to Hawkwood as if his arms were being torn from their sockets. There was only one course of action: hang on, obey Fitch’s directions as best he could, and trust to salvation.

In times of adversity he’d often wondered whether death might not be some sort of merciful release. Inevitably, the feeling had always dissipated, but every now and then a new situation would arise when the notion reared its ugly head. This night was fast turning into one of them.

Fighting in the Spanish mountains, he’d known cold and rain, but nothing like this. The wind force hadn’t lessened either. If anything, it had escalated substantially, causing them to tack more times than Hawkwood could remember, with the inevitable drenching results. Despite the tarpaulin jacket, he’d never been so wretchedly wet in his entire life. Spray or rain, it made no difference. His hands were numb; he could hardly feel the ends of his fingers. He’d also lost all sense of time. The passing of the hours had become irrelevant. All that mattered was survival.

The sense of dread rose in his chest as, yet again, the cutter’s bow disappeared beneath another enormous wave. As the mass of water exploded over the forecastle it looked for one terrible moment as though the end of the shortened bowsprit had been sheared away. But then, ponderously, Griffin began to rise. At first, it was as though the sea was refusing to relinquish its grip until, with a supreme effort, she broke free, thrusting herself into the air like a breaching whale, the water running in gleaming cataracts from her forward rigging. Her bow continued to climb until it seemed she would fall back upon herself, such was the steep angle of her ascent. Finally reaching the vertex, Griffin hovered, but only for a moment before gravity took hold once more, drawing her back down into the seething well below.

The hull shuddered under the impact. A vivid streak of lightning zig-zagged across the sky. It was followed by another massive rumble directly overhead. As the echoes died away, it struck Hawkwood that if there was such a thing as the voice of God, it would probably sound a lot like that last roll of thunder.

And if thunder was a vocal manifestation of the Almighty’s wrath then the howling of the wind had to represent the grief of ten thousand souls trapped in purgatory. Which was why Hawkwood missed the warning shout. The first he knew something untoward had happened was when he saw a knot of seamen break apart as if a grenade had been tossed into their midst.

He heard Fitch bellow, “Keep hold, God damn it!” and as he hung on to the tiller he watched helplessly as the carronade broke free from its cradle and 10 cwt of cast-iron ordnance careered towards the lee bulwark, shedding slivers of twisted eyebolt from the damaged carriage in its wake, along with threads of pared cordage that were left whipping to and fro across the deck like decapitated sea serpents.

Gathering momentum, the carronade headed for the port scuppers, trailing mayhem as the more quick thinking among Griffin’s crewmen tried to grab on to the pieces of rope still attached to the metal barrel. The slippery conditions proved too much for them, however, and they found themselves dragged along by the weight, while others scrambled aside, slipping and sliding on the water-soaked planking, some falling full length as they tried to get out of the way. The sound of the carronade hitting the bulwark was loud enough to be heard over the storm. As was the scream.

The bulwark absorbed the brunt of the collision, the remainder was borne by the one crew member who’d been unable to scramble clear in time. Sent sprawling, he’d only been able to watch, paralysed with fright, as the heavy metal cylinder hurtled towards him. As the carronade hit the raised side of the ship it tipped, trapping the seaman beneath it, crushing his chest and shoulders and shattering his ribs and pelvis into matchwood.

It took eight men under the guidance of Lieutenant Weekes to pull the wreckage free and drag the body to one side, but by then it was too late. The crewman was beyond help. Even as they strove to gather up the corpse the rain and seawater were already rinsing the blood from the scuppers.

As the debris was cleared away and the dead man was carried below, Fitch turned and glared at Hawkwood over his shoulder. Despite the water teeming down the coarse face, there was no hiding the anger in the helmsman’s eyes. “By Christ, I hope you’re worth the bloody trouble!”

Hawkwood kept silent. There was nothing to be gained by responding to Fitch’s outburst. Had he been in the helmsman’s position he’d probably have come close to voicing the same sentiment and if he hadn’t put it into words, he’d likely have thought it. Seafaring men, much more than soldiers, were prone to superstition. Any break with routine that resulted in catastrophe was likely to be deemed portentous by the less rational members of a close-knit crew. He suspected the men of the Griffin were no different in that regard. They’d now lost one of their own and despite the death occurring while the ship was effectively on a war footing, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that given the absence of both women and albatrosses, they’d place the blame for the freak accident squarely on the presence of a stranger. Which, Hawkwood supposed, was true, indirectly, though he’d had no personal hand in the man’s death. But suspicious minds had a habit of creating their own twisted brand of logic. The diplomatic thing to do, therefore, was remain silent, let Fitch vent his spleen and pray they didn’t lose anybody else.

For the storm showed no signs of weakening; unlike the cutter’s crew who, bruised and battered by the ordeal, were growing ever more weary.

Hawkwood wasn’t a religious man. Had he been, he might well have regarded the struggle being waged about him as some sort of fitting parable in which a gallant David was battling the storm’s fearsome Goliath. But Griffin was no David. There was no sling and no stone. Here, Goliath was in the ascendancy.

The wind had forestalled all efforts to gain headway. For Griffin’s crew, there was only one priority: to try and stay afloat. So far they were succeeding, but only just.

Then another spectacular streak of lightning stabbed across the sky, ripping the heavens in two and revealing, in that moment of incandescence, a dark shadowy mass, rising like a behemoth from the waters, less than a cable’s length off Griffin’s larboard beam.

Griffin’s commander turned with a stricken look on his face. “PORT HELM!”

Fitch gasped. Eyes wide with shock, his voice rose in a scream. “Pull! For the love of God, pull!”

The sighting had been so sudden and so fleeting that Hawkwood wondered if his eyes had deceived him, but the lieutenant’s warning, allied to Fitch’s frantic cry and the expressions on the faces of the men about him, confirmed that it was not some mythical sea beast that he’d seen rising half hidden behind the moving curtain of rain but the dark unbroken line of a sheer cliff face and waves exploding on to a rock-strewn foreshore beneath it.

There was no time to think; no time to reflect on the power of the storm or how it had managed to drive Griffin so close to land; no time for recriminations against an error of navigation, if such was the case. There was only raw panic.

Fitch threw himself against the helm like a man possessed, leaving Hawkwood no option but to dig his heels into the deck and follow suit. As spray burst over Griffin’s weather side and stampeded in glistening shards along the deck, Hawkwood knew that even with their combined strength bearing down, it was unlikely the two of them would be able to hold the ship steady. The pressure of the sea against hull and rudder was just too strong.

He was suddenly aware of a tarpaulin-jacketed figure clawing his way towards them. It was the quartermaster, Mendham. Thrusting himself between Hawkwood and Fitch, he clamped his hands around the helm.

Feet scrabbling, the three men hauled back on the tiller. Hawkwood glanced up towards the mast. It was vibrating like a bow stave and looked ready to snap.

But slowly and sluggishly, Griffin began to come round.

Only for her prow to rise, swept up by the sheer power of the water beneath her hull.

“Pull, y’buggers!” Mendham yelled. “Pu—!”

And almost as quickly, she was falling away again. The quarter -master’s voice was drowned out as Griffin plummeted once more into the abyss. As the sea smashed over the drift rail, the lee scuppers vanished under a rampaging tide of foam and swirling black water that raced along the deck, sweeping all before it. Hawkwood’s boots began to slide. He saw that a good number of the crew had been left floundering as their legs were taken from beneath them. Most were struggling to their feet. Others had found a stanchion or a stay to cling to, while a few fortunate ones were grabbed by their shipmates and pulled to safety.

But, momentarily, resistance against the rudder eased.

The other two felt it at the same time.

“Now!” Fitch yelled hoarsely. “Put your backs into it!”

Led by Fitch, Hawkwood and the quartermaster redoubled their efforts. Gradually, the starboard bulwark began to drop. Griffin was answering! Hawkwood sensed the cutter was returning to an even keel. Relief surged through him.

And then he looked out beyond the bow and a fist closed around his heart.

Mendham followed his gaze. The quartermaster’s face sagged. “Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Hawkwood’s first thought was that some callous twist of fate had inadvertently caused them to turn the ship completely about, and that it was the same stretch of cliff he could see, lying in wait at the edge of the darkness. Disconcerting enough in itself, until he saw that the top of the cliff was in motion and growing in height and width and he realized to his horror that it was a wave, a huge black wave, far larger than anything that had gone before, and that it was bearing down upon them and gathering speed at an astonishing rate. He felt his insides contract.

For Griffin was still partially beam on and there was no time to turn her into the approaching threat. Fitch yelled again. Hawkwood didn’t catch the words; they were borne away by the shriek of the wind. He saw Griffin’s commander staring over the rail, head lifting as he took in the full significance of what he was seeing. The lieutenant spun round.

It was too late for a warning.

There was an awful inevitability in the way the mountainous wall of water was racing towards them; devouring everything in its path, like some ancient malevolence, risen from the deep to spread chaos upon the world. As Hawkwood watched, a skein of frothing whitecaps appeared, like pale riders cresting the brow of a hill; tentatively at first but then, as if gaining in confidence, they began to spread out across the wave’s rapidly swelling summit. It was, Hawkwood thought, like staring into a boiling cauldron. With her weather side exposed to the full might of the converging sea, Griffin stood no chance.

The wave broke across her with devastating force. The starboard bulwark vanished, swamped beneath the deluge which splintered the topsail yard like a twig, tore the gaff from its mountings, the forward hatch cover from its runners and more than a dozen crewmen from their stations. Their cries were cut short as the remains of the mainsail collapsed around them, sweeping them over the port bulwark and into the sea in a welter of spiralling limbs, broken spars and flayed canvas.

The force of the water wrenched the tiller from Hawkwood’s hands. He tried to grab on to it but there was nothing beneath his feet to give him purchase and it sprang out of his grasp as if on a coiled spring. The world became a maelstrom of sound and fury. He sensed rather than saw Fitch and Mendham being flung aside and then everything went dark. Bracing himself, he felt a stunning blow as his spine collided with the corner of the binnacle. Pain shot through him.

The backwash had barely receded before the sea crashed over them once more. The crewmen who’d survived the initial cataclysmic onslaught were given no chance to recover. All had tried to wrap themselves around what they had hoped were secure fixtures. The stronger ones hung on grimly only to see their more exhausted companions plucked from safety and into oblivion like sodden rag dolls.

Hawkwood, still dazed and smarting from his encounter with the compass box, was unprepared for the impact. Sent careening across the deck like an empty keg trapped in a mill race, he was finally brought up short at the base of the mast. Spluttering and coughing, tangled within a cat’s cradle of torn rigging and waterlogged canvas, he felt something grab his arm – a dis -embodied hand – and saw, through a blur of agony, that it was the helmsman, Fitch. The look in the seaman’s eyes as the reflux bore him away was one of abject terror.

The ship gave another violent lurch. A terrible rending sound came from deep within the hull as Griffin was slammed on to her larboard beam and Hawkwood, still coughing, found himself dislodged and adrift once more. He grabbed for the main hatchway grating and missed, then saw a strand of rope – one of the safety lines – and made a desperate lunge towards it, just as the port bulwark submerged. A strained voice yelled frantically from close by, “She’s going!” and before Hawkwood could advance his hold, the line jackknifed from his clutches. His link with the ship severed and with the cutter’s deck at a near vertical incline and still rotating, there was nothing he could do, except fall.

He was wet already, but the coldness of the water drove the rest of the air from his lungs as effectively as a mule kick. As the weight of his tarpaulin jacket dragged him beneath the waves, his last comfortless thought was that he hadn’t expected it to end like this.