Читать книгу Rebellion - James McGee - Страница 9

Chapter 4

“Well, you were right,” Brooke said, raising the coffee cup to his lips. “He’s certainly a recalcitrant devil.”

“That’s been said before,” James Read responded wryly. Brooke took a drink and set his cup down.

“He achieves results,” Read said. He took a slow sip from his own cup. “That’s the main thing.”

“Set a fox to catch a rat, eh?”

“Indeed.”

The two men were seated at a table in the first-floor coffee room in White’s. They were by the end front window, through which they had an uninterrupted view over the narrow balcony down on to the northern end of St James’s Street. There were other club members around them but the tables on either side were unoccupied so both men were able to converse freely without the likelihood of being overheard.

“Y’know it was Sidmouth who first brought me here,” Brooke murmured absently as he gazed down the long room. “Just as well he’s a Tory. If he’d been a Whig I’d have ended up in that other place, which would have been rather amusing. Mind you, it would probably have guaranteed a decent table for supper.”Read acknowledged the remark with a polite smile. He didn’t have to look to know that the building being referred to sat almost diagonally across from them on the opposite side of the street. The premises housed a similar retreat called Brooks’s.

James Read was a private man and not, as a rule, a patron of gentlemen’s establishments. He found them somewhat claustro -phobic, though he acknowledged that they did provide a convenient forum in which to conduct business, especially business of a clandestine nature. The staff was uniformly efficient and discreet which, given both Brooke’s and Read’s professions, was a decided advantage and, despite his cynicism, the dining room could usually be called upon to produce an acceptable bottle of claret and a competent lamb chop at relatively short notice.

“An interesting fellow, though,” Brooke said, still musing. “What’s his full story? What was he doing before he took the king’s shilling? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure I’d consider that relevant,” Read said.

“But . . .?” Brooke pressed.

“You know, I was thinking that I may well stay on for luncheon,” James Read said, looking off towards the door to the dining room. “I hear the new chef serves a rather fine truffle sauce with the turbot.” He dabbed a napkin along his lips.

The superintendent, who was well aware of Read’s antipathy towards the surroundings, sighed. “All right, point taken.”

Brooke studied Read over the rim of his cup. “You knew he’d accept, though, didn’t you?”

“He responds to a challenge,” Read said. “It’s what drives him.”

“There’s no family, I take it?”

Read shook his head. “No.”

“Mmm, probably just as well, in the circumstances. Not many friends either, I suspect.”

“They’re few in number, but impressively loyal.”

“And demons? I’d hazard a guess he has his fair share.”

“Show me a man with twenty years of soldiering who hasn’t,” Read said.

“And I’ll wager those scars could tell a few stories,” Brooke said.

Read, refusing to rise to the bait, made no reply.

Brooke smiled, finally accepting defeat.

Both men took another sip of coffee.

“How much did you tell him?” Read asked.

“What we agreed. That we’d provide him with all document ation and a meeting point. After that he . . . they . . . are on their own.”

“Can I assume you did not reveal the correspondent’s identity?”

“You can. That omission was covered by the need for secrecy.” Read reached for the coffee pot, drew it towards him and proceeded to refill his cup.

“You look . . . worried,” Brooke said.

Read put the pot down. “Merely pondering upon their chances of success.”

“It sounds as if you’ve a soft spot for the fellow.”

“He’s a good officer. He’s my officer. I don’t relish placing any of my men in harm’s way if I can help it.”

“Well, he’s mine now, or at least for the duration. And the opportunity’s too good to pass up. We’d be fools if we didn’t try to take advantage.”

Read tried to quell the feeling of disquiet prompted by Brooke’s crass proprietorial comment. “I believe that’s what was said the last time this was attempted.”

“Ah, but the bugger was in Spain, remember. This time, he’s in Russia; not so close to home. It’s an entirely different kettle of fish.”

“Then let us hope it is to our advantage,” Read said. “Have you informed the Prime Minister, by the way?”

Brooke shook his head and used his fingertips to smooth a non-existent bump in the table cloth. “Not as yet.”

“Is it your intention to do so?”

“I’m of a mind to keep it between ourselves for the time being,” Brooke said. “Given that we’re still in the preparatory stages.” He favoured Read with an oblique glance. “Unless you have any objections?”

Read shook his head. “Whatever you think is appropriate.”

“I think it’s for the best,” Brooke said. “Besides, there’s no requirement for him to be privy to everything we do.”

“And our émigré friends?” Read asked.

Brooke shook his head again.

“Not even the Comité? Their collaboration’s proved of great benefit to us in the past.”

“Indeed it has, and my department is exceedingly grateful, but you can’t be too careful. We live in dangerous times. We must exercise caution, even where our so-called allies are concerned.”

Composed of émigrés drawn from the ranks of former government ministers, senior clergymen and a coterie of aristocrats all loyal to the French crown, the Comité Français was effectively the royalist government-in-exile. Its goal was the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy.

“Besides, they’ve been rather peppery of late,” Brooke added.

Brooke was referring to the rift between the heirs to the French throne: the Comte d’Artois and his brother Louis Stanislas. Having fled France in the wake of the Revolution, both were now resident in England. Although Louis was the next in line following the execution of his brother and the death of his nephew while detained in the Temple prison, it was the Comte d’Artois to whom the majority of the émigrés looked for guidance, a state of affairs that had led to deep mistrust between the two siblings.

“You’d have thought sharing a common foe would have put paid to the damned bickering,” Brooke said. “It makes you wonder why we continue to support them. It’s costing us a fortune. It’ll only take one slip for Parliament to get wind of our special donations and they’ll be at our throats. They’ve been looking for excuses to reduce our funding. If that happens, we’re all out of a damned job.”

“In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . .” Read paused “. . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.”

“Indeed,” Brooke said. He smiled silkily and raised his cup. “Here’s to good fortune.”

“When does he embark?” Read asked.

“Tonight,” Brooke said. “A private coach is transporting him to Dover. There’s a vessel waiting. If the weather’s kind to us, he’ll sail on the evening tide.”

“Then we should pray for calm seas, as well,” Read said. Brooke kept his cup raised.

“Amen to that,” he said.

Maddie Teague watched silently from the open doorway as Hawkwood rolled the spare shirts and breeches he had removed from his army chest and laid them on the bed next to a battered valise. The lid of the chest remained propped open. Inside it, a curved sabre lay sheathed atop a dark green tunic. Even though it was folded, it was obvious that the uniform jacket had survived many campaigns and had been repaired innumerable times. Next to the tunic was a pair of grey cavalry breeches and a waist sash the colour of dried ox blood. Below the tunic and breeches lay an officer’s greatcoat and under that, partly hidden, was a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. One end of the oilcloth had worked loose, revealing the polished walnut butt and brass patch-box cover of an army rifle.

“Matthew?” Maddie said softly.

Hawkwood turned.

Maddie lifted her gaze from the contents of the chest. Her eyes held his. “Should I keep the room?”

Hawkwood found himself transfixed by her look.

“It was a jest,” she said, though her emerald eyes did not hold much humour.

Maddie was tall and slender. Her auburn hair, pale colouring and high cheekbones hinted at her Celtic roots, while her strength of character could usually be measured by the depth and force of her gaze. On this occasion, however, there was only concern on her face.

She continued to stare at him. “What are you thinking?”

Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing.”

Maddie stepped forward and placed her right hand on his chest. “You’re a poor liar, Matthew Hawkwood.”

Hawkwood smiled. “I was thinking yes, you should definitely keep the room for me.”

Her face softened. She tapped his waistcoat with her closed fist.

“It’s my job, Maddie. It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said.

“I know.”

She rested her palm against his cheek. Her hand was cool to the touch.

He thought back to the first time they’d met. It was not long after his return to England from Spain. He’d been in search of a roof over his head and Maddie was the landlady of the Blackbird Inn, with two empty rooms in need of an occupant. The financial arrangement had suited both of them; Maddie in particular. Her husband had been a sea captain and he’d bought the inn to provide an additional source of revenue when he retired. But Captain Teague had perished when his ship had fallen prey to the storm tossed waters of the Andaman Sea, leaving his widow with a string of unpaid bills and a lengthening queue of creditors. Hawkwood’s timely arrival had kept the wolves from the door and given Maddie the time she’d needed to turn the Blackbird from a debt-ridden back-alley hostelry into the respectable establishment it had become.

It had taken some months before their business partnership developed into something more; for the trust between landlady and lodger to grow into a bond of friendship, and it had still been a good while after that when Maddie Teague had first visited Hawkwood’s bed. Neither of them had ventured to translate feelings into words and yet it had become clear over time that what existed between them had long since transcended the need for mere physical gratification. There had been dalliances along the way, on both sides, and yet the affection and the closeness had endured.

“If you don’t hear from me and you need help, go to Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said. “You know how to get a message to him?”

She removed her hand and nodded. “Yes.”

There was a silence, mirrored by the look in her eyes. “How long should I wait for news?”

“You’ll know,” Hawkwood said.

She absorbed that. “Does Nathaniel know where you’re going?”

“I’m not even sure I do,” Hawkwood said.

She lifted her hand again and ran a fingertip along the line of his cheek, below his eye, tracing the scars. “Your wounds have barely healed.”

“No rest for the wicked, Maddie,” Hawkwood said. “You should know that by now.”

Her green eyes flashed. “That’s what you said the last time.” She stepped back and folded her arms about her, as if warding off a sudden chill. “Just don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep. That’s all.”

Hawkwood had always suspected Maddie Teague was too strong a woman for that, though in truth her comment made him wonder; was she still jesting, or not?

“Curious,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what I was going to say.”

She gave a wan smile and waited as he placed the shirts and breeches in the valise. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned.

“Take care, Matthew,” she whispered.

He nodded. “Always.”

Maddie lowered her arms and smoothed down her dress. “I’ll have Hettie find something in the kitchen for your journey. We don’t want you going hungry.”

“Perish the thought,” Hawkwood said.

She frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

He shook his head. “I’d never do that.”

She gazed at him intently and took a deep breath. Then, without speaking, she leaned forward and kissed him fiercely before turning on her heel and exiting the room.

Leaving Hawkwood to his packing, alone with his thoughts.

There was something eerily familiar about her lines, even by moonlight, and as he drew closer Hawkwood saw why. She was a cutter. The long horizontal bowsprit, the sharply tapering stern and the preposterous size of her rig in proportion to her length and beam were unmistakable. The last time he’d boarded a similar vessel it had been at sea, in the company of Jago and the French privateer, Lasseur, and he’d been fully armed with a pistol and a tomahawk and screaming like a banshee. This time, his arrival was a lot less frenetic.

The journey from London had taken four changes of horses and the best part of the day, so it was late evening when the coach finally made its bone-rattling descent into the town; by which time Hawkwood’s throat was dry with dust, while his spine felt as if it had been dislocated by the constant jolting.

Even if it hadn’t been for the silhouette of the castle ramparts high above him and the lights clustered at the foot of the dark chalk cliffs, it would have been possible to gauge his proximity to the port purely by the miasma of odours arising from it; the most prominent being smoke, cooking fires and sewage, the unavoidable detritus of closely packed human habitation.

Dover was home to both an ordnance depot and a victualling yard, and keeping the navy armed, watered and fed was clearly a twenty-four-hour operation, if the number of people on the streets – both in uniform and civilian dress – was any indication. The town looked to be wide awake. The public houses in particular, to judge by the knots of men and women weaving unsteadily between them, were still enjoying a brisk trade.

The coachman, clearly adhering to prior instruction, steered the vehicle away from the main part of the town and into a maze of unlit cobbled alleyways leading down towards the outer harbour. After numerous twists and turns, the coach finally drew to a halt and Hawkwood, easing cramped muscles, stepped out on to a darkened quay.

The cutter had the dockside to herself, her tall, tapering mainmast and canvas-furled yards reaching for the moon like winter-stripped branches. Lantern lights were showing above the closed gun ports and Hawkwood spotted shadows moving around the deck. He turned his coat collar up.

The concoction of smells was even stronger here and he guessed they were within spitting distance of the navy supply stores, for the combined aromas of unrendered animal fats, stale fish, offal, baking bread and fermenting hops hung heavily in the night air alongside the more familiar dockyard scents of grease, cordage, tarred rigging and mildewed timbers. Though, he supposed, looking around, it could all have been just an exaggeration of Dover’s natural reek.

Noise always seemed magnified at night and the thudding of hammers and rasping of saws floated across the ink-black water from the surrounding jetties. At the same time, from the opposite direction, a stiff breeze was coming off the Channel, carrying with it a soulful requiem of creaking spars and clinking chains from craft moored along the outer harbour walls. To add to the lament, a watch bell clanged mournfully in the darkness.

Behind him, the coachman, satisfied that his passenger had been delivered safely, clicked his tongue and the coach trundled off into the night.

As Hawkwood neared the ship, he noted that the vessel wasn’t displaying a man-of-war’s standard colour scheme. Instead of the customary buff-painted hull, he saw that all the external timbers, from bowsprit to counter, were as black as coal. As his mind deciphered the significance, a slim, uniformed figure stepped nimbly from the cutter’s gangplank.

“Mr . . . Smith?” The speaker touched the brim of his hat. “I’m Lieutenant Stuart. Welcome aboard Griffin.”

He hadn’t taken Brooke all that seriously when the superintendent had given him his boarding instructions. Brooke’s explanation for the false name, when he’d seen the sceptical expression unfold across Hawkwood’s face, had been that it simplified the process and avoided prevarication. Hawkwood had been tempted to ask Brooke what the procedure was if there was more than one passenger per voyage and then had decided against it. Brooke, he’d suspected, wouldn’t have found the enquiry amusing.

As he took in Hawkwood’s appearance, the lieutenant’s head lifted, revealing more of his features. He looked, Hawkwood thought, disturbingly young to be in charge of his own ship; though as vessels went, Stuart’s command was unlikely to see an admiral’s pennant fluttering from her masthead any time soon. She was too small and too far down the lists for that. Nevertheless, from the serious expression on his boyish face it was plain her captain thought no less of her for that.

The lieutenant led the way on board. A second officer, and the only other man Hawkwood could see dressed in uniform, was waiting by the rail.

“Lieutenant Weekes,” Stuart said. “My second-in-command.”

There wasn’t that much difference in their ages, Hawkwood thought. Weekes may have been a year or two older, but that was all. Though it might have been his deep-set eyes and serious expression that made him appear so.

“Sir.” Weekes favoured Hawkwood with a brief nod before looking expectantly at his captain.

Stuart obliged. “Prepare for departure, Simon, while I take our passenger below.”

“Very good, sir.”

As his first officer turned away, Stuart turned to Hawkwood. “Just as well you arrived when you did. The tide’s already on the ebb. Another half an hour and we’d need deeper water beneath our keel. We’d’ve had to anchor her outside the walls and ferry you out in the jolly boat. I don’t think you’d have cared much for that.” The lieutenant threw Hawkwood an unexpected and surprisingly roguish grin. “I’ll show you to your quarters. I apologize in advance; there aren’t too many home comforts.”

The lieutenant took off his hat to reveal a mop of unruly dark hair, and led the way past the tied-down carronades towards the cutter’s stern and an open hatchway. Hawkwood noticed that none of the crew were paying much attention to his arrival. As he followed the lieutenant across the deck, he wondered if that meant they’d become used to passengers embarking in the dead of night.

The lieutenant drew Hawkwood’s attention to the top of the ladder. “Watch your step.”

Hawkwood, reminded of the last time he’d been below decks, nodded dutifully before following Stuart down the near vertical companionway.

Stuart said over his shoulder, “As you see, it can get a mite cosy at times. We’re not rigged to carry passengers. Though we’ve had our fair share,” he added conspiratorially. “Mind your head.”

It’s still not as bad as a prison hulk, Hawkwood thought, as he ducked below the beam, but he didn’t tell Stuart that.

Stuart opened the door to the cabin and stood aside to allow Hawkwood to enter, which he did, shoulders lowered.

“You’ll forgive me if I leave you to get settled,” Stuart said, remaining by the companionway. “I must return to my station.”

Without waiting for an answer the lieutenant, with another hesitant smile, turned and made his way topside. Hawkwood surveyed his quarters.

The lantern-lit space was just about large enough to accommodate the single narrow cot, table and locker. If he’d been of a mind to assume the crucifix position in the middle of the cabin, Hawkwood was quietly confident his palms would have touched the opposing bulkheads. Not that there was much space to stand upright, save for the square of deck immediately beneath the closed skylight. The thought struck him that if there was a cat on board, there’d be precious little room to swing it. The air smelled vaguely of bilge water, candle grease, tobacco and sweat.

Footfalls sounded throughout the ship as the crew made last-minute haste, stowing and making fast all items not required in getting the vessel underway. From somewhere – Hawkwood presumed it was the galley – there came the ringing clatter of a pot falling to the deck, followed by a sharp, one-word obscenity, quickly hushed.

A low call sounded from above and Hawkwood caught the order: “Let go forrard!”

The deck moved beneath him and the light in the cabin dipped as the lantern swung. As he held on to the side of the cot for support, he was reminded, not for the first time, why sea voyages failed to excite him.

And we haven’t even left the bloody harbour yet, he thought dismally.

A drawn-out groan came from close by and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled before he realized it was only the rudder turning below the transom on the other side of the bulkhead. Slowly, Griffin’s bow began to come around.

Another directive sounded from on high: “Let go aft!”

There were no stern windows in the cutter and thus no means of fixing upon either the horizon or an aligned point in order to counteract the movement of the ship, save for the deckhead lantern which continued to swing gently on its hook as though it had a mind of its own. Hawkwood had the sudden overwhelming desire to feel cool air against his cheek. Leaving his unopened valise on the cot, he left the cabin, closed the door behind him and made his way back up the companionway and on to the deck, in time to see one of the hands hauling in the last few feet of stern line.

Reliant on the momentum of the tide and the helmsman’s control of the tiller bar, the cutter continued her gradual revolution. The quayside, Hawkwood noted, looking over the rail, remained dark and empty, unlike the rest of the dockyard where random lights flickered like tiny glow worms. Hawkwood supposed that was why the Griffin had had the isolated mooring to herself. So that their departure would go unnoticed.

His gaze travelled beyond the quay, up over the congested, smoke-stained rooftops and on towards the Western Heights, the near vertical rock face that rose behind the port like the encircling tiers of a vast and moonlit amphitheatre.

“Found your sea legs, Mr Smith?” The enquiry came from Lieutenant Stuart, who was standing by his shoulder. “Chances are you’ll need them before the night’s out.”

“You’re expecting rough weather?” Hawkwood asked, his heart sinking at the prospect.

Stuart laughed. “It’s the English Channel and it’s October. What else would I be expecting?”

Hawkwood knew his expression must have reflected what was in his mind for Stuart said immediately, “Don’t worry, Griffin might not be the youngest or the largest cutter in the fleet, but she’ll get us there.” Stuart patted the high bulwark affectionately and looked over his shoulder. “You may ready the mains’l, Mr Welland.”

“Aye, sir.” The acknowledgement came from a burly man with long side whiskers and dark jowls, dressed in a pea jacket and dun-coloured breeches. The ship’s bo’sun, Hawkwood guessed. He looked older than his commanding officer, by at least ten years.

“All right, you idle buggers. You heard the lieutenant – stand by. That includes you, Haskins, if you’re not too busy.”

Hawkwood saw the corner of the lieutenant’s mouth twitch as the order was relayed.

There had been no raising of the voice, Hawkwood noted, as the crewmen readied themselves, and no tongue lashings. The order – even the aside to seaman Haskins – had been spoken rather than shouted and yet every word had carried the same quiet authority. The tone had been more reminiscent of a schoolmaster coaxing his pupils to open their text books than a hardened warrant officer demanding unconditional obedience. Hawkwood knew that only a man with many years of experience under his belt could draw that amount of respect. It also said a lot for the quality of the cutter’s crew that they were anticipating the commands before they were given and were reacting accordingly: with speed and efficiency and in relative silence. There was little doubt that they’d been well drilled.

“Volunteers?” Hawkwood said, taking a guess.

If Stuart thought the question surprising or impertinent he didn’t let on. Instead he looked faintly pleased and nodded. “Not a pressed man among them and locals mostly, save for the master. They know these English coastal waters like the backs of their hands. That’s not to say there aren’t a few former scallywags, but I’ve no interest in what mischief they might have got up to in their past lives. It’s how they conduct themselves on board that matters and, right now, I wouldn’t trade a single one of them.”

“Including Haskins?”

The lieutenant grinned. “Including Haskins. Not that I’d trust him with my sister, mind you.” The grin was replaced by a soft chuckle. “Or my mother, come to that.”

Stuart’s reply took Hawkwood back to his army days. He’d commanded soldiers with similar reputations; practitioners of every vice, from gamblers and horse traders to poachers, rustlers, bigamists and thieves, and some blackguards whose exploits would have made a tinker blush, but in a fight, for the honour of the regiment, there were no better men to have at your back. Stuart’s comment was proof that the maxim applied to the Royal Navy as well.

Welland’s voice cut into his reminiscences. “Hoist mains’l!”

A squeal came from the blocks as the huge four-cornered sail rose from the boom, followed by a sharp crackle of spreading canvas as Griffin completed her turn. He looked over the cutter’s long running bowsprit towards the entrance to the narrow passage that ran down between the port’s north and south piers and linked the inner basin to the harbour mouth.

Stuart turned towards his helmsman. “Steady as you go, Hodges.”

Hawkwood felt spray patter against his face. The breeze, forced along the funnel created by the converging pier walls, had found its teeth. The bite was not strong enough to impede the cutter’s progress, however. With infinite slowness, Griffin continued on towards the twin signal lights that marked each side of the gap in the harbour wall; through which Hawkwood could see only a funereal darkness.

He stared back over the taffrail. There was something strangely comforting in the huddled shapes of the lantern-lit buildings they were leaving behind. He wondered when, or even if, he would see them again.

The cutter’s bow lifted; the swell increasing the closer they got to the harbour entrance.

“Stand by fores’l halliard!” Welland’s voice again, encouraging, not strident.

Stuart addressed his helmsman once more. “All right, Hodges. Easy on the helm.”

“Hoist fores’l!”

Griffin’s crew sprang into action.

“Smartly does it, boys! Secure that halliard! Stand by braces!”

Gripping a stanchion to steady himself, Hawkwood watched the triangular sail unfurl like a great leaf, snap briefly and then continue to draw taut. A tremor ran through the hull. For a brief second the cutter hung suspended upon the uproll and then, like a hound loosened from the slips, she swept forward, out from the harbour mouth and on into the jet black waters of the English Channel.

Bound for France.