LITMIR.BIZ

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      “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

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