Rebellion. James McGee

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ