Rebellion. James McGee

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ