A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Page A

the hawse as the single compressor nipped it against the bitts. The cutter jerked her head round into sea and swell as the anchor brought up. ‘Brought to it,’ came the word back from forward.
    ‘Are you ready, Mr Drinkwater?’ The acting lieutenant looked about him. His two volunteers grunted assent and Drinkwater found the sound of Tregembo’s voice reassuring. The other man, Poll, was a pugnacious red-bearded fellow who enjoyed an aggressive reputation aboard Kestrel. ‘Aye, sir, we’re ready
    Come lads.’
    The three men moved aft where Jessup, judging his moment nicely, had dropped the little jolly boat into the sea as Kestrel’s bow rose. As her bottom smacked into the water the davit falls were let fly and unrove. The boat drifted astern until restrained by its painter, then it was pulled carefully alongside and Drinkwater, Tregembo and Poll jumped into it.
    Forward Tregembo received the eye of four-inch hemp from the deck and secured it round the forward thwart. Amidships Poll secured the shaded lantern and loosed the oar lashings while Drinkwater saw that the coil of line aft was clear to run, as was the second of small rope attached to the grapnel. They would have to watch their feet in those two coils.
    ‘Ready lads?’ Tregembo and Poll answered in the affirmative and Drinkwater hailed the deck in a low voice, ‘Let go the painter and veer away the four-inch.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Drinkwater could see heads bobbing at the rail as Jessup eased the little boat downwind. ‘Good luck, Mr Drinkwater,’ came Griffiths’s low voice.
    Bucking astern Drinkwater raised his arm in acknowledgement and turned his attention to the beach. Tregembo touched his shoulder.
    ‘Lantern’s ready, zur.’
    ‘Very well.’ They were bobbing up and down now, the seas shoving the craft shorewards, the hemp rope restraining it, jerking it head to sea then veering away again as they rolled into ever steepening seas. The moment he saw the waves begin to curl, gathering themselves before tumbling ashore as breakers, Drinkwater ordered the shaded lantern shown seaward. Almost immediately the boat came head to sea and remained there. Tregembo came aft.
    ‘They’re holding, zur.’
    ‘Very well.’ Drinkwater slipped off his shoes. He was already stripped to his shirt. As he stood up to fasten the light line about himself Tregembo said: ‘I’ll go zur, it ain’t your place, zur, beggin’ your pardon.’
    Drinkwater grinned in the darkness. ‘It is my place, Tregembo, do you tend the lines, on that I rely absolutely
    now Poll, pass me the grapnel and I’ll secure the stern.’
    Thanking providence that it was August, Drinkwater slipped over the transom and kicked out shorewards, the small grapnel over his shoulder, shaking the lines free.
    He felt himself caught in the turbulence of a breaking wave, then thrust forward, the thunder of the surf in his ears, his legs continually fouling the ropes. Desperately he turned on his side and kicked frantically with his free leg, thrashing with his unencumbered arm. The undertow dragged him back and he felt his hand drive into sand. Another wave thundered about him, forcing the breath out and turning him over so that the ropes caught. Again his hand encountered sand and he scrabbled at it, panic welling in his winded guts.
    Then he was ashore, a raffle of rope and limbs, stretched out in the final surge of a few inches of water, grasping and frightened.
    Another wave washed around him as he lay in the shallows, then another as he struggled to his feet. Recovering his breath by degrees he sorted out the tangle of ropes, knowing Tregembo and Poll had each an end over opposite quarters. The need to concentrate steadied him. He drove the grapnel into the sand and jerked the line hard. He felt it tighten and saw it rise dripping and straight. Wading out he could just see the grey shape of the boat bobbing above the white line of the breakers. He untied the line from his waist and