A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman

ours who wishes to leave France.’
    â€˜Mutual friend, sir?’
    â€˜You know, Mr Drinkwater, fellow we landed at Criel. He goes under the name of Major Brown. His commission’s in the Life Guards, though I doubt he’s sat a horse on the King’s Service. Made a reputation with the Iroquois in the last war, I remember. Been employed on “special service” ever since,’ Griffiths said with heavy emphasis.
    Drinkwater remembered the fat, jolly man they had landed on his first operation nearly a year ago. He did not appear typical of the officers of His Majesty’s Life Guards.
    Griffiths sensed his puzzlement. ‘The Duke of York, Mr Drinkwater, reserves a few commissions for meritorious officers,’ he smiled wryly. ‘They have to
earn
the privilege and almost never see a stirrup iron.’
    â€˜I see, sir. Where do we pick him up? And when? Have we any choice?’
    â€˜Get the chart folio,
bach
, and we’ll have a look.’
    â€˜God damn this weather to hell!’ For the thousandth time during the forenoon Griffiths stared to the west, but the hoped-for lightening on the horizon failed to appear.
    â€˜We’ll have to take another reef, sir, and shift the jib . . .’ Drinkwater left the sentence unfinished as a sheet of spray whipped aft from the wave rolling inboard amidships, spilling over the rail and threatening to rend the two gigs from their chocks.
    â€˜But it’s August, Mr Drinkwater, August,’ his despairing appeal to the elements ended in a nod of assent, Drinkwater turned away.
    â€˜Mr Jessup! All hands! Rouse along the spitfire jib there! Larbowlines forward and shift the jib. Starbowlines another reef in the mains’l!’ Drinkwater watched with satisfaction as the men ran to their stations, up to their knees in water at the base of the mast.
    â€˜Ready, forrard!’ came Jessup’s hail.
    Drinkwater noted Griffiths’s nod and watched the sea. ‘Down helm!’
    As the cutter luffed further orders were superfluous.
Kestrel
was no lumbering battleship, her crew worked with the sure-footed confidence of practice. With canvas shivering and slatting in a trembling that reached to her keel, the cutter’s crew worked furiously.The peak and throat halliards were slackened and the mainsheet hove in to control the boom whilst the leech cringle was hauled down. By the mast the luff cringle was secured and the men spread along the length of the boom, bunching the hard, wet canvas and tying the reef points.
    Forward men pulled in the traveller inhaul while Jessup eased the outhaul. By the mast the jib halliard was started and waist deep in water on the lee bow the flogging jib was pulled inboard. Within a minute the spitfire was shackled to the halliard, its tack hooked to the traveller and the outhaul manned. Even as the big iron ring jerked out along the spar the halliard tightened. The sail thundered, its luff curving away to leeward as
Kestrel
fell into the trough of the sea, then straightened as men tallied on and sweated it tight. ‘Belay! Belay there!’
    â€˜Ready forrard!’
    Drinkwater heard Jessup’s hail, saw him standing in the eyes, his square-cut figure solid against the pitch of the horizon and the tarpaulin whipping about his legs, for all the world a scarecrow in a gale. Drinkwater resisted a boyish impulse to laugh. ‘Aye, aye, Mr Jessup!’
    He turned to the helmsman, ‘Steady her now,’ and a nod to Poll on the mainsheet.
Kestrel
gathered way across the wind, her mainsail peak jerking up again to its jaunty angle and filling with wind.
    â€˜Down helm!’ She began to turn up into the wind again, spurred by that sudden impetus; again that juddering tremble as her flapping sails transmitted their frustrated energy to the fabric of the hull. ‘Heads’l sheets!’
    â€˜Full an’ bye, starboard tack.’
    â€˜Full an’ bye, sir,’