kicked up suddenly, and swung in a manner he hoped approximated Flint's. The canvas stayed more or less beneath him, and despite the whole world swinging left and right, he was able to grab the edges and straighten his legs. The men were laughing again, but it had a different edge to it this time; as if they were sharing in his success. Matthew pulled the blanket over his feet, and settled himself on the mattress. It was then that he discovered to his amazement that he was laughing as well.
*****
Flint slung his hammock at the end of the line, taking for himself the extra space normally only allotted to quartermasters and other junior petty officers. It would soon be the start of another voyage, another of the irregular anniversaries when he was leaving England.
He was twenty-five, and had been listed in one or another ship's books continuously for the past nine years. His father had been a sailor, and it had always been Flint's intention to follow him. And he was doing exactly that, although not in the way that either had anticipated.
Brighthelmstone, their home town in Sussex, had been under the care of the Duke of Newcastle, who proclaimed it a free port, where no impressment would be tolerated. This had protected Flint's father from the attention of the press, and allowed him to work in relative safety.
He had been a fisherman; a respectable trade although one that did not quite provide for his family. To make up the deficit he also acted as a free trader, smuggling anything that could find a ready market. It was certainly less honest than his day work, but many times more lucrative. When Flint had turned ten he was considered old enough to accompany him to work, both legitimate and illicit, and his apprenticeship began.
The first time he had seen action was with a revenue cutter. They had noticed it coming out of a squall on a dark night when they were just about to start the transfer with their French counterpart. She came down on them, the wind on her quarter, pendant flying and extended bowsprit waving an admonishing finger.
Flint, who had charge of the tiller, had been terrified but his father leant across and briefly placed a steadying hand over his. Without a word or signal the French ship turned into the wind, and set a course, close hauled, that would take her from danger, while his father ordered their boat on to the opposite tack. Flint nervously brought the rudder across, the boat settled and began to take on speed. They passed the revenue cutter, with only the night and the weather to hide them. Flint took time to glance across and recognised the Shoreham boat; he had seen her many times before, moored in the nearby harbour, and probably knew most of the men who crewed her. The thought comforted him for a moment. Then a pinpoint of light followed by a puff of smoke that was instantly whipped away by the wind, caused him to wonder and it was only with the shriek of passing shot that he fully understood what was about.
At that moment Flint had known true fear; he dropped the tiller, allowing the boat to fall off the wind, and scuttled for shelter. Immediately his father was at the helm and coaxing the boat back to her true course. Then he turned to his son.
“Don't min' the noise, the one you hear has gone past—noise can't hurt you.” The ship was lightly crewed, and the threat from the cutter meant every available hand must be ready to tend the sheets. Flint knew he was needed and returned to the helm. His father bellowed for the men to be ready to tack, and as each went to their places, he turned back to grin at him. It had been dark and raining, and yet Flint could see his father's expression of confidence. He was treating this contest that could so easily end their lives as no more than an entertaining diversion; deriving excitement and actual pleasure from a situation that would
*****
Flint slung his hammock at the end of the line, taking for himself the extra space normally only allotted to quartermasters and other junior petty officers. It would soon be the start of another voyage, another of the irregular anniversaries when he was leaving England.
He was twenty-five, and had been listed in one or another ship's books continuously for the past nine years. His father had been a sailor, and it had always been Flint's intention to follow him. And he was doing exactly that, although not in the way that either had anticipated.
Brighthelmstone, their home town in Sussex, had been under the care of the Duke of Newcastle, who proclaimed it a free port, where no impressment would be tolerated. This had protected Flint's father from the attention of the press, and allowed him to work in relative safety.
He had been a fisherman; a respectable trade although one that did not quite provide for his family. To make up the deficit he also acted as a free trader, smuggling anything that could find a ready market. It was certainly less honest than his day work, but many times more lucrative. When Flint had turned ten he was considered old enough to accompany him to work, both legitimate and illicit, and his apprenticeship began.
The first time he had seen action was with a revenue cutter. They had noticed it coming out of a squall on a dark night when they were just about to start the transfer with their French counterpart. She came down on them, the wind on her quarter, pendant flying and extended bowsprit waving an admonishing finger.
Flint, who had charge of the tiller, had been terrified but his father leant across and briefly placed a steadying hand over his. Without a word or signal the French ship turned into the wind, and set a course, close hauled, that would take her from danger, while his father ordered their boat on to the opposite tack. Flint nervously brought the rudder across, the boat settled and began to take on speed. They passed the revenue cutter, with only the night and the weather to hide them. Flint took time to glance across and recognised the Shoreham boat; he had seen her many times before, moored in the nearby harbour, and probably knew most of the men who crewed her. The thought comforted him for a moment. Then a pinpoint of light followed by a puff of smoke that was instantly whipped away by the wind, caused him to wonder and it was only with the shriek of passing shot that he fully understood what was about.
At that moment Flint had known true fear; he dropped the tiller, allowing the boat to fall off the wind, and scuttled for shelter. Immediately his father was at the helm and coaxing the boat back to her true course. Then he turned to his son.
“Don't min' the noise, the one you hear has gone past—noise can't hurt you.” The ship was lightly crewed, and the threat from the cutter meant every available hand must be ready to tend the sheets. Flint knew he was needed and returned to the helm. His father bellowed for the men to be ready to tack, and as each went to their places, he turned back to grin at him. It had been dark and raining, and yet Flint could see his father's expression of confidence. He was treating this contest that could so easily end their lives as no more than an entertaining diversion; deriving excitement and actual pleasure from a situation that would
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