A King's Cutter Read Free Page B

dark line of the land. Going forward again and peering through the Dollond glass he saw what he hardly dared hope. The cliffs on the left fell away to a narrow river valley, then rose steeply to the west to a height named Mont Jolibois. The faint scent of woodsmoke came to him from the village of Criel that sheltered behind the hill, astride the river crossing of the road from Tréport and Eu to Dieppe.
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Da iawn
, Mr Drinkwater, well done.’ Griffiths’s voice was warm and congratulatory. Drinkwater relaxed with relief: it seemed he had passed a test. Griffiths quietly gave orders. The mainsail was scandalised and the staysail backed. The boat towing astern was hauled alongside and two men tumbled in to bale it out. Beside Drinkwater the cloaked figure of the British agent stood staring ashore.
    â€˜Your glass, sir, lend me your glass.’ The tone was peremptory, commanding, all trace of jollity absent.
    â€˜Yes, yes, of course, sir.’ He fished it out of his coat pocket and handed it to the man. After scrutinising the beach it was silently returned. Griffiths came up.
    â€˜Take the boat in, Mr Drinkwater, and land our guest.’
    It took a second to realise his labours were not yet over. Men were piling into the gig alongside. There was the dull gleam of metal where Jessup issued sidearms. ‘Pistol and cutlass, sir.’ There was an encouraging warmth in Jessup’s voice now. Drinkwater took the pistol and stuck it into his waistband. He refused the cutlass. Slipping below, screwing his eyes up against the lamplight from the cabin, he pushed into his own hutch. Behind the door he felt for the French épée. Buckling it on he hurried back on deck.
    Mont Jolibois rose above them as the boat approached the shore. To the left Drinkwater could see a fringe of white water that surged around the hummocks of the Roches des Muron. He realised fully why Griffiths insisted they land at low water. As many dangers as possible were uncovered, providing some shelter and a margin of safety if they grounded. Forward the bowman was prodding overside with his boathook.
    â€˜Bottom, sir!’ he hissed, and a moment later the boat ran aground, lifted and grounded again. Without orders the oars came inboard with low thuds and, to Drinkwater’s astonishment, his entire crew leapt overboard, holding the boat steady. Then, straining in a concerted effort that owed its perfection to long practice, they hove her off the sand and hauled her round head to sea. Drinkwater felt foolishly superfluous, sitting staring back the way they had come.
    â€˜Ready sir.’ A voice behind him made him turn as his passenger rose and scrambled onto the seaman’s back. The boat lifted to a small breaker and thumped back onto the bottom. The seaman waded ashore and Drinkwater, not to be outdone, kicked off his shoes and splashed after them with the agent’s bag. Well up the beach the sailor lowered his burden and the agent settled his cloak.
    â€˜Standard procedure,’ he said with just a trace of that humour he had earlier displayed. He held out his hand for the bag. ‘Men with dried salt on their boots have a rather obvious origin.’ He took the bag. ‘Thank you;
bonsoir mon ami
.’
    â€˜Goodnight,’ said Drinkwater to the figure retreating into the threatening darkness that was Revolutionary France. For a second Drinkwater stood staring after the man, and then trudged back to the boat.
    There was a perceptible easing of tension as the men pulled back to the waiting cutter. As though the shadow of the guillotine and the horrors of the Terror that lay over the darkened land had touchedthem all. Wearily Drinkwater clambered on board and saluted Griffiths.
    The lieutenant nodded. ‘You had better get some sleep now,’ he said. ‘And Mr Drinkwater . . .’
    â€˜Sir?’ said Drinkwater from the companionway.
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Da iawn
, Mr Drinkwater,
da