Free A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Page A

every stitch she’ll carry. Mr Drinkwater, a course clear of the Pierres Vertes to open the Fromveur Passage
    ‘ He issued more orders as the hands tumbled up but Drinkwater was already scrambling below to consult the chart.
    The Île d’Ouessant, or Ushant to countless generations of British seamen, lies some thirteen miles west of the Brittany coast. Between the island and Point St Matthew a confused litter of rocks, islets and reefs existed, delineated within a pecked line on the cutter’s chart as: ‘numerous dangerous shoals, rocks, and Co wherein are unpredictable tide rips and overfalls.’ Even in the mildest of weather the area is subject to Atlantic swells and the ceaseless run of the tide which at springs reaches a rate of seven and a half knots. When the wind and tide are in opposition they generate a high, vicious and dangerous sea. At best the tide rips and overfalls rendered the area impossible to navigation. So great were the dangers in the locality as a whole that a special treaty had been drawn up between England and France that provided for the latter country to maintain a lighthouse on Point Stiff ‘in war as in peace, for the general benefit of humanity’. This tower had been erected a century earlier to a design by Vauban on the highest point of the island.
    Two passages run through the rocks between Ushant and the mainland. The Chenal du Four, a tortuous gut between St Matthew and Le Four rocks, while the Fromveur lies along the landward side of Ushant itself. It was the latter that Drinkwater now studied.
    As he pored over the chart Drinkwater felt the sudden increase of speed that followed the clatter, shudder and heel of the gybe. Kestrel thrust through the water responsive to the urgency felt by her commander. Bracing himself he slipped into his own cabin and took from the bookshelf a stained notebook. It had once belonged to Mr Blackmore, sailing master of the frigate Cyclops. He riffled through the pages, finding what he was looking for, his brow frowning in concentration. He looked again at the chart, a copy of an early French survey. The litter of dangers worried him, yet the Fromveur itself looked straight and deep. He cursed the lack of Admiralty enterprise that relied on commanders purchasing their own charts. Even Kestrel, employed as she had been on special service, received no more than an allowance so that Griffiths could have only what he could purchase.
    Drinkwater went on deck. Ushant was on the starboard bow now and a glance astern showed the nearer frigate closing them fast. The sooner they got into the Fromveur and out-performed her the better. Drinkwater recalled Barrallier’s superior air, his confidence in the sailing qualities of French frigates and his astonishment at finding Griffiths navigating the French coast on obsolete charts: the old government of France had established a chart office more than seventy years earlier, he had said.
    A feeling of urgency surged through him as he bent over the compass, rushing below to lay off the bearings. Already the Channel flood had swept them too far to the north, pushing them relentlessly towards the rocks and reefs to starboard. He hurried back on deck and was about to request Griffiths turn south when another hail reached the deck.
    ‘Breakers on the starboard bow!’
    Jessup started for the mainsheet. ‘Stand by to gybe!’ he shouted. By gybing again Kestrel could stem the tide and clear the rocks by making southing. The men were already at their stations, looking expectantly aft, awaiting the order from Griffiths.
    ‘Belay that, Mr Jessup
    Are they the Pierres Vertes, Mr Drinkwater?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’ Griffiths could see the surge of white water with an occasional glimpse of black, revealing the presence of the outcrops. To gain southing would allow the frigate to close.
    ‘Steer nor’ west
    harden your sheets a trifle, Mr Jessup
    Mr Drinkwater, I’m going inside
    ‘ His voice was calm, reassuring, as though there