Free A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Page B

was no imminent decision to be taken. Drinkwater was diverted by the appearance of a shot hole in the topgallant, a ball smacked into the taffrail, sending splinters singing across the deck. A seaman was hit, a long sliver of pitch pine raising a terrible lancing wound. They had no surgeon to attend him.
    To clear the reef the French frigate had altered to larboard, her course slightly diverging from that of the cutter so that a bow gun would bear. The smoke of her fire hung under her bow, driven by the following wind.
    ‘Steer small, damn your eyes,’ Griffiths growled at the helmsman. Drinkwater joined him in mental exercises in triangulation. They knew they must hold Kestrel close to the Pierres Vertes to avoid the tide setting them too far to the north on to the Roche du Loup, the Roche du Reynard and the reefs between; to avoid the temptation of running into clear water where the dangers were just submerged.
    The Pierres Vertes were close now, under the bow. The surge and undertow of the sea could be felt as the tide eddied round them. Kestrel staggered in her onward progress then, suddenly, the rocks lay astern. A ragged cheer came from the men on deck who were aware that their ship had just survived a crisis.
    The relief was short lived.
    ‘Deck there! Sail to starboard, six points on the bow!’ Drinkwater could see her clearly from the deck. A small frigate or corvette reaching down the Passage Du Fromveur, unnoticed in their preoccupation with the rocks but barring their escape.
    ‘Take that lookout’s name, Mr Drinkwater, I’ll have the hide off him for negligence
    ‘
    Another hole aloft and several splashes alongside. One ball ricochetted off the side of a wave and thumped, half spent, into the hull. They were neatly trapped.
    Drinkwater looked at Griffiths. The elderly Welshman bore a countenance of almost stoic resignation in which Drinkwater perceived defeat. True, Kestrel might manoeuvre but it would only be out of form, out of respect for the flag. It was unlikely she would escape. Griffiths was an old man, he had run out of resolution; exhausted his share of good fortune. He seemed to know this as a beaten animal slinks away to die. To surrender a twelve-gun cutter to superior force would be no dishonour.
    As if to emphasise their predicament the new jolly boat, stowed in the stem davits, disintegrated in an explosion of splinters, the transom boards of the cutter split inwards and a ball bounced off the breech of No 11 gun, dismounting it with an eerie clang and whined off distorted over the starboard rail.
    ‘Starboard broadside make ready!’ Griffiths braced himself. ‘Mr Drinkwater, strike the colours after we’ve fired. Mr Jessup we’ll luff up and d’you clew up the square sails
    ‘
    A mood of sullen resignation swept the deck like a blast of canister, visible in its impact. It irritated Drinkwater into a sudden fury. A long war Appleby had said, a long war pent up in a French hulk dreaming of Elizabeth. The thought was violently abhorrent to him. Griffiths might be exchanged under cartel but who was going to give a two-penny drum for an unknown master’s mate? They would luff, fire to defend the honour of the flag and then strike to the big frigate foaming up astern.
    Ironic that they would come on the wind to do so. Reaching the only point of sailing on which they might escape their pursuers. If, that is, the rocks were not there barring their way.
    Then an idea struck him. So simple, yet so dangerous that he realised it had been bubbling just beneath conscious acceptance since he looked at the notebook of old Blackmore’s. It was better than abject surrender.
    ‘Mr Griffiths!’ Griffiths turned.
    ‘I told you to stand by the ensign halliards
    ‘
    ‘Mr Griffiths I believe we could escape through the rocks, sir. There’s a passage between the two islands
    ‘ He pointed to the two islets on the starboard beam; the Îles de Bannec and de Balanec. Griffiths looked at them,