A King's Cutter Read Online Free PDF Page A

to extricate itself. With the flat of his hanger Drinkwater beat at it, at the same time grabbing a rein and tugging the horse’s head round clear of the gig.
    A man jumped down from the barouche. ‘Ętes-vous anglais?’
    ‘Yes, m’sieur, where the hell have you been?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘How many? Combien d’hommes?’
    ‘Trois hommes et une femme, but I speak English.’
    ‘Get into the boat. Are you being followed?’
    ‘Oui, yes
    the other man, he is, er, blessé’
    he struggled with the English.
    ‘Wounded?’
    ‘That is right, by Jacobins in Carteret.’
    Drinkwater cut him short, recognising reaction. The man was young, near collapse.
    ‘Get in the boat,’ he pointed towards the waiting seamen and gave orders. Two figures emerged from the barouche, a man and a woman. They stood uncertainly.
    ‘The boat! Get in the boat
    ‘ They began to speak, the man turning back to the open door. Angry exasperation began to replace his fear and Drinkwater called to two seamen to drag the wounded man out of the carriage and pushed the dithering fugitive towards the gig. ‘Le bateau, vite! Vite!’
    He scooped the woman up roughly, surprised at her lightness, ignoring the indrawn breath of outrage, the stiffening of her body at the enforced intimacy. He dumped her roughly into the boat. A waft of lavender brought with it a hint of resentment at his cavalier treatment. He turned to the men struggling with the wounded Frenchman. ‘Hurry there!’ and to the remainder, ‘the rest of you keep this damned thing afloat.’ They heaved as a larger breaker came ashore, tugging round their legs with a seething urgency.
    ‘Damned swell coming in with the flood,’ someone said.
    ‘What about the baggage, m’sieur?’ It was the man from the carriage who seemed to have recovered some of his wits.
    ‘To hell with the baggage, sit down!’
    ‘But the gold
    and my papers, mon Dieu! My papers!’ He began to clamber out of the boat. ‘You have not got my papers!’ But it was not the documents that had caught Drinkwater’s imagination.
    ‘Gold? What gold?’
    ‘In the barouche, m’sieur,’ said the man shoving past him.
    Drinkwater swore. So that was behind this crazy mission, specie! A personal fortune? Royalist funds? Government money? What did it matter? Gold was gold and now this damned fool was running back to the carriage. Drinkwater followed. He pushed to the door and looked in. Two iron bound boxes lay on the floor, just visible in the gloom.
    ‘Tregembo! Poll! Get this box! You m’sieur, aidez-moi!’
    They staggered under the weight, the breath rasping in their throats as they heaved it aboard the gig. The boat was lifting now, thumping on hard sand as larger waves ran hissing up the beach.
    Then from the direction of Carteret they heard shouts. The sand vibrated under the thunder of many horses’ hooves; a troop of dragoons!
    ‘Push the boat off! Push it off!’ He ran back to the barouche, vaguely aware of the Frenchman struggling to get a canvas folio into the gig. Drinkwater stretched up and let off the brake. Running to the horses’ heads he dragged them round then swiped the rump of the nearer with his hanger. There was a wet gleam of blood and a terrified neigh as the horse plunged forward. Drinkwater jumped clear as the carriage jerked into motion.
    He ran splashing to the boat which was already pulling out, its bow parting a wave that curled ashore. The water sucked and gurgled round Drinkwater’s thighs as he fell over the transom. A splinter drove into the palm of his hand and he remembered the plunging hoof as the nausea of pain shot through him. For a moment he lay gasping, vaguely aware of shouts and confusion where the barouche met its pursuers. Then a ball or two whined overhead and from seaward came a hail from the other boat asking if they required help. Drinkwater raised his head to refuse but a seaman stood and fired one of the blunderbusses beside his ear. Drinkwater twisted round and