Eye of the Wind Read Online Free PDF Page B

He had no intention of showing his face there yet. There were things he needed. And the most likely place to find them was in the vicinity of the shipyard.
    Passing the fallen trees again, this time in daylight, Gabriel saw that though some were casualties of recent storms, others had been down far longer. He did not understand why valuable timber was simply being allowed to rot. Judging by what he had seen already, these woods, right behind the shipyard, must be full of oaks. Who owned them? Why was such an important and much-needed resource being so shamefully neglected?
    It was six years since the ordinary people of France, driven to despair by high rents, the rocketing price of food, and oppression by a nobility and clergy who cared nothing for their suffering, had vented their rage in a bloody revolution. It was now two years since King Louis, aged 39, had lost his head to the guillotine, and Bonaparte had declared war on Britain.
    To defend her territories and attack the French, Britain needed a strong navy. The navy needed additional ships. Prime Minister Pitt’s decision to allow private yards to build the smaller frigates had incurred the Navy Board’s disapproval. But the move had released the royal yards to concentrate on building larger warships, and on repairs to those damaged in battle.
    But a shortage of wood meant Britain had to import what she needed, and that meant running the gauntlet of Bonaparte’s blockade; risking ships and men the country could ill afford to lose. Yet there must be enough oak here in these woods to build a dozen ships.
    A short distance from the buildings and quays of the yard, Gabriel waited under cover of the trees until he was certain the men had all gone home, then dropped down onto the stony beach.
    The stretch of shingle was a scavenger’s paradise. Here he found torn and stained sail canvas, broken spars, an axe-head, and a filthy iron cooking pot. It was missing both handles but seemed free of holes. He pulled a tangled length of frayed rope from beneath the seaweed. Some ancient chunks of tarred oakum would burn long enough to dry out green or damp wood.
    Tying everything but the cooking pot together with one of the ropes, he hoisted his hoard up into the shelter of the trees. Returning for the pot, he also scooped up several handfuls of coarse sand. In the French shipyards, lacking soap, and fearing for his health, he had discovered that sand would scour the filthiest pan clean.
    The mellow light of a summer’s evening filtered through the leaves as he retraced his steps up the trail to the main path and back to the small stone ruin. This, he guessed, had once been a hide either for a gamekeeper, or for preventive officers needing a secret lookout to watch for smugglers.
    Fastening sail canvas around the spars, he roofed half the shack, adding branches from one of the fallen trees as additional cover. As the leaves died the camouflage effect would lessen. But at least the extra weight would stop the canvas being torn off in the event of further gales. With the roof secure, he began scouring the iron pot with sand moistened with water from spring.
    Suddenly the corners of his mouth quivered. If his valet could see him now. Berryman had always taken great pride in maintaining, regardless of provocation, the aloof, slightly supercilious countenance he considered appropriate to his position. The state of his master’s clothes and person after a day on the hunting field, or a night in town, had provided many a stern test. Even his legendary composure would surely crumble at the sight of his lord performing the tasks of a humble scullery maid.
    As thoughts of home threatened his hard-won detachment they were ruthlessly suppressed. Gabriel’s features grew bleak. After rinsing the pot thoroughly, he refilled it with water and returned to the shack.
    Night had finally vanquished day. Though the summer evening wasn’t totally black, it would be dark enough to hide any tell-tale