A King's Cutter (14 page)

It was only when they passed the momentary shelter of the dockyard gate and Griffiths roared the countersign at the sentry that it occurred to Nathaniel how foolish they must seem. And suddenly he wished he were in bed beside Elizabeth instead of lurching along in the wet and windy darkness supporting his increasingly heavy commander.

The
Royal William
, receiving ship, was one of the oldest vessels in the British Navy. She had brought Wolfe's body home from Quebec and now played host to the bodies of unfortunate men waiting to be sent to ships. Like all such hulks she smelt, not the familiar living odour of a ship in commission but a stale, damp, rotting smell that spoke of stagnation, of neglect, idleness and despair. At the time of Drinkwater's visit she had nearly three hundred wretched men on board, from which
Kestrel
must replace her deserters. There were pressed men, Lord Mayor's men and quota men. There were even, God help them, volunteers, an isolated minority of social misfits with no other bolt hole to run to. There were disenchanted merchant sailors, home after long voyages and taken by the press or the patrolling frigates in The Soundings and sent into Portsmouth in the despatch boats. There were the pressed men, the pariahs, the drunks and the careless who had been caught by the officers of the Impress Service and brought by the tenders to be incarcerated on the
Royal William
until sent to ships. Here they were joined by village half-wits and petty thieves generously supplied by patriotic parish fathers as part of their quota. From London the debtors, felons, reprieved criminals and all the inadequate and pathetic flotsam of eighteenth-century society came fortnightly by the Tower tender. As a consequence the old ship groaned with misery, dirt, indiscipline and every form of vermin parasitic upon unwashed humanity.
Royal William
was little distinguishable from the prison hulks further up the harbour with her guard boats, gratings and sentries.

The regulating captain in charge of the Impress Service regarded Drinkwater with a jaundiced eye. For a moment or two Drinkwater could not understand the man's obvious hostility, then he recognised the apoplectic captain from the George the night they had dined with Dungarth.

‘Six men! Six! Now where in the world d'you think I can find six men, God rot ye? And for what? A third rate? A frigate? No! But for some poxy little cutter whose officers spend their time ashore in ill-mannered abuse of their betters. No sir! You may think that because I have a deck full of hammocks I've men to spare. I don't doubt that
suspicion had crossed your mind, but six men for an unrated cutter . . .' Drinkwater stood silently waiting for the man to finish blustering and cursing until, at last, he turned up a ledger, ran his finger down a column, shook his head and slammed the book shut.

‘Scratch!' He shouted.

An obsequiously cowed clerk entered, dragging a misshapen foot behind him. ‘Sir?'

‘Present complement and dispositions please.'

‘Ah, yes sir, er,' the man thought for a moment then rattled off, ‘two hundred and ninety-one men on board sir. Sixty-two prime seamen, eighty-five with previous service, ninety-one mayor's men and fifty-three from the parishes. Er, three tailors among 'em, four blacksmiths, a locksmith, four cobblers, one apothecary under sentence for incest . . .' The man's eyes gleamed and Drinkwater was reminded of some carrion eater that subsisted on the dying bodies of ruined men.

‘Yes, yes,' said the regulating captain testily, obviously considering his clerk was ruining his own case, ‘now the dispositions.'

‘Ah, yes, sir, well, most for Captain Troubridge on the
Culloden
, thirty-eight to go to Plymouth for
Engadine
, two dozen for
Pomone
, six to be discharged as unfit and the balance replacements for the Channel Fleet, sir, leaving a few odds and ends . . .'

‘They will do us, sir,' suggested Drinkwater in an ill-timed remark that robbed the regulating captain of his triumph.

‘Hold your damned tongue!' He snapped, nodding his thanks to the clerk. ‘Now my young shaver, you perceive I do
not
have men to spare for your cutter. Tell your commander he can do his own recruiting. As far as I'm concerned the thing's impossible, quite impossible. My lieutenants are out scouring the country for the fleet, your damned cutter can go to the devil!' The regulating captain's face was belligerently red. He dismissed Drinkwater with a wave and the latter followed the sallow, misshapen little clerk in brown drab out of the cabin.

Furious Drinkwater made eagerly for the side, anxious to escape the stink of the ship when he felt a hand on his arm. ‘Do not act so intemperately, young man, pray stay a moment.' The clerk's tone was all wheedling. ‘For a consideration, sir,' he whined, ‘I might be able to oblige a young gentleman . . .'

Drinkwater turned back, contempt rising in him like bile in the throat. Then he recalled the state of the cutter and the pressing need for those few extra men. He swallowed his dislike. Finding he had a
couple of sovereigns on him he held one out to the clerk who took it in the palm of his hand and stared at it.

Drinkwater sighed and gave him the second coin. Like a gin-trap the man's hand closed on the gold and he spoke insolently. ‘Now, young man we can perhaps do a little business . . . your name?' The clerk opened his book on an upright desk and ran a finger down a column of names, muttering to himself. He drew up a list and handed it to Drinkwater. ‘There, Mr Drinkwater, six men for your cutter . . .' he chuckled wickedly, ‘you might find the apothecary useful . . .'

‘Send a boat for 'em in the morning,' said Griffiths, removing his hat and sitting heavily. Meyrick brought in a pot of coffee and a letter. Griffiths opened it and snorted. ‘Huh! and about time too. It seems we are at last to be manned on the proper establishment,' his face dropped, ‘oh . . .'

‘What is it, sir?'

‘You . . . you are to sail as master, your acting commission will be revoked. As we are no longer on special service only one commissioned officer is required.' Griffiths lowered the letter. ‘I am very sorry.'

‘But we are operating under Dungarth's orders,' said Drinkwater bitterly.

Griffiths shook his head, ‘Nominally we're part of MacBride's squadron now, clerks, Mr Drinkwater, the bloody world is run by clerks.'

Drinkwater felt a terrible sense of disappointment. Just when
Kestrel
's fortunes seemed to offer some promise after the long sojourn in the dockyard this news came.

‘No matter, sir. What is to be our complement?' he asked hurriedly, eager for distraction.

‘Er, myself, you as sailing master, two mates, Jessup, Johnson the carpenter, a warrant gunner named Traveller, a purser named Thompson and a surgeon named Appleby.'

‘Appleby?'

‘God, man, we're going to be damned cramped.'

The six men sent from the
Royal William
were a pathetic group. They were not, by any stretch of the imagination, seamen. Even after three days on board Short's starter and Jessup's rattan had failed to persuade them that they were in the navy. Above his head Drinkwater
could hear the poor devils being roundly abused as he discussed the final stowing of the cutter's stores and powder with Jessup. Already he forsaw the course events would take. They would be bullied until one of them would be provoked into a breach of discipline. The flogging that would inevitably follow would brutalise them all. Drinkwater sighed, aware that these things had to be.

‘Well, Mr Jessup, we'll have to conclude these arrangements in the gunner's absence. I just hope he's graced us with his presence by the time we're ready to sail.'

‘Aye sir, he'll be here. I seen him last evening Gosport side, but Jemmy Traveller is like to be last to join. His wife runs a pie shop near the ordnance yard. Jemmy's always busy counting shillings and making guineas.'

‘So you know him?'

Jessup nodded. ‘Aye with him in the
Edgar
. With Lord Rodney when we thrashed the Dons in eighty.'

‘The Moonlight Action?'

‘Aye, the same.'

‘I remember . . .' But Drinkwater's reminiscences were abruptly curtailed by a shout on deck.

‘Hey, sirrah! What in God's name d'you think you're about! Instruct the man, thrashing him is of no use.'

‘What the devil?' Drinkwater leapt up and made for the companionway. He reached the deck as a portly man climbed awkwardly down from the rail. The familiar figure of Appleby stood scowling at Short.

‘Ah, Nathaniel, I'm appointed surgeon to this, this,' he gestured extravagantly round him and gave up. Then he shot a black look at Short. ‘Who's this damned lubber?'

The bosun's mate was furious at the intrusion. Veins stood out on his forehead as he contained his rage, the starter dangling from his wrist vibrated slightly from the effort it was costing Short.

‘This is Short, Mr Appleby, bosun's mate and a first-class seaman.' Drinkwater took in the situation at a glance, aware that his reaction was crucial both to discipline and to those petty factions that always cankered in an over-crowded man o'war.

‘Very well, Mr Short, if they cannot yet splice you must remember it takes time to make a real seaman of a landlubber.' He smiled at Short, who slowly perceived the compliment, and turned to the new hands who were beginning to realise Appleby might prove an ally. Drinkwater spoke sharply but not unkindly. ‘You men had better
realise your duty is plain and you're obliged to attend to it or take the consequences. These can be a deal more painful than Mr Short's starter or Mr Jessup's cane . . .' He left the sentence in mid air, hoping they would take heed of it. Comprehension began to spread across the face of one of them and Drinkwater grasped Appleby's elbow and propelled him aft. He felt the surgeon resist then succumb. Reaching the companionway Drinkwater called forward, ‘Mr Short! Have those men get the surgeon's traps aboard, lively now!'

Appleby was slightly mollified by this piece of solicitude and his natural sociability gave way to Drinkwater's distracting barrage of questions.

‘So what happened to
Diamond
? How's the squadron managing without us? How much prize money has Richard White made? What on earth are you doing here?. I wondered if it was to be you when Griffiths mentioned the name, but I couldn't see you exchanging out of a frigate for our little ship.' Appleby felt himself shoved into a tiny box of a cabin and heard his young friend bawl for coffee. Drinkwater laughed as he saw the expression on the surgeon's face. Appleby was taking in his surroundings.

‘I manage to fit,' grinned Drinkwater, ‘but a gentleman of your ample build may find it something of a squeeze. This is my cabin, yours is across the lobby.' Drinkwater indicated the doorway through which the landsmen were just then lugging Appleby's gear. Appleby nodded, his chins doing a little rippling dance eloquent of disappointment. ‘Better than that claustrophobic, blasted frigate,' he said rather unconvincingly. ‘All that glitters is not, etcetera, etcetera,' he joked feebly.

Drinkwater raised his eyebrows. ‘You surprise me. I thought Sir Sydney a most enterprising officer.'

‘A damned eccentric crank, Nathaniel. The frigate was fine, but Sir William festering Sydney had a lot of damned fool ideas about medicine. Thought he could physic the sick better than I . . . used to call me a barber, confounded insolence, and me a warrant surgeon before he was a midshipmite. Ouch! This coffee's damned hot.'

Drinkwater laughed again. ‘Ah, I recollect you don't like intruders, no more than we do here, Harry,' he said pointedly. For a minute Appleby looked darkly at his friend, stung by the implied rebuke. Then Drinkwater went on and he forgot his wounded pride. ‘By the way, d'you remember that fellow we brought ashore wounded at Plymouth?'

Appleby frowned, ‘Er, no . . . yes, a Frenchman wasn't he? You
brought a whole gang of 'em out, including a woman if I recollect correctly.'

‘That's right,' Drinkwater paused, but Appleby brushed aside the memory of Hortense.

‘I take it from your self-conceit the patient survived?'

‘Eh? Oh, yes, but he succumbed to assault in the streets of London.'

‘Tch, tch, now you will appreciate my own despair when I exhaust myself patching you firebrands up, only to have you repeatedly skewering yourselves.'

They sipped their coffee companionably but it was not difficult to see that poor Appleby had become a most prickly shipmate.

‘And what is our commander like?' growled Appleby.

‘Excellent, Harry, truly excellent. I hope you like him.' Appleby grunted and Drinkwater went on wrily, ‘It is only fair to warn you that he is quite capable of probing for a splinter or a ball.'

Appleby gave a sigh of resignation then wisely changed the subject.

‘And you, I mean we, no longer poach virgins off the French coast, I assume? That seemed to be the opinion current in the squadron when this cutter cropped up in conversation.'

Drinkwater laughed again. ‘Lord no! It'll be all routine stuff now. We're fleet tender to Admiral MacBride's North Sea Fleet. It'll be convoys and cabbages, messages, tittle-tattle and perhaps, if we're very lucky, a look into Boulogne or somewhere. All damned boring I shouldn't wonder.'

Appleby did not need to know about Dungarth's special instructions. After all he had only just joined. He was not yet one of the Kestrels.

‘Your standing at Trinity House must be high, Mr Drinkwater,' said Griffiths, ‘they have approved the issue of a warrant without recourse to further examination. The Navy Board have acted with uncommon speed too,' he added with a significant glance at Drinkwater implying
Kestrel
should not suffer further delay. ‘Now Mr Appleby?'