A King's Cutter (25 page)

The Dutch yacht had hoisted a flag to her masthead.

A black, swallow-tailed pendant.

Sleep eluded Nathaniel Drinkwater that night. When he heard four bells struck in the middle watch he rose and entered the cabin, opening the locker where Griffiths kept his liquor. His hands closed round the neck of the first bottle and he drew it out, pulling the cork and pouring cognac into his throat. The smell of it reminded him of the night off Beaubigny and the eyes of Hortense Montholon. He had a strong sensation of events coming full circle. ‘This is witchery,' he muttered to himself, and drew again at the bottle, shuddering from the effect of the raw spirit. He shifted his mind to Elizabeth, deliberately invoking her image to replace that of Hortense as a man touching a talisman; as he had done years ago in the swamps of South Carolina. But Elizabeth was distant now, beyond the immense hurdle of the coming hours, obscured by the responsibilities of command. Somehow his old promise of circumspection to Elizabeth now seemed as pompously ridiculous as that of doing his duty to Duncan.

He hurled the bottle from him and it shivered to pieces against the far bulkhead.

‘Damned witchery,' he repeated, heading for the companionway. Up and down he strode, between the taffrail and the gigs, the anchor watch withdrawing from his path. From time to time he paused to look in the direction of Kijkduin. Santhonax
had
to be at Kijkduin. Had to be, to feed the cold ruthlessness that was spreading through him. If his chance lay in the coming hours he must not lack the resolution to grasp it.

Vice-Admiral De Winter ordered his fleet to sail on the morning of October 8th. The frigate that Drinkwater had watched the previous afternoon stood seawards at first light, catching up the yacht in her wake.
Kestrel
weighed too, standing seawards down the West Gat, firing her chasers and flying the signal for an enemy to windward.
Black Joke
caught the alarm, wore round and stood in her grain, hoisting the same signal.

For an hour
Kestrel
ran ahead of the Dutch fleet as ship after ship rounded the battery at Kijkduin, turning south for the Schulpen Gat. The cutter, diverging towards Trollope, observed them, her
commander making notes upon a tablet.

They rejoined the squadron at noon, closing the commodore for their orders.

‘What d'you make of them?' Trollope called through his speaking trumpet.

‘Twenty-one ships, sir, including some ship-sloops and frigates, say about fifteen of the line. There are also four brigs and two yachts . . . I'd say his whole force excepting the transports . . .'

‘So Ireland's out.'

Drinkwater shook his head. ‘No sir, they could come out next tide or wait until he's dealt with us, sir.' He saw Trollope nod.

‘Take station on my lee beam. I'm forming line, continue to repeat my signals. Good luck!'

‘And you sir.' He exchanged a wave with Burroughs, then turned to Hill.

‘Mr Hill, our station is the commodore's lee beam. Do you see to it.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

‘You may adjust sail to maintain station and watch for any signals either general to the squadron for repeating, or particular to us.'

Drinkwater felt a great burden lifted from his shoulders. It was good to be in company again, good to see the huge bulk of
Russell
a cannon shot to windward. He suddenly felt very tired but there was one thing yet to do. ‘Mr Jessup!'

‘Sir?'

‘Call the hands aft!'

‘Now my lads,' began Drinkwater, leaping up onto the breech of one of the three pounders when they had assembled. ‘I'm not one to bear a grudge, and neither are you. We are now in the presence of an enemy force and disobedience to an order carries the penalty of death. I therefore rely absolutely upon your loyalty. Give me that and I promise I will move heaven and earth to have you paid the instant we return to Sheerness.' He paused and was pleased to find a murmur of approval run through the men.

‘Carry on, Mr Jessup, and pipe up spirits now . . .'

Drinkwater jumped down from the gun. ‘Mr Hill, you have the deck. Call me if you need me.' He went gratefully below, passing through the cabin where light through the skylight had exorcised the spectres of the preceding night.

‘Spirit ration, Mr Thompson,' said Jessup to the purser. James Thompson nodded and indicated the guns of
Russell
half a mile to windward. They were a dumb but powerful incentive to obedience.

‘He chooses his moments for exhortatory speeches, don't he, Mr Jessup?'

Jessup had only the vaguest idea of what an exhortatory speech was, but the significance of
Russell
, surging along, sail set to the topgallants as she stood south to maintain station with De Winter, was not lost on him.

‘Aye, Mr Thompson, he's a cool and calculating bastard,' muttered Jessup, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice.

Captain Trollope formed his squadron into line with the sloop
Martin
ahead and to larboard, keeping De Winter in sight as he edged south along the coast. Then, as the day wore on and his rear cleared the Schulpen Gat De Winter altered more to the west.

Trollope's main body consisted of the
Beaulieu
, a frigate of forty guns, following by the faithful fifty
Adamant
and his own
Russell
. In her wake came the smaller frigate
Circe
of twenty-eight guns.
Kestrel
and
Active
, cutters, lay to leeward of the line and
Black Joke
had long since been sent to Duncan to inform him the enemy was out.

Towards evening the wind fell away then backed round to the south west. De Winter tacked in pursuit of Trollope who drew off, while the Dutch, unable to catch the British, stood south again, confirming Drinkwater's theory that they intended to force the Straits of Dover.

During the following two days the wind hauled more steadily into the west and De Winter's fleet began to beat to windward, closing the English coast in the vicinity of Lowestoft with Trollope just ahead, covering his communications with Yarmouth.

‘What d'you make of it, Nat?' asked Appleby confidentially at dinner. ‘D'you still hold to your idea that they're bound for Brest then Ireland?'

Drinkwater nodded, wiping his mouth with the crumpled napkin. ‘He's covering Duncan while the troopships and storeships get out of the Texel. They'll get south under the cover of the French coast and then De Winter'll follow 'em down Channel.'

Appleby nodded in uncharacteristic silence. ‘It seems we've been wasting our time then,' he said.

On the morning of the 10th October Trollope despatched
Active
to find Duncan with the latest news of De Winter. At this time De Winter had learned from a Dutch merchant ship that Duncan had left Yarmouth and had been seen standing east. Alarmed for his rear De Winter turned away and, with the wind at north west stood for the Dutch coast in the vicinity of Kampenduin.

Meanwhile Duncan, having left Yarmouth in great haste on seeing
Black Joke
making furious signals for an enemy at sea while still to seaward of the Scroby Sands, had indeed headed east for the Texel.

Trollope, though inferior in force, had hung onto the windward position chiefly because the shallow draughted Dutch ships were unable to weather him. He was still there on the morning of the 11th when officers in the Dutch fleet saw his ships throw out signals from which they rightly concluded Duncan was in sight with the main body of the British fleet. De Winter headed directly for the coast where he could collect his most leeward ships into line of battle and stand north for the Texel in the shallow water beloved by his own pilots. About twelve miles off the coast De Winter formed his line heading north under easy sail and awaited the British.

Admiral Duncan, having first reconnoitred the Texel and discovered the troop and storeships were still at their moorings, collected
Diligent
and turned south in search of his enemy. During the forenoon Trollope's detachment rejoined their admiral. Duncan's ships were indifferent sailors and he had neither time nor inclination to form line. De Winter's fleet was dropping to leeward into shoal water by the minute and the old admiral accepted their formal challenge with alacrity. Duncan hoisted the signal for ‘general chase' and the British, grouped together into two loose divisions, Duncan's to the north and Onslow's slightly advanced to the south, bore down on the Dutch.

The increase in the westerly wind with its damp air had brought about a thickening of the atmosphere and the battle that was now inevitable seemed to be marred by disorder amongst the British ships. Just before noon Duncan signalled that his intention was to pass through the enemy line and engage from leeward, thus denying the Dutch escape and ensuring all the windward batteries of the British ships could be used. The signal was repeated by the frigates and cutters. At noon they hoisted that for close action.

Thirty minutes later Onslow's
Monarch
opened the action by cutting off De Winter's rear between the
Jupiter
and
Harlem
, ranging up alongside the former, raked by the heavy frigate
Monikendaam
and the brig
Atalanta
forming a secondary line to leeward of the Dutch battleships. Amid a thunder of guns the battle of Camperdown had begun.

Kestrel
, in common with the other cutters as a repeating vessel, was not a target. Stray shot might hit her but in general the conventions
of a fleet action were observed. The British cutters and Dutch yachts were expected to render assistance to the wounded where they could be found clinging to fallen spars and continue to repeat their admirals' signals.
Kestrel
had formed part of Onslow's division and Drinkwater found himself in a confusing world of screaming shot, choppy seas and a strong wind. Smoke and mist enveloped the combatants as gun flashes began to eclipse the dull daylight.

Within minutes Drinkwater had lost sight of
Monarch
behind the Dutch line and he altered to the north to maintain contact with
Russell
, but Trollope, too, cut through the line and
Kestrel
found herself passing under the stern of the Dutch seventy-four
Brutus
, bearing the flag of a rear-admiral at her mizen.

Through the rolling clouds of smoke a brig was seen to leeward and her commander did not extend the courtesy or disdain of his bigger consorts. Shot whistled about
Kestrel
and a shower of lancing splinters from the starboard rail sent one man hopping bloodily below in agony to where Appleby had his gruesome instruments laid out on the cabin table.

‘Down helm!' roared Drinkwater, his eyes gleaming with concentration now the final, cathartic moment of action had arrived. ‘Haul the sheets there!' The cutter bore away from her overlarge opponent and headed north, passing
Brutus
as the latter turned to assist De Winter ahead, now being pressed by several British ships tearing pell-mell into battle.

Suddenly ahead of them loomed a Dutch sixty-four, fallen out of line with her colours struck. For a moment Drinkwater contemplated putting a prize crew on board for it seemed unlikely that her antagonist,
Triumph
, engaged to larboard by a frigate and the seventy-four
Staten General
, had had the opportunity. But a sudden crash shook the cutter. One of the crew of Number 12 gun fell dead, cut clean in half by a ball that destroyed the jolly boat and the handsome taffrail. The brig which had fired on them had set her topgallants and was coming up fast in pursuit.

Drinkwater looked wildly round him. ‘Down helm! Harden in those sheets there, put her on the wind, full and bye! Down centre plates! And throw that,' he indicated the faintly twitching lumps that a moment before had been a living man, ‘overboard, for God's sake!'

Kestrel
pointed up into the wind, escaping as she had done off Ushant, heeling to the hardening of her sails. Spray whipped over the rail and tore aft. Drinkwater looked astern.

‘Well I'm damned,' he said aloud and beside him Hill whistled.
The brig, unable to continue the chase so close to the wind had come up with her consort, the surrendered sixty-four
Wassanaer
. Seeing her shameful plight the brig opened fire into her. In a few moments the Dutch tricolour jerked aloft again and snapped out in the wind.

‘This ain't like fighting the Frogs, Mr Drinkwater. Look, there's hardly a mast down, these bloody squareheads know how to fight by Jesus . . . The bastards are hulling us. Christ! There'll be a butcher's bill after this lot . . .'

Russell
loomed up ahead and
Kestrel
wore round in her wake.

‘Ahead of you, sir,' Drinkwater bellowed through the speaking trumpet, ‘a seventy-four. Yours for the taking . . .' He saw Trollope wave acknowledgement.

For a moment or two they kept pace with the battleship, huge, majestic and deadly, as she ran down her quarry. Her sides were already scarred by shot, several of which could be clearly seen embedded in her strakes. Seamen grinned at them from a jagged hole where adjacent gunports had been amalgamated. Thin streaks of blood ran down her sides.

‘Spill some wind, Mr Hill. We'll drop astern.'
Russell
drew ahead, driving off the brig with one, apocalyptic broadside.
Wassanaer
surrendered again.

Kestrel
crossed
Russell
's wake. To larboard two or three ships lay rolling, locked in a death struggle. One was the
Staten General
.

Suddenly, from behind the hard-pressed Dutchman, leapt a small but familiar vessel. Her bowsprit stabbed at the sky as her helm was put over and her course steadied to intercept the British cutter. At her masthead flew the black swallowtail pendant.