A King's Cutter (27 page)

Appleby ignored the remark.

‘You are giving him an opiate?' Appleby lacked the energy to be indignant. He nodded.

‘He is laced with laudanum, Mr Drinkwater, and will go to his maker in that state.' There was reproach in his voice.

Drinkwater left the cabin and returned on deck, passing the cabin, his own former hutch, where Santhonax lay, sutured and waxen, his hands bound. The rising wind had reached gale force and the British fleet clawed offshore, each ship fending for itself. In the howling blackness, lurching up and down the plunging deck, Drinkwater calmed himself before he could lie down and submit to the sleep his body demanded.

Rain came with the wind, driving over the wavecaps with a greater persistence than the sheets of spray that lashed the watch. Out in the night an occasional lantern showed where one of the battleships struggled to windward and twice he heard Bulman caution the lookouts to exert themselves.

Drinkwater knew he had not escaped the brutalising of his spirit that had begun so many years ago in the cockpit of
Cyclops
, nor escaped the effects of the events in the swamps of Carolina. The savagery he displayed in battle was a primaeval quality that those
events had dragged out of the primitive part of him. But such ferocity could not be sustained against the earlier influence of a gentle home and in reaction he veered towards sentiment, like so many of his contemporaries.

He took refuge in the satisfaction of a duty acquitted and an increased belief in providence. As fatigue tamed the feelings raging in him since the battle, numbing his recollections, he felt better able to trust himself to write his report.

. . . 
the vessels were laid board and board
, Drinkwater wrote carefully,
and after a sharp engagement the Draaken, despatch vessel, was carried
.

I have to inform you that the enemy defended themselves with great gallantry and inflicted severe losses on the boarders. All of the latter, however, conducted themselves as befitted British seamen and in particular James Thompson, Purser, Edward Jessup, Boatswain and Jeremiah Traveller, Gunner, who died in the action or of mortal wounds sustained therein
.

He paused, reflecting on the stilted formality of the phraseology. One final piece of information needed to be included before this list of dead and wounded.

He began to write again.
Among those captured was a French naval officer, Capitaine de frégate Edouard Santhonax, known to your Honour to have been an agent of the French Government. Among his papers were found the enclosed documents relative to a proposed descent upon Ireland
. Drinkwater carefully inscribed his signature.

When he had appended the butcher's bill he went on deck. The frightful casualties inflicted on their number could not damp the morale of the crew. The Kestrels shared a common sense of relief at being spared, and a corporate pride in the possession of the
Draaken
, following astern under the command of Mr Hill, whose gashed arm seemed not to trouble him.

Drinkwater could not be offended at the mood of the crew. Of all the Kestrels he knew he and Appleby were alone in their sense of moral oppression. It was not callousness the men displayed, only a wonderful appreciation of the transient nature of the world. Drinkwater found he envied them that, and he called them aft to thank them formally, for their conduct. It all sounded unbelievably pompous but the men listened with silent attention. It would have amused Elizabeth, he thought, as he watched the cautiously smiling seamen. He felt better for those smiles, better for thinking of Elizabeth again, aware that he had not dared contemplate a future since the Dutch showed signs of emerging from the Texel. The grey windy morning was suddenly less gloomy and the sight of
Adamant
out of the corner
of his eye was strangely moving.

He completed his speech and a thin cheer ran through the men. Drinkwater turned to the grey bundles between the guns. There were thirteen of them.

He had murdered and harangued and now he must bury his dead in an apparently meaningless succession of contradictory rituals.

From the torn pocket of his grubby coat he took the leather prayer book that had once belonged to his father-in-law and began to read, ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord . . .' and overhead the bright bunting snapped in the wind.

Duncan's fleet anchored at the Nore to the plaudits of Parliament and the gratitude of the nation. At first the strategic consequences of the battle were of secondary importance to the relief of ministers. Despite the mutiny the North Sea fleet was unimpaired in efficiency. The seamen had vindicated themselves and the Government had been justified in its intransigence. Vicarious glory was reflected on all parties, euphoria was the predominating emotion and honours were heaped upon the victors. Admiral Duncan's earlier ambition of quiet retirement with an Irish peerage was eclipsed by his being made a baron and viscount of Great Britain, Onslow was made a baronet, Trollope and Fairfax knights and all the first lieutenants of the line of battleships were promoted to commander. Medals were struck, swords presented and the thanks of both Houses of Parliament voted unanimously to the fleet. The latter was held to be, as Tregembo succinctly put it, of less use than his own nipples.

Before reporting to Duncan, Drinkwater interviewed Santhonax. The Frenchman could only mutter with difficulty, his lacerated mouth painfully bruised round the crude join Appleby had made of his cheek. He had given his name after prompting, using English, but Drinkwater had troubled him little after that, too preoccupied with managing the damanged cutter with half his crew dead or wounded.

But on the morning they anchored at the Nore, Santhonax was a little better and asked to see Drinkwater.

‘Who are you?' he asked, through clenched teeth but in an accent little disfigured by foreign intonation.

‘My name, sir, is Drinkwater.'

Santhonax nodded and muttered ‘Boireleau . . .' as if committing it to memory then, in a louder voice, ‘you are not the commander of this vessel?'

‘I am now.'

‘And the old man . . . Griffiths?'

‘You know him?' Drinkwater was surprised and lost his chill formality. Santhonax began to smile but broke off, wincing.

‘The quarry always knows the hunter . . . your boat is well named,
La Crécerelle
.'

‘Why did you hang Brown?'

‘He was a spy, he knew too much . . . he was an enemy of the Revolution and of France.'

‘And you?'

‘I am a prisoner of war, M'sieur Boireleau . . .' This time Santhonax crinkled the skin about his eyes. Stung, Drinkwater retorted, ‘We have evidence to hang you. We have Hortense Montholon in custody.'

Santhonax's sneer was cut short. He looked like a man unexpectedly whipped. What colour he had, drained from his face.

‘Take him away,' snapped Drinkwater to Hill, standing edgily behind the prisoner, ‘and then have my gig made ready.'

‘Drinkwater, good to see you, my word but what a drubbing we gave 'em and what a thundering good fight they put up, eh?' Burroughs met him at
Venerable
's entry port, bubbling with good spirits and new rank. He gestured round the fleet, ‘hardly a spar knocked down among the lot of us but hulls like collanders . . . by heaven but I'm glad we did for 'em, damned if I'd like another taste of that . . . not a single prize that's worth taking into service . . . except perhaps yours, eh?'

‘Aye, sir, but it's already cost a lot.'

Burroughs became serious. ‘Aye, indeed. Our losses were fearful, over a thousand killed and wounded . . . but come, the admiral wants a word with you, I was about to send a midshipman to fetch you.'

Drinkwater following Burroughs under the poop and was swept past the marine sentry. ‘Mr Drinkwater, my Lord.' Burroughs winked at him and left. Drinkwater advanced to where Duncan was writing at his desk, its baize cloth lost under sheaves of paper.

‘Sit down,' said the admiral wearily, without looking up, and Drinkwater gingerly lowered himself onto an upright chair, still stiff from the bruises and cuts of Camperdown. He felt the chair had suffered the repose of many backsides in the last twenty-four hours.

At last Duncan raised his head. ‘Ah, Mr Drinkwater, I believe we
have some unfinished business to attend to, eh?'

Drinkwater's heart missed a beat. He felt suddenly that he had made some terrible mistake, failed to execute his orders, to repeat signals. He swallowed and held out a packet. ‘My report, my Lord . . .'

Duncan took it and slit the seal. Rubbing tired eyes he read while Drinkwater sat silently listening to the pounding of his own heart. The white paintwork of the great cabin was cracked and flaking where Dutch shot had impacted the
Venerable
's side and in one area planks had been hastily nailed in place. A chill draught ran through the cabin and a faint residual stain on the scrubbed deck showed where one of
Venerable
's men had bled.

He heard Duncan sigh. ‘So you've taken a prisoner, Mr Drinkwater?'

‘Yes, my Lord.'

‘You'd better have him transferred over here immediately. I'll have a marine detachment sent back with you.'

‘Thank you, my Lord.'

‘The conduct of Captain Trollope's squadron, of which you were a part, was most gratifying and I have here a paper for you.' He held out a document and Drinkwater stood to take it. It was a commission as lieutenant.

‘Thank you, my Lord, thank you very much.'

Duncan had already bent to his papers again and he said, without looking up, ‘It's no more than you deserve, Mr Drinkwater.'

Drinkwater had his hand on the door handle when he recollected something. He turned. Duncan was immersed in the details of his fleet. There was talk of a court martial on Williams of the
Agincourt
. Drinkwater coughed.

‘My Lord?'

‘Uh?' Duncan continued writing.

‘My people are long overdue for their pay, my Lord, might I ask you for an order to that effect?'

Duncan laid his pen down and looked up. The admiral was too experienced a sea-officer not to know something lay behind the request. He smiled faintly at the earnest young man. ‘See my clerk, Mr Drinkwater, see my clerk,' and the old admiral bent once again to his work.

Kestrel
lay a week in Saltpan Reach while they did what they could to patch her up. Drinkwater was confirmed in command until they decommissioned for extensive repairs and he gave a dinner for
those of his officers still alive. It was a modest affair at which they were served by Merrick and Tregembo who volunteered for the task and accomplished it with surprising adroitness. Afterwards he sought out Drinkwater.

‘Begging your pardon, zur,' he began awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other and finally swallowing his diffidence. ‘Ar damnation, zur, I ain't one for beating about, zur, but seeing as how you're promoted I'd like to volunteer for your cox'n, zur.'

Drinkwater smiled at the Cornishman. ‘I'm only promoted lieutenant, Tregembo, that ain't quite post-captain, you know.'

‘We've been shipmates a year or two now, zur . . .'

Drinkwater nodded, he felt very flattered. ‘Look Tregembo, I can pay you nought beyond your naval pay and certainly not enough to support you and your future wife . . .' he got no further.

‘ 'tis enough, zur, your prize money'll buy you a handsome house, zur an' my Susan can cook, zur.' He grinned triumphantly. ‘Thank 'ee, zur, thank 'ee . . .'

Taken aback Drinkwater could only mutter ‘Well I'm damned,' and stare after the retreating seaman. He remembered Tregembo's Susan as a compact, determined woman and guessed she might have some part in it.

He had better write to Elizabeth and tell her he had a commission and she, it appeared, had a cook.

‘Orders, sir.' Hill passed the oiled packet that the guard boat had just delivered. Drinkwater pushed the last bottle of Griffiths's sercial across to Appleby and opened the bundle on the table.

As he read the frown on his brow deepened. Silently Appleby and Hill searched their commander's face for some indication of their fate. Eventually Drinkwater looked up.

‘Mr Hill, we drop down to the Nore with the ebb this afternoon and I will require a boat to take me to the Gun Wharf at five of the clock . . .' He looked down again at the papers.

Hill acknowledged his instructions and left the cabin. ‘What is it?' enquired Appleby.

Drinkwater looked up again. ‘Confidential I'm afraid, Mr Appleby,' he said with chilly formality. But it was not Appleby's curiosity that had set Drinkwater on edge. It was the signatory of his orders. They had not come from Admiral Duncan but from Lord Dungarth.

It was the earl who descended first from the carriage that swung to a halt on the windy quay. Drinkwater advanced to greet him as he turned to assist the second occupant out of the carriage. The hooded figure was obscured in the gathering dusk, but there was something about the newcomer that was vaguely familiar.

‘So,' she said, looking about her, ‘you are going to deport me, no? Not shoot me after all?'

Drinkwater recognised Hortense Montholon as Dungarth replied ‘Aye ma'am against both my judgement and inclination, I do assure you.' He turned to Drinkwater. ‘Good evening, Lieutenant.' Dungarth gave a thin smile of congratulation.

‘Good evening, my Lord.'

Lord Dungarth turned to the woman and removed a pair of handcuffs from his coat pockets. ‘Be so kind as to hold out your right wrist.'

‘Must you practise this barbarity,' she said frowning and shooting Drinkwater a look full of pathetic helplessness. He avoided her gaze.