The Flying Squadron (27 page)

Drinkwater sensed the relief in Sundercombe's voice. They were seventy miles from the Atlantic, though only sixty from
Hasty
, ordered inside the Virginia capes to flaunt French colours in an attempt to keep inquisitive Americans guessing. They had left
Hasty
before noon, ignored the merchant ships anchored in Mockjack Bay and the James and York rivers, and headed north, exchanging innocent waves with passing fishing boats and coasters. Sundercombe's was an unenviable task, and Drinkwater had given him no opportunity to ask questions, nor offered him an explanation. The fewer people who knew what he was doing, the better. If he was wrong in his hunch, the sooner they got out to sea the better, though their presence under either French or British colours would confuse the enemy. If he had guessed correctly, confirmation would give him the confidence he needed, though he could not deny a powerful ulterior motive: the chance of seeing Arabella Shaw again swelled a bubble of anticipation in his belly. Either way, if he lost
Hasty
or the schooner in the Chesapeake, he would be hard put to offer an explanation. Assuming he survived any such engagement, of course. He thrust such megrimish thoughts roughly aside.

‘Pass word for Caldecott.'

Drinkwater's new coxswain rolled aft, a small, wiry figure, even in the darkness.

‘I'm going on in the cutter, Caldecott. I have to make a rendezvous, with an informer,' he added, lest the man thought otherwise. ‘I want perfect silence in the boat, particularly when and where I tell you to beach her. You must then stand by the place until I return. The slightest noise will raise the alarm and if any of your bullies think of desertin', dissuade them. They might have got away with it a twelve-month ago, but no one loves an Englishman hereabouts now. D'you understand me?'

‘Aye, sir. No one'll desert, an' I'll swing if a single noise escapes their bleedin' mouths.' The raw Cockney accent cut the night.

‘Good. There'll be a bottle or two for good conduct when we get back.'

‘Beg pardon, sir . . .'

‘What is it?'

‘ 'Ow long'll you be?'

‘An hour or two at the most. Now make ready. It's almost midnight.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Moonrise was at about two, but they were two days after the new moon and the thin sliver of the distant satellite would scarcely betray them. Besides, it was clouding over.

The
Sprite
's gaffs came down, the mast hoops rattling in their descent, and from forward came the splash of the anchor and the low rumble of cable. The schooner's crew moved in disciplined silence about the deck and Drinkwater marked the fact, reminding himself to advance Sundercombe, if it came into his power.

‘Your cutter's alongside, sir. I've had a barricoe of water and a bag of biscuit put in it,' Sundercombe paused, as if weighing up his superior. ‘I did not think it would be appropriate to add any liquor though . . .' His voice tailed off, inviting praise or condemnation.

‘You acted quite properly, Mr Sundercombe. We can enjoy a glass later, when this business is over.' Drinkwater had explained to Caldecott, he ought at the very least to confide now in Mr Sundercombe. ‘I intend to meet an informer, d'you see, Mr Sundercombe?'

‘You have a rendezvous arranged, sir?' The question was shrewd.

‘No, but I know the person's house.' Drinkwater made a move, a signal the confidence was over. ‘I shall be back by dawn.'

‘Good fortune, sir.'

Sundercombe watched as Drinkwater threw his leg over the schooner's rail and clambered down into the waiting boat. A few moments later it pulled into the darkness, the dim, pale splashes of the oar blades gradually fading with the soft noise of their movement.

‘What's he up to?' A man in the plain blue of master's mate asked Sundercombe after reporting the
Sprite
brought to her anchor.

‘Damned if I know,' growled the lieutenant.

Caldecott's men pulled silently upstream for an hour before Drinkwater began to recognize features in the landscape that betokened the confluence of the Potomac with the Chesapeake. He ordered the tiller over and they inclined their course more to the westward, entering the Potomac itself, a grey swathe between the darker shadows of the wooded banks up which they worked their way.

‘Inshore now,' he murmured at last, and Caldecott swung the boat's head. ‘Easy now, lads.'

The men no longer pulled, merely dipped their oar blades in the rhythm which had become almost hypnotic while the cutter carried her way. A roosting heron rose, startled, with a heavy flapping of its large wings. Drinkwater caught sight of the outline of Castle Point against the sky.

‘Here's the place,' whispered Drinkwater.

‘Oars,' hissed Caldecot. ‘Toss oars. Boat your oars.' The knock and rumble of the oars as they were stowed were terminated in the sharp crunch and lurch as the boat
grounded. Drinkwater stood up. He could see the eastern wing of the house clearly now, pale in the darkness, the surrounding trees gathered like protective wood spirits guarding it against incursions like his own. Before him the lawns came to the water's edge. He bent towards Caldecott's ear.

‘Remember what I said.'

‘No fear of forgettin', sir.'

‘Keep quiet, you men,' he said in a low voice as he stepped from thwart to thwart. A moment later his boots landed on the gravel and he was ashore on enemy territory. He pulled his cloak closely round him and checked the seaman's knife lodged in its sheath in the small of his back. Taking a backward glance at the boat, he began to walk boldly up towards the house.

‘Where's 'e gone, Bill?' someone asked.

‘For a fuck, I shouldn't wonder, lucky bastard.'

‘Stow it,' growled Caldecott, ‘or it'll be you that's fucked.'

Immediately upon leaving the boat Drinkwater knew he had allowed himself insufficient time. The information he wanted had seemed vital in the security of
Patrician
's cabin, vital to the scenario he had conjured out of Dungarth's intelligence reports, Moira's correspondence, the Admiralty's fears and his own peculiar brand of intuition, guesswork and faith in providence. Others would call it luck, no doubt, but to Drinkwater it was the hunch upon which he gambled his reputation.

Within minutes he reached the trees surrounding the stables forming the eastern wing of the house. He tried to recall where old Zebulon Shaw kept his hounds and thanked heaven for a windless night. He paused to catch his breath, looking back and seeing no sign of the boat or her crew tucked under the low river-bank. Noises came from the kitchen wing, a few bars of a song and the clatter of dishes, suggesting the servants were about late. He moved off, round the front of the house, traversing it in the shelter of the battlemented terrace until he reached the steps. Below the balustrade where he and Arabella
had first traded the repartee which had had such fateful consequences, he stepped back and looked up at the façade.

There were lights still burning behind the heavy, brocade curtains. He tried to recall the plan of the house, located the withdrawing room and moved cautiously on to the terrace. An attack of nerves made him look down at the deserted lawns and the glimmer of the Potomac, empty now, where once, an age ago it seemed, the
Patrician
and the
Stingray
had lain uneasily together.

A fissure in the curtains revealed Shaw seated at an escritoire, his wig abandoned, the candlelight shining on his bald pate and a pen in his hand. A variety of papers were scattered on the small area of boards visible to Drinkwater.

With a thumping heart he stepped back and looked up again at the black windows whose glazed panes stared out indifferently at the night. Her bedroom was on the first floor, one of the rooms he had seen lit the evening before he had dined at Castle Point. A drain-pipe led directly up beside the shallow balcony upon which tall casements opened. Throwing back his cloak Drinkwater drew a deep breath and began to climb.

It was fortunate the house was not old, nor that the drain-pipe's fastenings had been skimped, for he struggled manfully in his effort to be silent. The climb was no more than fifteen feet, yet it took all his strength to claw his way up the wall and get his footing on the balcony's stone rail.

He stopped to catch his breath again, ruminating on the ruinous effects of age and short-windedness, aware that
here
, this close to her, he could not stop the terrible pounding of his heart. He strained his ears, but could hear nothing beyond the curtains. Putting his hand behind his back he drew the seaman's sheath knife, inserting the steel blade between the edges of the windows. With infinite care he located the latch and increased the pressure. To his relief it gave way easily, but he could afford no further delay, not knowing the noise its release had made within. He thrust aside the drapery and stepped inside the bedroom.

She was not alone, but sitting before a mirror, bathed in golden candlelight while her maid brushed out her hair. The unexpected presence of another person surprised him, instantly putting him on his guard, and drove the carefully prepared speech from his head. The unexpected, however, made him cautious not reckless. He drew the door to behind him and faced the astonished pair.

Both women had turned as he burst in. The maid, a white woman of uncertain years and not the negress Drinkwater might have thought likely had he anticipated her being there, dropped the hairbrush and squealed, putting her hands to her face as she backed away. Arabella, deathly pale, her face like wax, her eyes fixed upon the cloaked figure of the intruder, put out a hand to silence the frightened woman.

‘There is no cause for alarm,' he said, a catch in his voice.

With a slow majesty Arabella rose to her feet and confronted the intruder. Her recently removed dress lay across her bed and she wore a fine silk negligée over her chemise. Her disarray twisted Drinkwater's gut with a tortuous spasm of desire and she caught this flickering regard of herself, sensed her mastery of his passion at the instant of knowing she might as easily lose it if he meditated rape.

‘You! What is it you want?' Her voice trembled with emotion and the maid, pressed back against the wall, watched in terrified fascination, aware of a tension existing in the room extending beyond the mere fact of the stranger's burglarous entry. She too recognized the man, though he did not know her.

Drinkwater suppressed the goading of desire, aware she had divined the effect of her
déshabillé
, and annoyed by it. The reflection steadied him again, reminded him of his purpose, of the enormity of his gamble.

‘Only a word, ma'am. I shall not detain you long, nor do I offer you any harm.' He shot a look at the maid. ‘Will she hold her tongue?'

Arabella looked round at the quailing yet immobile figure. ‘Tell me something of your purpose,' she said,
addressing Drinkwater again.

‘To speak with you,' he said simply, with a lover's implication, gratified that she lowered her eyes, momentarily confused. She remained silent, struggling with his dramatic and violent appearance. Again she turned to her maid and, in a low voice, murmured something. Drinkwater recognized the language and his words arrested the woman's trembling retreat towards the door.

‘She is French?' he asked, his voice suddenly harsh.

Arabella nodded. ‘Yes, but she can be trusted. She will say nothing about your being here.'

Drinkwater fixed the woman with his most balefully intimidating glare. He was not unduly worried. He had
Patrician
's red cutter's crew of nine men within hail, men who would delight in rescuing him if it meant they might also make free with the contents of Castle Point while they were about it.

‘I am not alone,' he warned, ‘there are others outside.'

His stare made the poor woman cringe, her hand desperately reaching for the door-knob.

‘She understands, Nathaniel,' Arabella insisted, lowering the tension between the three of them.

‘Very well.'

Arabella nodded, the maid fled and they were alone in the perfumed intimacy of her boudoir.

‘Why have you come back?' she whispered, her face contorted with anguish as she sat back upon the chair and her right hand drew the silk wrap defensively about her breast.

‘Are you in health, Arabella?' he asked, keeping his distance, hardening his painfully thumping heart at her plight.

‘Yes,' she nodded, seizing the proprieties he offered, ignoring the incongruity of their situation, ‘and you?'

‘Yes,' he paused and she saw the struggle in his own face.

‘You have nothing to fear,' she said more firmly, looking at him, ‘I miscarried in the second month.'

She had conceived! The shock of it struck Drinkwater like a whiplash. It brought him no goatish pleasure, only an appalling regret and a piteous compassion which was out of kilter with his present purpose. ‘My dear . . .' he
made a move towards her, then stopped at the precise moment she held up her hand to arrest him.

‘No! It is over, and it is for the best!'

He avoided her eyes. ‘Yes,' he mumbled, ‘the war . . .'

‘I did not mean the war, Nathaniel, though that too is an impediment now.' She paused, then added, ‘You found your wife well?'

‘Arabella,' he protested, utterly confused, desperately hanging on to the reason for his unceremonious arrival. In his heart he had no real wish to revive their liaison and her continuing assumption piqued him.

‘No blame attaches to you,' she said, sensing his mood, ‘but why have you come back?'

He sighed, ashamed of himself now the moment of truth had come. ‘I need some information, Arabella, information I thought our former intimacy might entitle me at least to ask of you.'

‘You wish me to turn traitor?' she enquired, that lilting, bantering tone on which they had first established their friendship back in her voice, ‘just as I once turned whore.'