‘Very well, Mr Drinkwater,’ Martin snapped, ‘you have made your point.’ He seemed about to turn away, riled by Drinkwater’s glib replies but recollected something and suddenly asked, ‘How the devil did you get command of Virago?’
‘I was appointed by the Admiralty, sir . . .’
‘I mean, Mr Drinkwater,’ said Martin with heavy emphasis, ‘by whose influence was your application preferred?’
Drinkwater flushed with sudden anger. He appreciated Martin’s own professional disappointments might be very great, but he himself hardly represented the meteoric rise of an admiral’s élève.
‘I do not believe I am anybody’s protégé, sir,’ he said with icy formality, ‘though I have rendered certain service to their Lordships of a rather unusual nature.’
Drinkwater was aware that he was bluffing but he saw Martin deflate slightly, as though he had found the justification for his dislike in Drinkwater’s reply.
‘And what nature did that service take, Mr Drinkwater?’ Martin’s tone was sarcastic.
‘Special service, sir, I am not at liberty to discuss it.’ Martin’s eyes opened a little wider, though whether it was at Drinkwater’s effrontery or whether he was impressed, was impossible to determine. At all events Drinkwater did not need to explain that the special service had been as mate of the cutter Kestrel dragging the occasional spy off a French beach and no more exciting than the nightly activities on a score of British beaches in connection with the ‘free trade’.
‘Special service? You mean secret service, Mr Drinkwater,’ Martin paused as though making up his mind. ‘For Lord Dungarth’s department, perhaps?’
‘Perhaps, sir,’ temporised Drinkwater, aware that this might prove a timely raising of his lordship’s name and be turned to some advantage in his plan for Edward.
Real anger was mounting into Martin’s cheeks.
‘I am quite well aware of his lordship’s activities, Drinkwater, I am not so passed over that . . .’ he broke off, aware that his own voice had risen and that he had revealed more of himself than he had intended. Martin looked round but the other officers were absorbed in their own chatter. He coughed with embarrassment. ‘You are well acquainted with his lordship?’ Martin asked almost conversationally.
‘Aye sir,’ replied Drinkwater, relieved that the squall seemed to have passed. ‘We sailed together on the Cyclops, frigate, in the American War.’ Drinkwater sensed the need to be conciliatory, particularly as the problem of Edward weighed heavily upon him. ‘I beg your pardon for being evasive, sir. I was not aware that his lordship’s activities were known to you.’
Martin nodded. ‘You were not the only officer to serve in his clandestine operations, Mr Drinkwater.’
‘Nor, perhaps,’ Drinkwater said in a low voice, the sherry making him bold, ‘the only one to be disappointed.’ He watched Martin’s eyes narrow as the commander digested the implication of Drinkwater’s remark. Then Drinkwater added, ‘you would not therefore blame me for mounting those mortars, sir?’
For a second Drinkwater was uncertain of the result of his importunity. Then he saw the ghost of a smile appear on Martin’s face. ‘And you are yet known to Lord Dungarth?’
Drinkwater nodded. The knowledge that the lieutenant still commanded interest with the peer was beginning to put him in a different light in Martin’s disappointed eyes.
‘Very well, Mr Drinkwater.’ Martin turned away.
Drinkwater heaved a sigh of relief. The antagonism of Martin would have made any plan for Edward’s future doubly hazardous. Now perhaps, Martin was less hostile to him. He caught Tumilty’s eye over the rim of the Irishman’s glass. It winked shamelessly. Drinkwater mastered a desire to laugh, but it was not the mirth of pure amusement. It had the edge of hysteria about it. Elizabeth had been right: he was no dissembler and the strain of it was beginning to tell.
Drinkwater returned to Virago a little drunk. The dinner had been surprisingly good and during it Drinkwater learned that it had been provided largely by the generosity of the artillery officers who had had the good sense to humour their naval counterparts. It was only later, slumped in his carver and staring at his sword hanging on a hook, that the irrelevant thought crossed his mind that it had not been cleaned after the fight with the French luggers. He sent for Tregembo.
When the quartermaster returned twenty minutes later with the old French sword honed to a biting edge on Willerton’s grindstone he seemed to want to talk.
‘Beg pardon, zur, but have ’ee looked at they pistol flints?’
‘No, Tregembo,’ Drinkwater shook his head to clear it of the effects of the wine. ‘Do so if you please. I fancy you can re-knap ’em without replacing ’em.’
‘There are plenty of flints aboard here, zur,’ said Tregembo reproachfully.
Drinkwater managed a laugh. ‘Ah yes, I was forgettin’ we’re a floating arsenal. Do as you please then.’
Tregembo had brought two new flints with him and took out the pull-through. He began fiddling with the brace of flintlocks. ‘Do ’ee think we’ll sail soon, zur?’
‘I hope so, Tregembo, I hope so.’
‘They say no one knows where we’re going, zur, though scuttelbutt is that we’re going to fight the Russians.’ He paused, ‘It’s kind of confusing, zur, but they were our allies off the Texel in ’97.’
‘Well they ain’t our allies now, Tregembo. They locked British seamen up. As to sailing I have received no orders. I imagine the government are still negotiating with the Baltic powers.’
Drinkwater sighed as Tregembo sniffed in disbelief.
‘They say Lord Nelson’s had no word of the fleet’s intentions.’
‘They say a great deal, much of it nonsense, Tregembo, you should know that.’
‘Aye zur,’ Tregembo said flatly in an acknowledgement that Drinkwater had spoken, not that he believed a word of what he had said. There followed a silence as Tregembo lowered the first pistol into the green baize-lined box.
‘That volunteer, zur, the one you brought aboard t’other night. Have I seen him afore?’
Drinkwater’s blood froze and his brain swam from its haze of wine and over-eating. He had not considered being discovered by Tregembo of all people. He looked at the man but he was nestling the second pistol in its recess. ‘His face was kind of familiar, zur.’
Suddenly Drinkwater cursed himself for a fool. What was it Corneille had said about needing a good memory after lying? Tregembo had not left Petersfield when Edward called upon Elizabeth. It was quite likely that he had seen Edward, even that he had let him into the house. And it was almost certain that either he or his wife Susan would have learned that their mistress’s visitor was the master’s brother.
‘Familiar, in what way?’ he asked, buying time.
‘I don’t know, zur, but I seen him afore somewhere . . .’ Drinkwater looked shrewdly at Tregembo. Edward’s present appearance was drastically altered. Clothes and manners maketh the man and Edward had been shorn of his hair along with his self respect. He was also losing weight due to the paucity of the food and the unaccustomed labour. It was quite possible that Tregembo was disturbed by no more than curiosity. He might think he had seen Edward in a score of places, the frigate Cyclops, the cutter Kestrel, before he connected him with Petersfield. On the other hand he might remember exactly who Edward was and be mystified as to why the man had turned up before the mast aboard Drinkwater’s own ship.
It struck Drinkwater that if the authorities got wind of what he had done he might only have Tregembo to rely on. Except Quilhampton, perhaps, and, with a pang, he recollected James Quilhampton was a party to the little mystery of Edward’s note.
Drinkwater was sweating and aware that he had been staring at Tregembo for far too long not to make some sort of confession. He swallowed, deciding on a confidence in which truth might masquerade. ‘You may have seen him before, Tregembo. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?’
Tregembo shook his head. ‘No zur.�
�
‘You recollect Major Brown and our duties aboard Kestrel?’ Tregembo nodded. ‘Well Waters is not unconnected with the same sort of business. I do not know any details.’
‘But I saw him at Petersfield, zur. I remember now.’
‘Ah, I see’. Drinkwater wondered again if Elizabeth had revealed Edward’s relationship. ‘His arrival doubtless perturbed my wife, eh? Well I don’t doubt it, he was not expecting to find me absent.’ Drinkwater paused; that much was true. ‘Whatever you have heard about this man Tregembo I beg you to forget it. Do you understand?’
‘Aye zur.’
‘If you can avoid any reference to him I’d be obliged.’ Then he added as an afterthought, ‘So would Lord Dungarth.’
‘And that’s why he is turned forrard, eh zur?’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Exactly.’
Tregembo smiled. ‘Thank ’ee zur. You’ll be a commander afore this business is over, zur, mark my words.’
Then he turned and left the cabin and Drinkwater was unaccountably moved.
Drinkwater turned in early. The effects of his dinner had returned and made him drowsy. He longed for the oblivion of sleep. A little after midnight he was aware of someone calling him from a great distance.
He woke slowly to find Quilhampton shining a lantern into his face.
‘Sir! Sir! Bengal fires and three guns from the London, sir! Repeated by St George. The signal to weigh, sir, the signal to weigh . . . !’
‘Eh, what’s that?’
‘Bengal fires and three guns . . .’
‘I heard you, God damn it. What’s the signal?’
‘To weigh, sir.’ Quilhampton’s enthusiasm was wasted at this hour. ‘Return on deck, Mr Q, and read the night orders again for God’s sake.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the crestfallen Quilhampton withdrew and Drinkwater rose to wash the foulness out of his mouth. It was not Quilhampton’s fault. No-one in the fleet had had a chance to study the admiral’s special signals and it boded ill for the general management of the expedition. Drinkwater spat disgustedly into the bowl set in the top of his sea chest. A respectful knock announced the return of the mate. ‘Well?’
‘The signal to unmoor, sir.’
‘Made for . . .?’
‘The line of battleships with two anchors down.’
‘And how many anchors have we?’
‘One sir.’
‘One sir. The signal to weigh will be given at dawn. Call all hands an hour before. Have your watch rig the windlass bars, have the topsails loose in their buntlines ready for hoisting and the stops off the heads’ls.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater retired to sleep. There was an old saying in the service. He prayed God it was true: all debts were paid when the topsails were sheeted home.
He did not know that an Admiralty messenger had exhausted three horses to bring Parker St Vincent’s direct command to sail, nor that Lady Parker would return to London earlier than expected.
Chapter Eleven 11–18 March 1801
Nadir
‘What a God damn spectacle!’ said Rogers happily as he watched the big ships weigh. The misfortunes of others always delighted him. It was one of his less likeable traits. Drinkwater shivered in his cloak, wondering whether his blood would ever thicken after his service in the Red Sea and how much longer they would have to wait. It was nine o’clock and the Viragos had been at their stations since daylight, awaiting their turn to weigh and proceed to sea through the St Nicholas Gat.
The signal to weigh had caused some confusion as no one was certain what the order of sailing was. Towards the northern end of the anchorage two battleships had run foul of each other, but already the handful of frigates and sloops had got away smartly, led out by the handsome Amazon, commanded by Henry Riou. Following them south east through the gatway and round the Scroby Sands, went the former East Indiaman Glatton, her single deck armed with the carronades which had so astonished a French squadron with their power, that she had defeated them all. Her odd appearance was belied by the supreme seamanship of the man who now commanded her. ‘Bounty’ Bligh turned her through the anchorage with an almost visible contempt for his reputation. Drinkwater had met Bligh and served with him at Camperdown. Another veteran of Camperdown, the old 50-gun Isis ran down in company with the incomparable Agamemnon, Nelson’s old sixty-four. The order of sailing had gone by the board as the big ships made the best of their way to seaward of the sands. The 98-gun St George, with Nelson’s blue vice-admiral’s flag at the foremasthead was already setting her topgallants, her jacks swinging aloft like monkeys, a band playing on her poop. The strains of Rule Britannia floated over the water.
Despite himself Drinkwater felt an involuntary thrill run down his spine as Nelson passed, unable to resist the man’s genius despite the cloud he was personally under. Even Rogers was silent while Quilhampton’s eyes were shining like a girl’s.
‘Here the buggers come,’ said Rogers as the other seventy-fours stood through the road; Ganges, Bellona, Polyphemus. Then came Monarch, Batter Pudding’s father’s flagship at Camperdown, and the rest, all setting their topgallants, their big courses in the buntlines ready to set when the intricacies of St Nicholas’s Gat had been safely negotiated.
‘Invincible’s going north sir,’ observed Easton pointing to the Caister end of the anchorage where the cutters and gun brigs were leaving by the Cockle Gat.
‘I hope he has a pilot on board,’ said Drinkwater thinking of the treacherous passage and driving Kestrel through it years ago.
‘Some of the storeships goin’ that way too,’ offered Quilhampton, aping Drinkwater’s clipped mannerism.
‘Yes, Mr Q. Do you watch for Explosion’s signal now.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Martin’s still playing at bloody commodore,’ said Rogers to Easton in a stage whisper. The master sniggered. ‘Hey look, someone’s lost a jib-boom . . .’ They could not make out the ship as she was masked by another but almost last to leave was Parker’s London.
‘The old bastard had trouble getting his flukes out of the mud,’ laughed Rogers making an onomatopoeic sucking plop that sent a burst of ribald laughter round Virago’s poop.
‘I hope, Mr Rogers, that is positively the last joke we hear about the subject of the admiral’s nuptials,’ said Drinkwater, remembering the plain-faced girl on whom he so relied. He might at least defend her honour on his own deck.
‘In fact,’ he added with sudden asperity, ‘I forbid further levity on the subject now we are at sea under Sir Hyde’s orders.’
Drinkwater put his glass to his eye and ignored Rogers who made an exaggerated face at Easton behind his back. Quilhampton laughed, thus missing the executive signal from Explosion.
Drinkwater had seen the bunting flutter down from the topgallant yardarm where the wind spread it for the bombs to see.
‘Heave up, Mr Matchett. Hoist foretopmast stays’l!’
The anchor was already hove short and it was the work of only a few minutes to heave it underfoot and trip it. ‘Anchor’s aweigh, sir!’
‘Tops’l halliards, Mr Rogers! Lee braces, there!’ He turned to Mr Quilhampton who had flushed at missing the signal from Explosion. ‘See those weather braces run, Mr Q.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the boy ran forward to vindicate himself.
‘Starboard stays’l sheet there! Look lively, God damn it!’
‘Anchor’s sighted clear, sir.’
Aloft the topsail parrels creaked against the greased topmasts as the yards rose. The canvas flogged, then filled with great dull crumps, flogged and filled again as the yards were trimmed. Drinkwater looked with satisfaction at the replaced mainyard.
‘Steady as you go.’
‘Steady as you go, zur.’ Virago gathered way and caught up on Zebra which had not yet tripped her anchor.
‘Port your helm,’ Drinkwater looked round to see the order was obeyed. The big tiller was pushed over to larboard and Virago began to
turn to starboard her bowsprit no longer pointing at Zebra.
‘Trim that foreyard, Graham, God rot you! Don’t you know your business?’ bawled Rogers as the petty officers directed the stamping, panting gangs of men. Matchett was leaning outboard fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.
‘Course south east a half south.’ Drinkwater looked to starboard and raised his hat. Aboard the Anne Reed he saw Tumilty acknowledge his greeting.
‘Course south east a half south, zur,’ reported Tregembo.
‘Course south east a half south, sir,’ repeated Easton, the sailing master. Drinkwater suppressed a smile. He almost felt happy. It was good to be under way at last, and upon his own deck at that. He did not want to look astern at the roofs and church towers of Great Yarmouth with their reminders of the rule of Law, which he so much admired yet had so recently disregarded.
The reflection made him search for his brother as the hands secured the deck and adjusted the sails to Rogers’s exacting direction. He found him at last, in duck trousers and a check shirt, hauling upon the anchor crown tackle, a labour for unskilled muscles, supervised by Mr Matchett in the starboard forechains. The heaving waisters brought the inboard fluke of the sheet anchor in against its bill board and able seamen leapt contemptuously outboard to pass the lashings.
‘You had better cast the lead as we pass the Gatway, Mr Easton, the tide will set us on the Corton side else, and I’ve no wish to go aground today.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Snape! Get your arse into the main chains with a lead!’
‘Give her the forecourse, Mr Rogers. And you may have Quilhampton set the spanker when we come on the wind off the Scroby Sands.’
Drinkwater looked at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. A ship was coming up from the south and Drinkwater checked her number against the private signals. She was the Edgar, Captain George Murray, joining the fleet. He remembered Murray as the frustrated captain of the sluggish frigate La Nymphe, unable to get into action during the fight of St George’s Day off the Brittany coast. With a shock Drinkwater realised that had been seven years earlier. It had been his first action in charge of a ship, the cutter Kestrel whose commander, Lieutenant Madoc Griffiths, lay sweating out the effects of malaria in his cabin.
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