A King's Cutter

by Richard Woodman

  A KING’S CUTTER

  Mariner’s Library Fiction Classics

  STERLING HAYDEN

  Voyage: A Novel of 1896

  BJORN LARSSON

  The Celtic Ring

  SAM LLEWELLYN

  The Shadow in the Sands

  RICHARD WOODMAN

  The Darkening Sea

  Endangered Species

  Wager

  The Nathaniel Drinkwater Novels

  (in chronological order):

  An Eye of the Fleet

  A King’s Cutter

  A Brig of War

  The Bomb Vessel

  The Corvette

  1805

  Baltic Mission

  In Distant Waters

  A Private Revenge

  Under False Colours

  The Flying Squadron

  Beneath the Aurora

  The Shadow of the Eagle

  Ebb Tide

  A KING’S CUTTER

  Richard Woodman

  This edition published 2001

  by Sheridan House Inc.

  145 Palisade Street

  Dobbs Ferry, NY 10522

  www.sheridanhouse.com

  Copyright © 1982 by Richard Woodman

  First published in Great Britain 1982 by

  John Murray (Publishers) Ltd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of Sheridan House.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944-

  A king’s cutter: a Nathaniel Drinkwater novel/

  Richard Woodman

  p.cm. —(Mariner’s library fiction classics)

  ISBN 1-57409-124-7 (alk. paper)

  1. Drinkwater, Nathaniel (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Great Britain—History, Naval—18th century—Fiction.

  I. Title. II. Series

  PR6073.0618 K56 2001

  823′.914—dc21

  00-066181

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN1-57409-124-7

  Contents

  PART ONE: THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

  1The Puppet’s Hand

  2First Blood

  3A Curtain Rising

  4A Hunter Hunted

  5Incident off Ushant

  6A Night Attack

  7An Insignificant Cruiser

  8The Black Pendant

  9The Star of the Devil

  PART TWO: THE NORTH SEA

  10The Apothecary

  11A Time of Trial

  12A Flood of Mutiny

  13No Glory but the Gale

  14A Private Insurrection

  15Camperdown

  16Aftermath

  17The Puppet Master

  Author’s Note

  For the crew of the cutter

  KESTREL

  PART ONE

  The English Channel

  Chapter One

  October–November 1792

  The Puppet’s Hand

  ‘You will be,’ said Lord Dungarth, lifting his hands for emphasis, ‘merely the hand of a puppet. You will not know what the puppet master intends, how the strings are manipulated or why you are commanded to do the things that you will do. Like hands you will simply execute your instructions efficiently. You were recommended for your efficiency, Nathaniel . . .’

  Drinkwater blinked against the reflected sunlight silhouetting the two earls. Beyond the windows the dark shapes of the Channel Fleet were anchored in the sparkling waters of Spithead. Beneath his feet he felt the massive bulk of the Queen Charlotte trim herself to the tide. For a second or two he revolved the proposition in his head. After six years as second mate in the buoy yachts of Trinity House he was at least familiar with the Channel, even if the precise purpose of the armed cutter Kestrel was obscured from him. He had held an acting commission as lieutenant eleven years earlier when he had expected great things from it, but he was more experienced now, married and almost too old to consider probable the dazzling career the Royal Navy had once seemed to offer him. He had found a satisfying employment with the Trinity House but he could not deny the quickened heartbeat as Dungarth explained he had been selected for special service aboard a cutter under direct Admiralty orders. The implications of that were given heavy emphasis by his second interviewer.

  ‘Well, Mr Drinkwater?’ Earl Howe’s rich voice drew Drinkwater’s attention to the heavy features of the admiral commanding the Channel Fleet. He must make his mind up.

  ‘I would be honoured to accept, my lords.’

  Lord Dungarth nodded with satisfaction. ‘I am much pleased, Nathaniel, much pleased. I was sorry that you lost your promotion when Hope died.’

  ‘Thank you my lord, I have to admit to it being a bitter blow.’ He smiled back trying to bridge the years since he and Dungarth had last met. He wondered if he had changed as much as John Devaux, former first lieutenant of the frigate Cyclops. It was more than the succession to a title that had affected the earl; that alone could not have swamped the ebullient dash of the man. It might have produced his lordship’s new introspection but not the hint of implacability that coloured his remarks. That seemed to stem from his mysterious new duties.

  A month later Drinkwater had received his orders and the acting commission. His farewell to his wife had affected him deeply. Whatever her own misgivings in respect of his transfer from buoy yachts to an armed cutter, Elizabeth kept them to herself. It was not in her nature to divert his purpose, for she had loved him for his exuberance and watched it wither with regret when the navy had failed him. But she could not disguise the tears that accompanied their parting.

  His arrival on board the cutter had been as secret as anyone could have wished. A late October fog had shrouded the Tilbury marshes as he searched for a boat, stumbling among the black stakes that rose out of the mud oozing along the high water mark. Patches of bladder wrack and straw, pieces of rotten wood and the detritus of civilisation ran along the edge of the unseen Thames. Somewhere in the region of Hope he had found a man and a boat and they had pushed out over the glass-smooth grey river, passing a mooring buoy that sheered and gurgled in the tide. A cormorant had started from the white stained staves and overhead a pale sun had broken through to slowly consume the nacreous vapour.

  The cutter’s transom had leapt out of the fog, boat falls trailing in the tide from her stern davits. He had caught a brief glimpse of a carved taffrail, oak leaves and her name: Kestrel. Then he had scrambled aboard, aware of a number of idlers about the deck, a huge mast, boom and gaff and a white St George’s ensign drooping disconsolately aft. A short, active looking man bustled up. About forty with beetling eyebrows and a brusque though not impolite manner. He conveyed an impression of efficiency.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The blue eyes darted perceptively.

  ‘Good morning to you. My name’s Drinkwater, acting lieutenant. D’you have a boat down?’ he nodded aft to the vacant davits.

  ‘Aye, sir. Jolly boat’s gone to Gravesend. We was expecting you.’

  ‘My chest is at Tilbury fort, please to have it aboard as soon as possible.’

  The man nodded. ‘I’m Jessup, sir, bosun. I’ll show you to your cabin.’ He rolled aft and hopped over the sea-step of a companionway. At the bottom of the ladder Drinkwater found himself in a tiny lobby. Behind the ladder a rack of Tower muskets and cutlasses gleamed dully. Leading off the space were five flimsy doors. Jessup indicated the forward one. ‘Main cabin, cap’n’s quarters . . . he’s ashore just now. This ’ere’s your’n sir.’ He opened a door to starboard and Drinkwater st
epped inside.

  The after quarters of Kestrel were situated between the hold and the rudder trunking. The companionway down which they had come left the deck immediately forward of the tiller. Facing the bottom of the ladder was the door to the main cabin extending the full width of the ship. The four other doors opened onto tiny cabins intended by a gracious Admiralty to house the officers of the cutter. The after two were tapering spaces filled with odds and ends and clearly unoccupied. The others were in use. His own was to starboard. Jessup told him the larboard one was ‘for passengers . . .’ and evaded further questioning.

  Drinkwater entered his cabin and closed the door. The space was bare of a chair. A small bookshelf was secured to the pine bulkhead. A tiny folding table was fitted beneath the shelf, ingeniously doubling as the lid of a cabinet containing a bucket for night soil. A rack for a carafe and glass, both of which articles were missing, and three pegs behind the door completed the cabin’s fittings. He went on deck.

  The visibility had improved and he could see the low line of the Kent coast. He walked forward to enquire of Jessup whether the boat had returned.

  ‘Aye, sir, been and gone. I sent it to Tilbury for your dunnage.’

  Drinkwater thanked him, ignoring the scrutiny of the hands forward. He coughed and said, ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to show me round the deck.’ Jessup nodded and went forward.

  The huge bowsprit came inboard through the stemhead gammon iron and housed in massive timbers that incorporated the windlass barrel. Abaft this was a companionway to the fo’c’s’le, a large dark space extending beyond the mast which rose from the deck surrounded by its fiferails, belaying pins, lead blocks and coils of cordage.

  ‘How many men do we bear, Mr Jessup?’

  ‘Forty-eight full complement, forty-two at present . . . here’s the hatch, sir, fitted with a platform, it ain’t a proper ’tween deck . . . used as ’ammock space, sail room an’ ’old.’ Jessup ran his hand along the gunwale of the larboard gig chocked on the hatch as they continued aft. Drinkwater noted the plank lands were scuffed and worn.

  ‘The boats see hard service, then?’

  Jessup gave a short laugh. ‘Aye, sir. That they do.’

  Abaft the hatch were the galley funnel, the cabin skylight and the companionway surmounted by a brass binnacle. Finally the huge curved tiller dominated the after deck, its heel secured in the brassbound top of the rudder stock, its end terminating in the carved head of the falcon from which the cutter took her name.

  Jessup ran his hand possessively over the proud curve of the beak and nodded to a small padlocked hatch let into the stern cant and surrounded by gratings.

  ‘Magazine ’atch.’ He turned forward pointing at the guns. ‘Mounts twelve guns, sir. Ten three pounders and two long brass fours forrard, throws a broadside of nineteen pounds. She’s seventy-two feet on the gun deck, nigh on one ’undred and twenty-five tons . . .’ he trailed off, still suspicious, weighing up the newcomer.

  ‘You been in cutters before, sir?’

  Drinkwater looked at him. It did not do to give too much away, he thought. Jessup would know soon enough. He thought of the buoy-yacht Argus. It was his turn to look enigmatic.

  ‘Good heavens yes, Mr Jessup. I’ve served extensively in cutters. You’ll not find me wanting there.’

  Jessup sniffed. Somehow that indrawn air allowed him the last word, as if it indicated a secret knowledge that Drinkwater could not be a party to. Yet.

  ‘Here’s the boat, sir, with your traps.’ Jessup walked over to the side to hail it. To seal the advantage he had over the newcomer he spat forcefully into the gliding waters of the Thames.

  Shortly before noon the following day the captain had come on board. Lieutenant Griffiths removed his hat, ran a searching eye over the ship and sniffed the wind. He acknowledged Drinkwater’s salute with a nod. The lieutenant was tall and stoop-shouldered, his sad features crowned by a mane of white hair that lent his sixty-odd years a patriarchal quality. A Welshman of untypical silences he seemed to personify an ancient purpose that might have been Celtic, Cymric or perhaps faerie. Born in Carnarvon he had served as mate in Liverpool slavers before being pressed into the navy. He had risen in the King’s service by sheer ability and escaped that degree of intolerance of his former messmates that disfigured many of his type. Lord Howe had given him his commission, declaring that there was no man fitter to rise in the navy than Madoc Griffiths who was, his lordship asserted in his curious idiom, an ornament to his profession. Whatever the idiosyncracies of his self-expression ‘Black Dick’ was right. As Drinkwater subsequently learnt there was no facet of the cutter’s activities of which Griffiths was not master. A first, superficial impression that his new commander might be a superannuated relic was almost instantly dispelled.

  Drinkwater’s reception had been guarded. In a silence that was disconcerting Griffiths examined Drinkwater’s papers. Then he leaned back and coolly studied the man in front of him.

  A week short of twenty-nine Drinkwater was lean and of medium height. A weathered complexion told of continuous sea service. The grey eyes were alert and intelligent, capable of concentration and determination. There were hints of these qualities in the crowsfeet about the eyes and the pale thread of a scar that puckered down from the left eye. But the furrows that ran down from the straight nose to the corners of a well-shaped mouth were prematurely deep and seemed to constrain more than a hint of passion.

  Was there a weakness there? Griffiths pondered, appraising the high forehead, the mop of brown hair drawn back into a black ribboned queue. There was a degree of sensitivity, he thought, but not sensuousness, the face was too open. Then he had it; the passion of temper lurked in the clamped corners of that mouth, a temper born of disappointment and disillusion, belied by the level eyes but recognisable to a Welshman. There was something suppressed about the man before him, a latent energy that Griffiths, in isolating, found reassuring. ‘Du but this man’s a terrible fighter,’ he muttered to himself and relaxed.

  ‘Sit you down, Mr Drinkwater.’ Griffiths’s voice was deep and quiet, adding to the impression of other worldliness. He enunciated his words with that clarity of diction peculiar to some of his race. ‘Your papers do you credit. I see that your substantive rank is that of master’s mate and that you held an acting commission at the end of the American War . . . it was not confirmed?’

  ‘No sir. I was given to understand the matter had been laid before Sir Richard Kempenfelt but . . .’ He shrugged, remembering Captain Hope’s promise as he left for the careening battleship. Griffiths looked up.

  ‘The Royal George was it?’

  ‘Yes sir. It didn’t seem important at the time . . .’

  ‘But ten years is a long while to keep a sense of proportion.’ Griffiths finished the sentence for him. The two men smiled and it seemed to both that a hurdle had been crossed. ‘Still, you have gained excellent experience in the Trinity Yachts, have you not?’

  ‘I believe so, sir.’ Drinkwater sensed his commander’s approval.

  ‘For my personal satisfaction, bach, I require your oath that no matter discussed between us is repeated beyond these bulkheads.’ Griffiths’s tone was soft yet uncompromising and his eyes were briefly cold. Drinkwater closed his imagination to a sudden vision of appalling facts. He remembered another secret learned long ago, knowledge of which had culminated in death in the swamps of Carolina. He sighed.

  ‘You have my word, as a King’s officer.’ Drinkwater stared back. The shadow had not gone unnoticed by Griffiths. The lieutenant relaxed. So, he thought, there was experience too. ‘Da iawn,’ he muttered.

  ‘This cutter is under the direct orders of the Admiralty. I, er, execute an unusual office, do you see. We attend to certain government business on the French coast at certain times and at certain locations.’

  ‘I see, sir.’ But he did not. In an attempt to expand his knowledge he said, ‘And your orders come from Lord Dungarth, sir?’

  Grif
fiths regarded him again and Drinkwater feared he had been importunate. He felt the colour rising to his cheeks but Griffiths said, ‘Ah, I had forgotten, you knew him from Cyclops.’

  ‘Yes, sir. He seems much changed, although it is some years since I last spoke with him.’

  Griffiths nodded. ‘Aye, and you found the change intimidating, did you?’

  Drinkwater nodded, aware that again Griffiths had exactly expressed his own feelings. ‘He lost his wife, you know, in child-bed.’

  Drinkwater did not keep pace with society gossip but he had been aware of Dungarth’s marriage with Charlotte Dixon, an India merchant’s daughter of fabled wealth and outstanding beauty. He had also heard how even Romney had failed to do her likeness justice. He began to see how the loss of his countess had shrivelled that once high-spirited soul and left a ruthless bitterness. As if confirming his thoughts Griffiths said, ‘I think if he had not taken on the French republic he would have gone mad . . .’

  The old man rose and opened a locker. Taking two glasses and a decanter he poured the sercial and deftly changed the subject. ‘The vessel is aptly named, Mr Drinkwater,’ he resumed his seat and continued. ‘Falco tinnunculus is characterised by its ability to hover, seeking out the exact location of its prey before it stoops. It lives upon mice, shrews and beetles, small fry, Mr Drinkwater, bach, but beetles can eat away an oak beam . . .’ He paused to drain and refill his glass. ‘Are you seeing the point of my allegory?’

  ‘I, er, I think so, sir.’ Griffiths refilled Drinkwater’s glass.

  ‘I mention these circumstances for two reasons. Lord Dungarth spoke highly of you, partly from your previous acquaintance and also on the recommendation of the Trinity House. I trust, therefore, that my own confidence in you will not prove misplaced. You will be responsible for our navigation. Remonstrations on lee shores are inimical to secret operations. Understand, do you?’