A King's Cutter

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Who’s behind this, then, Mr Jessup, come on, there must be a ring-leader?’

  Jessup shrugged. ‘Not that I know of . . . here I’ll do one of those.’ He took one of the pistols that Drinkwater had taken out of their case. They belonged to Griffiths and Drinkwater thought furiously as he slipped the little ramrod back into its socket. ‘Can I count on you Mr Jessup?’

  ‘O’ course, sir,’ said Jessup indignantly.

  ‘Very well, you keep that pistol then. Where are the men now?’

  ‘On deck waiting for you.’

  ‘Call all the other officers.’

  ‘I did that on my way to you, ah, here’s Mr Appleby . . .’

  Appleby pushed into the cabin. ‘I told you, Nat, I warned you . . .’ His face was grey with worry and his nightgown increased his girth where it protruded from hastily drawn on breeches.

  ‘To the devil with your premonitions, Harry. Are you armed?’

  ‘Of course,’ he held up a brace of heavy pistols. ‘I’ve had these loaded and ready for a month.’

  ‘Have you checked the primings then,’ snapped Jessup and Appleby withered him at a glance.

  ‘Right gentlemen. Let’s go!’ Traveller joined them in the lobby and they went on deck.

  It was a clear night with a quartering wind and sea driving them east at a spanking rate. Patches of cloud obscured the stars. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness he could see Bulman had the helm and a blur of faces amidships showed where the hands waited to see what he would make of their action. Drinkwater knew that he must act with resolution and he turned briefly to the officers behind him.

  ‘I expect your support. To the utmost if need be.’

  Then he turned forward until he was no more than a yard from the waiting men. A cold and desperate feeling had settled on him. He would not be diverted from his orders now, nor from the one chance providence had so parsimoniously offered him. Instinctively he felt no man would offer him bodily harm. He was less sure of his own restraint.

  He drew his hanger with a rasping flourish and noted the involuntary rearward movement, heard the sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Now my lads, I know your grievance but this is not the time to air it. We are on urgent service and you’ll all do your duty.’ He let the words sink in.

  ‘Bollocks,’ came a voice from the rear of the crowd and he saw grins in the darkness.

  He whipped the pistol from his belt and held it suddenly and terribly against the skull of the nearest seaman.

  ‘Mr Jessup! Mr Appleby! Your weapons here upon the instant!’

  Again he felt the will of the men waver: resolution from the rear, weakening from those in front. ‘I will shoot this man if you do not disperse at once. I beg you not to force me to this extremity . . .’ The man’s eyes were enlarged with fear, the whites clear in the gloom.

  ‘Jesus mates,’ he whispered.

  ‘Get fucked, Mr Drinkwater, you can’t bluff us, we want our money.’ A murmur of supporting approval greeted this sentiment.

  With a click Drinkwater pulled the pistol hammer back to full cock. ‘I’m not bluffing.’ He ranged his eyes over the men. Behind him Appleby spoke, ‘Mr Drinkwater has a reputation for courage, lads, I most earnestly recommend you not to strain his patience . . .’

  ‘Aye, lads, Mr Appleby’s right, remember that Froggy lugger . . .’ It was Tregembo’s voice and Drinkwater held his tongue, aware of the deadly little melodrama being played out. He did not know of the grisly reputation he had acquired for hand to hand fighting, of how it was said that he cleared the deck of the Citoyenne Janine, of how, in the American War, Mr Drinkwater killed the French officer of La Creole and still carried the dead man’s sword to prove it.

  Drinkwater felt the tide turn. ‘I will count to five. If the watch below isn’t off the deck by then I’ll shoot. Otherwise we’ll let the matter drop and I’ll personally apply to the admiral for your pay. One . . . two . . .’ The man beside him was trembling uncontrollably. Drinkwater brought the muzzle up. ‘Three.’

  A rearward surge went through the men. ‘Four.’

  Murmuring to themselves they went forward.

  Drinkwater lowered his pistol. ‘Carry on,’ he said quietly to the frightened man beside him who trembled with reaction.

  The mutiny was over. It was just one bell in the middle watch.

  ‘Time for bed gentlemen,’ said Drinkwater in a tone taken for coolness by those who heard, but redolent with relief to his beating heart.

  ‘Four bells, sir.’

  Drinkwater stirred, swimming upwards from the depths of sleep to find Merrick bent over him and the aroma of coffee in his nostrils. Swinging his legs over the edge of the cot he took the mug while Merrick put a glim to his lantern. Drinkwater shivered in the predawn chill and felt a dull ache in his right arm. The pain reminded him of the events of the night and he was suddenly wide awake.

  Merrick turned from adjusting the lantern. ‘Mr Traveller said to tell you ’e expects to sight the squadron at first light, sir.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so when you called me?’ Drinkwater felt a peevish irritation rising in him, together with a flood of loneliness that combined with the bitter realisation that in addition to a heavy responsibility to Duncan, he had to contend with a disobedient crew. He did not listen to Merrick’s mumbling excuse and experienced a mean delight when the man fled.

  While he shaved he calmed himself, shaking off resentment as the coffee scoured his mouth and cleared his head. Duncan’s task was not impossible. Griffiths had been right, this could be his opportunity and he was damned if he was going to lose it now. Wiping the lather from his face he completed dressing and went on deck.

  Exchanging courtesies with Traveller he walked to the weather rail. The north westerly breeze had held during the night and the eastern horizon was becoming more clearly defined against the coming daylight. For a moment he drank in the cold air of the morning then called to Traveller.

  ‘Mr Drinkwater?’

  ‘All quiet?’

  ‘Not a peep. Begging your pardon, Mr Drinkwater, but I’d say as how you’ll have no more trouble with this lot.’ Drinkwater looked at the gunner.

  ‘Let us hope you are right, Mr Traveller,’ he replied as coolly as he could.

  ‘We should sight the squadron very soon, sir. She was making nine knots at four bells.’

  Drinkwater nodded and walked forward as far as the boats. Surreptitiously he shot a glance at the two helmsmen. They were intent on the compass. He had cowed them, it seemed, and with an effort he stopped twisting his hands nervously behind his back. He set his mind to preparing what he would say to Trollope in an hour or two.

  ‘Wind’s dying,’ Hill said. They were well up into the Schulpen Gat, the battery at Kijkduin broad on the bow, just out of cannon shot. Mercifully the gibbet was no longer there. Against the south going tide they were making no headway and drinkwater gave the order to anchor. Already the sun was westering and the night’s chill could be felt in the air. Drinkwater looked at the sky. The cloud was clearing, the dunes, mills and churches of the Dutch coast had a sharpness that owed more to a drying of the air than the sinking of the sun.

  ‘A shift of wind to the east, I think, Mr Hill.’

  ‘Aye sir, happen you are right.’

  Drinkwater waited until the hands had the sails down and stowed. Then he ordered a spring clapped on the cable, the charges drawn and the guns reloaded. While the men bustled round he ascended the rigging to the hounds. Securing himself he levelled his glass to the eastward.

  He recalled the words of William Burroughs, first lieutenant of Russell, who had entertained him while Trollope digested his orders. ‘I envy you that cutter, so will a number more, I don’t wonder, once they hear old Griffiths is laid up. At least you set eyes on the squareheads, all I’ve seen is a few mastheads over the dunes. Trying to make an intelligent guess at the number of ships they represent is like . . . is like,’ Burroughs had searched for a simi
le and failed with a shrug. ‘Well you know it’s damned impossible. Yes, I do envy you that. It gets deuced boring out here week after week, it’s not the Mediterranean, don’t you know, no blue seas and snow-capped sierras to moon over, just acres and acres of dung coloured water and a lot of squareheaded Dutchmen sitting on their arses laughing at us, eh?’ It was a sentiment commonly expressed in the fleet. But Burroughs’s farewell had been less flippant. ‘Good fortune, m’dear fellow, we will all be relying most heavily upon you.’

  Well, he must do better than Burroughs. Wiping his eye on his sleeve he replaced the glass and concentrated.

  The dreary coast extended far to the south in wave after wave of dunes and marram grass. Here and there the cluster of habitations huddled round the conspicuous spires of churches. Shreds of smoke rose into the tranquil air. In the circle of the glass he picked up a lone horseman riding along the tideline keeping an eye on them. He swung left to where the parapet of the battery fronted the cottages of Kijkduin. The Dutch tricolour hung limply above the dun coloured rampart and here too he could see men, the flash of light on a bayonet or telescope. Beyond Kijkduin the coast trended away into the anchorage where the black masts of ships could be seen. He felt his heart skip as he realised that most of the ships had their yards crossed. Preparations for sailing were well advanced. Lord Dungarth was right! He counted twenty ships at the least. He swept the glass to the north. On the far side of the Zeegat van Texel the island of Texel faded into the far distance. A Dutch yacht lay in the channel. De Winter’s eyes as he was Duncan’s.

  Northwards in the Molen Gat he could see a little dark shape that was Diligent while to the westwards the three masts of Black Joke, one time advice boat to Earl Howe, lay anchored in the West Gat. Between them a flat expanse of sand, fringed with the curl of shallow breakers, the Haakagronden, covering as the tide rose. To the west the sun sank redly, the sea a jade green except where the sun laid a golden bar upon its rippled surface.

  He returned to the deck, prepared the signal ‘Enemy has yards crossed,’ hoisted it and fired a gun. As the sun set Black Joke acknowledged it and Drinkwater could just see where she repeated it to Trollope’s innermost ship, the sloop Martin. Drinkwater smiled to himself with self-satisfaction. Elizabeth would think him very pompous just at the moment.

  ‘Did you see the way Mr Drinkwater smiled just now,’ muttered Tregembo to another seaman leaning on the rail beside him, ‘I reckons as how us’ll be seeing some action afore long, my handsome.’

  The light airs had died completely by midnight and a glassy calm fell on the black water that chuckled past Kestrel’s hull, gurgling under her stern, making the rudder creak and the tiller kick gently in the tackles.

  ‘Good tide running now, we’ll get under way with the centre plates down and sweep her up to the north a little, Mr Jessup. Call the hands.’

  Drinkwater had no desire to work the men unnecessarily but one mile to the north they would command a much better view of the Dutch fleet at anchor, still out of dangerous gunshot of the battery. The centre plates would give them ample warning of going around on such a quiet night and the labour at the sweeps would keep the men busy, giving them little time to reflect on their grievances, imagined or otherwise.

  The steady clunk of pawls tripping on whelps told where the windlass was manned, while down the cutter’s side the carpenter and his mate were knocking the poppets out of the sweep rowlocks. A muffled thudding in the darkness amidships indicated the hands were getting the ungainly lengths of the sweeps from their stowage between the gigs into position. Two men came aft and cast off the tiller lashings. They stood ready to execute Drinkwater’s orders.

  From forward came the low cry, ‘Up and down,’ and after a little, ‘Anchor’s aweigh.’

  ‘Hard a-starboard.’ The two men pushed the tiller over. ‘Give way together, Mr Jessup.’

  The sweeps came to life, swinging awkwardly across the deck, splashing alongside while the men got into their stride and Jessup belaboured them with rythmic obscentities, curiously inflected with emphatic syllables so that they gradually came into unison. Kestrel gathered way, turning to bring the tide under her while Jessup intoned his meaningless invective in the ingenuous way of the British seaman. Drinkwater steadied the cutter on course and half an hour later they re-anchored.

  ‘Get a spring on the cable, Mr Jessup, then send the watch below. We’ll clear for action at dawn just in case that Dutch yacht has moved.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Jessup moved off giving orders. Drinkwater was pleased with himself. The centre plates had not touched once. They should be in the position he wanted. Wrapping himself in his cloak and kicking off his shoes he threw himself onto his cot and was soon asleep.

  He was called at six. Five minutes later he was on deck. The wind was sharp and from the east. At five bells he called all hands and the men tumbled up to draw and reload the guns. Alternate lashings were cast off the mainsail and the halliards prepared for rapid hoisting, their falls faked out along the deck in case daylight revealed them too close to the battery. Daylight came with a mist.

  An hour later Drinkwater stood the men down and went below to shave and break his fast. The skillygolee and molasses warmed him and only his new found dignity as commander prevented him from chaffing Appleby who was making a half-hearted protest that the creaking of the sweeps had kept him awake. The fact that the wind was from the east had set Drinkwater in a state of tension that would not let him relax.

  He returned to pacing the deck while he waited for the mist over the land to lift. If they had anchored in the wrong place they might have to cut and run before being caught in the cross fire of the yacht and the heavier guns at Kijkduin. He tried to calm himself, to stay the prickling sweat between his shoulder blades and forget the fine, fire-eating phrase that kept leaping unbidden into his mind: moritori te salutant . . .

  ‘Mist’s clearing, Mr Drinkwater.’ It was Traveller, anxious to fire his precious guns.

  ‘Thank you Mr Traveller.’ Drinkwater went forward and began climbing the mast. From his perch he could see the mast trucks of the Dutch fleet rising from the white shroud that enveloped the town of Den Helder. In the foreground the land was already clear and the solitary boom of a gun echoed seawards where the battery ranged them. The Dutch yacht still lay in the fairway, some eight cables away, and beyond her, now emerging dramatically from the evaporating vapour, lay the Dutch fleet.

  Movement was clearly discernible. There were men aloft and he started to count as the ships began to warp themselves clear of the buoys. At noon Black Joke, beating skilfully up through the West Gat, came alongside. By agreement it was she that ran out to Trollope during the afternoon of the 7th October to inform him that the Dutch were on the move. There was every prospect that if the wind held east, Admiral De Winter would sail.

  Late afternoon came and still the breeze was steady. Drinkwater kept the deck, not trusting himself to go below. The weary months of blockade duty had screwed him to a pitch that cried out for the release of action. What was true of him was true of all of Kestrel’s people. He looked round the deck. Men lingered half hoping, half dreading that the Dutch would come out. He looked away to the east. The yacht remained at her anchor, like a dog at the door of his master’s hall, and beyond . . .

  Drinkwater reached for his glass. One of the ships had sail set and a bone in her teeth. He hastened forward and levelled the glass, steadying it against a stay.

  It was a frigate, coming down the fairway under topsails. Would she reanchor or was she leading the fleet to sea? Drinkwater’s mouth was dry, his back damp and his heart hammered. The frigate was still heading seawards. He stared at her for perhaps ten minutes then relaxed. He saw her topsails shiver and her hull lengthen as she turned into the wind to anchor. She was to act as guardship then, weighing first and sweeping the puny opposition outside from the path of De Winter’s armada. Drinkwater found himself shaking with relief. He was about to turn aft when a movement beside
the frigate caught his eye. A boat had put off from her side and was being pulled seawards, towards the yacht.

  As the sun dropped Kestrel made the signal ‘Enemy in an advanced state of preparation’ to Black Joke five miles to the west. They saw her repeat it and a few minutes later received a reply from Trollope. It was a distance signal of three square flags and a black ball and it meant ‘I am unsupported.’

  Duncan had not arrived.

  Drinkwater turned east once more. They would have to run before the enemy then. The boat had left the yacht and was pulling back for the frigate. He wondered what orders the commander of the yacht had received. Positive sailing instructions, he concluded. And then he noticed something else. Something that made the muscles of his stomach contract and his whole body tense.

  The Dutch yacht had hoisted a flag to her masthead.

  A black, swallow-tailed pendant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  8th–11th October 1797

  Camperdown

  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.