A King's Cutter

by Richard Woodman

  ‘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.

  Chapter Seventeen

  November 1797

  The Puppet Master

  ‘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.

  ‘We are men, not saints sweet lady,’ quoted his lordship as he handcuffed himself to the prisoner then led her towards the waiting boat.

  Kestrel weighed and carried a favourable westerly breeze out of the Thames. Drinkwater came below at midnight to find Lord Dungarth sitting in the lamplit cabin with Hortense Montholon asleep on the leeward settee.

  Silently Drinkwater brought out a bottle. He poured two glasses and passed one to Dungarth. The wheel had come full circle now, the cutter’s cabin that had been the scene of its beginning witnessed its end. Dungarth raised his glass.

  ‘To your cockade, Nathaniel, you have earned it.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’ His eyes strayed to the woman. The auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders and a slight emaciation of her face due to her incarceration lent her a saintly, martyr-like quality. Something of her effect on Drinkwater was visible on his face.

  ‘She is as dangerous as poison,’ said Dungarth in a low voice and Drinkwater turned guiltily away.

  ‘What is to be done with her?’

  Dungarth shrugged. ‘Were she a man we would have shot her, were she an English woman in France the regicides would have guillotined her. As it is she is allowed her freedom.’ The cynical way in which Dungarth made his remarks clearly indicated he did not approve of the decision.

  ‘Her brother has some influence in emigré circles and pressure was brought to bear upon Government,’ he sighed. ‘Would that poor Brown had had such an advocate.’

  ‘Aye my Lord . . .’ Drinkwater thought of the gibbet hanging over the battery at Kijkduin. ‘And what of Santhonax?’

  ‘Ah,’ Dungarth grunted with greater relish, a cruel smile crossing his mouth. ‘We have him mewed up close, very close. You ruined his looks Nathaniel, tch, tch.’ Drinkwater passed the bottle as Kestrel lurched into a wave trough. Dungarth waved it towards the sleeping woman. ‘She does not yet know of his apprehension. It is going to be something of a disappointment to her when she arrives home.’ He smiled and sipped his wine.

  Drinkwater looked at Hortense again. She stirred as Kestrel butted another wave and her eyes opened. She sat up puzzled, then shivered and drew the cloak round her in a curiously childish way. Then her eyes recognised the company and her circumstances and an expression close to satisfaction settled upon her face.

  ‘Watch her well, Nathaniel,’ said Dungarth, ‘she is an old deceiver, a veritable Eve. It was a pity Jacobin sentiment, undiscriminating though it is, had not been a little more zealously employed at Carteret and saved us the trouble of rescuing such a viper.’

  ‘Can you believe such a face could betray her betrothed, eh?’

  Drinkwater saw Hortense frown, uncomprehending. He remembered poor De Tocqueville and his unrequited passion.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, ‘betray . . .’

  ‘Do not mock me ma’am, your lover Santhonax had De Tocqueville cut down in the gutters of London and well you know it.’

  ‘No, no . . . I knew nothing of that.’ For a moment she digested the news then held up her head. ‘I do not believe you. You lie . . . you lie to protect yourself, you are fools, already your navy is crippled by the brave republicans, soon the Dutch will come to help and then all the ships will join those of France and the greatest navy in the world will be at our command . . .’ Her eyes blazed with the conviction of one who had sustained herself in prison with such thoughts. ‘Even now you have spared me to use me in your plight.’

  Beside him Drinkwater heard Dungarth begin to laugh. Quietly Nathaniel said, ‘The mutiny in our navy is over, ma’am. The Dutch are not coming, their fleet is destroyed.’

  ‘You see,’ put in Dungarth, ‘your plan has gravely misfired. Command of the Channel is ours and Ireland is safe.’

  ‘Ireland is never safe,’ snapped Hortense, a gleam of rekindled fire in her eyes which died abruptly as Dungarth replied, ‘Neither is Santhonax.’

  Hortense caught her breath in alarm, looking from one to another and finding no comfort in the expressions of her captors. ‘He is in France,’ she said uncertainly.

  ‘He was in Holland, madam, but Mr Drinkwater here took him prisoner in the recent battle with the Dutch fleet.’

  She opened her mouth to protest they were bluffing but read the truth in their eyes. Drinkwater had not baited her, Drinkwater did not deal in words and intrigue. She recollected him probing De Tocqueville’s wound here, in this very cabin, an age ago. He was a man of deeds and she knew Santhonax had been taken, immured like herself by these barbarian English.

  ‘And I believe his face was much disfigured by a pike,’ Dungarth said abstractedly.

  Both Dungarth and Drinkwater went ashore in the gig. Above them the height of Mont Jolibois rose into the night, its summit shrouded in a light mist that the breeze rolled off the land. The sea was smooth under the mighty arch of the sky.

  Between the two of them
the hooded figure remained obscured from the oarsmen. The gig was run onto the beach and Drinkwater lifted Hortense into his arms, splashing ashore and setting her down on the sand.

  ‘There madam,’ said Dungarth pointedly, ‘I hope we never meet again.’

  Hortense caught Drinkwater’s eyes in the gloom. Hers were openly hostile that this nondescript Englishman had taken her lover and disfigured his beauty. Then she turned and made off over the sand. Drinkwater watched her go, oblivious of Dungarth beside him until the pistol flashed.

  ‘My Lord!’ He stared after Hortense, feeling Dungarth’s hand restraining him from rushing forward. She stumbled and then they saw her running, fading into the night.

  He stood staring with Dungarth beside him. Behind them he heard the boat’s crew murmuring.

  ‘It wasn’t loaded,’ said Dungarth, ‘but she’ll run the faster.’

  He smiled at Drinkwater. ‘Come, come, Nathaniel, surely you are not shocked. She had even half-seduced you.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘Why sometimes even a puppet-master may pull a wrong string.’

  They turned and walked in silence back to the boat.

  Author’s Note

  The exploits of Nathaniel Drinkwater during the period 1792 to 1797 are based on fact. The services of cutters for all manner of purposes were, in the words of the contemporary historian William James, ‘very effectually performed by British cruisers even of that insignificant class.’

  A man named Barrallier did escape from France to build ships for the Royal Navy while, shortly before the collapse of the Nore mutiny, eight men disappeared in a ship’s boat. Until now their destination was a mystery. During the mutiny scare wild tales circulated about mysterious strangers traversing the lanes of Kent and French subversion was popularly supposed to lie behind the trouble at the Nore.

  Many of the characters that appear actually existed. Apart from the admirals, Warren and his famous frigate captains and the commanders of Duncan’s ships, Captain Schank was inventively employed at this time. Captain Anthony Calvert and Jonathan Poulter did indeed destroy the Thames buoyage to prevent the mutineers escaping.

  The precise reason why De Winter sailed is still open to question. Both his fleet and the considerable number of troop and storeships that lay with him in the Texel were clearly intended to form part of a grand expedition and Ireland seems the likely destination. Wolfe Tone was with De Winter during part of 1797 as he had been with De Galles at Bantry the year before. It has also been suggested that the Dutch sailed to destroy Duncan who was supposed to command an unreliable force, or that they sallied to restore Dutch prestige. In fact De Winter retired before contacting Duncan. Yet, when battle was inevitable, his fleet fought with great ferocity. Perhaps the parts played by Drinkwater and Edouard Santhonax in a campaign disastrous to the Dutch fleet explain some of the tension of that desperate year.