Griffiths reflected a moment. 'And you think they'll try and break out?'
'It's that or starve and swing.'
Griffiths eyed the pendant. 'Starboard tack, Mr Drinkwater,' then in a louder voice as Kestrel turned away, 'Much obliged to you, sir, God speed.'
The two cutters parted, Kestrel standing seawards again. Griffiths came aft to where Drinkwater was setting the new course.
'Black Deep, sir?'
'Aye if she'll hold the course.' Griffiths shivered and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead.
'She'll hold it, sir, with the centre plates down. I take it we're for Yarmouth?'
Griffiths nodded. 'Mr Drinkwater…' He jerked his head sideways and walked to the rail, staring astern to where, alongside the Trinity Yacht, the Nubb buoy was sinking. In a low voice he said, 'It seems we have our proof, Nathaniel…' His white eyebrows shot up in two arches.
'Aye sir. I'd come to pretty much the same conclusion.'
After Kestrel the admiral's cabin aboard Venerable seemed vast, but Admiral Duncan was a big man with a broad Scots face and, even seated, he dominated it. There was a story that he had subdued Adamant's crew by picking up one of her more vociferous seamen and holding him, one armed, over the side with the sarcastic comments that the fellow dared deprive him of command of the fleet. The general laughter that followed this spectacle had ensured Adamant's loyalty.
As Griffiths, unwell and sweating profusely, strove to explain the significance of their news, Drinkwater examined the other occupants of the cabin in whose august company he now found himself. There was Captain Fairfax, Duncan's flag-captain, and Captain William Bligh. Drinkwater regarded 'Bounty' Bligh with ill-concealed curiosity. The captain had a handsome head, with a blue jaw and firm chin. The forehead was high, the hairline balding and his grey hair drawn back into a queue. Bligh's eyes were penetrating and hazel, reminding Drinkwater of Dungarth's, the nose straight and flanked with fine nostrils. Only the mouth showed anything in the face that was ignoble, a petulance confirmed by his voice which had a quality of almost continuous exasperation. The remaining person was Major Brown, summoned by telegraph from London and still eating the chicken leg offered him on his arrival.
'Now I'm not quite clear about the significance of this Santhonax,' frowned the admiral, 'if I'm losing my ships do I really have to bother about one man?'
'If he's the man we think, sir,' put in Bligh in his high-toned voice, 'I consider him to be most dangerous. If he is the man said to have been seen aboard several of the ships at the Nore as this gentleman,' Bligh indicated Brown, 'seems to think, then I'd rate him as the most seditious rascal among the clutch of gallowsbirds. They deserve to swing, the whole festering nest of them.'
'Thank ye, captain,' said Duncan, with just a touch of irony. 'Major Brown?'
The major always seemed to be called on for explanations in the middle of a mouthful, thought Drinkwater as he pricked up his ears to hear what news Brown had brought.
'It seems certain, gentlemen, that this man was indeed Capitaine Santhonax, a French agent whose current duty seems to be to suborn the Nore fleet. There were reports of him in connection with the Culloden affair. One of the sailing masters held aboard Sandwich recognised him as a Frenchman and smuggled word ashore by a bumboat. Apparently they had fought hand to hand off Trincomalee in the last war,' he explained, 'and a number of other reports,' here he paused and inclined his head slightly towards Drinkwater and Griffiths, 'have led us to take an interest in him… it would appear he has been the eminence grise behind Richard Parker.'
Bligh nodded sharply, 'And behind the removal of myself and my officers from my ship!'
'But he has escaped us now,' soothed Duncan, 'so where's all this leading us?'
Brown shrugged, 'Captain Fairfax tells me you captured the Nore delegates on their way here.'
'Aye, Major, Rose took Cygnet off Orfordness so our friend is not coming here.'
Drinkwater looked desperately round the circle of faces. Did none of them see what was obvious to him? He looked at Griffiths but the lieutenant had drifted into a doze.
'Excuse me sir.' Drinkwater could hold his tongue no longer.
'Yes, what is it Mr, er, Drinkwater?' Duncan looked up.
'With respect, sir, may I submit that I believe Santhonax was in the boat on passage to Holland…' he paused, faltering before the gold lace that appeared to take heed of him for the first time.
'Go on, Mr Drinkwater,' encouraged Brown, leaning forward a half-smile on his face.
'Well sir,' Drinkwater doggedly addressed the admiral, 'I believe from all the facts I know, including the news from the Trinity Yacht relative to the movements of the Nore ships, that a defection of the fleet was ripe. Santhonax was bound for Holland to bring out Dutch ships…'
'To cover the defection of the Nore squadron, by heaven!' Fairfax finished the sentence.
'Exactly, sir,' Drinkwater nodded.
'But that smacks of conspiracy, gentlemen, of collusion with a foreign power. Och, I don't believe it, man.' The admiral looked for support to Fairfax who, with the discretionary latitude of a flag-captain said gently, 'Your good-nature, sir, does you credit but I fear Mr Drinkwater may be right. Jack Tar is not always the easy-going lion the populace likes to imagine him…' They all looked at the old admiral until Brown's voice cut in.
'We have a woman in Maidstone Gaol that would support Mr Drinkwater's theory, sir.'
'A woman, sir! What in God's name has a woman to do with a fleet mutiny?'
Drinkwater's pulse had quickened as he realised Brown knew more than he had so far admitted. He was eager to ask the woman's identity but he already knew it.
'That, Admiral Duncan, is something we'd very much like to know.'
'Well has the woman told ye anything?'
Brown smiled. 'She is not the type to go in for confessions, sir.'
'But she is not beyond sustaining a conspiracy, sir,' put in Drinkwater with a sudden vehemence.
'So you ken the woman, Mr Drinkwater?' The admiral's brows showed signs of anger. 'There seems to be a deal about this matter that is known to the masters of cutters and denied to commanders-in-chief. Now, sir,' he rounded on Brown, 'd'ye tell me exactly who and what this woman is, what her connection is with our French agent and what it's all to do with my fleet.'
'Kestrel brought Mlle Montholon, the woman now in custody, out of France, sir…' Brown went on to outline the incidents that had involved the cutter. Drinkwater only half listened. So Hortense was in prison now. His suspicions had been confirmed after all. He wondered if Santhonax knew and doubted it would have much effect on him if he did. Hortense would not have confessed, but he guessed her pride had made her defiant and she had let slip enough. He wondered how Brown's men had eventually taken her and was satisfied in his curiosity as the major concluded: '… and so it seemed necessary to examine the young woman more closely. A theft of jewellery was, er, traced to a footman attending the Dowager Comtesse De Tocqueville and in the resulting search of her house a number of interesting documents and a considerable sum of gold was discovered.' He paused to sip from a glass of wine and ended with that curiously Gallic shrug. 'And so we had her.'
When he had finished Duncan shook his head. 'It's all most remarkable, most remarkable. She must be a she-devil…'
Beside Drinkwater Griffiths stirred and growled in Welsh, 'Hwyl, sir… she has hwyl, the power to stir men's bowels.'
'But it is not the woman that concerns us now, Admiral Duncan,' said Brown. 'The man Santhonax is the real danger. Mr Drinkwater is right and we are certain he intends to bring out the Dutch. He has been in close consultation with Parker and if the mutiny is wavering De Winter must come out at the first opportunity or be more securely shut up in the Texel. If, on the other hand, he emerges to cover the Thames and the Nore ships join him, I leave the consequences to your imagination. Such a force on the doorstep of London would draw the Channel fleet east uncovering Brest, leaving the road clea
r for Ireland, the West Indies, India. Whichever way you look at it to have the Dutch at sea, mutiny or not, would put us in a most dangerous situation. Add the complication of an undefended east coast and a force of republican mutineers in the Thames, then,' Brown spread his hands and shrugged again in that now familiar gesture that was a legacy of his sojourns amongst the Canadians and the French. But it was supremely eloquent for the occasion.
Duncan nodded. 'Those very facts have been my constant companions for the past weeks. I begin to perceive this Santhonax is something of a red hot shot.'
'What is the state of your own ships, Admiral?' asked Brown.
'That, Major, is a deuced canny question.'
Admiral Duncan's fleet deserted him piecemeal in the next few days. Off the Texel Captain Trollope in the Russell, 74, with a handful of cutters, luggers and a frigate or two, maintained the illusion of blockade. Five of his battleships left for the Nore.
On the 29th May Duncan threw out the signal to weigh. His remaining ships stood clear of Yarmouth Roads until, one by one, they turned south-west, towards the Thames. Three hours after sailing only Venerable, 74, Adamant, 50 and the smaller Trent and Circe, together with Kestrel, remained loyal to their admiral.
The passage across the North Sea was a dismal one. In a way Drinkwater was relieved they were returning to the Texel. Wearying though blockade duty was, he felt instinctively that that was where they should be, no matter to what straits they were reduced. Brown thought so too, for after sending a cipher by the telegraph to the Admiralty, he had joined the cutter with Lord Dungarth's blessing.
'I think, Mr Drinkwater,' he had said, 'that you may take the credit for having set a portfire to the train now and we must wait patiently upon events.'
And patiently they did wait, for the first days of June the wind was in the east. De Winter's fleet of fourteen sail of the line, eight frigates and seventy-three transports and storeships were kept in the Texel by the two British battleships, a few frigates and small fry who made constant signals to one another in a ruse to persuade the watching Dutch that a great fleet lay in the offing of which this was but the inshore squadron.
But would such a deception work?
Chapter Thirteen
No Glory but the Gale
June-October 1797
The splash of a cannon shot showed briefly in the water off Kestrel's starboard bow where she lay in the yeasty waters of the Schulpen Gat, close to the beach at Kijkduin.
'They have brought horse artillery today, Mr Drinkwater,' said Major Brown from the side of his mouth as both men stared through their telescopes.
Drinkwater could see the knot of officers watching them. One was dismounted and kneeling on the ground, a huge field glass on the shoulder of an orderly grovelling in front of him. 'That one in the brown coat, d'you know who he is?' Drinkwater swung his glass. He could see a man in a brown drab coat, but it was not in the least familiar. 'No sir.'
'That,' said Brown with significant emphasis, 'is Wolfe Tone…' Drinkwater looked again. There was nothing remarkable about the man portrayed as a traitor to his country. Kestrel bucked inshore and Drinkwater turned to order her laid off a point more. 'I'll give them the usual salute then.'
'Yes — no! Wait! Look at the man next but one to Tone.' Brown was excited and Drinkwater put up his glass again to see a tall figure emerge from behind a horse. Even at that distance Drinkwater knew the man was Santhonax, a Santhonax resplendent in the blue and gold of naval uniform, and it seemed to Drinkwater that across that tumbling quarter mile of breakers and sea-washed sand that Santhonax stared back at him. He lowered the glass and looked at Brown. 'Santhonax.' Brown nodded.
'You were right, Mr Drinkwater. Now give 'em the usual.' Drinkwater waved forward and saw Traveller stand back from the gun. The four-pounder roared and the men cheered when the ball ricochetted amongst the officers. Their horses reared in fright and one fell screaming on broken legs.
'Stand by heads'l sheets there! Weather runner! Stand by to gybe! Mind your head, Major!' Drinkwater called to Brown who had hoisted himself on to Number 11 gun to witness the fall of shot. 'Up helm… mainsheet now, watch there! Watch!'
Kestrel turned away from the shore as the field-gun barked again. The shot ripped through the bulwarks on the quarter and passed between the two helmsmen. The wind of its passage sent them gasping to the deck and Drinkwater jumped for the big tiller. Then the cutter was stern to the beach and rolling over in a thunderous clatter of gybing spars and canvas. 'Larboard runner!' Men tramped aft with the fall of the big double burton and belayed it, the sheets were trimmed and Kestrel steadied on her course out of the Schulpen Gat to work her way round the Haakagronden to where Duncan awaited her report.
The admiral was on Venerable's quarterdeck when Drinkwater went up the side. He saluted and made his report to Duncan. The admiral nodded and asked, 'And how is Lieutenant Griffiths today?'
Drinkwater shook his head. 'The surgeon's been up with him all night, sir, but there appears to be no improvement. This is the worst I've known him, sir.'
Duncan nodded. 'He's still adamant he doesn't want a relief?'
'Aye sir.'
'Very well, Mr Drinkwater. Return to your station.'
The strange situation that Duncan found himself in of an admiral almost without ships, compelled him to tread circumspectly. He did not wish to transfer officers or disrupt the delicate loyalties of his pitifully small squadron. Griffiths was known to him and had indicated the professional worth of Kestrel's sailing master. The admiral, astute in the matter of personal evaluation, had formed his own favourable impression of Drinkwater's abilities.
As the week of easterly winds ended, when the period of greatest danger seemed to be over, Duncan received reinforcements. Sir Roger Curtis arrived with some units of the Channel Fleet. Glatton, the curious ex-Indiaman armed only with carronades, had mutinied, gone to the Downs and cooled her heels. There her people resolved not to desert their admiral and returned to station. Other odd ships arrived including a Russian squadron under Admiral Hanikov. Then, at the end of June, the Nore mutiny had collapsed and Duncan's ships returned to him. At full strength the North Sea squadron maintained the blockade through the next spell of easterly winds at the beginning of July.
Kestrel made her daily patrols while Griffiths lay sweating in his cot, Appleby a fretful shadow over him. They saw no more of Santhonax and still the Dutch did not come out. Major Brown became increasingly irritated by the turn of events. Santhonax had shot his bolt. The Nore mutiny had collapsed and the French captain had failed, just as he had failed on the Culloden. Now, if he was still at the Texel, Santhonax had failed to coerce De Winter.
'A man of action, Mr Drinkwater, cannot sit on his arse for long. This business of naval blockade is the very essence of tedium.'
Drinkwater smiled over his coffee. 'I doubt you would be of that opinion, sir, if the conduct of the ships were yours. For us it is a wearing occupation, requiring constant vigilance.'
'Oh I daresay,' put in Brown crossly, 'but I've a feeling that De Winter won't shift. When we next report to the admiral I shall transfer to the flagship and take the first despatch vessel to Yarmouth. No, Mr Drinkwater, that train of powder has gone out.'
'Well sir,' answered Drinkwater rising from the table and reaching for his hat, 'perhaps it was a little longer than you expected.'
Major Brown stared after the younger man, trying to decide if he had been the victim of impertinence or perception. Certainly he bridled at Drinkwater's apparent lack of respect for a major in His Majesty's Life Guards, but he knew Nathaniel was no fool, no fool at all. Brown remembered the dinner at the Fountain and Drinkwater's insistence that the presence of the uniforms, charts and money indicated the Citoyenne Janine held a secret. He also remembered that he had been less than frank about what he had discovered at Tunbridge Wells.
It was true, as he had said to Lord Dungarth, that he had not found anything. But where the wolf has slept the grass rem
ains rank. That much he had learned from the Iroquois, and he was no longer in doubt that Santhonax lay frequently at Tunbridge, in enviable circumstances too. A refuge in Hortense's arms was typically Gallic, and if Santhonax had not persuaded her to flee from France in the first place he had turned that fortuitous exit to his own advantage.
But Brown could not admit as much to Dungarth before Kestrel's officers. He had lain a trap and until Santhonax sprung it the hunter remained silent. He had learned that too from the painted men of the Six Nations.
Whether Dungarth had guessed as much when he had ordered surveillance of the Dowager Comtesse's household mattered little. Santhonax had eluded Brown just as Brown had escaped from Santhonax in Paris.
The major bit his lip over the recollection. Had the girl detected him? As he had seen her on the arm of her handsome naval lover in Paris, had she perhaps seen Brown himself some time during the negotiations with Barrallier and De Tocqueville? That would have revealed his true allegiance, and Etienne Montholon had been a party to the arrangements. He tried to recollect if she might have discovered him with Santhonax during his spell as a clerk in the Ministry of Marine. Then he shrugged, 'It's possible…'
Santhonax had reached the coast before him, had nearly cut off Kestrel but for Madoc's skill and young Drinkwater's timely rescue. It brought him full circle. Was Drinkwater right and Santhonax still trying to bully Jan De Winter into sailing? Brown knew Santhonax to be ruthless. He was certain the man had had De Tocqueville assassinated in London, the more so as it removed a threat to his occupancy of Hortense's bed. And the officer commanding the naval forces at Roscoff had been shot for his prudence in strengthening a convoy escort by the addition of the Citoyenne janine. His mistake was in requisitioning Santhonax's own lugger. Brown's reflection that that meant one less Frenchman to worry about begged the pressing question. It pecked at his present frustration, counselling caution, caution.
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