A King's Cutter nd-2

by Richard Woodman

  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; the rudder creaked and the tiller kicked 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 a weigh.'

  '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 rhythmic obscenities, 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 on to 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: morituri 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 blockage 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 re-anchor 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, swallowtailed pendant.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Camperdown

  8th-11th October 1797

  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.

  He hurled the bottle from him and it shivered to pieces against the far bulkhead.

  'Damned witchery,' he repeated, heading for the companionway. Up and down he strode, between the taffrail and the gigs, the anchor watch withdrawing from his path. From time to time he paused to look in the direction of Kijkduin. Santhonax had to be at Kijkduin. Had to be, to feed the cold ruthlessness that was spreading through him. If his chance lay in the coming hours he must not lack the resolution to grasp it.

  Vice-Admiral De Winter ordered his fleet to sail on the morning of 8th October. The frigate that Drinkwater had watched the previous afternoon stood seawards at first light, catching up the yacht in her wake. Kestrel weighed too, standing seawards down the West Gat, firing her chasers and flying the signal for an enemy to windward. Black Joke caught the alarm, wore round and stood in her grain, hoisting the same signal.

  For an hour Kestrel ran ahead of the Dutch fleet as ship after ship rounded the battery at Kijkduin, turning south for the Schulpen Gat. The cutter, diverging towards Trollope, observed them, her commander making notes upon a tablet.

  They rejoined the squadron at noon, closing the commodore for their orders.

  'What d'you make of them?' Trollope called through his speaking trumpet.

  'Twenty-one ships, sir, including some ship-sloops and frigates, say about fifteen of the line. There are also four brigs and two yachts… I'd say his whole force excepting the transports…'

  'So Ireland's out.'

  Drinkwater shook his head. 'No sir, they could come out next tide or wait until he's dealt with us, sir.' He saw Trollope nod.

  'Take station on my lee beam. I'm forming line, continue to repeat my signals. Good luck!'

  'And you sir.' He exchanged a wave with Burroughs, then turned to Hill.

  'Mr Hill, our station is the commodore's lee beam. Do you see to it.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'You may adjust sail to maintain station and watch for any signals either general to the squadron for repeating, or particular to us.'

  Drinkwater felt a great burden lifted from his shoulders. It was good to be in company again, good to see the huge bulk of Russell a cannon shot to windward. He suddenly felt very tired but there was one thing yet to do. 'Mr Jessup!'

  'Sir?'

  'Call the hands aft!'

  'Now my lads,' began Drinkwater, leaping up on to the breech of one of the three pounders when they had assembled. 'I'm not one to bear a grudge, and neither are you. We are now in the presence of an enemy force and disobedience to an order carries the penalty of death. I therefore rely absolutely upon your loyalty. Give me that and I promise I will move heaven and earth to have you paid the instant we return to Sheerness.' He paused and was pleased to find a murmur of approval run through the men.

  'Carry on, Mr Jessup, and pipe up spirits now…'

  Drinkwater jumped down from the gun. 'Mr Hill, you have the deck. Call me if you need me.' He went gratefully below, passing through the cabin where light through the skylight had exorcised the spectres of the preceding night.

  'Spirit ration, Mr Thompson,' said Jessup to the purser. James Thompson nodded and indicated the guns of Russell half a mile to windward. They were a dumb but powerful incentive to obedience.

  'He chooses his moments for exhortatory speeches, don't he, Mr Jessup?'

  Jessup had only the vaguest idea of what an exhortatory speech was, but the significance of Russell, surging along, sail set to the topgallants as she stood south to maintain station with De Winter, was not lost on him.

  'Aye, Mr Thompson, he's a cool and calculating bastard,' muttered Jessup, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice.

  Captain Trollope formed his squadron into line with the sloop Martin ahead and to larboard, keeping De Winter in sight as he edged south along the coast. Then, as the day wore on and his rear cleared the Schulpen Gat De Winter altered more to the west.

  Trollope's main body consisted of the Beaulieu, a frigate of forty guns, following by the faithful fifty Adamant and his own Russell. In her wake came the smaller frigate Circe of twenty-eight guns. Kestrel and Active, cutters, lay to leeward of the line and Black Joke had long since been sent to Duncan to inform him the enemy was out.

  Towards evening the wind fell away then backed round to the south-west. De Winter tacked in pursuit of Trollope who drew off, while the Dutch, unable to catch the British, stood south again, confirming Drinkwater's theory that they intended to force the Straits of Dover.

  During the following two days the wind hauled more steadily into the west and De Winter's fleet began to beat to windward, closing the English coast in the vicinity of Lowestoft with Trollope just ahead, covering his communications with Yarmouth.

  'What d'you make of it, Nat?' asked Appleby confidentially at dinner. 'D'you still hold to your idea that they're bound for Brest, then Ireland?'

  Drinkwater nodded, wiping his mouth with the crumpled napkin. 'He's covering Duncan while the troopships and storeships get out of the Texel. They'll get south under the cover of the French coast and then De Winter'll follow 'em down Channel.'

  Appleby nodded in uncharacteristic silence. 'It seems we've been wasting our time then,' he said.

  On the morning of the 10th October Trollope despatched Active to find Duncan with the latest news of De Winter. At this time De Winter had learned from a Dutch merchant ship that Duncan had left Yarmouth and had been seen standing east. Alarmed for his rear De Winter turned away and, with the wind at north-west stood for the Dutch coast in the vicinity of Kampenduin.

  Meanwhile Duncan, having left Yarmouth in great haste on seeing Black Joke making furious signals for an enemy at sea while still to seaward of the Scroby Sands, had indeed headed east for the Texel.

  Trollope, though inferior in force, had hung on to the windward position chiefly because the shallow draughted Dutch ships were unable to weather him. He was still there on the morning of the 11th when officers in the Dutch fleet saw his ships throw out signals from which they rightly concluded Duncan was in sight of the main body of the British fleet. De Winter headed directly for the coast where he could collect his most leeward ships into line of battle and stand north for the Texel in the shallow water beloved by his own pilots. About twelve miles off the coast De Winter formed his line heading north under easy sail and awaited the British.

  Admiral Duncan, having first reconnoitred the Texel and discovered the troop and storeships were still at their moorings, collected Diligent and turned south in search of his enemy. During the forenoon Trollope's detachment rejoined their admiral. Duncan's ships were indifferent sailors and he had neither time nor inclination to form line. De Winter's fleet was dropping to leeward into shoal water by the minute and the old admiral accepted their formal challenge with alacrity. Duncan hoisted the signal for 'general chase' and the British, grouped together into two loose divisions, Duncan's to the north and Onslow's slightly advanced to the south, bore down on the Dutch.

  The increase in the westerly wind with its damp air had brought about a thickening of the atmosphere and the battle that was now inevitable seemed to be marred by disorder amongst the British ships. Just before noon Duncan signalled that his intention was to pass through the enemy line and engage from leeward, thus denying the Dutch escape and ensuring all the windward batteries of the British ships could be used. The signal was repeated by the frigates and cutters. At noon they hoisted that for close action.

  Thirty minutes later Onslow's Monarch opened the action by cutting off De Winter's rear between the Jupiter and Harlem, ranging up alongside the former, raked by the heavy frigate Monikendaam and the brig Atalanta forming a secondary line to leeward of the Dutch battleships. Amid a thunder of guns the battle of Camperdown had be
gun.

  Kestrel, in common with the other cutters as a repeating vessel, was not a target. Stray shot might hit her but in general the conventions of a fleet action were observed. The British cutters and Dutch yachts were expected to render assistance to the wounded where they could be found clinging to fallen spars and continue to repeat their admirals' signals. Kestrel had formed part of Onslow's division and Drinkwater found himself in a confusing world of screaming shot, choppy seas and a strong wind. Smoke and mist enveloped the combatants as gun flashes began to eclipse the dull daylight.

  Within minutes Drinkwater had lost sight of Monarch behind the Dutch line and he altered to the north to maintain contact with Russell, but Trollope, too, cut through the line and Kestrel found herself passing under the stern of the Dutch seventy-four Brutus, bearing the flag of a rear-admiral at her mizen.

  Through the rolling clouds of smoke a brig was seen to leeward and her commander did not extend the courtesy or disdain of his bigger consorts. Shot whistled about Kestrel and a shower of lancing splinters from the starboard rail sent one man hopping bloodily below in agony to where Appleby had his gruesome instruments laid out on the cabin table.