He watched them disperse. The pressed men were quite clearly seamen and did not seem unduly resentful at their billet. Perhaps they were meditating desertion at the first opportunity. Oddly, Drinkwater did not find the thought particularly uncomfortable. At a pinch he and Frey could sail Kestrel home themselves.
On the morning of the 11th, a breeze sprang up out of the northwest quarter and, though it soon dropped again, there was sufficient to keep steerage way on the cutter as she ghosted south-east towards Calais. It was Drinkwater's first real passage in her and it was clear she had been built for speed, for with the quartering wind and her long boom guyed out to port, she ran down wind with ease. Frey seemed content to lean against the long tiller as the white wake ran out from under the counter, leaving Drinkwater to pace along the windward side, from the heavy sister-blocks of the lower running backstay to the starboard channel. The small swivel guns, one of which was mounted on either bow, with the second pair aft covering the cutter's short waist, pointed skywards. Their iron crutches could be lodged in the same holes drilled for belaying pins, and Drinkwater mentally selected three other positions which might prove useful if they ran into any trouble. Of one thing he was relatively certain: if there was any kind of wind, even a light air, he judged they had an excellent chance of out-running even a French chasse marée.
None the less, considerations of this kind were mere temporary distractions and, when the French coast hove in sight, Drinkwater realized he was no nearer a solution as to how to contact Edward than he had been when they had sailed. Contacting fishermen seemed the best option, though how he might guarantee that remained an unresolved problem. For some minutes he stood amidships, his glass steadied against the heavy shrouds, watching the low white cliffs fall away as the coast stretched eastwards towards Calais. A strong tide ran along the shore and it would carry them up to the jetties. Drinkwater decided to progress by degrees, and the first of these would be to determine the state of the port. He closed his Dollond glass with a snap, pocketed it and walked aft.
'Now, Mr Frey,' he said formally, looking upwards, 'we have British colours at the peak.'
'Aye, sir.'
'I mean to run up along the coast and approach Calais from the west. The tide will be in our favour and I want to push up between the jetties. Make as though you intend to enter the port. Load all the guns with well-wadded powder. No shot. Be prepared for the French to fire on us, but I want a demonstration made.'
'You're going to tempt anyone bold enough to try their luck against us, are you, sir?'
'I think we might have the legs of even a French corvette, don't you?' Drinkwater replied, dissembling with a grin.
'I'd be damned disappointed if we didn't, to be honest, sir,' Frey replied, smiling back.
'Very well. We will then haul off for the night and heave to offshore. Tomorrow morning we shall do the same again. After that I shall decide what further we can achieve.'
'Very well, sir, I understand.'
Drinkwater was tempted to say, 'No you don't', but confined his reaction to a confirming nod. 'I gather from the smell that you have found one among the pressed men capable of acting as cook,' Drinkwater remarked, sniffing appreciatively, for their table thus far had been unappealing.
Frey nodded. 'One of 'em volunteered, sir. Name of Jago.'
'Well that's fortunate. Let's hope we deserve such luck.'
It was early evening and the wind had steadied to a light breeze as they wore ship off Cap Blanc Nez and began to run along the coast towards the spires of Calais. The cutter heeled a little, slipping through the water with astonishing grace and speed. Had Drinkwater not been so preoccupied, he might have appreciated the sublimity of the moment, but he was denied that consolation, and it was left to Frey's sensibilities as he leaned against the tiller, his eye occasionally wandering upwards to the peak of the gaff where the large red ensign lifted in the breeze. The flooding tide added to their speed and this augmentation made them appear to scud along the shoreline, persuading Frey that the subject would make a delightful painting.
Drinkwater, for his part, watched the approaching port with unease. Just inshore and slightly ahead of Kestrel a pair of small luggers were running parallel with them, making for home. They appeared unconcerned by the proximity of the British cutter, so fluid was the political situation. Drinkwater wondered if they might not provide the contacts he required. He turned and walked aft.
'I assume the swivels are ready?' Drinkwater asked.
'Aye, sir. As you required.'
'Very well. Now edge down on those fishermen, Mr Frey, if you please. I want them to get a clear look at us.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Frey leaned on the tiller and Kestrel's bowsprit swung round as she turned a point to starboard, lining itself up on a church spire.
'Friendly waves to the Frogs now, lads, if you please,' Drinkwater said as they caught up with the rearmost lugger. The two French boats were trailed by screeching gulls who dipped and fought over the scraps of entrails lobbed overboard by the men industriously cleaning their catch before they reached port. The heavily treated brown canvas of their sails and the festoons of nets half-hanging over their rails gave them a raffish appearance, and the low sunlight flashed on the gutting knives and the silver skins of the fish as the fishermen worked with deft and practised ease. Aft, the skippers stood at their tillers, with a boy to trim the sheets, regarding the overtaking British cutter with little more than a mild curiosity as she surged alongside them.
Drinkwater stood beside the lower running backstay and raised his hat. Along the deck his crew waved. Impulsively the lad alongside the aftermost lugger responded, but the skipper merely jerked his head and those of the fishermen amidships who looked up did so only for a second, before bending to their task again.
'Happy-looking lot,' someone remarked as the first lugger dropped astern and they overtook the second. She was closer and Frey altered to port again to avoid actually running her down. Drinkwater read the name across her transom: Trois Freres. They received a similar reception from her. 'Very fraternal,' Frey remarked.
'Never mind, Mr Frey. Word of an insolent British cutter in the offing will circulate the waterfront before dark and they have at least saved us from the attentions of those gentlemen.'
Drinkwater indicated a small hill which overlooked the final approach to the entrance. It mounted a battery, and at least two officers, conspicuous in their bell-topped shakos, could be seen regarding them through telescopes.
'Stand by those swivels then,' Drinkwater said, and Frey called to his men to blow on their matches.
'I want you to tack in the very entrance and fire both guns to loo'ard as you do so.'
Frey called his men to stand by the sheets and runners. They were drawing close to the jetties now, and were being watched by at least one man who stood at the extremity of the seaward jetty beneath the lighthouse.
The stream of the tide bypassed the entrance itself but ran fast across it, swirling dangerously round the abutment of the seaward jetty now opening on their port bow. 'Watch the tidal set on that jetty, Mr Frey.'
'Aye sir, I have it...' Frey grunted with the effort.
'Ready about and down helm!' Frey called, and Kestrel turned on her heel and came up into the wind with a great shaking of her sails. The wind was getting up as the men ran away with the starboard runner falls and let fly those to port. The two crumps of the swivel guns echoed back from the wooden piles of the jetty, then Kestrel lay over on the starboard tack and stood to the westward. On Kestrel's port quarter the two French luggers sailed blithely into Calais and on her starboard beam the piles of the extremity of the seaward jetty suddenly loomed above them. Drinkwater looked up. The man was still there, staring at them, with the lighthouse rising behind him.
Drinkwater raised his hat again and, with a grin, called out 'Bonsoir, M'sieur!' But the man made no move of acknowledgement beyond spitting to leeward. 'An expectorating Bonapartist,' Drinkwater remarked, jamming his ha
t back on his head.
Frey gave a laugh of nervous relief. He had nearly been caught out by the tide carrying him against the jetty-head. Panache was one thing, but it had seemed for one anxious moment dangerously close to disaster!
As if to chastise them for their impudence, two shot plunged into the sea off their port beam. Looking astern, Frey and Drinkwater caught sight of the smoke dispersing from the muzzles of the cannon in the battery.
'Well, I think we have made our presence known, Mr Frey,' Drinkwater said.
They stood away to the north-west as darkness closed in and when they had hauled sufficiently offshore, Frey hove to. Leaving the deck to the boatswain, the two officers went below to dine.
'Well, I don't know what we will achieve tomorrow, but I think we should be off Blanc Nez again by about five o'clock ...'
'That will give us the tide in our favour again,' Frey added enthusiastically, sipping at his wine as Jago came in with a steaming suet pudding. 'By God, Jago, that looks good!' 'Bon appetit, they says hereabouts I think, sir.' Drinkwater looked up sharply. 'You don't speak French do you, Jago?'
'Mais oui, M'sieur. I speak it well enough to pass among the French without their suspecting I am English.'
'And how did you acquire that skill, may I ask?' 'Well, sir, 'tis how I learned to cook, too. You see, sir, I was a boy shippin' out of Maldon in ninety-eight with my old pa. We was, er, fishin' like,' he winked, looking at Drinkwater and then at Frey, 'if you gets my meanin', sir ...'
'You mean you were smuggling?' 'Good God, no sir. I was a mere lad ...' 'Then your father was smuggling.'
'Not quite, sir. We was actually fishing off the Kentish Knock when up comes this big cutter, flying British colours, and lies to just upwind and floats a boat down to us. Imagine our surprise when over the side comes this Frog officer, all beplumed and covered in gold. He wants the skipper, that's me dad, to take a packet into Maldon and to hand it over to a man at an address he gave him. I think he gave Pa some fancy passwords and such like. To make sure of it, he took me out of the boat and carried me off with him ...' Jago shrugged. 'Sommat happened to the boat, I remember she was leakin' awful and there was some bad weather blew up next day. Anyway there I was dumped on a small farm near Abbeville. The farmer was an invalid soldier and I learned the place was often used by strange men who were passin' back and forth across the Channel. They avoided bein' seen in Calais or Boulogne but weren't far away when the time came for 'em to ship out. That's how I speak French, sir.'
'Fascinating, Jago. You must have been released at the Peace then.'
'That's right, sir. One day I was put aboard the Dover packet with three golden sovereigns in me pocket and told to go home. Me old widdered mother thought me the answer to her prayers.'
'You seem to be the answer to ours,' Frey said, picking up knife and fork.
'Oh yes, sorry, sirs. Don't you let me spoil your suppers.'
'What an odd tale,' Frey said with his mouth full.
'Yes, indeed.'
They were off Blanc Nez at dawn, and to the southward, running up from Boulogne, was a brig-sloop. 'British or French, I wonder?' Drinkwater asked as he came on deck in answer to Frey's summons.
'It doesn't much matter, sir, since we don't have the signal book aboard. If you've no objection, I suggest we run straight up and keep ahead of him.'
'Very well. With the wind the way it is this morning, if he's French we can escape to windward,' Drinkwater replied, for the breeze had veered a point or two into the north-north-west. 'We should have the legs of him.'
A few moments later it was clear that the brig-sloop had seen them and had decided to give chase, for she was setting studding sails with a speed that bespoke British nationality. However, they were already running along the sandy shore to the west of Calais, impelled by the hurrying tide, the hands busy loading the swivels and joking amongst themselves. A few moments later, as the sun rose above a low bank of cloud over the fields of France, the red ensign went aloft once more.
This morning there were no fishing-boats to mask them, nor did the earliness of the hour render them invisible to the vigilant eyes of the French gunners. As they ranged up towards the entrance of Calais harbour, shot plunged into the sea around them, raising tall columns of water on either beam.
But the speed of the tide under them combined with the swiftness of the cutter to frustrate the French artillery. The nearest they got to hitting Kestrel was to soak her decks with water. There were some early morning net fishermen on the seaward jetty whose gear dropped over into the water, but they took scant notice of the British cutter. Years of war and blockade had inured them to such things and they were quite indifferent to the presence of a British ship so close to home.
When they had tacked off the breakwaters and stood back to the westwards, they found that the French gunners in the battery had shifted their attention to the brig-sloop. As they went about, the commander of the brig-sloop, seeing that the cutter was not French and running for shelter in to Calais, also tacked, frustrating the French gunners. Both vessels now stood clear of the coast, with Kestrel overhauling the brig.
Drinkwater closed his glass with a snap. 'Adder, mounting eighteen guns,' he announced. As they surged up under the brig's quarter, Drinkwater saw her young commander at the starboard hance raise his speaking-trumpet.
'Cutter, 'hoy, what ship? You are not answering the private signal!'
Frey looked at Drinkwater and Drinkwater said simply, 'You are in command, Mr Frey.'
Frey handed the tiller over to the boatswain and went to the rail, cupping his hands about his mouth.
'Hired cutter Kestrel, Lieutenant Frey commanding, under special orders. We have no signal books but I have Captain Drinkwater aboard,' Frey added, to avoid being taken under the sloop-commander's orders. 'Have you seen any French men-of-war?'
'Who d'ye say is on board?'
'Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater ...'
Ask him who his commander is,' Drinkwater prompted.
'... Who desires to know who commands the Adder.'
'I am John Wykeham. As to your question, there are three corvettes in Boulogne, but heave to, if you please, I have something to communicate to Captain Drinkwater.'
'You had better do as he asks, Mr Frey'
'Very well, Captain Wykeham. I shall come to the wind in your lee.'
Half an hour later the young Commander Wykeham clambered aboard Kestrel and looked curiously about him. Frey met him with a salute. The two men were of an age.
'May I introduce you to Captain Drinkwater, sir ...'
The two men shook hands. 'I thought I was to be the only cruiser on the station, sir,' Wykeham said.
'Is that what you came to say?' Drinkwater asked.
'Not at all, it is just that your presence is something of a surprise, sir. And, forgive me for saying so, but your cutter is somewhat lightly armed for so advanced a post.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'She is a private yacht, sir, on hire for Government service, but come below, Commander Wykeham, and let us discuss what troubles you over a glass.'
Once in the tiny cabin with charged glasses, Wykeham asked, 'Your special Government service, sir ...'
'Yes?'
'Does it have anything to do with a Russian officer?'
Drinkwater was quite unable to disguise his astonishment. After mastering his surprise he replied, 'Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Do you know of such a person?'
'I have a Russian officer on board. He came off to me by fishing-boat the day before yesterday. Speaks broken English, but excellent French, a language in which I have some ability. I gather he was caught in Paris by the return of Bonaparte and failed to get out in time. Cherchez la femme, I think. How did you know about him?'
'I had a message about him,' Drinkwater said obscurely, adding to mollify the obvious curiosity in the young commander's eyes, 'I have long had dealings of this sort with the enemy coast.'
'Ah, I see.'
Drinkwater smi
led. 'I doubt whether you do, but your discretion does you credit. What is this fellow's name?'
'He claims to be a colonel, Colonel Ostroff. An officer of cossacks, or irregular horse. Is he your man?'
'I rather think he might be,' Drinkwater replied, his heart beating uncomfortably, 'but tell me something of the circumstances by which he made contact with you.'
Wykeham shrugged. 'I have been poking my nose in and out of Calais and Boulogne this past fortnight. My orders are to ensure no French men-o'-war escape to harry our shipping crossing to Ostend and if anything of force emerges either to engage or, if of superior force, to run across to Deal, make a signal to that effect, then chase until help arrives. Well, the evening before last, we were approached by a fishing-boat with which we had had some contact a few days earlier. Actually we paid good English gold for some langoustines, and I thought the avaricious buggers had come back for more, until, that is, they fished this Russkie lobster out of the hold. Green as grass he was,' Wykeham recollected, laughing. 'He asked for a passage to England, said he would pay his way and that he had been cut off in Paris and had only escaped to the coast by the skin of his teeth. Muttered something about bearing diplomatic papers.' Wykeham shrugged. 'I had no reason not to rescue the poor devil, so I took him aboard. He was anxious to be landed, but I told him he would have to wait. He was most indignant, but now fortunately you have arrived.'
'Well,' said Drinkwater, 'I can take him off your hands and leave the station to you.'
'That would be very satisfactory,' said Wykeham, rising, 'I shall send him over directly'
Drinkwater followed Wykeham on deck and stood apprehensively as the brig's boat bobbed back over the waves and ran alongside. Fishing out his glass he levelled it and watched a figure, dressed in a sober coat and beaver, clamber down into it, whereupon the boat shoved off and headed back towards them. Drinkwater's heart thumped uncomfortably in his breast. He had a dreadful feeling of chickens coming home to roost, and his knees knocked, making him foolishly vulnerable to an indiscretion. He made an effort to pull himself together, but found himself in the grip of a visceral terror he had never before experienced.
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