At night they could see the lines of camp-fires, the glow of lanterns, and occasionally hear the bark of cannon from the batteries covering the beaches which opened fire on an insolent British cutter working too close inshore.
Now Drinkwater waited for the cable to cease rumbling through the hawse and for Hill to straighten up from the vanes of the pelorus as Antigone settled to her anchor.
'Brought up, sir.'
'Very well. Mr Hill, Mr Rogers, would you care to dine with me? Perhaps you'd bring one of your mates, Mr Hill, and a couple of midshipmen.'
Mullender had fattened a small pig in the manger on scraps and that morning pronounced it ready for sacrifice. Already the scent of roasting pork had been hanging over the quarterdeck for some time and Drinkwater had been shamed into sending a leg into the gunroom and another into the cockpit. Mullender had been outraged by this largesse, particularly when Drinkwater ordered what was left after his own leg had been removed to be sent forward. But it seemed too harsh an application of privilege to subject his men to the aroma of sizzling crackling and deny them a few titbits. Besides, their present cruising ground was so near home that reprovisioning was no problem.
A companionable silence descended upon the table as the hungry officers took knife and fork to the dismembered pig.
'You are enjoying your meal, Mr Gillespy, I believe?' remarked Drinkwater, amused at the ecstatic expression on the midshipman's face.
'Yes, sir,' the boy squeaked, 'thanking you sir, for your invitation…' He flushed as the other diners laughed at him indulgently.
'Well, Mr Gillespy,' added Rogers, his mouth still full and a half-glass of stingo aiding mastication and simultaneous speech, 'it's an improvement on the usual short commons, eh?'
'Indeed, sir, it is.'
'You had some mail today, Mr Q, news of home I trust?'
Drinkwater asked, knowing three letters had come off in the despatch lugger Sparrow that forenoon.
'Yes, sir. Catriona sends you her kindest wishes.' James Quilhampton grinned happily.
'D'you intend to marry this filly then, Mr Q?' asked Rogers.
'If she'll have me,' growled Quilhampton, flushing at the indelicacy of the question.
'Can't see the point of marriage, myself,' Rogers said morosely.
'Oh, I don't know,' put in Hill. 'Its chief advantage is that you can walk down the street with a woman on your arm without exciting damn-fool comments from y'r friends.'
'Fiddlesticks!' Rogers looked round at the half-concealed smirks of Quilhampton and Frey. Even little Gillespy seemed to perceive a well-known joke. 'What the devil d'you mean, Hill?' demanded Rogers, colouring.
'That you cut out a pretty little corvette, trimmed fore and aft with ribbons and lace, with an entry port used by half the fleet in Chatham…'
'God damn it…'
'Now had you been married we would have thought it your wife, don't you see?'
'Why… I…'
'No, Hill, we'd never have fallen for that,' said James Quilhampton, getting his revenge. 'A married man would not have been so imprudent as to have carried so much sail upon his bowsprit,'
Upon this phallic reference the company burst into unrestrained laughter at the first lieutenant's discomfiture. Rogers coloured and Drinkwater came to his rescue.
'Take it in good part, Sam. I heard she was devilish pretty and those fellows are only jealous. Besides I've news for you. You need no longer stand a watch. I received notice this morning that Keith wants us to find a place for an eleve of his, a Lieutenant Fraser…'
'Oh God, a Scotchman,' complained Rogers, irritated by Quilhampton and knowing his partiality in that direction. Mullender drew the cloth and placed the decanter in front of Drinkwater. He filled his glass and sent it round the table.
'And now, gentlemen… The King!'
Drinkwater looked round the table and reflected that they were not such a bad set of fellows and it was a very pleasant day to be dining, with the reflections of sunlight on the water bouncing off the painted deckhead and the polished glasses.
Two days later the weather wore a different aspect. Since dawn Antigone had worked closer inshore under easy sail, having been informed by signal that some unusual activity was taking place in the harbour and anchorage of Boulogne Road. By noon the wind, which had been steadily freshening from the north during the forenoon, began to blow hard, sending a sharp sea running round Cap Gris Nez and among the considerable numbers of invasion craft anchored under the guns of Boulogne's defences.
The promise of activity, either action with the enemy or the need to reef down, had aroused the curiosity of the officers and the watch on deck. A dozen glasses were trained to the eastward.
'Mr Frey, make to Constitution to come within hail.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' The bunting rose jerkily to the lee mizen topsail yard and broke out. Drinkwater watched the hired cutter that two days earlier had brought their new lieutenant. She tacked and lay her gunwhale over until she luffed under the frigate's stern. Drinkwater could see her commander, Lieutenant Dennis, standing expectantly on a gun-carriage. He raised a speaking-trumpet.
'Alert Captain Owen of the movement in the Road!' He saw Dennis wave and the jib of Constitution was held aback as she spun on her heel and lay over again on a broad reach to the west where Owen in the Immortalité was at anchor with the frigate Leda. Owen was locally the senior officer of Keith's 'Boulogne division' and it was incumbent upon Drinkwater to let him know of any unusual movements of the French that might be taken advantage of.
'Well, gentlemen, let's slip the hounds off the leash. Mr Frey, make to Harpy, Bloodhound and Archer Number Sixteen: "Engage the enemy more closely".' The 18-gun sloop and the two little gun-brigs were a mile or so to the eastward and eager for such a signal. Within minutes they were freeing off and running towards the dark cluster of French bateaux above which the shapes of sails were being hoisted.
'Mr Hill, a man in the chains with a lead. Beat to quarters and clear for action, Mr Rogers.' He stood beside the helmsmen. 'Up helm. Lee forebrace there…'
Antigone eased round to starboard under her topsails and began to bear down on the French coast. The sun was already westering in a bloody riot of purple cloud and great orange streaks of mare's tails presaging more wind on the morrow. Antigone stood on, coming within clear visual range of the activity in the anchorage.
'Forty-four, forty-five brigs and—what've you got on that slate, Frey?—forty-three luggers, sir,' reported Quilhampton, who had been diligently counting the enemy vessels as the sun broke briefly through the cloud and shot rays of almost horizontal light over the sea, foreshortening distances and rendering everything suddenly clear. Then it sank from view and left the silhouettes of the Immortalité and Leda on the horizon, coming in from the west.