Jessup ran his hand possessively over the proud curve of the beak and nodded to a small padlocked hatch let into the stem cant and surrounded by gratings.
'Magazine 'atch.' He turned forward pointing at the guns. 'Mounts twelve guns, sir. Ten three-pounders and two long brass fours forrard, throws a broadside of nineteen pounds. She's seventy-two feet on the gun deck, nigh on one 'undred and twenty-five tons…' he trailed off, still suspicious, weighing up the newcomer.
'You been in cutters before, sir?'
Drinkwater looked at him. It did not do to give too much away, he thought. Jessup would know soon enough. He thought of the buoy-yacht Argus. It was his turn to look enigmatic.
'Good heavens yes, Mr Jessup. I've served extensively in cutters. You'll not find me wanting there.'
Jessup sniffed. Somehow that indrawn air allowed him the last word, as if it indicated a secret knowledge that Drinkwater could not be a party to. Yet.
'Here's the boat, sir, with your traps.' Jessup walked over to the side to hail it. To seal the advantage he had over the newcomer he spat forcefully into the gliding waters of the Thames.
Shortly before noon the following day the captain had come on board. Lieutenant Griffiths removed his hat, ran a searching eye over the ship and sniffed the wind. He acknowledged Drinkwater's salute with a nod. The lieutenant was tall and stoop-shouldered, his sad features crowned by a mane of white hair that lent his sixty-odd years a patriarchal quality. A Welshman of untypical silences he seemed to personify an ancient purpose that might have been Celtic, Cymric or perhaps faerie. Born in Caernarfon he had served as mate in Liverpool slavers before being pressed into the navy. He had risen in the King's service by sheer ability and escaped that degree of intolerance of his former messmates that disfigured many of his type. Lord Howe had given him his commission, declaring that there was no man fitter to rise in the navy than Madoc Griffiths who was, his lordship asserted in his curious idiom, an ornament to his profession. Whatever the idiosyncracies of his self-expression 'Black Dick' was right. As Drinkwater subsequently learnt there was no facet of the cutter's activities of which Griffiths was not master. A first, superficial impression that his new commander might be a superannuated relic was almost instantly dispelled.
Drinkwater's reception had been guarded. In a silence that was disconcerting Griffiths examined Drinkwater's papers. Then he leaned back and coolly studied the man in front of him.
A week short of twenty-nine, Drinkwater was lean and of medium height. A weathered complexion told of continuous sea service. The grey eyes were alert and intelligent, capable of concentration and determination. There were hints of these qualities in the crowsfeet about the eyes and the pale thread of a scar that puckered down from the left eye. But the furrows that ran down from the straight nose to the corners of a well-shaped mouth were prematurely deep and seemed to constrain more than a hint of passion.
Was there a weakness there? Griffiths pondered, appraising the high forehead, the mop of brown hair drawn back into a black ribboned queue. There was a degree of sensitivity, he thought, but not sensuousness, the face was too open. Then he had it; the passion of temper lurked in the clamped corners of that mouth, a temper born of disappointment and disillusion, belied by the level eyes but recognisable to a Welshman. There was something suppressed about the man before him, a latent energy that Griffiths, in isolating, found reassuring. 'Duw but this man's a terrible fighter,' he muttered to himself and relaxed.
'Sit you down, Mr Drinkwater.' Griffiths's voice was deep and quiet, adding to the impression of otherworldliness. He enunciated his words with that clarity of diction peculiar to some of his race. 'Your papers do you credit. I see that your substantive rank is that of master's mate and that you held an acting commission at the end of the American War… it was not confirmed?'
'No sir. I was given to understand the matters had been laid before Sir Richard Kempenfelt but…' He shrugged, remembering Captain Hope's promise as he left for the careening battleship. Griffiths looked up.
'The Royal George was it?'
'Yes sir. It didn't seem important at the time…'
'But ten years is a long while to keep a sense of proportion.' Griffiths finished the sentence for him. The two men smiled and it seemed to both that a hurdle had been crossed. 'Still, you have gained excellent experience in the Trinity Yachts, have you not?'
'I believe so, sir.' Drinkwater sensed his commander's approval.
'For my personal satisfaction, bach, I require your oath that no matter discussed between us is repeated beyond these bulkheads.' Griffiths's tone was soft yet uncompromising and his eyes were briefly cold. Drinkwater closed his imagination to a sudden vision of appalling facts. He remembered another secret learned long ago, knowledge of which had culminated in death in the swamps of Carolina. He sighed.
'You have my word, as a King's officer.' Drinkwater stared back. The shadow had not gone unnoticed by Griffiths. The lieutenant relaxed. So, he thought, there was experience too. 'Da iawn,' he muttered.
'This cutter is under the direct orders of the Admiralty. I, er, execute an unusual office, do you see. We attend to certain government business on the French coast at certain times and at certain locations.'
'I see, sir.' But he did not. In an attempt to expand his knowledge he said, 'And your orders come from Lord Dungarth, sir?'
Griffiths regarded him again and Drinkwater feared he had been importunate. He felt the colour rising to his cheeks but Griffiths said, 'Ah, I had forgotten, you knew him from Cyclops.'
'Yes, sir. He seems much changed, although it is some years since I last spoke to him.'
Griffiths nodded. 'Aye, and you found the change intimidating, did you?'
Drinkwater nodded, aware that again Griffiths had exactly expressed his own feelings. 'He lost his wife, you know, in childbed.'
Drinkwater did not keep pace with society gossip but he had been aware of Dungarth's marriage with Charlotte Dixon, an India merchant's daughter of fabled wealth and outstanding beauty. He had also heard how even Romney had failed to do her likeness justice. He began to see how the loss of his countess had shrivelled that once high-spirited soul and left a ruthless bitterness. As if confirming his thoughts Griffiths said, 'I think if he had not taken on the French republic he would have gone mad…'
The old man rose and opened a locker. Taking two glasses and a decanter he poured the sercial and deftly changed the subject. 'The vessel is aptly named, Mr Drinkwater,' he resumed his seat and continued. 'Falco tinnunculus is characterised by its ability to hover, seeking out the exact location of its prey before it stoops. It lives upon mice, shrews and beetles, small fry, Mr Drinkwater, bach, but beetles can eat away an oak beam…' He paused to drain and refill his glass. 'Are you seeing the point of my allegory?'
'I, er, I think so, sir.' Griffiths refilled Drinkwater's glass.
'I mention these circumstances for two reasons. Lord Dungarth spoke highly of you, partly from your previous acquaintance and also on the recommendation of the Trinity House. I trust, therefore, that my own confidence in you will not prove misplaced. You will be responsible for our navigation. Remonstrations on lee shores are inimical to secret operations. Understand, do you?'
Drinkwater nodded, aware of the intended irony and continuing to warm to his new commander.
'Very well,' Griffiths continued. 'The second reason is less easy to confess and I tell you this, Mr Drinkwater, because there is a possibility of command devolving upon you, perhaps in adverse circumstances or at an inconvenient time…' Drinkwater frowned. This was more alarming than the previous half-expected revelations. 'Many years ago on the Gambian coast I contracted a fever. From time to time I am afflicted by seizures.'