A King's Cutter

'Scratch!' He shouted.

An obsequiously cowed clerk entered, dragging a misshapen foot behind him. 'Sir?'

'Present complement and dispositions please.'

'Ah, yes sir, er,' the man thought for a moment then rattled off, 'two hundred and ninety-one men on board sir. Sixty-two prime seamen, eighty-five with previous service, ninety-one mayor's men and fifty-three from the parishes. Er, three tailors among 'em, four blacksmiths, a locksmith, four cobblers, one apothecary under sentence for incest…' The man's eyes gleamed and Drinkwater was reminded of some carrion eater that subsisted on the dying bodies of ruined men.

'Yes, yes,' said the regulating captain testily, obviously considering his clerk was ruining his own case, 'now the dispositions.'

'Ah, yes, sir, well, most for Captain Troubridge on the Culloden, thirty-eight to go to Plymouth for Engadine, two dozen for Pomone, six to be discharged as unfit and the balance replacements for the Channel Fleet, sir, leaving a few odds and ends…'

'They will do us, sir,' suggested Drinkwater in an ill-timed remark that robbed the regulating captain of his triumph.

'Hold your damned tongue!' He snapped, nodding his thanks to the clerk. 'Now my young shaver, you perceive I do not have men to spare for your cutter. Tell your commander he can do his own recruiting. As far as I'm concerned the thing's impossible, quite impossible. My lieutenants are out scouring the country for the fleet, your damned cutter can go to the devil!' The regulating captain's face was belligerently red. He dismissed Drinkwater with a wave and the latter followed the sallow, misshapen little clerk in brown drab out of the cabin.

Furious Drinkwater made eagerly for the side, anxious to escape the stink of the ship when he felt a hand on his arm. 'Do not act so intemperately, young man, pray stay a moment.' The clerk's tone was all wheedling. 'For a consideration, sir,' he whined, 'I might be able to oblige a young gentleman…'

Drinkwater turned back, contempt rising in him like bile in the throat. Then he recalled the state of the cutter and the pressing need for those few extra men. He swallowed his dislike. Finding he had a couple of sovereigns on him he held one out to the clerk who took it in the palm of his hand and stared at it.

Drinkwater sighed and gave him the second coin. Like a gin-trap the man's hand closed on the gold and he spoke insolently. 'Now, young man, we can perhaps do a little business… your name?' The clerk opened his book on an upright desk and ran a finger down a column of names, muttering to himself. He drew up a list and handed it to Drinkwater. 'There, Mr Drinkwater, six men for your cutter…' he chuckled wickedly, 'you might find the apothecary useful…'

'Send a boat for 'em in the morning,' said Griffiths, removing his hat and sitting heavily. Merrick brought in a pot of coffee and a letter. Griffiths opened it and snorted. 'Huh! and about time too. It seems we are at last to be manned on the proper establishment,' his face dropped, 'oh…'

'What is it, sir?'

'You… you are to sail as master, your acting commission will be revoked. As we are no longer on special service only one commissioned officer is required.' Griffiths lowered the letter. 'I am very sorry.'

'But we are operating under Dungarth's orders,' said Drinkwater bitterly.

Griffiths shook his head, 'Nominally we're part of MacBride's squadron now, clerks, Mr Drinkwater, the bloody world is run by clerks.'

Drinkwater felt a terrible sense of disappointment. Just when Kestrel's fortunes seemed to offer some promise after the long sojourn in the dockyard this news came.

'No matter, sir. What is to be our complement?' he asked hurriedly, eager for distraction.

'Er, myself, you as sailing master, two mates, Jessup, Johnson the carpenter, a warrant gunner named Traveller, a purser named Thompson and a surgeon named Appleby'

'Appleby?'

'God, man, we're going to be damned cramped.'

The six men sent from the Royal William were a pathetic group. They were not, by any stretch of the imagination, seamen. Even after three days on board Short's starter and Jessup's rattan had failed to persuade them that they were in the navy. Above his head Drinkwater could hear the poor devils being roundly abused as he discussed the final stowing of the cutter's stores and powder with Jessup. Already he foresaw the course events would take. They would be bullied until one of them would be provoked into a breach of discipline. The flogging that would inevitably follow would brutalise them all. Drinkwater sighed, aware that these things had to be.

'Well, Mr Jessup, we'll have to conclude these arrangements in the gunner's absence. I just hope he's graced us with his presence by the time we're ready to sail.'

'Aye sir, he'll be here. I seen him last evening Gosport side but Jemmy Traveller is like to be last to join. His wife runs a pie shop near the ordnance yard. Jemmy's always busy counting shillings and making guineas.'

'So you know him?'

Jessup nodded. 'Aye with him in the Edgar. With Lord Rodney when we thrashed the Dons in eighty.'

'The Moonlight Action?'

'Aye, the same.'

'I remember…' But Drinkwater's reminiscences were abruptly curtailed by a shout on deck.

'Hey, sirrah! What in God's name d'you think you're about? Instruct the man, thrashing him is of no use.'

'What the devil?' Drinkwater leapt up and made for the companionway. He reached the deck as a portly man climbed awkwardly down from the rail. The familiar figure of Appleby stood scowling at Short.

'Ah, Nathaniel, I'm appointed surgeon to this, this,' he gestured extravagantly round him and gave up. Then he shot a black look at Short. 'Who's this damned lubber?'

The bosun's mate was furious at the intrusion. Veins stood out on his forehead as he contained his rage, the starter dangling from his wrist vibrated slightly from the effort it was costing Short.

'This is Short, Mr Appleby, bosun's mate and a first-class seaman.' Drinkwater took in the situation at a glance, aware that his reaction was crucial both to discipline and to those petty factions that always cankered in an over-crowded man o'war.

'Very well, Mr Short, if they cannot yet splice you must remember it takes time to make a real seaman of a landlubber.' He smiled at Short, who slowly perceived the compliment, and turned to the new hands who were beginning to realise Appleby might prove an ally. Drinkwater spoke sharply but not unkindly. 'You men had better realise your duty is plain and you're obliged to attend to it or take the consequences. These can be a deal more painful than Mr Short's starter or Mr Jessup's cane…' He left the sentence in mid air, hoping they would take heed of it. Comprehension began to spread across the face of one of them and Drinkwater grasped Appleby's elbow and propelled him aft. He felt the surgeon resist then succumb. Reaching the companionway Drinkwater called forward, 'Mr Short! Have those men get the surgeon's traps aboard, lively now!'

Appleby was slightly mollified by this piece of solicitude and his natural sociability gave way to Drinkwater's distracting barrage of questions.

'So what happened to Diamond? How's the squadron managing without us? How much prize money has Richard White made? What on earth are you doing here? I wondered if it was to be you when Griffiths mentioned the name, but I couldn't see you exchanging out of a frigate for our little ship.' Appleby felt himself shoved into a tiny box of a cabin and heard his young friend bawl for coffee. Drinkwater laughed as he saw the expression on the surgeon's face. Appleby was taking in his surroundings.