'See to that at once, Mr Drinkwater, and when you have done so sway out both gigs, run the larboard broadside out and the starboard in as far as the breechings will permit. It's a grand day for scraping the weed from the waterline and there'll be no wind before nightfall.'
If the mood of his sailing master had lightened his heart Lieutenant Griffiths did not find that of his surgeon so enjoyable. He looked up at Appleby an hour later from a table split by sunny squares let in through the skylight while from overside the rasp of bass brushes attacked the weed.
'He's not yet fit to return to duty,' said Appleby cautiously.
'Who is not fit, Mr Appleby? Bolton is it?'
'Yes sir,' said Appleby, aware that Griffiths was being deliberately obtuse.
'The man I had flogged?'
'Yes sir. He took it badly. At least three of Short's stripes were low, one seems to have damaged the left kidney.' Griffiths's face was expressionless. 'There has been some internal haemorrhaging, passing out with the man's urine, he's weak and the fever persists.'
'So cosset him, doctor, until he's fit again.'
'Yes sir.' Appleby stood his ground.
'Is there something else?'
'Sir, I…' Perspiration stood like pearls on Appleby's forehead as he balanced himself against the increasing list induced by the gun trucks squealing overhead as they prepared to scrape the other side. 'I was sorry that you found it necessary to flog Bolton, sir, his state of mind concerns me. I had thought you a most humane officer…'
'Until now?' asked Griffiths sharply, his eyebrows knitting together in a ferocious expression made more terrifying by the colour mounting to his cheeks. Appleby's courage was tested and, though his chins quivered gently, he lowered his head in silent assent.
With an effort Griffiths mastered himself and rose slowly to his feet, expelling breath in a long, low whistle. He leaned forward resting himself on his hands.
'Mr Appleby, indiscipline is a most serious crime in a man of war, especially when striking a superior is concerned…' He held up a hand to stop Appleby's protest. 'Provocation is no mitigation. That too is in the nature of things. We live in a far from perfect world, Mr Appleby, a fact that you should by now have come to terms with. As commander I am not permitted the luxury of sympathising with the individual.' Griffiths looked significantly at Appleby. 'Even the well-intentioned may sometimes be misguided, Mr Appleby.' He paused, allowing the implication to sink in. The surgeon's mouth opened and then closed again, Griffiths went on.
'There is some deep unhappiness in Bolton. Ah, you are surprised I noticed, eh? Nevertheless I did,' Griffiths smiled wryly. 'And Short tripped the spring of some rare device in his brain. Well Short has a sore belly as a consequence, see, so some justice had been done. I appreciate your concern but, if Bolton is a rotten apple you must see Kestrel as little more than a barrel full of ripe ones.' Griffiths paused and, just as Appleby opened his mouth to speak, added 'I offer this explanation not to justify myself but out of respect for your intelligence.'
Appleby grunted. He knew Bolton's insubordination could not go unpunished but he felt the case justified a court-martial at a later date. Griffiths's summary justice had clashed with his professional opinion. By way of rebuke Griffiths added 'Mr Drinkwater has suggested that Bolton comes aft as an additional messman. I am sorry that the suggestion did not come from you.'
Griffiths watched Appleby leave the cabin. It was strange how two men could take alarm from the same cause and react so differently as a result. Or was it his own reactions that were so disparate? Prejudice and partiality played such a large part in the affairs of men it was impossible to say.
Christmas and the arrival of 1796 passed almost unnoticed by the crew of Kestrel. They had not been long left independent and a peremptory order to join Admiral MacBride in the Downs had put paid to their chasing in the Channel after the mauling they had received from the Étoile du Diable. Although they did not know it at the time the failure of Dungarth's department to locate the mysterious Capitaine Santhonax had brought him into worse odour with their Lordships than his remonstrances over Howe's failure to turn Brown's intelligence reports to good account in 1794. As a consequence Kestrel found herself employed on pedestrian duties. In company with the ship-sloop Atropos the cutter was assigned to convoy work. From the Thames to the Tyne and back again with two score or so of colliers, brigs and barques, all commanded by hard case Geordie masters with independent views was, as Nathaniel had predicted, boring work. It could be humiliating too. When Kestrel was ordered up to Leith Road to escort the crack passenger and mail smack to London with a cargo of gold, the packet master treated the occasion as a race. With a prime crew protected by press exemption and a reputation for smart passages, the smack proved a formidable opponent. She had a fuller hull than her escort and properly should have been beaten by the man o'war cutter. But Kestrel carried her mainsail away off Flamborough Head while the smack drove on and left her hull down astern of the packet. Had not the wind hauled to the south-east and Kestrel not been able to point harder by virtue of her new centre plates, they might never have seen their charge again. As it was they caught her by the Cockle Gatt and stormed through Yarmouth Roads neck and neck with the flood tide under them.
During the summer they had idled round the dispersed herring fleet in the North Sea on fishery protection. Sickened by a diet of herrings, all chance of action seemed to elude them. Only twice did they have to chase off marauders, both Dutch and neither very eager. The expected depredations of French corsairs never materialised and it was confidently asserted that a nation that subsisted on snails and frogs was unlikely to have the sense to favour herrings. In reality French privateers found richer pickings in the Channel.
The war was going badly for Britain. In January Admiral Christian's West Indies expedition was severely mauled by bad weather and dispersed. In February a Dutch squadron got out of the Texel and then, in late summer, Spain went over to the French camp in an uneasy alliance.
At the conclusion of the fishing season Kestrel was ordered to refit before the onset of winter, the weatherly cutters being better ships to keep the sea than larger, more vulnerable units of the fleet. Along with these orders came news that Sir Sydney Smith had been taken prisoner on a boat expedition.
It brought a measure of personal satisfaction to Harry Appleby.
Leaning on the rail Drinkwater stared across the muddy waters of the Medway, over the flat extreme of the Isle of Grain to the Nore lightvessel, a half smile on his face
'What the deuce are you grinning at, Nat?' Drinkwater's reverie was abruptly shattered by the portly bulk of Appleby.
'Nothing Harry, nothing.' He crackled the letter in his pocket.
'Thinking of Elizabeth no doubt.' Appleby looked sideways. 'Ah you are surprised our worthy commander is not the only person capable of divining others' thoughts,' he added with a trace of bitterness, 'and the symptoms of love have long been known. Oh, I know you think I'm good only for sawing off limbs and setting broken bones, but there's little enough of that to occupy me so that I am reduced to observing my fellows.'