He took refuge in the satisfaction of a duty acquitted and an increased belief in providence. As fatigue tamed the feelings raging in him since the battle, numbing his recollections, he felt better able to trust himself to write his report.
…the vessels were laid board and board, Drinkwater wrote carefully, and after a sharp engagement the Draaken, despatch vessel, was carried.
I have to inform you that the enemy defended themselves with great gallantry and inflicted severe losses on the boarders. All of the latter, however, conducted themselves as befitted British seamen and in particular James Thompson, Purser, Edward Jessup, Boatswain, and Jeremiah Traveller, Gunner, who died in the action or of mortal wounds sustained therein.
He paused, reflecting on the stilted formality of the phraseology. One final piece of information needed to be included before this list of dead and wounded.
He began to write again. Among those captured was a French naval officer, Capitaine de frégate Edouard Santhonax, known to your Honour to have been an agent of the French Government. Among his papers were found the enclosed documents relative to a proposed descent upon Ireland. Drinkwater carefully inscribed his signature.
When he had appended the butcher's bill he went on deck. The frightful casualties inflicted on their number could not damp the morale of the crew. The Kestrels shared a common sense of relief at being spared, and a corporate pride in the possession of the Draaken, following astern under the command of Mr Hill, whose gashed arm seemed not to trouble him.
Drinkwater could not be offended at the mood of the crew. Of all the Kestrels he knew he and Appleby were alone in their sense of moral oppression. It was not callousness the men displayed, only a wonderful appreciation of the transient nature of the world. Drinkwater found he envied them that, and he called them aft to thank them formally, for their conduct. It all sounded unbelievably pompous but the men listened with silent attention. It would have amused Elizabeth, he thought, as he watched the cautiously smiling seamen. He felt better for those smiles, better for thinking of Elizabeth again, aware that he had not dared contemplate a future since the Dutch showed signs of emerging from the Texel. The grey windy morning was suddenly less gloomy and the sight of Adamant out of the corner of his eye was strangely moving.
He completed his speech and a thin cheer ran through the men. Drinkwater turned to the grey bundles between the guns. There were thirteen of them.
He had murdered and harangued and now he must bury his dead in an apparently meaningless succession of contradictory rituals.
From the torn pocket of his grubby coat he took the leather prayer book that had once belonged to his father-in-law and began to read, 'I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord…' and overhead the bright bunting snapped in the wind.
Duncan's fleet anchored at the Nore to the Plaudits of Parliament and the gratitude of the nation. At first the strategic consequences of the battle were of secondary importance to the relief of ministers. Despite the mutiny the North Sea fleet was unimpaired in efficiency. The seamen had vindicated themselves and the Government had been justified in its intransigence. Vicarious glory was reflected on all parties, euphoria was the predominating emotion and honours were heaped upon the victors. Admiral Duncan's earlier ambition of quiet retirement with an Irish peerage was eclipsed by his being made a baron and viscount of Great Britain, Onslow was made a baronet, Trollope and Fairfax knights and all the first lieutenants of the line of battleships were promoted to commander. Medals were struck, swords presented and the thanks of both Houses of Parliament voted unanimously to the fleet. The latter was held to be, as Tregembo succinctly put it, of less use than his own nipples. Before reporting to Duncan, Drinkwater interviewed Santhonax.
The Frenchman could only mutter with difficulty, his lacerated mouth painfully bruised round the crude join Appleby had made of his cheek. He had given his name after prompting, using English, but Drinkwater had troubled him little after that, too preoccupied with managing the damaged cutter with half his crew dead or wounded.
But on the morning they anchored at the Nore, Santhonax was a little better and asked to see Drinkwater.
'Who are you?' he asked, through clenched teeth but in an accent little disfigured by foreign intonation.
'My name, sir, is Drinkwater.'
Santhonax nodded and muttered 'Boireleau…' as if committing it to memory then, in a louder voice, 'you are not the commander of this vessel?'
'I am now.'
'And the old man… Griffiths?'
'You know him?' Drinkwater was surprised and lost his chill formality. Santhonax began to smile but broke off, wincing.
'The quarry always knows the hunter… your boat is well named, La Crécerelle.'
'Why did you hang Brown?'
'He was a spy, he knew too much… he was an enemy of the Revolution and of France.'
'And you?'
'I am a prisoner of war, M'sieur Boireleau…' This time Santhonax crinkled the skin about his eyes. Stung, Drinkwater retorted, 'We have evidence to hang you. We have Hortense Montholon in custody.'
Santhonax's sneer was cut short. He looked like a man unexpectedly whipped. What colour he had, drained from his face.
'Take him away,' snapped Drinkwater to Hill, standing edgily behind the prisoner, 'and then have my gig made ready.'
'Drinkwater, good to see you, my word but what a drubbing we gave 'em and what a thundering good fight they put up, eh?' Burroughs met him at Venerable's entry port, bubbling with good spirits and new rank. He gestured round the fleet, 'hardly a spark knocked down among the lot of us but hulls like colanders… by heaven but I'm glad we did for 'em, damned if I'd like another taste of that… not a single prize that's worth taking into service… except perhaps yours, eh?'
'Aye, sir, but it's already cost a lot.'
Burroughs became serious. 'Aye, indeed. Our losses were fearful, over a thousand killed and wounded… but come, the admiral wants a word with you, I was about to send a midshipman to fetch you.'
Drinkwater followed Burroughs under the poop and was swept past the marine sentry. 'Mr Drinkwater, my Lord.' Burroughs winked at him and left. Drinkwater advanced to where Duncan was writing at his desk, its baize cloth lost under sheaves of paper.
'Sit down,' said the admiral wearily, without looking up, and Drinkwater gingerly lowered himself on to an upright chair, still stiff from the bruises and cuts of Camperdown. He felt the chair had suffered the repose of many backsides in the last twenty-four hours.
At last Duncan raised his head. 'Ah, Mr Drinkwater, I believe we have some unfinished business to attend to, eh?'
Drinkwater's heart missed a beat. He felt suddenly that he had made some terrible mistake, failed to execute his orders, to repeat signals. He swallowed and held out a packet. 'My report, my Lord…'
Duncan took it and slit the seal. Rubbing tired eyes he read while Drinkwater sat silently listening to the pounding of his own heart. The white paintwork of the great cabin was cracked and flaking where Dutch shot had impacted the Venerable's side and in one area planks had been hastily nailed in place. A chill draught ran through the cabin and a faint residual stain on the scrubbed deck showed where one of Venerable's men had bled.
He heard Duncan sigh. 'So you've taken a prisoner, Mr Drinkwater?'