It was odd that there had not been trouble over the Beaubigny affair since it seemed that only a pretext was wanted, a spark to fire the dry tinder of international relations. And it was not just the Jacobins who were eager for war. He had had dinner with Appleby and Richard White two nights earlier. White was already a lieutenant with five year's seniority and the air of a post-captain. His standing was high enough to command an appointment as second lieutenant on Sir Sydney[1] Smith's crack frigate Diamond. He had drunk to the prospects of 'glorious war' with a still boyish enthusiasm which had made Appleby curl his lip.
The dinner had been only a qualified success. Revived friendships had a quality of regret about them. White had become an urbane young man, possessed of disproportionate self-confidence so that Drinkwater had difficulty in recognising the frightened boy who had once sobbed in the blackness of Cyclops's cockpit. Appleby too, had changed. The years had not been kind to him. The once portly surgeon had the loose flesh of penury, something of the old buoyancy was missing, eroded by years of loneliness and hard living, but beneath the ravages of time there were glimpses of the old Appleby, pedagoguish, prolix but astute as ever.
'Bound to be war,' he had said in answer to Drinkwater's worried questioning, while White eagerly agreed. 'And it will be a collision of mighty forces which England will be hard put to defeat. Oh, you can scoff, Mr White, but you siblings that thirst for glory chase moonbeams.'
'He's still a boy,' Appleby had muttered when the lieutenant had gone to relieve himself. 'But God help his men when he's made post, which will not be long if this war comes soon. I hope their lordships give him a tolerant, experienced and understanding first lieutenant.'
'He's certainly changed,' agreed Drinkwater, 'it seems he's been spoiled.'
'Promotion too rapid, cully. It works for a few, but not all.'
No, the dinner had not been a success.
Yet it was not entirely the bickering of his old friends that had failed to make it so. It was the approach of war that stirred unease in Nathaniel. The faint, inescapable thrill of coming excitement mixed with the fear he had already felt on the beach at Beaubigny caused his pulse to race, even now.
If war came was this tiny cutter the place to be? What chance had he of promotion? He must not think of competing with White, that was impossible. In any case Kestrel was a fine little ship.
Providence had brought him here and he must submit to his fate. It had not been entirely unkind to him so far. He contemplated the shelf of books, his own journals and the notebooks left him by Mr Blackmore, late sailing master of Cyclops. He had been touched by that bequest. The mahogany box containing his quadrant was lashed in a corner and his Dollond glass nestled in the pocket of his coat, hung on the door peg with the French sword. A collection of purchases, gifts and loot; the sum total of his possessions. Not much after thirty years of existence. Then his eye fell on the watercolour of the Algonquin off St Mawes, painted for him by his wife.
A knock at the door recalled him to the present. 'What is it?'
'Boat, zur.'
He threw his legs over the rim of the cot. 'Lieutenant Griffiths?'
'Aye zur.'
'Very well, I'll be up directly' He slipped into his shoes and drew on the plain blue coat. Opening the door he jammed his hat on his head and leapt for the ladder, clearing the companionway with a bound and sucking gratefully at the raw, frosty air.
Griffiths brought orders from the port admiral. That afternoon Kestrel took the tide into the Barn Pool and warped alongside the mast hulk Chichester. The following morning the dockyard officials came aboard and consulted Griffiths. By the time the hands were piped to dinner Kestrel's standing rigging had been sent down and by nightfall her lower mast had been drawn out of her by the hulk's sheers. Next day the carpenters were busy altering her carlings to take the new mast.
'We're to fit a longer topmast,' Griffiths explained, 'to set a square t'gallant above the topsail, see.' He swallowed the madeira and looked at Drinkwater. 'I don't think we'll be playing cat and mouse again, bach, not after that episode at Beaubigny. We're going to look a regular man o'war cutter when the artificers have finished, and become a bloody nursemaid to the fleet. Now, to other matters. The clerk of the cheque will see the men are paid before Christmas. But they're to have only half of their due until after, see. Give 'em the lot and they'll be leaving their brains in the gutters along with their guts and we'll have to beg the foot patrols for help. I want a crew aboard this cutter after Christmas.'
Drinkwater acknowledged the sense of Griffiths's draconian measures. His commander had somewhat anticipated the festive season, if his high colouring and desire to talk were anything to go by.
'And let the pawn shops know the people are being paid. That way their women might get to hear of it and it may not all go down the drain.' He paused to drink, then reached into his tail pocket. 'Here, this was given me at the port admiral's office.' He pulled out a crumpled letter and held it out. The superscription was in a familiar hand.
'Thank you, sir.' Drinkwater took the letter and turned it over, impatient for the privacy of his own cabin. Griffiths hoisted himself on to his settee and closed his eyes. Drinkwater made to leave.
'Oh, Mr Drinkwater,' an eye opened. 'The importunate ninny with an undeserved cockade who gave me that letter told me I ought to give you leave over Christmas.' Drinkwater paused, looking from the letter to Griffiths. 'I do not hold with such impertinence.' There was a long silence during which the eye slowly closed. Drinkwater stepped puzzled into the lobby.
'You can take leave when that t'gallant yard is crossed, Mr Drinkwater, and not a moment sooner.'
Half smiling Drinkwater closed the door and slipped into his own cubbyhole. He hastily slit the wafer and began to read.
My Darling Nathaniel,
I write in haste. Richd White called on me today on his way to see Sir S. Smith's prize agent at Portsmouth and promised to collect a letter for you on his return this evening. He is expectant of seeing you in Plymouth I understand. Thank you for yours of 29th. The news that you are likely to be idle at Plymouth combines with my great anxiety and apprehension I feel over the news of France and I worry greatly. Should it be true that war is likely as Richd is convinced, I cannot miss an opportunity to see my dearest. Please meet the London mail Christmas Eve. Until then, my love,
I remain, Ever your Devoted Wife,
Elizabeth
Drinkwater grinned to himself in anticipation. Perhaps his judgement of White had been a trifle premature. Only a friend would have thought of that. Warmed by his friend's solicitude and happy that he was soon to see Elizabeth he threw himself into the refitting of the cutter with enthusiasm. And for a time the shadow of war receded from his mind.
The topgallant yard was crossed, braced and the new sail sent up and bent on by the 23rd December. By the morning of Christmas Eve the rigging was set up. Drinkwater notified the clerk of the cheque and he sent a shrivelled little man with a bound chest, a marine guard and a book as big as a hatch-board to pay the cutter's people. By noon the harbour watch had been set and Kestrel was almost deserted, many of her crew of volunteers being residents of Plymouth. Free of duty, Drinkwater hurried below to shift his coat, ship his hanger and then made his way ashore. He was met by Tregembo who knuckled his forehead, ablaze in all the festive finery of a tar, despite the chill, with a beribboned hat and blue monkey jacket spangled with brass buttons, a black kerchief at his muscular neck, and feet shoved awkwardly into cheap pumps.