'I booked your room, zur, at Wilson's like you axed, zur, an' beggin' your pardon, zur, but the London mail's delayed.'
'Damn!' Drinkwater fished in his pocket for a coin, aware of Tregembo looking nervously over his shoulder. Behind him stood a girl of about twenty, square built and sturdy, slightly truculent in the presence of the officer, as though embarrassed for the station of her man. The red ribbon in her hair was carelessly worn, as though new purchased and tied with more ardour than art. 'Here,' he began to fish for another coin. Tregembo flushed.
'No, zur. It ain't that, er, zur, I was wondering if I could…' He hung his head.
'I expect you aboard by dawn on the 26th or I'll have every foot patrol in Plymouth out for a deserter.' Drinkwater saw the look of relief cross Tregembo's face.
'Thank 'ee, zur, and a merry Christmas to you an' Mrs Drinkwater.'
Elizabeth arrived at last, wearied by her journey and worried over the possibility of war. They greeted each other shyly and there was a reticence about them, as if their previous intimacies were not to be repeated until released from their present preoccupations. But the wine warmed them and their own company insulated them at last against the world outside, so that it was breakfast of Christmas morning before Elizabeth first spoke of what troubled her.
'Do you think war is likely, Nathaniel?'
Drinkwater regarded the face before him, the frown on the broad sweep of the brow, the swimmingly beautiful brown eyes and the lower lip of her wide mouth caught apprehensively in her teeth. He was melted with pity for her, aware that for him war might have its terrible compensations and grim opportunities, whereas for her it offered the corrosion of waiting. Perhaps for the remainder of her life. He wanted to lie to her, to tell her everything would be all right, to soothe her fears with platitudes. But that would be contemptible. Leaving her with a false half-hope would be worse than the truth.
He nodded. 'Everyone is of the opinion that if the French invade Holland it is most likely. For my own part, Bess, I promise you this, I shall be circumspect and take no unnecessary risks. Here,' he reached out for the coffee pot, 'let us drink a toast to ourselves and to our future. I shall try for my commission and at the present rate of progress, retire a half-pay commander, superannuated through old age to bore you with tales of my exploits…' He saw her lips twist. Elizabeth, bless her, was gently mocking him.
He grinned back. 'I shall not be foolhardy, Bess, I promise.'
'No, of course not,' she said taking the coffee cup from him. And as he withdrew his hand the mark of the splinter was still visible on his palm.
'Hannibal, sir, Captain Colpoys, just in from a cruise. Missed Christmas, poor devils.' Both men regarded the battleship anchoring across the Sound.
Griffiths nodded. 'The big boy-o's have all shaken the cobwebs from their topsails and are back to ground on their own chicken bones again. It's time we put to sea again Mr Drinkwater. This is a time for little birds with keen eyes; the elephants can wait a while longer. D'you have my gig ready in ten minutes.'
Waiting for Griffiths to return from the port admiral's, Drinkwater paced the deck. The hands were making preparation to sail, skylarking until sent below by a fine drizzle, while he was oblivious of the grey pall that rolled up the Hamoaze.
Farewells, he concluded, were damnable.
Tregembo came aft and stood uncertainly next to him.
'What is it Tregembo?'
The seaman looked unhappily at his feet. 'I was wondering, zur…'
'Don't tell me you want leave of absence to see your doxy?'
Tregembo hung his head in assent.
'Damn it Tregembo, you'll get her with child or catch pox. I'm damned if I'll physic you!' Drinkwater instantly regretted the unkindness caused by his own misery.
'She ain't like that, zur… and I only want a quarter hour, zur.'
Drinkwater thought of Elizabeth. 'Damn it Tregembo, not a moment more then.'
'Thank 'ee, zur, thank 'ee.' Drinkwater watched him hurry off. Idly he wondered what the future held. The shots at Beaubigny might have formed a pretext for war, for Kestrel's broadside had been an aggressive act. It was odd that the French had not made more of it, at least one of their men had been killed. But the advantages of peace were being protested by Pitt and such an insignificant cruiser as Kestrel could not be allowed to provide a casus belli. That, at least, had been the British position, and she had been kept refitting at Plymouth until the air cleared. All the same it was deuced odd that the French had failed to capitalise on the violation of their littoral.
He dismissed the thought. Now the cutter was ordered to join the growing number of brigs and sloops of war keeping the French coast under observation. Since Lord Hood had cruised with home-based frigates and guardships in the summer, the dockyard had been busy. Thanks to the Spanish and Russian crises of the preceding three years the fleet was in a reasonable state of preparedness. Across the Channel the Paris mob had massacred the Swiss guard and in September the French had invaded Savoy. It was known that Rear-Admiral Truguet had been ordered to sea with nine sail of the line. In November the Austrian Netherlands were overrun and the French seized control of the Scheldt. This made the whereabouts of all French naval squadrons crucial to the defence of Great Britain.
There were thirty-nine battleships at Brest, ten at Lorient and thirteen at Rochefort. As 1793 approached the Admiralty was taking a close look at them.
The grey overcast of Saturday 29th December 1792 seemed leaden, but the wind had backed into the north-west, the showers had ceased and the cloud was beginning to disperse. Griffiths and Drinkwater stood watching a brig-sloop running down the Sound for the open sea.
'Childers, Commander Robert Barlow,' muttered Drinkwater half to himself.
Griffiths nodded. 'Off to reconnoitre Brest Road,' he added confidentially.
On the last day of the old year, the wind veered northerly and blew from a clear sky. At noon a guard boat brought Griffiths the orders he had been expecting. By sunset Kestrel had left Smeaton's Eddystone lighthouse astern and was scudding south to the support of Childers.
During the night the wind freshened to a severe gale and Kestrel was hove to, her bowsprit reefed, her topmast and yards sent down and double breechings securing her guns. At first light a sail was seen to the westward and an exchange of signals revealed her as Childers. Taking the helm himself Griffiths steered Kestrel under the brig's lee and luffed. In his tarpaulin Barlow bellowed at them: 'Fired on by French batteries at St Matthew… honour of the flag, return to port… making for Fowey…' His words were ripped away by the gale.
'Probably of the opinion he's the first to be fired on, eh, Mr Drinkwater?' growled Griffiths, regarding his junior from beneath a wet and bushy white eyebrow.
'Aye, sir, and hastening home to make a noise of it if I'm not mistaken.'
Griffiths chuckled. Barlow's indignation was clear, even across the strip of white and foaming water. 'He'll be in a post-chaise before that brig's fetched an anchor, I'll warrant,' said Griffiths, heaving on the tiller and calling two men to relieve him.
The two little ships parted, plunging to windward with the spray shooting over them, the sea streaked pale by parallel lines of spume that tore downwind. Here and there a fulmar banked and swooped on rigid, sabre-shaped wings, breaking the desolation of the view.