It seemed a good idea, his secretary advised, to take the opportunity of sending Cyclops back to Kempenfelt.
Acting Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater stopped pacing to stare up at the main topgallant. His body balanced effortlessly as the ship moved beneath him, a near south-westerly gale thrumming in the rigging and sending a patter of spray over the starboard quarter rail.
He studied the sail for a moment. There was no mistaking the strain on the weather sheet or the vibration transmitted to the yard below. It was time to shorten sail.
'Mr White!' The boy was immediately attentive: 'My compliments to the captain and the wind's freshening. With his approval I intend furling the t'gallants.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater stared into the binnacle. The two helmsmen grunted and sweated as they fought to hold Cyclops on course. He watched the gently oscillating compass card. Advancing daylight already rendered the oil lamp superfluous. The heavy grey Atlantic lifted the frigate's quarter, sent her scudding forward until it passed under her and she dragged into the trough, stabbing her bowsprit at the sky. Then her stern lifted again and the cycle repeated itself, over and over, all the three thousand miles from New York to the chops of the Channel…
Drinkwater felt none of the shame being experienced by Captain Hope shaving in the cabin below. For Hope already knew the heady wine of victory, having fought through the glorious period of the Seven Years War. To end his career in defeat was a bitter blow, a condemnation of the years of labour and a justification of his cynicism that was only alleviated by the draft on Tavistock's for four thousand sterling.
To Drinkwater the events of the last few weeks had been a culmination. In their fruitless search for De Barras they had boxed the compass off Long Island and the New England coast. To Nathaniel, free of the oppressive presence of Morris, it had been a glorious time, a fruitful splendid time in which, cautiously at first, but with growing confidence, he had handled the ship.
He looked up at the now furled topgallants. His judgement was vindicated for Cyclops had not slackened her pace.
He saw Captain Hope ascend the companionway. He vacated the windward side, touching his hat as the captain passed.
'Morning, sir.'
'G'morning, Mr Drinkwater.' Hope glanced aloft. 'Anything in sight?'
'Nothing reported, sir.'
'Very well.' Hope looked at the log slate.
'Should raise the Lizard before dark, sir, by my reckoning,' volunteered Drinkwater. Hope grunted and began pacing the weather quarterdeck. Drinkwater moved over to the lee side where young Chalky White was shivering in the down-draught of the main topsail.
'Mr Drinkwater!' The captain called sharply.
'Sir?' Drinkwater hurried over to where the captain was regarding him with a frown. His heart sank.
'Sir?' he repeated.
'You are not wearing your sword.'
'Sir?' repeated Drinkwater yet again, his forehead wrinkling in a frown.
'It is the first morning you have had your present appointment that you have not worn it.'
'Is it, sir?' Drinkwater blushed. Behind him White giggled.
'You must be paying the correct attention to your duties and less to your personal appearance. I am pleased to see it.'
Drinkwater swallowed.
'Y-yes, sir. Thank you, sir.'
Hope resumed his pacing. White was in stitches, the subject of Mr Drinkwater's sword having caused much amusement between decks. Drinkwater turned on him.
'Mr White! Take a glass to the foremasthead and look for England!'
'England, Nat… Mr Drinkwater, sir?'
'Yes, Mr White! England!'
England, he thought, England and Elizabeth…