Well, he had his bellyful of the truth now, to be sure, he thought bitterly, victim of his own stupid, expansive weakness, a weakness doubtless induced by the bewitching prospect of a day in Mistress Shaw's company. God Almighty, he had been gulled by a damned whore!
And supposing he had left her pregnant, or worse, she had left him poxed ... ?
He broke out in a cold sweat at the thought. Fate had an uncanny way of striking a man when his guard was down and it had certainly conspired to strike him today.
Forward the ship's bell tolled two. It was already tomorrow, one o'clock in the morning, two bells into the middle watch, almost the lowest, most debilitating hour of the night.
He looked at the moon. It would be setting over Gantley Hall, already the first pale flush of the morning would be turning the grey North Sea the colour of wet lead, glossing the ploughed furrows of his oh-so-proudly acquired acres.
With an effort he mastered his temper, his dark fears and forebodings. 'I am grown selfish, morbid and gloomy,' he muttered to himself, 'and there is work to do.' There was always work, always duty, always the submission of the self to the common weal. It was the great consolation. The thought steadied him, drove back the gathering megrims and the whimpering self-pity that threatened, for one desperate, lonely moment, to overwhelm him.
No, he could not visit his anger upon men who had been merely neglectful of their duty. Doubtless the deserters had employed a degree of guile, slipping into the moored boat and shoving off as the guard-boat vanished round the far side of the frigate. Davies, the master's mate in charge, had heard nothing, nor seen anything. Yes, he had agreed, his men had been pulling somewhat lethargically and the current had, he admitted, swept them down a little too far from the ship than he would have wished, but he had forgotten how many circuits they had made during his watch ...
Drinkwater could guess the rest. A distracted or dozing sentry, maybe even a colluding one, and who could blame the poor devils when some men had long been away from the kind of comforts he had so liberally indulged in the preceding day?
But eight men had run ... He began to think logically again, thrusting aside the earlier train of thought. The ache in his old wounds throbbed into the background of his consciousness.
There must be those among them who remembered hanging a man for desertion before Patrician left for the Pacific. There was even less cause for mercy upon the present occasion. At least then the victim had the not unreasonable excuse of running to find out whether the tales of his wife's infidelity were true.
The thought of marital infidelity made Drinkwater sweat again. He had betrayed his wife and been unjust to Arabella; she was no wanton and, he reflected, he was no libertine. He took heart from the thought.
Eight men had run and it was time to tackle the problem, but in such a way as allowed him to control events. Yesterday, for that is how it was now, part of the unalterable past, yesterday had been a day during which he had lost control, been swept up by events, relaxed and forsaken his duty; perhaps for a few hours he had been merely himself, in all the lonely isolation of an individual human soul, but now, today, and from this very minute, he must be what he was: a sea-officer. He squared his shoulders, swung on his heel and strode forward.
'Gentlemen,' he said coolly, 'we are here to see Mr Vansittart lands safely and with every prospect of success in his task. He is to board the schooner which arrived here at sunset and will do so at six bells in the morning watch. That is seven o'clock by your hunter, Vansittart, if you made the last correction for longitude. My barge is to be used for the transfer, Mr Belchambers in command. Do you understand?'
There was a mumbled chorus of comprehension.
'Very well, then I suggest those of us not on duty should get some sleep.' He stepped forward and they drew apart.
'Sir, what about...' Metcalfe began.
'Let's deal with that in the morning, shall we? Goodnight, gentlemen, I trust you will sleep well.'
'They will be laughing at us over there this morning,' Drinkwater said and Moncrieff, Gordon, Metcalfe and Frey all looked at the Stingray, visible in part through the stern windows. 'More coffee ...?'
If the officers assumed their invitation to breakfast was an invitation to a council of war, they were disappointed. Their commander's detached and almost negligent approach was reminiscent of the night before.
Indeed, Metcalfe, going below to turn in, had expressed the opinion that Drinkwater seemed about to let the matter slide and to bid good riddance to the eight who had run. Such pusillanimity was, he concluded, quite within the captain's erratic character and would have a bad effect on the men. They could, he asserted with an almost cheerful conviction, look forward to more desertions if he proved correct in his assumption. In the prevailing gloom no one had seen fit to contradict him. He was, in any case, given to extreme expressions of opinion and no one took much notice of him. It was only over the coffee and burgoo that they recalled the matter and thought Metcalfe might, after all, have a point. Close to the land as she was, the ship might well become ungovernable and the thought made them all uneasy.
There was no doubt the Yankees would find the event most amusing.
'What are your intentions, sir,' Moncrieff ventured boldly, anxiety plain on his open face, 'now Mr Vansittart has gone?'
Drinkwater sat back and regarded the company. Metcalfe looked his usual indecisive, critical self, an air of mock gravity wrapping his moon face in a cocoon of self-importance. Gordon and Frey looked concerned, ready to act upon orders but too junior to have any influence upon events. Only Moncrieff, the ever-resourceful marine lieutenant, had physical difficulty in holding his eager initiative in check.
Drinkwater smiled. 'What do you suggest, Mr Frey?'
Frey's Adam's apple bobbed. 'Well, sir, I should, er, send out a search party ...'
'Mr Gordon?'
'I agree, sir, perhaps to scour the countryside, check the buildings on the estate here ...'
'Run downstream, they'd have used the current to put as great a distance between us and them and they know there are towns and villages for miles along the banks of the bay ...'
'Very good, Mr Moncrieff. Mr Metcalfe?'
'I agree with Moncrieff, sir, and they already have a head start of, he pulled out his watch, 'almost ten and a half hours.'
'Do we know exactly what time they got away?'
'Well no, not exactly, sir, but
'Very well. The launch, with a corporal's guard and provisions for three days, is to leave for a search along the shore. Mr Frey, you are to command. Mr Gordon, you may run along the Potomac shore in the remaining cutter. Take a file of marines, but contrive to look like a watering party, not a war party. I don't want trouble with the local population. Be certain of that. Under the circumstances I would rather lose the men than have a hornets' nest stirred up to undermine Vansittart's mission. That is an imperative, do you understand?'
'Aye, sir.'
Aye, sir.'
'Very well, you may carry on.'
Frey and Gordon scraped back their chairs. Metcalfe and Moncrieff made to rise too, but Drinkwater motioned them to remain seated. After the junior lieutenants had gone Drinkwater rose, lifted the decanter of Madeira from its fiddle and, with three glasses, returned to the table.
'I was surprised no one mentioned the Stingray,' he said as the rich, dark wine gurgled into the crystal glasses.
'The Stingray, sir?' Moncrieff said with quickening interest, 'They wouldn't dare ... I mean how the deuce... ?'