The flying squadron

'Bear with me, James,' Drinkwater said tolerantly. 'Now you know perfectly well that every other privateer commander will make his station either the Florida Strait, or the Windward Passage, or some other focal point to intercept the West India ships ...'

'Yes, but there'll be rich enough pickings for all,' insisted Quilhampton, knowing the way Drinkwater thought, 'and it'll rouse the sugar lobby, bring pressure to bear in Parliament and win the successful privateersman a reputation quicker perhaps than command of a Yankee frigate.'

'D'you rest your case?' Drinkwater asked drily.

Quilhampton blushed, aware that he had presumed on friendship at the cost of respect for rank.

'I beg your pardon, sir.'

'There's no need for that; you're my first lieutenant, such considerations must be encouraged, but think bigger, James. You're very ambitious, ambitious enough to attempt the single-handed destruction of the British government at a stroke, not merely stirring up an opposition lobby.' Quilhampton looked blank. 'Come on; you know how parlous a state our country's in ...' Drinkwater paused, expectant. 'No?'

'I'm afraid not, sir ...'

'Look; we need American wheat to supply Wellington; with what do we pay for it?'

'Gold, sir.'

'Or maybe a trifling amount of manufactures, to be sure, but principally gold. It is what the American masters want to take home with them. We need a Portuguese army in the field; with what do we pay them? And what do we pay the Spaniards with for fighting to free their own country?'

'Gold again…'

'And our troops do not live off the land but pay the Spaniards for their provisions in ... ?'

'Gold.'

'Quite so. A privateersman could stop the advance of Wellington for six weeks if he took a cargo of boots, or greatcoats, or cartridges. But there's precious little profit in a prize containing anything so prosaic. So the death-or-glory Yankee skipper will go for the source of our wealth, James...'

'You mean the India fleet, sir?'

'Exactly,' Drinkwater said triumphantly, 'the East Indiamen. They'll be leaving the factories now, catching the north-east monsoon down through the Indian seas, a convoy of 'em. Richer pickings than their West India cousins, by far.'

'So where would you intercept them, sir, St Helena?' Drinkwater could tell by Quilhampton's tone that he was sceptical, suggesting the British outpost as some remote, almost ridiculous area.

'I think so,' he said with perfect gravity, amused by the sharp look Quilhampton threw him. 'But first we'll blockade the Chesapeake, show our noses to the enemy. Let it be known there are detached flying squadrons at sea, it may deter them a little. I'll shift to the Sprite for a day or two.' Drinkwater grinned at the look of surprise spreading on Quilhampton's face. 'You'll be in command, James.'

'But why, sir? I mean, why shift to the Sprite?'

'Because I intend paying a visit to the Potomac. There is something I wish to know.'

CHAPTER 13 The Intruder

October 1812

'Do we have much further to go, sir?' Sundercombe asked, looming out of the darkness. 'The wind is dying.'

'Bring her to an anchor, Mr Sundercombe, then haul the cutter alongside and I'll continue by boat. You'll be all right lying hereabouts and I'll be back by dawn. If I'm not, keep the American colours hoisted and lie quiet.'

'If I'm attacked, sir, or challenged?'

'Get out to sea.'

Drinkwater sensed the relief in Sundercombe's voice. They were seventy miles from the Atlantic, though only sixty from Hasty, ordered inside the Virginia capes to flaunt French colours in an attempt to keep inquisitive Americans guessing. They had left Hasty before noon, ignored the merchant ships anchored in Mockjack Bay and the James and York rivers, and headed north, exchanging innocent waves with passing fishing boats and coasters. Sundercombe's was an unenviable task, and Drinkwater had given him no opportunity to ask questions, nor offered him an explanation. The fewer people who knew what he was doing, the better. If he was wrong in his hunch, the sooner they got out to sea the better, though their presence under either French or British colours would confuse the enemy. If he had guessed correctly, confirmation would give him the confidence he needed, though he could not deny a powerful ulterior motive: the chance of seeing Arabella Shaw again swelled a bubble of anticipation in his belly. Either way, if he lost Hasty or the schooner in the Chesapeake, he would be hard put to offer an explanation. Assuming he survived any such engagement, of course. He thrust such megrimish thoughts roughly aside.

'Pass word for Caldecott.'

Drinkwater's new coxswain rolled aft, a small, wiry figure, even in the darkness.

'I'm going on in the cutter, Caldecott. I have to make a rendezvous, with an informer,' he added, lest the man thought otherwise. 'I want perfect silence in the boat, particularly when and where I tell you to beach her. You must then stand by the place until I return. The slightest noise will raise the alarm and if any of your bullies think of desertin', dissuade them. They might have got away with it a twelve-month ago, but no one loves an Englishman hereabouts now. D'you understand me?'

'Aye, sir. No one'll desert, an' I'll swing if a single noise escapes their bleedin' mouths.' The raw Cockney accent cut the night.

'Good. There'll be a bottle or two for good conduct when we get back.'

'Beg pardon, sir ...'

'What is it?'

"Ow long'll you be?'

'An hour or two at the most. Now make ready. It's almost midnight.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Moonrise was at about two, but they were two days after the new moon and the thin sliver of the distant satellite would scarcely betray them. Besides, it was clouding over.

The Sprite's gaffs came down, the mast hoops rattling in their descent, and from forward came the splash of the anchor and the low rumble of cable. The schooner's crew moved in disciplined silence about the deck and Drinkwater marked the fact, reminding himself to advance Sundercombe, if it came into his power.

'Your cutter's alongside, sir. I've had a barricoe of water and a bag of biscuit put in it,' Sundercombe paused, as if weighing up his superior. 'I did not think it would be appropriate to add any liquor though ...' His voice tailed off, inviting praise or condemnation.

'You acted quite properly, Mr Sundercombe. We can enjoy a glass later, when this business is over.' Drinkwater had explained to Caldecott, he ought at the very least to confide now in Mr Sundercombe. 'I intend to meet an informer, d'you see, Mr Sundercombe?'

'You have a rendezvous arranged, sir?' The question was shrewd.

'No, but I know the person's house.' Drinkwater made a move, a signal the confidence was over. 'I shall be back by dawn.'

'Good fortune, sir.'

Sundercombe watched as Drinkwater threw his leg over the schooner's rail and clambered down into the waiting boat. A few moments later it pulled into the darkness, the dim, pale splashes of the oar blades gradually fading with the soft noise of their movement.

'What's he up to?' A man in the plain blue of master's mate asked Sundercombe after reporting the Sprite brought to her anchor.

'Damned if I know,' growled the lieutenant.

Caldecott's men pulled silently upstream for an hour before Drinkwater began to recognize features in the landscape that betokened the confluence of the Potomac with the Chesapeake. He ordered the tiller over and they inclined their course more to the westward, entering the Potomac itself, a grey swathe between the darker shadows of the wooded banks up which they worked their way.