'Ixford, sir, in the county of Somerset,' said a lieutenant helpfully, stepping forward with a sycophantic obeisance of his head.
'Indeed, indeed. Somerset, what...'
Only Birkbeck the master and the second lieutenant, Frey, had been in the fight in the Vikkenfiord, and the prince had heard of neither. Drinkwater rather formed the impression that His Royal Highness thought both Marlowe and Lieutenant Ashton, who was known to one of the prince's suite, had both covered themselves with glory in the capture of the Odin.
Perhaps it had been sour grapes on his, Drinkwater's part, perhaps it had galled him to be so ignored. He had said as much to the Impregnable's flag-captain Henry Blackwood. Years earlier, in September 1805, it had been Blackwood in the frigate Euryalus, who had relieved Drinkwater in the Antigone, from the inshore post off Cadiz. A letter in Blackwood's own hand had ordered Drinkwater into Gibraltar and led ultimately to his capture and presence aboard the enemy flagship at Trafalgar.[1]
'He is a harmless enough fellow,' Blackwood said charitably. 'When he was a midshipman, they used to call him "Pineapple Poll" on account of the shape of his head. Sometimes I'm damned if I think he is capable of a sensible thought, but then he'll surprise you with a shrewd remark and you wonder if he ain't fooling you all the time. The trouble is nobody says "boo" to him and he loves the sound of his own voice. He should have been given something useful to do instead of kicking his heels at Bushy Park with La Belle Jordan. He daren't bungle this little adventure, but at the same time regards it as beneath his real dignity.' Blackwood concluded with a chuckle.
'That must make life difficult for you,' Drinkwater had sympathized.
Blackwood shrugged and smiled. 'Oh, it won't last long. The poor devil hasn't been to sea for so long he scarce knows what to do, but when he makes his mind up to do something, he thinks he's a second Nelson.' Blackwood had laughed again, his face a curious mixture of exasperation and amusement.
Next morning, the boats of the squadron, each commanded by a lieutenant, had brought off King Louis and his suite from Dover. The reverberations of the saluting cannon had bounced off the white cliffs and the ramparts of the grey castle as flame and clouds of smoke broke from the sides of the allied men-of-war. Simultaneously, the ramparts themselves had sparkled with the fire from a battery of huge 42-pounders, so that the thump and echo of their concussion danced in diminuendo between the wooden sides of the assembled ships. Bunting had fluttered gaily in the light breeze, augmented by the huge white standard which rose to the main truck of the Royal Sovereign as the king boarded her. Of imperturbable dignity, King Louis was of vast bulk and still suffering from an attack of gout. Too fat to climb the side, he had been hoisted aboard in a canvas sling, followed by the Duchesse d'Angoulême and other ladies. Meanwhile the seamen in the adjacent ships had manned the yards and cheered lustily, though more at the prospect of shortly being paid off, Drinkwater had suspected, than of respect for the royal personage.
That was undoubtedly true of his own men; what of the French aboard the Polonais? After a generation of ferment and opportunity, what were their private feelings? Perhaps they would accept the return of the Bourbon tyranny as the price for peace. As for the Russians, well, who knew what the Russians thought?
The thin rattle of snare drums and the braying of trumpets had floated over the water as the echoes of the guns died away. From the quarterdeck of Andromeda the impression given at a distance was of a seething, glittering ants' nest, and Drinkwater had sensed a mood of envy suffusing his own young officers, as though their own presence on the distant yacht would have guaranteed their individual ambitions.
As for himself, was it age that made him relieved that he had not had to pander to the king and his court? He had caught the eye of Lieutenant Frey, the only one of his commissioned officers with whom he had formerly served, and who had recently endured a court-martial from which he had been honourably acquitted. Perhaps the rueful look on Frey's face had spoken for all the foiled aspirations of his young peers; the embarkation of the dropsical and gouty monarch marked the end of the war and thus terminated the gruesome opportunities war presented to them; perhaps, on the other hand, the sensitive Frey was regretting his late commander, James Quilhampton, could not share this moment. The thought pricked Drinkwater with so sharp a pang of conscience that something of it must have shown on his face, for Frey had crossed the deck smartly.
'Are you all right, sir?'
'Yes, perfectly, thank you, Mr Frey,' Drinkwater had said as Marlowe and Ashton turned at the sudden movement. Dizzily, Drinkwater waved aside their concern.
'I thought for a moment, sir,' Frey had observed, lowering his voice, 'you were unwell.'
'No, no.' Drinkwater had smiled at Frey. 'I thought of Mr Q, Frey, and wished he were here to share this moment with us.'
Drinkwater had regretted his confidence the instant he had uttered it, for the shadow had passed over Frey too, and he had shivered, as if it had suddenly turned cold. 'Amen to that, sir.'
For a moment both men had thought of the cutter Kestrel, the action she had fought off Norway, and the death of Lieutenant James Quilhampton. It had been the abandonment of her battered hulk for which Frey, as senior surviving officer, had stood trial.
'Come,' Drinkwater had remarked encouragingly, 'let us not debar ourselves from some pleasure on this momentous occasion.'
'I think we have already survived the momentous occasions,' Frey said quietly, his eyes abstracted. 'This has an air of hollow triumph.'
Drinkwater had been moved by this perceptive remark, but his private emotions were cut short by Marlowe's sudden comment that a signal was being run up the Impregnable's flag halliards and Birkbeck the master had then hove alongside him, muttering presumptuously that it was the signal to weigh.
Now, in the late afternoon of 24 April, they were well within sight of Calais. To the southward the chalk lump of Cap Gris Nez jutted against the sky; closer the gentler, rounder and more pallid Cap Blanc Nez marked the point at which the French coast turned east, becoming flat and, apart from the church steeples and towers, featureless as it stretched away towards Dunquerque and the distant Netherlands. The little fishing village of Sangatte was almost abeam as the squadron breasted the first of the ebb tide and carried the breeze which had freshed during the day. An hour, an hour and a half at the most, would see them bringing up to their anchors in Calais Road.
Drinkwater examined the roadstead ahead of them, then lowered his glass; he looked once more at the irregular formation of the squadron. It was, as Marlowe had said, a pretty sight.
'Flag's signalling, sir ...'
Drinkwater's attention was diverted by the necessity of obeying the signals of His Royal Highness. As they came up towards Calais, the cannon of the squadron boomed out in yet another round of salutes, impressing upon the fishermen and townsfolk that the dangerous days of republican experiment and alternative, bourgeois monarchy, were dead.
'Sir, may I formally present Captain Drinkwater?'
Blackwood's introduction had an ironic content, since he had met the Duke of Clarence the previous afternoon, but the scene in the great cabin was stiff with formality and Drinkwater made his obeisance with a well-footed bow. Apart from the Jason's captain, he was the last of the allied commanders to be presented. The prince appeared to notice him as an individual for the first time. Drinkwater was some four years the prince's senior, his long grey-brown hair clubbed at the nape of his neck, the scarred cheek and faint blue powder burns on the lean face with its high forehead marking him as a seasoned officer.