An Eye of the Fleet

Chapter Eleven Interlude

It was autumn before Drinkwater rejoined Cyclops. News had arrived in England of the defection of Benedict Arnold to the King's cause and the consequent shameful hanging of Major John Andre. To Drinkwater, however, languishing at Plymouth, it scarcely seemed possible that a ferocious war was taking place at all.

Arriving in that port with Algonquin he had been swiftly dispossessed of the schooner which passed to the port admiral's hands. He found himself with Stewart, Sharples and the rest, kicking his heels on the guardship. This vessel, an obsolete 64-gun battleship, was overcrowded and stinking, filled with newly-pressed seamen awaiting ships and young officers like himself daily expecting the return of their own vessels or the arrival of new posting. The conditions on board necessitated the vessel being run like a prison and the consequent corruption found in those institutions therefore prevailed. Gambling, rat-baiting and cockfighting were clandestinely practised. Drunken and sexual orgies took place almost nightly and the enforced idleness of twelve hundred and seventy men gave the devil's agents excessive scope for improvisation.

From command of his own ship Drinkwater became less than nothing, one of many midshipmen and master's mates with sufficient time to reflect on the paradoxes of a sea officer's career.

It was a dismal time for him. The thought of Elizabeth Bower plagued him. Falmouth was not too far away. He panicked at the thought of her father's interregnum ending and the pair being sent God knew where. He had never been in love before and submitted to the self-centred lassitude of the besotted in an atmosphere utterly conducive to the nurturing of such unsociable emotions.

Week succeeded week and the period was one of utter misery.

Yet in its way the amorous depression that accompanied the congested privation served to keep him away from other more immediate amusements. His romantic preoccupations encouraged him to read, or at least to daydream over, such books as the guard-ship possessed.

As time passed the memory of Elizabeth faded a little and he read more diligently. He spent some of his small stock of gold on books purchased from messmates needing ready cash for betting. In this way he acquired a copy of Robertson's 'Elements of Navigation' and one of Falconer, reflecting that the money, some loose Spanish coin he had found on Algonquin and rightly the property of the crown, was being correctly spent on the training of a King's officer and not lining the pockets of an Admiralty lackey.

After ten weeks of ennui Drinkwater had a stroke of luck. One morning an elaborately decorated cutter anchored in Jennycliff Bay. A boat pulled over to the guardship with a request to the commanding officer for the loan of one master's mate or midshipman. It so happened that the second mate of the cutter had been taken ill and her master required a replacement for a few days.

By chance Drinkwater happened to be on deck and the first person the lieutenant dispatched to find a 'volunteer' clapped eyes on. Within minutes he was in the cutter's gig and being rowed across the steely waters of the Sound. A sprinkling rain began to patter on the water.

The boat rounded the cutter's stern and Drinkwater looked up to see the state cabin windows richly ornamented with gilt work and a coat of arms consisting of four ships quartered by St George's Cross. The ensign at the vessel's stern was red and bore a similar device in the fly. The officer in charge of the boat, who happened to be the mate of the cutter, explained that she was the Trinity House Yacht, bound to the Scillies to attend St Agnes lighthouse.

Drinkwater had heard of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House who maintained buoys in the Thames estuary and some lighthouses around the coast. However his main source of information had been Blackmore. As a sailing master in the Royal Navy Blackmore had had to suffer examination by the Brethren, who passed the navy's navigators, before he could obtain his warrant. Blackmore, the former master of a Baltic trader had resented the fact and commented somewhat acidly on the practice.

However Drinkwater was immediately impressed by the immaculate appearance of the Trinity Yacht. The crew, all volunteers exempt from the press-gang, were smart and well fed when compared with the Royal Navy's raggamuffins. The master, one John Poulter, seemed a pleasant man and welcomed Drinkwater cordially. On explaining his lack of clothing (since his chest remained on Cyclops) the master offered him fresh ducks, a tarpaulin and a pea jacket.

A great sensation of relief flooded over Drinkwater as he settled into his tiny cabin. He luxuriated in the privacy which, although he had partaken of it aboard Algonquin, had not been without the worrying responsibility of command. Until that moment he had not realised the extent of the guardship's oppression upon his spirit.

Later he went on deck. It was now raining steadily. The Cawsand shore was blurred into grey mist but the rain fell with the hiss of freedom. Pulling the tarpaulin round him he examined the vessel. She was sturdily built and mounted a few swivel guns on either side. Her mainsail was clearly larger than Algonquin's and she had a solider, more permanent feel about her. This was due to her oak construction and opulent appointments, for she fairly dripped with gilt gingerbread-work. Her spars gleamed even in the dreary weather and Drinkwater examined the details of her rigging with great interest.

Captain Poulter had come on deck and walked over to him.

'Well, cully, had much experience with this kind of vessel?' His accent was unmistakably that of the capital.

'Not a cutter, sir, but I was lately prize-master of a schooner.'

'Good. I hope I shall not detain you long from the King's business but I am bound for the Scilly Islands with Captain Calvert to examine the lighthouse there. Perhaps a King's officer may find that interesting.' Drinkwater detected the flicker of insinuation in Poulter's voice. He recognised it as a device used by old Blackmore and other merchant masters who resented the navy's social superiority. To his credit he coloured.

'To tell the truth, sir, I am greatly obliged to you for removing me from yonder guardship. Methought I might die of boredom before I saw action again.'

'That's well,' said Poulter turning to windward and sniffing the air. 'Plague on this damn coast. It's always raining.'

The Trinity Yacht left Plymouth two days later. August had passed into September. The rain had given way to windy, mist-laden days. But the weather had no power to depress the young midshipman's spirits. After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the guardship, service on the Trinity Yacht was stimulating in the extreme. Here was a fine little ship run as efficiently as a first-rate without the lash and human degradation prevalent in His Majesty's service.

Captain Poulter and his mate proved generous instructors and Drinkwater quickly learned more of the subtleties of handling the fore and aft rig of the big cutter than he had mastered aboard Algonquin.

He found Captain Anthony Calvert willing to discourse with him, even interested to hear how Drinkwater would undertake certain navigational problems. He joined the Elder Brother and Poulter at dinner one evening. Calvert was treated with as much deference as Drinkwater had seen accorded to Admiral Kempenfelt. Indeed the captain flew his own flag at the cutter's masthead, although his privileges and responsibilities were considered to be exterior to the management of the yacht. Nevertheless he proved to be an interesting and interested man. As the cutter bucked her way to the west Drinkwater found himself recounting the story of the recapture of the Algonquin. At midnight Drinkwater left Poulter and Calvert to relieve the mate. It was still blowing hard, the night black, wet and inhospitable.

The mate had to bellow in Drinkwater's ear as he passed over the position and course.

'Keep her off on the starboard tack another hour. You're well off the Wolf Rock now but keep a sharp lookout when you stand north. We should be well west of it by now but the flood's away and will be fierce as the devil's eyebrows with this wind behind it. Ye'll be well advised to use caution.'

'Aye, aye,' replied Drinkwater, shouting back to the black figure whose tarpaulin ran with rain and spray. He was left to the night ruminating on the dangers of the unmarked Wolf. This totally isolated pinnacle of rock was, with the Eddystone, the most feared danger to mariners on the south coast of England. Continually swept by swells on even the calmest days it was to be 1795 before an abortive attempt was made to erect a beacon on it. This structure collapsed at the first gale and it was to be a generation before a permanent seamark was finally grouted into that formidable outcrop.

It was claimed by some that in certain sea conditions a subterraneous cavern produced a howling noise and this had given the rock its name, but, howling noise or not, nothing could have been heard that night above the roar of the gale and the creak and crash of the Trinity Yacht as she drove to the south-south-west.

Poulter had put four reefs into the enormous mainsail before dark. He was in no hurry since he wished to heave to off the Scillies to observe the light at St Agnes. It was for this purpose Calvert had journeyed from London.

At two bells Drinkwater prepared to put about on to the port tack. Before doing so he went forward to inspect the headsails. The staysail was reefed down but out on the long bowsprit a small spitfire jib stood against the gale. Drinkwater had learned that to balance the huge mainsail a jib had to be kept as near the end of the bowsprit as conditions permitted. He watched the big spar stab at a wave-crest even as the bow he stood on pitched down off its predecessor. Beneath him the figurehead of a lion guardant disappeared in a welter of white water that rolled hissing away from the cutter's steadily advancing stem.

He returned aft, calling the watch to their stations, glanced at the compass then up at Calvert's flag standing out from the masthead like a board. Two men leaned against the big tiller. He shouted at them:

'Down helm!' They grunted with exertion.

The yacht's heel reduced, she came upright, her canvas slatting madly, cracking like thunder. The hull swooped and ducked as she met the seas head on.

Drinkwater bit his lip. She took her time passing through the eye of the wind but her crew clearly knew their business. His orders were as much for his own satisfaction as the vessel's management. As she paid slowly off to starboard the little spitfire jib was held aback. The wind caught it and suddenly it exerted its tremendous leverage at the extremity of the bowsprit. The cutter spun on her heel, the mainsail filled, then the staysail was hauled over. Finally the weather jib sheet was started and the canvas cracked like a gun before it was tamed by the lee sheet. The yacht sped away to the north west and Drinkwater breathed a sigh of relief.

There was no opportunity to study the chart in the prevailing conditions. The deck was continually sluiced by seas coming aboard so that the two boats on chocks amidships appeared to be afloat of their own accord.

After a further hour of this the sails suddenly slatted. At once several men perceived the veering of the wind.

'Keep her full and bye,' roared Drinkwater to the helmsmen, to which a slightly reproachful voice answered, 'Aye, aye, but that's north, sir.'

Drinkwater checked himself reflecting that this was no king's ship and the helmsman's reply was not insubordinate but informative.

North.

He shook his head to clear away fatigue and too much of Calvert's port. With leeway and a roaring flood tide to set them east he might be setting on to the Wolf Rock! A knot of panic gripped his stomach until he mastered it with the thought that the total area of the rock was less than that of the cutter's deck. Surely the odds were impossibly against them striking that isolated spot?

A figure loomed up beside him. It was Poulter.

'Heard her luff, cully. You'll be concerned about the Wolf.' It was not a question but a statement simply made. Drinkwater felt the load lifted from his shoulders. His brain cleared and he was able to think.

'D'ye wish me to put about again Captain Poulter, with the shift of wind she'll hold a more westerly course, sir…?'

Poulter was glancing at the dimly lit compass. Drinkwater thought he caught a glimpse of a smile in the wet darkness.

'That will do very well, Mr Drinkwater. See to it if ye please.'

'Aye, aye, sir…'

The Trinity Yacht arrived off Hugh Town later that day and remained there for several days. Calvert and Poulter had themselves pulled across to St Agnes and the crew discharged several cauldrons of coal into their boats to feed the light's chauffer-fires.

Ten days after leaving Plymouth Calvert pronounced himself satisfied with the lighthouse and on coming aboard from a final visit Drinkwater overheard him talking to Poulter.

'Well Jonathan, we'll make passage tomorrow at first light observing the cresset again tonight. I'll post to London from Falmouth and you may then proceed to the east'ard.' Calvert's words fell dully on Drinkwater's ears until he mentioned Falmouth.

Falmouth meant Elizabeth.

On arrival at Falmouth it was discovered that the yacht's second mate had recovered sufficiently to rejoin the ship. Drinkwater was therefore discharged by Poulter with a letter explaining his absence and a certificate as to his proficiency. Greatly delighted with his luck he was even more astonished when Calvert sent for him and presented him with four guineas for his services and another certificate testifying that as an Elder Brother of the Trinity House he had examined Mr Drinkwater and found him to be competent in navigation and seamanship. The document he presented to Drinkwater certified that he had passed the examination for master's mate.

'There, Mr Drinkwater. Under the latest regulations you are now permitted to board prizes as prize-master in your own right. Good luck to ye.'

Stammering his delighted surprise Drinkwater shook hands with Calvert and was pulled ashore with the Elder Brother. Having seen Calvert off in the post chaise Drinkwater turned his steps to the vicarage.

Autumn was in the air but he strode along without a care in the world, his heart thumping at the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again.

He swung back the gate. At the door he hesitated, his hand actually in the act of drawing back the knocker. Changing his mind he moved to a side window. It was the parson's study. Peering in he saw the bald dome of the old man's head, the white locks from the sides and nape of his head falling sideways in the relaxation of sleep.

Drinkwater crept round to the rear of the house. He found Elizabeth in the garden. She was unaware of his presence and for a moment he stood watching her.

She was picking fruit from a tree whose gnarled boughs were bent under a load of russet apples. As she stretched out to pluck the fruit her face was in profile. The lower lip was caught in her teeth in an expression he recognised as one of concentration. There was something sweetly pastoral in the scene to one whose eyes had become accustomed to the monotony of the sea.

He coughed and she started, losing hold of her apron. A cascade of apples ran out on to the grass. 'Oh!… Nathaniel!'

He laughed, running over to help pick them up. 'I'm sorry to have startled you.'

She smiled at him. Kneeling, their faces were very close. He felt her breath on his cheek and was about to throw caution to the winds when she stood, brushing a wisp of hair behind her neck.

'I am glad that you have come. How long can you stay?'

Drinkwater had not given the matter much thought. He shrugged.

'How long would you have me stay…?' he smilingly asked.

It was her turn to shrug. She laughed, refusing to be drawn, but he could tell she was pleased.

'I ought to return to Plymouth tomorrow… well I ought to return today but…' he shrugged again, 'well let us say I am recuperating.'

'The New York packet is due and there'll be a post leaving soon, stay till then?'

'Well, er, I, er…'

'Father will be delighted, please stay…'

She uttered the last words pleadingly, so that Nathaniel had little choice and less inclination to choose. He looked into her brown eyes. They waited for his reply anxiously…

'Would you wish it that I stayed?'

She smiled. She had given away too much already. She gathered the last of the apples and moved towards the house.

'Do you like apple pie, Nathaniel?' she called over her shoulder.

The day passed delightfully. Cyclops, Morris and the anxieties and fears of the past months might have been the experience of another person, a callow frightened youth compared with the vibrantly energetic young man Drinkwater had become.

As his daughter had said the old parson was delighted to entertain the midshipman. He took great pride in showing Drinkwater his library and it was clear that the collection of books constituted practically the whole of Bower's possessions, since the artefacts of the house were the property of the absent clergyman. Closer acquaintance with Isaac Bower revealed him to be a man of considerable learning who had not only brought his daughter up but educated her himself. She was, he told Nathaniel with an air of confidentiality, the equal to most men and the superior of many in her knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, Greek and Latin, while her literary tastes encompassed those French authors who did not abjure the existence of God. Had there been any doubts about Elizabeth's talents in other directions these were swiftly dispelled at dinner when a roasted chicken was followed by an apple pie of generous proportions.

After dinner Drinkwater found himself alone in a darkening room with a bottle of port that Bower had unearthed in his host's cellar. He had drunk two glasses when the old man came into the room. He threw some logs on to the fire and poured himself a glass.

'I, er, had a little news the other day… after you had left. My Lord Bishop of Winchester had appointed me to a parish near Portsmouth. It is a poor parish, I believe, but…' the old man shrugged resignedly, '… that is of no matter. At least,' he continued on a brighter note, '… it will bring us nearer you brave naval fellows and, I trust,' he looked pointedly at Nathaniel, 'I trust you will continue to visit us there.'

Warmed by the wine Nathaniel replied enthusiastically. 'I shall be delighted, sir, absolutely delighted… After my last visit I found the prospect of reacquainting myself with you and Eliz… Miss Bower most comforting.'

Bower asked him something of his own circumstances and he told the parson of his widowed mother. Elizabeth joined them for a while before she announced she was retiring and the conversation was relaxed and informal. After she had left Nathaniel said, 'I am, sir, very grateful for your kindness to me… it has meant a great deal to me…'

The two men drained the bottle. Nathaniel's remark unsprung the older man's greatest fear. 'My boy, I do not expect to remain much longer in this world. I have no fortune to leave after me but my daughter and on her account I am oppressed in spirit…' he coughed a little self-consciously.

'I would have her left with one friend, for I fear she has had no opportunity to establish herself anywhere whilst following me upon my travels…' he paused diffidently, then, with a note of firmness in his voice he said, 'D'ye take my meaning?'

'I am sure, sir,' said Nathaniel, 'that I shall do all in my power to assist your daughter should she need my protection.'

The old man smiled into the darkness. He had known it the instant the boy told them his name… Nathaniel… in the Hebrew tongue it meant a gift from God. He sighed with contentment.

The unusual sound of birdsong woke Drinkwater next morning. Realisation that he lay under the same roof as Elizabeth woke him to full consciousness. He was quite unable to sleep so rose and dressed.

Quietly descending the stairs he moved through the kitchen and unlatched the door. The invigorating chill of early morning made him shiver as he strode out on the dew-wet grass.

Without thinking he began pacing up and down the lawn, head down, hands behind his back, plunged in thoughts of last night's conversation with the old parson.

He felt a surge of excitement and relief at Bower's approval and smiled inwardly with self-congratulation. He stopped midway between the apple trees and the house. 'You're a lucky dog, Nathaniel,' he muttered to himself.

The creak of an opening window and the ring of laughter brought him back to reality.

From the kitchen window Elizabeth, her hair about her shoulders, was smiling at him.

'Are you pacing your quarterdeck, sir,' she mocked.

Nathaniel was suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of his actions. With the whole of Cornwall at his feet he had paced over an area roughly equal to a frigate's quarterdeck.

'Why…' he raised his hands in a shrug, '… I never gave it a thought.' Elizabeth was laughing at him, the sound of her laughter coming out of the window borne on the scent of frying eggs.

The haunting paradoxes of Cyclops and the malice of Morris seemed no longer important. All that mattered now was the laughter and the smiling face… and the sizzling freshness of fried eggs.

'Y're a lucky dog, Nathaniel,' he muttered again as he crossed the grass to the kitchen door.

The London mail left Falmouth later that day with Nathaniel perched on its exterior bound for Plymouth. By the time it reached Truro Nathaniel, riding on the crest of growing confidence, had ascertained he possessed sufficient funds for the fare to London and back.

The weather remained fair and the experience of hurtling through towns and villages so agreeable and in harmony with his spirits that he decided the Plymouth guardship could do without him for a further three or four days. The idea had come to him while pacing the lawn that morning. Discussion of his family had filled him with a longing to return home, no matter how briefly. There had been no news of Cyclops when he had left Plymouth in the Trinity Yacht and Poulter, he knew, would not put into Plymouth to inform the authorities that he had landed him at Falmouth. It was, therefore probable that a few days of additional absence would go unnoticed.

He came to an arrangement for a half price fare riding on the 'conveniency' and settled down to enjoy the unprecedented pleasure of a journey through the green of southern England on an uncommonly fine day.

It was late in the afternoon following when, stiff from the long journey and tired from the trudge up the Great North Road, Drinkwater reached Barnet. He pressed on to Monken Hadley reaching the small house at last.

His desire to see his mother and brother had increased with the growing love he felt for Elizabeth. The strong attraction of her home had reminded him of his own and Bower's infirmity had emphasised the effect of passing time upon his remaining parent. His stay in Falmouth was limited by propriety yet he did not wish to kick his heels aboard that festering guardship.

Nathaniel, despite his fatigue, was pleased with himself. The freedom and independence he had experienced on Algonquin and the Trinity Yacht had served to mature him, the responsibility of the prize had stamped its imprint upon his character. His growing relationship with Elizabeth, certain in at least its foundation, lent him both hope and stability, banishing many of the uncertainties of the past.

His altered outlook had found expression and practical reward.

He had looted King's small hoard of gold from the Algonquin somewhat shamefacedly, aware that his morality was questionable despite the usages of war. When this had been supplemented by Calvert's respectably acquired guineas and, most important of all his certificate of examination as master's mate, he had a degree of autonomy for the first time in his life. It lent a jauntiness to the final steps to his mother's front door.

He knocked and lifted the latch.

Afterwards, when there was time to think, he realised he was right to come. His mother's pleasure in his visit was only clouded by its brevity. To him, however, her failing health and increasingly obvious penury were distressing and oppressive. He had not stayed long. He had talked and read to his mother and, when she dozed, slipped out to ask the Rector to engage someone from Barnet to attend to some of her needs. Calvert's guineas had gone there, and from the Rector he had learned that Ned was rarely seen in Monken Hadley. Nathaniel's brother had found employment as a groom at West Lodge with his beloved horses, had taken a common-law wife from among the maids there and come near to breaking his poor mother's heart. The Rector had shaken his head and muttered 'Like father, like son…', but he promised to do what he could for Mrs Drinkwater, closing his hand over the gold.

Nathaniel sat in the quiet of the room watching motes of dust in the oblique shaft of sunlight that streamed in through the little window. He would return to Plymouth on the morrow; he felt the inactivity, the strange silence, discomposing. His mother dozed and, recalling the reason for his visit, he quietly resumed his letter to Ned. It was badly phrased, awkward in admonition but it spoke with the new-found authority of the young man. 'What are you doing?' the old lady's voice startled him.

'Oh! Mother!… You are awake… just a note to Ned, to tell him to take more care of you.'

He saw her smile.

'Dear Nathaniel,' she said simply. 'You cannot stay longer?'

'Mother, I must return to duty, already I…'

'Of course my dear… you are a King's officer now… I understand…'

She held out her hand and Nathaniel knelt by her chair. He felt her frail arthritic hand brush his hair. He could think of no words adequate to the moment and had lost the means to say them.

'Do not be too hard on Edward,' she said quietly. 'He has his own life to lead and is very like his father…'

Nathaniel rose and bent over his mother, kissing her forehead, turning away to hide the tears in his eyes.

When he left next morning it was still dark. He did not know it but his mother heard him leave. It was only then she wept.