Ebb tide

The Oar

Captain Poulter leaned over the railing at the port extremity of his bridge. His agitation was extreme, though he fought to conceal it as he waited patiently for the wreckage of the boat to be recovered, along with the survivors clinging on to it.

He counted the bobbing heads; two remained missing. One was almost certainly old Sir Nathaniel and he half-hoped the other might be Drew, but he could see the Elder Brother now and realized the other was Mr Quier, Vestal's second mate.

Poulter willed Forester to hasten the recovery, though he knew full well that the mate and his boat's crew were doing their utmost. When at last the matter was concluded, he shouted for half speed ahead.

'We have everyone except Sir Nathaniel and Peter Quier, sir,' Forester reported when he eventually came up on the bridge.

'Yes, I know.' The two men looked at each other. They were both thinking their luck had run out, but neither wished to voice the apprehension. 'We must keep on searching, Mr Forester.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Quier has a chance, I suppose ...' 'Let us hope so.'

Drinkwater was not so cold now and thought he had stopped shivering. It did not seem to matter that the water rose above his head. There was a simple inevitability about things; an acceptance. All would be well, and all would be well ...

It was almost a disappointment when, without effort, almost in spite of himself, he encountered the oar again and found that he was breathing, his head clear of the water with the arch of the sky above him. But now it hurt to breathe; almost as much as it hurt not to...

CHAPTER 14 Last Casts of the Dice

Edward was buried next to Hortense in the grounds of the old priory and with him Drinkwater consigned a great anxiety. Once he might have relied upon the protection of Lord Dungarth, but after the Earl's death, had Ostroff's true identity or past crime of murder been exposed, along with his own part in Edward's escape, he scarcely dared to think what would have happened to Elizabeth and the children. That Edward had rendered signal service to the British Crown at Tilsit might not have weighed in his favour so long after the event, and now, in any case, the war had finally ended and with it those expedient measures behind which wrongs were obscured.

Nine weeks after the return of Kestrel from the French coast, England learned of the debacle of Waterloo, the quondam Emperor's flight to the west coast of France and his surrender to Captain Maitland of the Bellerophon. Thereafter, the presence of Napoleon aboard ship in Torbay attracted widespread interest before he was transferred into the Northumberland and carried south, to exile on distant St Helena. In the months that followed, Elizabeth persuaded her husband to fill in those gaps in his personal history that the loss of his early diaries during the sinking of the Royal George had caused by writing down his memoirs. She considered her husband's service to be of some interest to their children and, while she expected him to be deliberately reticent concerning some of the incidents in his life, she knew sufficient to want his sacrifices, and by implication her own, not to go unknown by their family. There was also a more practical consideration, and in initiating her husband's task, Elizabeth demonstrated the depth of her own understanding.

For Drinkwater the process brought back many memories. So daily an accompaniment of his life had the war become that the absence of it seemed to remove the main purpose of existence itself, and yet he learned that for Elizabeth and his household, the war had been but a distant backdrop to their own lives, lives which were more intimately connected with the ebb and flow of the seasons than the tides, of ploughing and planting, of reaping and harrowing, of tending livestock and mending fences, of buying and selling, of butter-making and fruit-bottling. Drinkwater was at first suspicious of Elizabeth's motives, suspecting her of wanting him occupied and not interfering in the business of the estate, but he quickly realized that he was guilty of a mean misjudgement. Elizabeth was only too acutely aware that the end of the war and the end of active service would confront Drinkwater himself with numerous regrets and frustrations, and that while he might say he wished to be left in peace, indeed he might desire it most sincerely, nevertheless such a desire would in time wane and, in the manner of all ageing men, he would wish for the excitements of youth and maturity. A period of reflection and evaluation would, she astutely hoped, reconcile him to a gentler, less tempestuous life.

In the first year of peace, Drinkwater bent to his task and found that it did indeed ease his transition from active command to the life of a country gentleman. He had no knowledge of either livestock or agriculture and eschewed the company of farming men, not out of snobbery but out of ignorance of their ways and their conversation. They were as great an oddity to him as was he to them. There were fewer expressions more accurate or appropriate than that of being a fish out of water. Rather than try, as many of his naval contemporaries did, to join the squirearchy, he retained the habit of command, was content with his own company and, when in need of male companionship, sought that of his friend Frey. Frey's expectation of advancement had terminated with the sudden end of the war and he had returned to painting, enjoying a continuing success. A solicitous husband, he nevertheless slipped away from time to time to laze afloat aboard Kestrel for a day or two. It seemed impossible that on these very decks had once lain the body of a mysterious Russian officer, or that they had carried off the Baroness and her children from the teeth of a French hussar detachment in the very yacht that lay at anchor beneath the hanging woods on the River Orwell.

Drinkwater received an occasional letter, written in painful and stilted English, from the young Charles Montholon. He had acquired a certain importance because his uncle, General Montholon, had been appointed to the small suite which accompanied to St Helena the man the British cabinet had meanly insisted was to be known as 'General Bonaparte'. This tenuous connection had, despite the young man's fugitive situation during the Hundred Days, encouraged an ambition to join the French army on the assumption that the glories of the past might be replicated in the future. Drinkwater sincerely hoped they would not; a world riven by battles of Napoleonic proportions was not one that he wished his own son to inhabit, but reading Charles Montholon's correspondence, it occurred to Drinkwater that his own generation had lived their lives in an extraordinary period which, seen through the younger man's eyes, was already vested with a vast and romantic significance. Not the least thread in the fabric of this great myth was the distant exile of the dispossessed emperor.

While Napoleon languished on his rock, Drinkwater completed his journals and enjoyed his quiet excursions under sail. Occasionally he and Frey would undertake a little surveying of the bar of the River Ore, or Drinkwater would submit a report on some matter of minor hydrographical detail. These, finding their way to the Court of Trinity House, in due course resulted in his being invited to become a Younger Brother of the Corporation and this, in turn, led him to accompany a party of Elder Brethren in the Corporation's yacht on an inspection of the lights in the Dover Strait. Thus, one night in the summer of 1820, anchored in The Downs close to the Severn, a fifty-gun guardship attached to the Sentinel Service, Drinkwater found himself at dinner with a Captain McCullough, commander of the Severn, who had been invited to join the Brethren at dinner.

The after cabin of the Trinity yacht was as sumptuous as it was small, boasting the miniature appointments of a first-rate. The meal began with the customary stilted exchanges of men with an unfamiliar guest in their midst. McCullough, who had joined Drinkwater and the two embarked Elder Brethren, Captain Isaac Robinson and Captain James Moring, by way of his own gig, was quizzed about his naval career and his present service.

'I made the mistake', he admitted, smiling ironically, 'of suggesting that the revival of smuggling might be countered by several detachments of naval officers and men posted along the coasts most exposed to the evil. Their Lordships took me at my word and offered me the appointment of organizing the task. The command of Severn came, as it were, as a by-blow of their decision, for she acts as storeship and headquarters of the force.'

'And as a visible deterrent, I daresay,' observed Captain Moring, who had recendy relinquished command of an East Indiaman.

'I believe that to be the case, yes.'

'How many men do you command?' asked Captain Robinson.

'The whole force amounts to only about eighty men who occupy the old Martello towers along the shore. Each division, of which there are three in Kent, is commanded by a lieutenant, with midshipmen and master's mates in charge of the local detachments. A similar arrangement pertains to the westward in Sussex. Each post has a pulling galley at its disposal, so we are an amphibious force.'

'You take your posts at night, I imagine,' Drinkwater said, 'and enjoy some success thereby.'

'As an active counter-action to the nefarious doings of the free-trading fraternity, we have enjoyed a certain advantage, yes, though this has not been achieved without loss.'

'You suffer deaths and injuries then?' Drinkwater asked.

'Oh yes, severely on occasion. The smugglers are a ruthless lot and will stop at nothing in their attempts to run their damnable cargoes.'

'Well, I confess that the odd bottle of contraband brandy has passed my lips in the past, but with the peace and the present difficulties the country faces, the losses to the revenue must be stopped,' Captain Moring put in.

'Indeed,' went on McCullough, nodding, 'and the problem lies in the widespread condonation that exists, partly due to the laxities practised during the late war, but also due to the material advantage accruing to the individual in avoiding duty'

There was a brief and awkward silence, then Captain Robinson raised his glass and remarked, 'Well, sir, I give you the Sentinel Service ...' and they drank a toast to McCullough's brainchild.

'Perhaps,' Drinkwater added, 'one might consign the magistracy to some minor purgatory. I gather that when the Preventive Waterguard were formed, what, twenty years ago now, they often threw out of court actions brought against well-known smugglers.'

'That is true,' went on McCullough, warming to his subject with the enthusiasm of the zealot, 'for the justices were usually the chief beneficiaries and how else does a man get rich in England but by cheating the revenue? But they are less able to try the trick on naval men, and besides, there was some mitigation during the war when continental trade was made difficult and it was in our interest to encourage it. The paradox no longer exists, therefore the matter is simpler in its argument. Its resolution, however, remains as difficult as ever.'

'The risks are high for those caught,' said Moring.

'Indeed. I should not wish to face transportation or the gallows, but the profits are encouraging enough and the risks of apprehension, despite our best efforts, are probably not so terrifying.'

'No,' put in Drinkwater. 'And it is not entirely to be wondered at that fellows made bold by the experiences of war and who find no employment in peace, yet see about them evidence of wealth and luxury, should turn to such methods to support their families.'

'That is true, sir,' replied McCullough, 'and there is a certain irony in seeing victims of the press remaining at sea for their private gain...'

'That is not so very ironic, McCullough,' Drinkwater responded, 'when you take into account the fact that the men who oppose you and the revenue officers are by birth and situation bred to the sea and find it the only way to earn their daily crust. I am certainly not sympathetic to their law-breaking, merely to their situation. It seems to me that an amelioration of their circumstances would remove many of the motives that drive them to break the law.'

'You mean measures should be taken by government', Robinson asked incredulously, 'to regulate society?'

'I think that is a necessary function of good government, yes.'

'Government regulation gave us the confounded income tax,' protested Moring.

'Well,' said Drinkwater, 'I think the present government can give us little...'

'You are a reformer, sir!' said Moring accusingly.

Drinkwater smiled. 'Perhaps, yes. There can be very little wrong in promoting the welfare of others. I seem to recall something of the sort in the gospels...'

'Damned dangerous notions...'

'Revolutionary...'

'Come, gentlemen, keep a sense of proportion,' argued Drinkwater. 'We cannot entirely ignore events either over the strait or, for that matter, on the other side of the Atlantic...'

'I doubt our present Master', remarked Moring, referring to the Corporation's senior officer who, as Lord Liverpool, was also the Prime Minister, 'would agree with you.'

'I hope, sir,' said Drinkwater, with an edge to his voice, 'that you are not implying disloyalty on my part by my expressing my free and candid opinion? One may surely disagree with the opinions of another without the risk of retribution? After all, it is a hallmark of civilization.'

There was a moment's awkward silence, then McCullough said, 'The present state of the country is a matter for concern, I admit, but this should not condone law-breaking.'

'I do not condone law-breaking, Captain McCullough. I have already said so. The present woes of our country, with trouble in our unrepresented industrial towns, unemployment in our countryside and difficulties in trade, are matters close to all our hearts,' Drinkwater persisted. 'My case is simply that the solution lies either with government or in revolution, for there are limits to the toleration of even the most passive and compliant people. I have spent my life in fighting to contain the latter and see that the wise solution must therefore lie with the former. Was Lord Liverpool here this evening, I am certain he would agree with me that something must be done. But the problem seems to lie in what exactly one does to ameliorate dissatisfactions. One can hope something will turn up, but this seems to me damned foolish and most unreliable. The unhappy experience of France is that one cannot throw over the cart without losing the contents and that to do so runs the risk of bringing down a tyranny greater than the one formerly endured. On the other hand simply to obstruct all progress upon the principle of exclusion seems to me to be both dangerous and foolish.'

'What policy of what you are pleased to call improvement, sneered Moring, 'do you advocate then, Drinkwater?'

'Since you ask,' Drinkwater replied, smiling wryly, 'a policy of slow but steady reform, a policy which would be perceptible to men of every condition, but which would allow due controls to be exerted. It is my experience that neither coercion nor bribery produce loyalty, though both may produce results, whereas some moderating policy would be wiser than sending in light dragoons to cut up political meetings that can have no voice other than in open fields.'

'Well, I ain't so damned sure,' said Moring, motioning the steward to refill his glass as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin.

'Of course you're not,' Drinkwater said quickly, 'for it is your certainties you must sacrifice ...'

'Gamble with, more like,' put in Robinson.

'Indeed. But you have spent your professional life gambling, Captain Robinson, pitting your wits against wind and sea, bringing your cargoes safely home against considerable odds, wouldn't you say?'

Robinson nodded with lugubrious acquiescence, apparently defeated by this line of argument.

Moring was less easily subdued. 'But that doesn't alter the fact that by conferring liberties upon the masses, disorder and chaos might result,' he persisted.

'True, but so they might if we leave Parliament unreformed and half the veterans from the Peninsula wandering our streets as beggars, and half the pressed seamen returned to common lands they find enclosed, or consigned to those stinking factories that are no better than the worst men-of-war commissioned under Lord Sandwich's regime in the American War. God forbid that the English disease of snobbery should set a real revolution alight! Imagine what the men who raped and pillaged their way through Badajoz might do to London!'

'But Drinkwater, to enable a government to function in the way you so passionately advocate, it must needs garner its revenue,' argued McCullough, a note of vexed desperation in his voice.

'Unquestionably, McCullough. Gentlemen, I apologize for ruining your evening,' said Drinkwater, temporizing, 'I am in no wise opposed to Captain McCullough's Sentinel Service and had we not drunk to it already I should have proposed a toast to it now...'

But Drinkwater was interrupted by a loud knocking at the door and the sudden appearance of the yacht's second mate.

'Begging your pardon, gentlemen, but there's a message come for Captain McCullough. Your tender's just arrived, sir, with word of a movement along the coast, and they're awaiting orders.'

McCullough rose, a somewhat relieved expression crossing his face. 'I'll be up directly,' he said to the second mate and, turning to the others, apologized. 'Gentlemen, forgive me. It has been a most stimulating evening, but I must leave at once. My tender, the Flying Fish, was not expected to return until tomorrow, so this news means something considerable is under weigh ...'

Robinson waved aside McCullough's explanation. 'Now, Drinkwater, here's an opportunity for us all to do our duty! Will you accept our services as volunteers, McCullough? You will? Good man! Gentlemen, to our duty...'

And with that Robinson rose and went to his small cabin, muttering about priming pistols. 'Will you have us, sir?' Drinkwater asked, rising slowly to his feet. Antique and libertarian as we may seem, we are not wholly without experience in these matters.'

McCullough shrugged. 'Your reputation is solid, sir, but I am not so certain how strong a trade-wind blows ...'

'Come, sir,' Moring snapped as he leapt to his feet, 'that remark is of dubious propriety. Let us show you how strong a trade-wind may blow, damn it!'

And so the uncongenial occasion broke up in petty rivalry, and Drinkwater went reluctantly to shift his coat and shoes, and buckle on his hanger.

It was a moonless night of pitchy darkness and a light but steady southerly wind, a night made for the running of tubs on to the beaches of Dungeness, and the Flying Fish slipped south-westwards under a press of canvas. The comparison with Kestrel, thought Drinkwater, as he squatted on one of the tender's six carronade slides, ended with the similarity of the tender's rig. Thereafter all was different, for Flying Fish was stuffed with men, and the dull and sinister gleam of cutlasses being made ready was accompanied by the snick of pistol frizzens as the men prepared for action. What precise intelligence initiated this purposeful response, Drinkwater had only the haziest notion. Treachery and envy loosened tongues the world over, and word of mouth was a deadly weapon when employed deliberately. But patient observation, infiltration and careful analysis of facts could, as Drinkwater well knew from his brief tenure of command of the Admiralty's Secret Department, yield strong inferences of intended doings.

In truth his curiosity was little aroused by the matter; he felt he had exhausted his own interest in such affairs years ago. It was, like the command of Kestrel, something he was quite content to give up to a younger and more eager man. Every dog had his day, ran the old saw, and he had had his. If the evening's evidence was anything to go by, he was out of step with the temper of the times. Younger men, men like Moring, Robinson and McCullough, had made their own world and he was too rooted in the past to do more than offer his unwanted comments upon it. Nevertheless, it seemed that with the past something good had been lost. He supposed his perception was inevitable and that the hard-won experience and wisdom of existence was perpetually squandered as part of the excessive bounty of nature. These men would learn in their turn, but it seemed an odd way for providence to proceed.

Such considerations were terminated by McCullough summoning them all aft. Stiffly Drinkwater rose and joined the others about the tiller. A master's mate had gone forward to brief the hands, and Drinkwater stood listening to McCullough while watching the pale, bubbling line of the wake draw out from under the Flying Fish's low counter, creating a dull gleam of phosphorescence at the cutwater of the boat towing astern.

'Two of our pulling galleys reported a long-boat from Rye run across to France a couple of nights ago,' McCullough was saying. 'Information has reached us that the contraband cargo will be transferred to three fishing-boats which will return independently to their home ports. The long-boat will come in empty; apart, I expect, from a few fish.

'The rendezvous is to be made on the Varne Bank, near the buoy of the Varne. It is my intention that we shall interrupt this. I want prisoners and I want evidence. From you, gentlemen,' McCullough said, turning to his three volunteers, 'I want witnesses, not heroics.'

As Moring spluttered his protest, Drinkwater smiled in the darkness. At least Elizabeth would approve of him being a witness; he was otherwise less certain of her enthusiasm for his joining this mad jape.

'And now, gentlemen,' McCullough concluded, 'I must insist upon the most perfect silence.'

For another hour they squatted about the deck, wrapped in their cloaks against the night's damp. The low cloud was breaking a little, but a veil persisted over the upper atmosphere, blurring the few stars visible and preserving the darkness.

But it was never entirely dark at sea; the eyes could always discern something, and intelligence filled in details, so that it was possible, while one remained awake, to half-see, half-sense what was going on. The quiet shuffling between bow and helm, accompanied as it was by whispers, told of the transmission of information from the lookouts, and in due course McCullough himself, discernible from the shape of his cocked hat and a tiny gleam on the brass of his night glass, went forward himself and remained there for some time. Drinkwater had, in fact, almost dozed off when something like a voltaic shock ran along the deck as men touched their neighbours' shoulders and the company rose to its feet.

After the long wait, the speed with which events now accelerated was astonishing. The preservation of surprise had compelled McCullough to keep his hand hidden until the last moment and now he demonstrated the skill of both his interception and his seamanship, for though their course had been altered several times in the final moments, it seemed that Flying Fish suddenly ran in among several craft to the accompaniment of shouts of alarm and bumps of her intruding hull.

The drilling of her company was impeccable. On a single order, her mainsail was scandalized and the gaff dropped, the staysail fluttered to the deck with the thrum of hanks on the stay, and men seemed to drop over the side as they invaded the rafted boats which, until that moment, had been busy with the transfer of casks and bundles of contraband.

For a brief moment, it seemed to the observing Drinkwater that the deterrent waving of dimly perceived cutlass blades would subdue the smugglers, but suddenly riot broke out. Cries of surprise rose in reactive alarm, the clash of blade meeting blade filled the night, and the grunt of effort and the flash and report of the first pistol opened an action of primitive ferocity. Beside Drinkwater, Moring was jumping about the deck with the undignified and frustrated enthusiasm of a schoolboy witnessing his first prize-fight, while all about them the scene of struggle had a contrived, almost theatrical appearance, for the pistol flashes threw up sharp images in the darkness and these stayed on the retina, accompanied by a more general perception of men stumbling about in the surrounding boats, grappling and hacking at each other in a grim and terrible struggle for mastery.

This state of affairs had been going on for no more than two or three minutes with neither side apparently prevailing, though shouts of execration filled the air along with the cries of the hurt and the occasional bellowed order or demand for surrender. Suddenly matters took a turn for the worse.

The ship-keeper, left at the helm of the Flying Fish, added his own voice to the general uproar. 'To me! Help! Astern here!'

Drinkwater turned to see the flash of a pistol and the ship-keeper fall dead. A moment later a group of smugglers came over the Flying Fish's stern and rushed the deck. He lugged out his hanger just in time, shouting the alarm to Moring and Robinson, and struck with a swift cut at the nearest attacker.

He felt the sword-blade bite and slashed at a face. It pulled back and, in the gloom, the pale oval passed briefly across the dim light from the Flying Fish's shrouded binnacle. For a moment, Drinkwater thought he recognized the man but he swiftly dismissed the thought as a figure loomed to his left and he thrust hard, driving his very fist into another man's belly as his sword-blade ran his victim through.

Drinkwater felt something strike his own shoulder as he twisted his wrist to wrench the sword-blade clear and half staggered, barking his shin painfully against a carronade slide as he broke free of his dying assailant. After the first moment of shock and the reactive thunder of his accelerating heart, he found the cool analytical anodyne to this horrible work. He seemed to be able to see better, despite the darkness, and he breathed with a violent and stertorous effort, snorting through distorted nostrils as he hacked at the invaders, slashing with a terrible effect, and twisting his wrist with a savage energy that tore at the very tendons with its violence. He was a butcher of such ferocity that he had cleared the deck and fought his way to the very stern over which the last of his opponents jumped, when he heard Robinson cry out, 'Turn, sir! Turn!'

It was the smuggler he had first seen and whom he thought he had struck down, the man whose face had been briefly illuminated by the binnacle light. Now he recognized him, and by some strange telepathy, he himself was recognized.

'Jago!'

'Stand aside, Captain, or I'll not answer...'

'You damned fool!'

'Stand aside, I say!'

For a moment they confronted each other in silence as Drinkwater raised his sword. His madness cooled and then, through teeth clenched ready for reaction, he muttered, 'Go over the side, man, or I must strike you ... Go!'

But Jago did not jump. Instead, the sword of another ran him through from the rear and he stood transfixed, staring at Drinkwater as he fell, first to his knees and then full length, snapping the sword-blade and revealing his executioner as Captain Moring, a broken sword in his hand.

'That, sir,' Moring said, his eyes agleam, 'is how strong a trade-wind may blow!'

CHAPTER 15 The Knight Commander

Drinkwater drew off his gloves, threw them on to the table and took the glass stopper from the decanter.

'There are some strange ironies in life, are there not, my dear?' he asked, pouring two glasses and handing one to Elizabeth. 'To be thus honoured as an act of spite against a foreign power for something done years ago seems too ridiculous.'

Accepting the glass, Elizabeth sank into a chair, kicked off her shoes and wriggled her toes ecstatically. 'Thank you, Sir Nathaniel,' she said, smiling up at him.

'I hope that is a jest and does not become a custom,' Drinkwater replied, sitting opposite and raising his glass in a silent toast to his wife.

'Is that a command, Sir Nathaniel?'

'It most decidedly is, my dear, or else I shall have to call you Milady and refer to you as Her Ladyship...'

'Leddyship, surely, my dear.'

'Well at least we agree about that being fatuous.'

'I was referred to in that way sufficiently today to last me the remainder of my life. But tell me', Elizabeth said, after sipping her wine, 'what you mean by annoying foreign powers. It all sounds rather serious and sinister, this matter of spite.'

'It's also damned ironic, but I had no idea until that fellow, what was his name, the cove who looked after us at the levée...?'

'Ponsonby, I think.'

'That's the fellow! Must have spent half his life bowing and scraping! What a damned tedious time he seems to have had of it too...'

'Took us both for a pair of country tree-sparrows and I'm not surprised, this gown must be at least three years out of fashion ...'

'You looked perfect, my dear, even the King said so.'

Elizabeth clucked a laugh. 'Bless him,' she purred, 'he reminded me of a rather over-grown midshipman in his enthusiasm. He seemed to have a soft spot for you too.'

'Yes, odd that. I think 'tis because we both commanded the frigate Andromeda at one time or another and he still believes I took the Suvorov when I commanded her. Well,' Drinkwater said with a sigh, "tis too late to disabuse him now that I'm dubbed knight for my trouble.'

'Knight Commander of the Bath,' his wife corrected, laughing, 'that is surely better than being an Elder Brother of the Trinity House.' She made a face. 'But you haven't told me of this spiteful snub to France.'

'Not France, my dear. Russia is the target of the Government's displeasure. The diplomatic vacillations of St Petersburg have, as Ponsonby put it, to be "disapproved of" and this disapproval has to be signalled by subtle means ...'

'La, sir, and you are a "subtle means", are you? Well,' she burst out laughing, "tis as ludicrous as being a Knight of the Bath or an Elder Brother...'

'And I never commanded a ship-of-the-line,' he laughed with her, adding ruefully, 'nor hoisted a flag, though I managed a broad pendant but once.'

'My dear Nathaniel, the King is not quite the fool he looks. Your services were more subtle than the means by which your knighthood is to be used against the Russians, and the King knows sufficient of you to be aware that of all the post-captains on the list your name is the most deserving...'

'Oh come, my dear, that simply isn't true.' Drinkwater spluttered a modest protest only slightly tinged with hypocrisy.

'Well I think so, anyway.'

'I approve of your partiality' Drinkwater smiled and looked about the room. They had hardly changed a thing since the house had been left to him as a legacy by Lord Dungarth. It had apparently been the only asset in Dungarth's estate that had not been sold to satisfy his creditors. It was a modest place, set in a terrace in Lord North Street, and it had been Dungarth's intention that Drinkwater should use it when he succeeded the Earl as head of the Admiralty's Secret Department. In the event Drinkwater's tenure of that office had been short-lived and the house had merely become a convenience for Drinkwater and Elizabeth when they were in London. They had discussed selling it now that the war was over and they had purchased Gantley Hall, but Elizabeth, knowing the modest but secure state of their finances, had demurred. Now, with her husband's knighthood, it had proved a wise decision. She was already contemplating a visit or two to a dress-making establishment near Bond Street in anticipation of the coming season.

'I thought His Majesty paid you a singular compliment in speaking to you for so long,' she said, echoing his mood of satisfaction.

Drinkwater laughed. 'Whatever King William's shortcomings,' he said, 'he does not lack the loquacity or enthusiasm of an old sailor.'

'They say he knew Nelson.'

'They say he doted on Nelson,' Drinkwater added, 'and certainly he admired Nelson greatly, but poor Pineapple Poll had not a shred of Nelson's qualities ...'

Drinkwater refilled their glasses and they sat in silence for a while. He thought of the glittering occasion from which they had just returned, the brilliance of the ladies' dresses and the uniforms of the men, the sparkling of the glass chandeliers and mirrors, the powdered immobility of the bewigged servants and the ducking, bobbing obsequiousness of the professional courtiers.

Among such surroundings, the pop-eyed, red-faced, white-haired King seemed almost homely, dressed as he had been in his admiral's uniform, leading in Queen Adelaide who had, after years of open scandal, replaced Mrs Jordan, the actress. The King's eyes had actually lit up when he caught sight of Drinkwater's uniform, and after the ceremony of the investiture, he had asked how high Drinkwater's name stood upon the list of post-captains.

'I am not certain, Your Majesty,' Drinkwater had confessed.

'Not certain! Not certain, sir! Why damme, you must be the only officer in the service who don't know, 'pon my soul! Confess it, sir, confess it!'

'Willingly, sir, but it is perhaps too late to expect an honour greater than that done me today.'

'Well said, sir! Well said!' The King had turned to Elizabeth. "Pon my soul, ma'am, your husband makes a damned fine diplomat, don't he, eh?'

Elizabeth dropped a curtsey. 'Your Majesty is too kind,'

'Perhaps he ain't always quite so diplomatic, eh?' The King laughed. 'Well, let that be, eh? But permit me to say, ma'am, that he is a lucky man in having you beside him, a damned lucky man. I speak plain, Ma'am, as an old sailor.' The King looked at Drinkwater. 'Charming, sir, charming. I hope you won't keep her in the country all the year.'

'As Your Majesty commands.'

The King had dropped his voice. 'I purposed your knighthood years ago, Sir Nathaniel, d'ye recall it?'

'Of course, sir, you were most kind in writing to me ...'

'Stuff and nonsense. You might have confounded Boney, and saved Wellington and all those brave fellows the trouble of Waterloo. Damned funny thing, providence; pulls one up, sets another down, don't you know... Ah, Lady Callender ...'

'What are you laughing about?'

Elizabeth's question brought him back to the present. 'Oh, the King's notion that I might have saved Wellington the trouble of fighting Waterloo. It was absolute nonsense, of course. I could only have done that had the Congress at Vienna decided to send Napoleon to the Azores rather than Elba. His Majesty has, it seems, a rather loose grasp of detail.'

'But he recollected that promise to make you a knight.'

'Remarkably yes, but I think it had more to do with taking a revenge upon the Admiralty, of putting Their Lordships in their places, than with upsetting the Russians, as Ponsonby suggested.'

'Why so? Had Their Lordships at the Admiralty upset him?'

'Indeed, yes. They had, you may recall, prevented him from commanding anything after Andromeda on account of the harshness with which he ruled his ship ... except, of course, the squadron that took King Louis back to France, and then he had Blackwood to hold his hand. I think he felt the humiliation keenly, though I have equally little doubt but that Their Lordships acted correctly.'

'I had forgotten...'

'We have so much to forget, Elizabeth. Our lives have been rich in incident, I often think.'

'Well, my dear, you have all that heart could desire now,' Elizabeth said.

'Indeed I have. I can think of nothing else except a lasting peace that our children may enjoy.'

'I do not think even your knighthood will annoy the Russians to the extent of spoiling that, Nathaniel,' Elizabeth said, laughing.

'Indeed I hope not,' her husband agreed. 'Here's to you, Lady Drinkwater, and the luck of Midshipman Drinkwater who found you in an apple orchard.'

'And to you, my darling Sir Nathaniel.'

'May I speak?'

'Of course, sir,' said Frey, glaring at the immobile Drinkwater as he stood in a futile attempt to look impressively relaxed. Frey's attention shifted from his model to his canvas as he worked for some moments, his face intense, his eyes flickering constandy from his image to his subject. Periodically he paused to recharge his brush from his palette or mix more colour.

'This reminds me of standing on deck for hours in bad weather, or in chase of the enemy. One is obliged to be there but one has nothing to do, relying upon others to work the ship. Consequently one passes into a state of suspended animation.'

'Yet,' Frey said, placing his brush between his teeth while he turned to his side table to replenish his dipper with turpentine, 'yet you always seemed to be aware of something going wrong, or some detail needing attention, I recall.'

'Oh yes, I was not asleep, though I have once or twice fallen asleep on my feet. But under the cataleptic conditions I speak of, I had, as it were, retreated into myself. All my professional instincts were alert but my mind was passive, not actively engaged in the process of actually thinking.'

'And you are not thinking now?' asked Frey almost absently, as he worked at the coils of bullion that fell from Drinkwater's shoulders.

'Well I'm thinking now, of course,' Drinkwater said, with a hint of exasperation which he instantly suppressed, 'but a moment ago I felt almost disembodied, as though I was recalled from elsewhere.'

'Ah, then your soul was about to take flight from your body...'

'And how the deuce d'you know that?'

'I don't know it. I just think it might be an explanation,' Frey said simply, looking at Drinkwater but not catching his eye and immediately returning to his canvas.

'You don't think it might be that I was just about to fall asleep?'

'You said yourself', said Frey, working his brush vigorously, 'that it reminded you of how you felt when you stood on deck. Presumably you weren't about to go to sleep then? In fact I supposed it to be a natural state to enable you to remain thus for many hours.' He paused, then added, 'My remark about the soul may have been a little facetious.'

'You wish to concentrate upon your work. I shall remain quiet.'

Frey straightened up, relaxed and looked directly at his sitter. 'Not at all, sir. Please don't misunderstand ...'

'My dear Frey, I am not deliberately misunderstanding you. But I have never thought you had the capacity for facetiousness. I think you believed what you said, but you have no means of justifying it on scientific principles and so you abandon it rather than have me ravage it with my sceptical ridicule.'

Frey smiled. 'You were always very perceptive, Sir Nathaniel, it was one of the more unnerving things about serving under you.'

'Was I?' Drinkwater asked, his curiosity aroused. 'Well, well. I suppose as you are engaged in painting my portrait it would not be inappropriate to quiz you a little on your subject.'

Frey laughed. 'Not at all inappropriate, Sir Nathaniel, but immodest in the extreme.'

'Nevertheless,' persisted Drinkwater with a grin, 'my curiosity quite naturally overwhelms my modesty.'

'Well that is not unusual, but it is rather disappointing in so unusual a character as yourself, sir.'

'Ah, now you are just baiting me and I'm not certain I should rise to it.'

'Perhaps that is truly my intention.' Frey resumed work, dipping his brush in the turpentine, filling it with a dark colour and applying it to his canvas with those quick, almost indecently furtive glances at his subject that Drinkwater found strangely unnerving.

'What? To put me off pursuing this line of conversation?'

'Just so, sir. To embarrass you into silence.'

'Do your sitters always want to talk?'

Frey shrugged. 'Some do and some don't. Most that do soon get bored. I am apt to reply monosyllabically or occasionally not at all, and then, depending upon my sitter's station and person, I am obliged to apologize.'

'But I can quite understand the concentration necessary to execute ... By the by, why does an artist "execute" a portrait?'

'I really have no idea, sir.'

'Anyway the concentration necessary to do your work must of necessity abstract you from gossip.' Drinkwater paused, then went on, 'So some of your sitters are difficult?'

'Many regard me as no more than a servant or at best a clever craftsman. The example of successful artists like Sir Joshua Reynolds counts for little here in the country and wherever the gentry pay they believe they own...'

'There is more man a hint of bitterness in your voice, Frey,' Drinkwater sighed. 'I am sorry I did not do more for your advancement in the Service. I can see it must irk you to be painting me in sash and star...'

'That is not what I meant, Sir Nathaniel!' Frey protested, towering brush and palette, and emerging fully from behind his easel, no longer looking at Drinkwater as a subject for his brush.

'I know, I know, my dear fellow, of course it isn't what you meant, but I know it is what you feel and it is perfectly natural...'

'No, sir, you read me wrongly. I am aware that you did what you could for those of us who regarded ourselves as being of your ''family'', but the death of poor James Quilhampton, though providing me with the opportunity of happiness with Catriona, set an incongruously high price upon so-called advancement. Believe me, I have no regrets. Indeed, sir, you will not know that, upon your recommendation, I was asked to accompany Buchan's Arctic voyage in 1818. I rejected the appointment because I did not wish Catriona to be left alone again; she had suffered too much in the past.'

'I had no idea you might have gone north with Buchan,' Drinkwater said. 'Well, well. But you are a kind fellow, Frey, I have long thought you such.'

'No more than the next man, sir,' Frey said, colouring, and then he looked down at his palette, refilled his brush and resumed work.

For a moment the two men's private thoughts occupied them and silence returned to the studio. Drinkwater thought of his own Arctic voyage and the strange missionary named Singleton whom he had left among the Innuit people. And then, as he was stirred by an uncomfortable memory, the door opened and Catriona entered bearing a tray. Instinctively Drinkwater moved, before realizing the enormity of his crime.

'My dear Frey, I beg your pardon.'

Frey laid down his gear, wiped his hands on a rag and smiled at his wife. 'Please do break the pose, Sir Nathaniel. Let us enjoy Catriona's chocolate while it is hot'

"He will keep you sitting there until your blood runs cold, Sir Nathaniel,' she said knowingly guying her husband, her tawny eyebrows raised in disapproval. 'A've told him about the circulation of the blood, but he takes no notice of good Scottish science.'

'Thank you, my dear,' Drinkwater said, smiling and taking the cup and saucer. 'I am sure this will restore my circulation satisfactorily.'

Drinkwater looked at Catriona's pleasant, open face. She was no beauty, but he had seen a portrait of her by her husband which had the curious effect of both looking like her to the life yet investing her with a quite haunting loveliness. Elizabeth, who had also seen the painting, had remarked upon it, attributing this synthesis to a combination of Frey's technical skill and his personal devotion.

'It is', Elizabeth had explained in their carriage going home, 'what makes of a commonplace portrait, a work of art.'

He thought of that now as Catriona placed Frey's cup of chocolate upon his work table, and he saw the small gesture of gratitude Frey made as they smiled at each other. He envied them this completeness. His own contentment with Elizabeth was quite different. He acknowledged his own deficiencies and was reminded of the uncomfortable thought that had entered his head with Catriona's appearance.

'Will you take tea with us, Sir Nathaniel, when he has finished with you?'

'That is most kind, my dear. If I am not an inconvenience.'

'You will be most welcome.' She stood beside her husband, looking from the portrait to Drinkwater who, by agreement, was not to see the work until Frey judged it complete.

'I shall finish all but the detail of the background today,' Frey said.

'I shall be glad. When I am under such scrutiny I feel like an object.'

'That is what he sees you as,' Catriona threw in. 'However,' she added, putting her head to one side and looking at the portrait, 'I think you will be tolerably pleased.' And with that pronouncement she gathered up her skirts and swept from the room.

Frey and Drinkwater exchanged glances, the former's eyes twinkling. 'She is my harshest critic.'

'And yet the picture you painted of her is outstanding.'

'Oh that. She will not let me hang it. Since that day I showed it to you and Lady Drinkwater, it has stood facing the wall. I think when I am dead, Catriona will burn it,' he said, laughing and gathering up his brushes and palette again. 'They are strange creatures, women...'

And yet, thought Drinkwater, resuming his seat and the pose, you understand them infinitely better than I do myself.

'A little more to the left, sir ... No, no, just the trunk of the body...'

Again they fell silent. Drinkwater knew the uncomfortable thought could not be excluded from his mind, and that it must needs be uttered. He had never enjoyed complete intimacy with any other human being, not even Elizabeth, for there had always been that vast gulf created by his profession, his long absences and his ignorance of most of her life ashore. There had been the brief and torrid physical passion with the American widow, a moment of intimate joy so exquisite that its aftermath was a long and lingering guilt. The effect was to have prohibited a more destructive lust with Hortense Santhonax, for she had infected him with another sickness, that of discontent and wild longing. He had, by chance, captured a portrait of her when he took her husband's ship Antigone in the Red Sea, and it had lain like a guilty, reproachful secret in the bottom of his sea-chest for years until he had burnt it. It was ironic that she, perhaps the most beautiful of the women whom he had known, now lay under the ruined flint arch of the priory at Gantley Hall, alongside his wild and ungovernable brother Ned.

But perhaps men, at least that majority of men in his situation and from which Frey was excluded, never got close to women. It demanded the most noble sacrifice upon Elizabeth's part for her to comprehend all the complex workings of his seaman's mind. God knew she was a marvel and had done her best! That he was unable to understand her in her entirety was, he concluded, one of those imperfections in life that were profoundly regrettable, but equally profoundly unavoidable. The enigma resided in the eternal question as to why mankind troubled itself with the unattainable. He sighed. Providence had regulated the matter very ill, but that is why many men, he supposed, were often easier in the company of their own sex. He had been close to young Quilhampton and had counted him a friend. After James's death, for which he still held himself accountable, he had grown very friendly with Frey. That last escapade upon the coast of France had left them with more than the bond of shared experience, and he thought that the thing had coalesced when Frey had said that if Drinkwater handled Kestrel, he himself would fight her. In that odd moment of decision, they had become one, divining each other's thoughts as they engaged in their horrible profession of execution.

And so, in the circumambulatory nature of thoughts, he was returned to the central theme of his anxiety and unconsciously uttered a deep sigh.

'You seem to be in some distress, Sir Nathaniel. Is it the pose?'

'What?'

'Are you all right, sir?'

'No, if I am honest, I am far from being all right...'

Frey lowered his brush and stepped forward. 'Please relax, sir,' he said, alarmed. 'Pray invigorate yourself!'

Drinkwater smiled. 'No, no, my dear fellow, do not concern yourself. I am merely troubled by conscience. Invigorating myself at such a moment might prove fatal!'

Frey gave his sitter a steady, contentious look; what they had between them come to call, with reference to Catriona, 'a Scotch glare'.

'No, really. I am quite content to sit still a little longer.'

Frey stepped back behind the easel and resumed work. 'I cannot imagine why your conscience should trouble you, sir. I have not known another person with your sense of duty'

'That is kind of you, Frey, but it may be the essence of the problem. Duty is a cold calling. It induces men to murder, giving them licence without consolation. Have you any idea how many men I have killed?'

'Well no, sir.' Frey looked up, astonished at the candour of the question.

'No,' replied Drinkwater bleakly, 'neither have I.' 'But...' Frey began, but Drinkwater pressed on. 'One remembers only a few of them and they were almost all friends! James, for example ...'

'You did not kill James!' Frey protested. 'There were others, Frey...' 'I cannot believe ...'

'You do not have to. It is only I who need to know. And I don't...'

'But you once said to me that you did not believe in God, Sir Nathaniel, that matters were moved by great but providential forces. Providence has been good to you. This portrait, for example,' Frey said, stepping back and waving his brush at the canvas, 'is evidence of that. Surely the reward is to be enjoyed... To be appreciated...'

'You are probably right, my dear fellow. I was always a prey to the blue-devils. We drag these deadweights through our lives, and the megrims have been a private curse of mine for many years.'

'You have been lonely, sir,' Frey said reasonably. 'Perhaps it is the penalty for bearing responsibility.' He paused and worked for a moment of furious concentration. 'Perhaps it is the fee you must pay to achieve what you have achieved, a kind of blood-money.'

Drinkwater grinned and nodded. 'You are a great consolation, Frey, and I thank you for it. Alas,' he added sardonically, 'I think there may yet be unnamed tortures still awaiting me.'

'Apart from your rheumaticks, d'you mean?' Frey replied, returning the smile, pleased to see the lugubrious mood lifting.

'Oh yes, far worse than mere rheumaticks.'

For a further fifteen minutes, silence fell companionably between them and then Frey stepped back, laid down his brushes and palette, and picked up a rag. Vigorously wiping his hands he said, 'There, that is all I shall need you for. I think perhaps you had better pass verdict, Sir Nathaniel. Though I say so myself,' he added, grinning with self-satisfaction, 'I do believe 'tis you to the life.'

CHAPTER 16 The Rescue

The spectral faces of the dead came near him now, touching him with their cold breath. If he expected vengeful reproaches, there was only a feeling of acceptance, that all things came to this, and that this was all there was and would ever be. His mind rilled with regrets and great sadnesses, too complex and profound for him to recognize in their particulars, and in these too he felt touched by the unity of creation, reached through the uniqueness of his own existence.

In his dying, providence made one last demand upon him. There was someone near him, someone tugging at the oar with a frantic desperation which seemed quite unnecessary.

'Oh, God!' the man spluttered, thrashing wildly. 'Oh, thank God!' Dimly it was borne in upon Drinkwater that clinging with him on the oar was Mr Quier.

'Sir Nathaniel... 'Tis you ...' The oar sank beneath their combined weight. It's me, Sir Nathaniel... Quier, sir, Second Mate ...'

Odd that he should have known two men whose names began with that curious letter of the alphabet. Odder still that he should make the comparison now, in this extremity, a last habitual shred of rational thought. But he was feeling much warmer and he had seen Quilhampton a little while ago, he was sure of it. Or perhaps it was Frey... Frey and Catriona, yes, that was it, the presence of Catriona had confused him.

'The oar', he said with a slow deliberation, 'will not sustain us both...' Drinkwater felt the oar suddenly buoyant again, relieved of the young man's weight. Mr Quier, it appeared, had relinquished it and kicked away.

This was wrong. It was not what he had meant by his remark, but it was so difficult to talk, for his jaw was stiffened against the task. With a tremendous effort of will, Drinkwater hailed Quier.

'Mr Quier, don't let go, I beseech you!'

Quier headed back, gasping and spitting water, righting his sodden clothing in his effort to stay afloat. He suddenly grasped the oar loom again with a desperate lunge just as Drinkwater let go.

'Hold on, my boy,' he whispered, 'they're sure to find you ...'

It was Mr Forester who saw the man in the water waving. He shouted the news to Captain Poulter without taking his eyes off the distant speck as, every few seconds, it disappeared behind a wave only to reappear bobbing over the passing crest.

'Six points off the port bow, sir! Man waving!'

Poulter called out, 'Hard a-port! Stop port paddle!' He heard with relief the order passed below via the chain of men and was gratified when Vestal swung in a tight turn. Poulter was sodden with the perspiration of anxiety, yet his mouth was bone dry and he felt a stickiness at the corners of his lips.

'Come on, come on,' he muttered as he willed the ship to turn faster.

'Three points ... Two!' Vestal came round with ponderous slowness.

"Midships! Steadeeee ...'

'Coming right ahead!' Forester bellowed, his voice cracking with urgency.

'Meet her!' Poulter ordered. 'Steady as she goes!'

'Steady as she goes, sir. East by south, a quarter south, sir.'

'Aye, aye. Make it so. Both paddles, dead slow ahead!'

Vestal responded and Poulter, seeing Forester's arm pointing right ahead, ordered Potts to bring the ship's head back to starboard a few degrees, to open the bearing of the man in the water whom he himself could see now.

'Steer east by south a half south.' He turned aft from the bridge wing to check the men were still at their stations, ready to lower the boat once more. Reassured, he noted they were only awaiting the word of command. Poulter swung forward again and watched as they approached the man in the water. Poulter could see it was Quier, the second mate, who maintained himself by means of his arms hanging over the loom of one of the smashed boat's oars.

'Thank God for small mercies,' Poulter breathed to himself, then, raising his voice, he ordered: 'Stop engines! Half astern!'

Beneath him, hidden under the box and sponson, the paddle-wheels churned into reverse. Slowly Quier drifted into full view almost alongside them, some twenty yards away on the port beam. As Vestal came to a stop, he looked up at them. He was quite exhausted, his face a white mask devoid of any emotion, bereft of either relief or joy. Quier's expression reminded Poulter of a blank sheet of paper on which he might write 'Lost at sea', 'Drowned' or 'Rescued'.

'Stop her!' he called out, then, leaning over the rail, shouted, 'Boat away!'

So close was Quier that it seemed almost superfluous to lower the boat. It looked as if he might be hooked neatly with the long boat-hook and hove on board like a gaffed fish, but Poulter knew the second officer's life was not saved yet, that considerable effort had still to be expended by the boat's crew to haul the helpless, sodden man out of the sea and into the boat. Poulter turned to the able-seaman stationed on the port bridge wing as lookout.

'Run down to the officers' steward and tell him to bring hot blankets from the boiler room up to the boat-deck right away.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' The man abandoned his post for a moment and disappeared below. Poulter envied the sailor the opportunity to run about, for he found such moments of inactivity irksome in the extreme. He was impatient now. Locating a man was so damnably difficult and the weather was not going to last. The glass was already falling and the sky to the westwards looked increasingly threatening

Poulter frowned; where there was one, there might also be another. Carefully he scanned the heaving surface of the grey-blue sea surrounding the ship for a further sign of life, but could see nothing. He made himself repeat the process twice, working outwards in a circle of ever-increasing diameter, surveying the scene slowly so that he reckoned to cover every few square feet as the sea writhed and undulated beneath his patient scrutiny. He held in his head a mental chart of the search pattern he had carried out. Although he knew how, from a single central point, a combination of wind, tide and the frantic efforts men might make under duress could spread the debris from a capsized boat, he was as certain as he could be that Vestal had quartered the area in which they might reasonably expect to find the upset crew. Indeed, they had not been unsuccessful, for with Quier they had now found everyone but Sir Nathaniel Drinkwater.

Sadly, the evidence, or lack of it, seemed conclusive, and by now Poulter privately held out no hope for the elderly captain. The shock alone must have dispatched him long since. Pouter's ruminations were brought to an end as a cheer went up from the men waiting at the davit falls on the boat-deck. Quier was being taken aboard the boat, and a moment later the crew had their oars out again and were vigorously plying them as they pulled back towards the waiting ship. Putting the tiller hard over, the coxswain skilfully spun the boat in under the suspended blocks and his crew hooked on to the falls. Seldom had Poulter seen it done smarter. The boat fairly flew upwards as the falls were hove in, plucking her out of the water.

'Mr Forester!'

'Sir?'

'I don't suppose Quier knows anything of Captain Drinkwater, but ask.'

'Aye, aye, sir!'

Potts was waiting at the wheel as Poulter called out, 'Steady as you go! Half speed ahead!' Vestal gathered way and recommenced her search. The lookout had returned from his errand and a moment later Forester joined Poulter on the bridge.

'Sir! Don't go too far away, Quier says Drinkwater was with him a little while ago and that he insisted on leaving the oar to Quier. Apparently it would not support them both.'

'Does Quier think...?'

Forester shook his head. 'I don't think Quier can think of anything very much, sir. He has no idea how long he has been in the water and certainly not of how long he has been hanging on to that oar. But it seems Drinkwater was definitely alive not so very long ago.'

'Very well.' With a sinking heart Poulter was convinced he already knew the worst: old man or not, Captain Drinkwater had been lost at sea in an unfortunate accident. 'We shall continue the search, Mr Forester,' he said formally. 'Tell the lookouts to remain sharp-eyed. We don't give up until there is no hope at all, d'you understand?'

'Yes, of course, sir.'

Two hundred yards away, one cable's length or one-tenth of a nautical mile distant from the Vestal, Captain Sir Nathaniel Drinkwater caught a last glimpse of the ship. It was a dark mark upon his fading perception, no more. It meant nothing to him, for he was disembodied and might have been at Gantley Hall, walking on the soft, rabbit-cropped grass that he always thought of as a luxurious carpet. Elizabeth was there too, and somewhere about the ruins of the priory were the laughing voices of Richard and Charlotte Amelia. He remembered that he hardly knew their children and tried to tell Elizabeth how much he regretted the fact, but somehow he was unable to, although she was beside him and he could see her face quite clearly in the swiftly gathering dusk. He was certain he was holding her hand, but the children had gone.

They had often walked beneath the ruined arch of the priory in the long years they were granted together. Gantley Hall was a modest house, but the ivy-covered remnant in the grounds gave the place a fashionably Gothick aura and had proved a fitting resting-place for Hortense and Edward, two spirits who had never, it seemed to Drinkwater, had anywhere to call their own.

Frey had been right, as Frey so often was, in saying that providence had been good to him.

Providence had been kind to his family too. Charlotte Amelia had married, and had had children, though he could not recall her married name. It bothered him and it bothered him too that he could not remember how many children she had had, or what their names were. Had not one died? Yes, the little boy, the third child. He could ask Elizabeth, but she would think him an old fool for not knowing about his grandchildren. And what had happened to Richard? He had not married, had he?

It was almost dark now and they had turned back towards the house. He felt Elizabeth's hand dissolve from his own and she moved on ahead of him. He wanted to ask her the answers to these terrible questions. She would know and it no longer mattered what she would think of him for having forgotten. Elizabeth would help him, he felt sure, but she was walking away from him and growing smaller and smaller with the distance that seemed to grow inexorably between them...

He tried to call her name ...

'There is no need for you to be on the bridge, Mr Quier,' Poulter said as the Second Officer appeared, wrapped in warm blankets. He was deathly pale and still shaking with cold. 'You should go below; you will catch your death of cold, sir!'

'I'm all right, sir, it's Sir Nathaniel, sir...'

'What about him?'

'We were together, sir. Right up to the end.'

Poulter frowned. 'Mr Quier, while we lay alongside you getting you inboard, I searched the surrounding sea meticulously. I could see nothing.'

'But he gave me the oar, sir. Insisted I had it, though he was clinging to it first. He saved my life, sir.'

'Mr Quier,' Poulter said kindly, 'you are still feeling the effects of your ordeal. You had been in the water for well over an hour. Pray go below and remain there until later. I do assure you we shall continue to look for him, but I fear we are already too late. Console yourself. In due time you will simply recall Sir Nathaniel's last act as one of great selflessness.'

'I thought perhaps the gulls might have found him and have given us a clue,' Poulter said, 'but the wind is getting up again and we will have a full gale by the end of the afternoon.' He raised his voice. 'Hard a-starboard and steady on sou' sou' west.'

Vestal rolled heavily as she turned and the three men on the bridge wing steadied themselves by grasping the rail, their faces stung by a light shower that skittered across the sea.

'I think, Captain Poulter, that we must regretfully conclude that Sir Nathaniel has drowned.' Captain Drew turned and looked aft, raising his eyes to the ensign. 'We had better half-mast the colours.'

'I'll see to it, sir,' Forester said, and he crossed the bridge to where one of the lookouts still stared out over the heaving grey waste of the Atlantic Ocean.

'I shall give it another hour, sir,' Poulter said firmly.

'You are wasting your time. Stand the additional lookouts down now, Captain Poulter,' Drew said, watching Forester dispatch the able-seaman aft to tend the ensign halliards. 'I think we have done all that we can.'

'I command the ship, Captain Drew, and I ran the boat down, God forgive me. The responsibility is mine ...'

'Forester told me the telegraph chain parted. It is what is to be expected from so newfangled a contraption. It was not your fault and I shall not say that it was, if that is what is concerning you.' Drew's tone was testy. 'He was an old man, Captain Poulter. Infirm. Rheumaticky. The shock of immersion has killed him long since. Quier's notions of the passage of time have been distorted by his ordeal. Sir Nathaniel could not possibly have survived for very long.'

'That is probable, Captain Drew, but it would have been better if, after so many distinguished years' service, he had died in his bed.'

Drew gave Poulter a long look, sensing the reproach in his voice. 'You do not think we should have attempted the landing, eh? Is that it?'

Poulter sighed. 'I have observed that such so-called misfortunes often follow a single mistake or misjudgement. The fault seems compounded by fate. An error swiftly becomes a disaster.'

'And you think', Drew persisted, 'that we should not have made the attempt?'

'I shall always regret that I did not dissuade you, sir, yes.'

'And you therefore blame me?' Drew asked indignantly.

'I said, sir,' Poulter replied quietly, 'that I shall always regret that I failed to dissuade you from leaving the ship and making the attempt.'

'That verges on the insolent, Captain Poulter,' Drew said, stiffening.

'As you wish, Captain Drew ...'

For a moment Drew seemed about to leave the bridge, then he hesitated and thought better of it. Poulter turned away and stared about him again, dismissing Drew from his mind. There would inevitably be some unpleasantness in the aftermath of this unfortunate affair, but no good would come of moping over it while there was still a task to be done, no matter how hopeless. There was a definite bite to the wind now and the rain came again in a longer squall that hissed across the sea. The day was dissolving in a monotonous grey that belied the high summer of the season. He had almost forgotten Captain Drew when the Elder Brother cleared his throat, reclaiming Poulter's attention.

'Let us say no more of the matter now, Captain Poulter,' Drew said. 'Sir Nathaniel died doing his duty and he was a sea-officer of impeccable rectitude.'

'Indeed he was, sir,' Poulter said coolly. 'Let us hope his widow finds that a sufficient consolation.'

Two miles away Nathaniel Drinkwater gave up the ghost. The faults and follies of his life, the joys and sorrows, finally faded from his consciousness. In his last moments he felt an overwhelming panic, but then the pain ebbed from his body and he became subsumed by a light of such blinding intensity that it seemed he must cry out for fear of it, and yet it did not seem uncomfortable, nor the end so very terrible.

CHAPTER 17 The Yellow Admiral

The arrival of mail at Gantley Hall was sufficiently unusual to arouse a certain curiosity upon the morning of 20 July 1843. The post-boy was met by Billy Cue who had heard the horse and skidded out on his board to see if his services were required. The legless Billy had acquired his name from the line-of-battle ship Belliqueux, aboard which he had been conceived, but he had long since converted himself from the sea-urchin he had been born to a general handyman in the Drinkwater household. Susan Tregembo had originally put him to work scrubbing the flags in her kitchen, a task for which she felt him fitted, but Billy's good nature was undaunted by this practical approach and, by degrees, he made himself indispensable. He had grown into a good-looking man and was said to cut a dash among the more soft-hearted of the local farm girls, so that, upon the death of her husband, it was rumoured that Susan Tregembo allowed Billy into more than her kitchen.

He made up for his lack of mobility by skating about on a board fitted with castors, driven by his powerful arms which wielded a short pair of crutches. With these contrivances, he was able to get around with remarkable agility. He had also acquired a considerable skill as a carpenter, working on a bench set one foot above the level of his workshop floor. Here he had made a number of stools, steps and low tables, and these permitted him to carry out a multitude of tasks, the most remarkable of which was the care and grooming of Drinkwater's horses. Though Drinkwater was no lover of horse-flesh, the demands of household and farm had required the maintenance of four or five patient beasts who could pull a small carriage or trap, or act as hack when their master or mistress required a mount. Thus, while he might black boots, scrub floors and polish silver, it was in the stables of Gantley Hall that Billy Cue reigned as king.

'You are an ingenious fellow, Billy,' Captain Drinkwater had said when he had first seen the arrangement his protégé had made in one of the stalls to enable him to curry-comb the horses.

'Got the notion from the graving dock in Portsmouth, sir. A set of catwalks at shoulder height lets me get right up to the beasts,' Billy had said from his elevated station.

'Are you fond of horses then, Billy?' Drinkwater had asked.

'Aye, sir, mightily,' Billy had replied, his eyes shining enthusiastically.

'But you've never ridden one?'

'Not with me stumps, sir, no.'

'Then you had better make such use of the trap as you wish. 'Tis no good having a first-class groom who cannot get about the countryside.'

Billy's gratitude had resulted in daily offers of the trap being at Elizabeth's command and an increase in errands into Woodbridge or even Ipswich, notwithstanding the most inclement weather, while any horse arriving at Gantley Hall drew an immediate reaction from Billy. Thus, when the post-boy arrived on that fateful morning, it was Billy who took delivery of the letters and brought them to Susan.

'Two letters,' he announced, 'one from the Admiralty and one from, er ...' He scrutinized the post-mark, but was unable to make head or tail of it and Susan swiftly took both from him with a little snort of irritation, indicating that Billy was trespassing upon preserves forbidden him by the proprieties of life. Susan cast her own eyes over the superscriptions and sniffed.

'Her Ladyship's gone for a walk,' Billy offered helpfully. 'The usual place, d'you want me to ...?

'You mind your horses, my lad,' Susan scolded, 'I'll see to these,' and gathering her skirts up, she swept from the kitchen, leaving a grinning Billy in her wake.

'You're a curious woman, Susie,' he muttered, chuckling to himself as he watched her run off in pursuit of her mistress. She had never ceased nagging him as if he were a boy when they met about their duties, which was a strange and incomprehensible contradiction to her behaviour towards him as a man.

Susan Tregembo was a woman for whom idleness was a sin and for whom keeping busy had at first been a necessary solace and later became a habit. But though she manifested an unconscious irritation when she discovered idleness in others, those who knew her well forgave her brusque manner, for much of her activity was directed at the comfort of others, and in her devotion to 'the Captain' and his wife she was selfless. Neither had been bred to servants and they never took this devotion for granted, least of all Elizabeth who, in her heart of hearts, would many a time in the loneliness of her isolation have welcomed Susan as an equal. But her husband's rank made such things impossible and with his successes, culminating in his retirement and knighthood, had come the irreversible constraints of social conformity. For Susan, the matter was never in doubt. Elizabeth was of the quality because she possessed all the natural advantages of birth and education. Her Ladyship's penurious upbringing, her struggle to cope with the demands of running the household of a poor country parson and of maintaining some semblance of social standing in the face of the ill-concealed condescension of almost all with whom she was obliged to come into contact, was not a matter that troubled Susan. She had married a man who had claimed that his future lay with Nathaniel Drinkwater, and she had fallen into step with his decision. It never occurred to Susan Tregembo that the same Nathaniel Drinkwater had had a hand in her husband's death. As she tripped across the grass towards the great ruined arch of the priory where she knew her mistress would be found, she was only conscious of being, in her own way, a fortunate creature, rescued from the harsh life of the waterfront with all its pitfalls and temptations by 'the Captain' and his lovely wife.

On warm summer mornings, it was Elizabeth's invariable habit to take a short walk in the grounds of the Hall. Since she had learned that on the east coast of Suffolk any change in the weather would not arrive until about an hour before noon, a fine morning beckoned. The grounds of the Hall were not extensive, bounded by a road, a stream and the farmland rented to Henry Vane, but they included the jagged ruins of the old priory and these, broken down though they were, anchored her to her ecclesiastical past, reminding her of her father more than her maker. Chiefly, however, they performed the function of a private retreat where she was able to escape the demands of the house and sit in the warm, windless sunshine, content with a book, her correspondence, or simply her own thoughts. Her husband had been much in her mind of late. She had had difficulty reconciling herself to his absences on account of the Trinity House. She thought him too old for such duties and the jokes about his appointment as an 'Elder' Brother had seemed somewhat too near the mark for wit. Though he cited the appointments of octogenarian admirals to posts of the highest importance during the late war, claiming that the responsibilities of Barham and St Vincent far outweighed those of a mere Trinity Brother', her husband's assurances failed to mollify Elizabeth. She had long nurtured a chilling conviction that Nathaniel would not be spared to die in his bed like any common country gentleman, and for several days past she had slept uneasily, troubled by dreams.

In the daylight she had chided herself for a fool, rationalizing the irrational with the reflection that she simply missed him, that she herself was old and that with age came the ineluctable fear of the future. And as she sat beneath the great arch, its flint edge jagged on one side, overgrown with ivy and populated by the buzzing of bees, its inner curve smooth with the masonry of its elegant coping, she was mesmerized by a single cloud which, pushed by a light breeze, moved against the sky and made it look as though the masonry was toppling upon her.

She was almost asleep when she heard the rustle of Susan approaching through the bushes which, she noted, needed trimming back to clear the path. Susan's appearance started a fluttering in Elizabeth's heart which increased as she saw the hastening nature of her housekeeper's approach and the letters in her hand.

'What is it, Susan?' Elizabeth asked anxiously, sitting up and pulling her spectacles from her reticule.

'Billy's just brought in two letters, your Ladyship, one's from the Admiralty...'

'The Admiralty?' Elizabeth frowned. 'What on earth does the Admiralty want?' She looked up at Susan as she took the two letters and then read the superscriptions.

'The other is to you, ma'am.'

'So I see. I suppose I had better open that first. Thank you, Susan.' 'Thank you, ma'am.' Susan bobbed a curtsey and retreated, looking back as she passed through the bushes to where Elizabeth was opening the first letter. She read it with a cold and terrible certainty clutching at her heart. Unconsciously she rose to her feet as though the act might put back the clock and arrest the news. Captain Drew had been sparing of the details, wrapping the event up in the contrived platitudes of the day, expressing his deepest regrets and ending with a solicitous wish that Lady Drinkwater could take consolation from the fact that her husband had died gallantly for the sake of others. Exactly what Captain Drew meant by this assertion was not quite clear, nor did his phraseology soothe Elizabeth in any way. Distraught as she was, Elizabeth was not beyond detecting in Captain Drew's words both condescension and a poor command of self-expression.

But as she sat again, her tears coming readily, her down-turned mouth muttering, 'Oh, no, oh no, it should not have been like this', she thought something stirred beyond the arch. It was a man, but her tears half-blinded her. For a moment or two the certainty that it was her husband grew swiftly upon her, but the shadow lengthened and turned into Mr Frey.

'Lady Drinkwater, good morning. I do hope I didn't startle you. Forgive me for taking the liberty of entering through the farm... My dear Lady Drinkwater, what is the matter?'

'He's dead,' she said, looking up at the younger man. 'My husband's dead, drowned in a boating accident, at sea ...' She held out Drew's letter for Frey to read.

'My dear, I'm so sorry...'

Overcome, Frey sat beside her and hurriedly whipped out his handkerchief, reading the letter with a trembling hand. After he had digested its contents he looked at Elizabeth. She shook her head. 'It had to happen,' she said as she began to cry inconsolably, 'but why at sea? Why not here, amongst his family?'

Frey put his arm round her and, when her sobbing had subsided to a weeping, she rose and he assisted her into the house.

It was Henry Vane who, much later, walking through from the farm to offer his condolences, found the second letter lying on the grass. Frey was still with Elizabeth and had sent Billy Cue into Woodbridge to summon Catriona and bring her out in the trap to stay with Elizabeth overnight. Vane presented himself and the lost letter.

'It seems to be from the Admiralty,' Vane said, handing it to Frey who, having taken a look at the embossed wafer, agreed.

'Thank you, Henry. I think it can be of little consequence now, but I suppose I should let Her Ladyship know.'

'How is she?' asked Vane, his open face betraying his concern.

'Inconsolable at the moment.'

'Would you present my condolences?'

Frey shook his head. 'No, no, my dear sir, you are of the family and have as much right as me to be here, come in, come in.'

Frey announced Vane and left him with Elizabeth for a few moments, joining them after an interval. Vane sat alongside her, holding her hand, and Frey noticed she seemed more composed.

'There was a second letter, Elizabeth,' Frey said softly. 'Vane found it; you must have dropped it.' He held it out towards her. 'It has an Admiralty seal.'

'Please open it. It cannot be of much importance now.' She smiled up at him and he slit the wafer and unfolded the letter. For a moment he studied it and then, lowering it, he said with a sigh, 'Sir Nathaniel attained flag rank on the 14th. He has been gazetted rear-admiral, Lady Drinkwater.'

'They are rather late, are they not?' Elizabeth said, with a hint of returning spirit.

'I think Sir Nathaniel would rather have died a post-captain than a yellow admiral,' Frey said with his engaging smile.

Elizabeth reached out her other hand and took Frey's. 'I am sure you are right, my dear,' she said, shaking her head, 'and I am sure he would rather have died at sea than in his bed, painful though that is for me to acknowledge. Do you not think so?'

Frey nodded and gently squeezed Elizabeth's hand. 'I rather think I do, my dear.'

It took some months for Elizabeth to feel her loss less acutely but her husband's absences during the long term of their marriage had, despite their last years of intimacy, in some ways prepared her for widowhood.

'It seems to me', Catriona had once said to her, after the untimely death of her own first husband and before she had married Frey, 'that a sea-officer's wife lives in an unnaturally prolonged state of temporary widowhood in preparation for the actual event.' It was a sentiment with which Elizabeth perforce agreed. She was an old woman and her lot, compared with Catriona's for instance, had been a far easier one.

If she regretted anything, it was that she had not known her husband well until both of them were advanced in age. Now, that sweet pleasure, and it seemed very sweet in retrospect, was forever denied her. It was at this point that she recalled the task she had given him: that of recording his memoirs. About twelve weeks after the news of Drinkwater's death had arrived at Gantley Hall; after his body which had been washed up on the beach of Croyde Bay was sent home in its lead coffin; after the visits of their children and the renewed weeping that accompanied the funeral rites; and after Sir Nathaniel Drinkwater had been laid with due pomp and ceremony beside his brother Edward and the mysterious Hortense, it occurred to Elizabeth to go through her husband's papers more thoroughly than she had at first done.

She was familiar with most of what she found, though she had not read the pages of penned memories earlier, merely flicked through them. Nor did she now intend to read them in their entirety, but her eye was caught by this phrase or that, and as she dipped into them so the hours passed and she felt a curious contact with him as she sat in silence. Regretfully reaching the end of the document which had no real conclusion, but simply mentioned his continuing connection with the sea through the Trinity House, she was about to lay it down when a loose leaf of paper, folded in half and stuck in amid the rest, fluttered to the floor. She bent and picked it up, unfolding it as she did so.

It seemed to be a draft, separate from the main body of the memoirs and written with less certainty, for it contained several erasures and corrections. At the top right-hand corner was scribbled a date. With a fluttering heart, she noted it had been written on the eve of his departure to join the Vestal, and it struck her that he might have had some premonition of his death. It was not so curious a fancy, she thought, given his age and the exertions of the duty he was about to undertake. She had to wipe her eyes before the script swam into focus.

Elizabeth laid the sheet of paper in her lap and stared out of the window. Grey clouds were sweeping in from the west and she would need a candle if she intended reading any more, but there was nothing else to read. Her husband had found a kind of peace, she thought, rising. As Frey said, providence had been very kind to him.