An Eye of the Fleet

'Be on board by sunset, Mr Stewart.'

On his return to Algonquin Drinkwater found the schooner being washed down. Upon the deck lay a bundle. It was a dead man. The other wounded were up and about, Grattan had had his arm splinted by the surgeon of Galatea. In the absence of the midshipman Collingwood had been aboard the schooner and arranged for Cyclops's injured to attend Galatea for medical attention. He had also ordered the remainder into cleaning their prize.

Collingwood took an interest in the Algonquin for he was shortly to be posted to the West Indies where such vessels abounded. Besides he had liked the look of the young midshipman, who had done well by all accounts. A little discreet questioning among Algonquin's prize crew told how well. The lieutenant left a message that Drinkwater should report to him on his return aboard.

The quarterdeck of Galatea reminded Drinkwater of Cyclops and he experienced a pang of nostalgia for his own frigate. Collingwood took him to one side and questioned him.

'Did you see Captain Edgecumbe?'

'Yes, sir.' The lieutenant broke into a fit of coughing. 'What orders did he give you?' he asked at last.

'None, sir.'

'None?' queried the lieutenant, a mock frown creasing his forehead.

'Well, sir…' Drinkwater faltered. What did one say to a first lieutenant whose captain had filled you with contempt?

'He told me to change my uniform, sir, and to… and to…'

'To report to the Flag Officer, Plymouth, I don't doubt. Ain't that so, lad?'

Drinkwater looked at Collingwood and through his fatigue the light slowly dawned on him.

'Oh! Yes… yes, sir, that's correct.' He paused.

'Very well. I'd get under way tomorrow if I were you.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' The midshipman knuckled his forehead and turned away.

'Oh, and Mr Drinkwater!'

'Sir?'

'You cannot bury that man in the harbour. My carpenter is making a coffin. I have taken the liberty of arranging a burial service later this afternoon. You will attend the church of St Charles the Martyr at four o'clock. Do you give thanks to the Lord for your deliverance…' The tall lieutenant turned away in another paroxysm of coughing.

Drinkwater slept briefly and at five bells was called to find his ducks cleaned and pressed. Hagan had spruced up his marines and the little party that solemnly marched to the parish church with their dismal burden carried with them a kind of rough dignity. The organisation of a church burial for one of their number was a touch that Drinkwater did not really appreciate at the time.

Called upon to squander their life's blood in the service of an ungrateful country, the British seaman was inured to being treated worse than a beast. When gestures such as that made by Wilfred Collingwood touched their hearts they became an emotional breed. While Edgecumbe pursued the libertine path of the insensitive autocrat, Collingwood and others were learning the true trade of leadership. No-one was to play upon the sailor's heart- strings as well as Horatio Nelson, but he was not the only one to learn.

The church was marvellously cool after the heat of the afternoon. The little congregation shuffled awkwardly, sensing the incongruity of the occasion. Afterwards under the yew trees, the heat wrapped itself around the party again. Three men wept as the plain coffin was laid to rest, worn out with exertion and over-strung nerves.

The brief burial over, the seamen and marines prepared to march into town. The priest, a thin shrivelled man who wore his hair to the shoulder in the old fashioned manner, came over to the midshipman.

'I would be honoured, sir, if you would take a dish of tea with me at the vicarage yonder.'

'Thank you, sir,' Drinkwater bowed.

The two men entered the house which contained something of the cool of the church. It reminded Drinkwater abruptly and painfully of his own home. A table was set for three. It seemed that the priest had some knowledge of the prize crew's exploits for he addressed Drinkwater in enthusiastic tones.

'I am but the interregnum here, but I am sure that the incumbent would wish me to welcome the opportunity of entertaining a naval hero in his home…'

He motioned Drinkwater to a chair.

'You are most kind, sir,' Drinkwater replied, 'but I do not think my actions were those of an hero…'

'Come, come…'

'No, sir. I fear the threat of a French prison revived our spirits…' He rose as a woman came in bearing a tea kettle.

'Ahh, my dear, the tea…' The old man bobbed up and down wringing his hands.

'Mr Drinkwater, I'd like to present my daughter Elizabeth. Elizabeth, my dear, this is Mr Drinkwater… I fear I do not know the gentleman's Christian name though it would be an honour to do so…' He made little introductory gestures with his hands, opening and closing them like an inexpertly-managed glove puppet.

'Nathaniel, sir,' volunteered Drinkwater. The woman turned and Drinkwater looked into the eyes of a striking girl of about his own age. He took her hand and managed a clumsy little bow as he flushed with surprise and discomfiture. Her fingers were cool like the church. He mumbled:

'Y'r servant ma'am.'

'Honoured, sir.' Her voice was low and clear.

The trio sat. Drinkwater felt immediately oppressed by the quality of the crockery. The delicacy of the china after months of shipboard life made him feel clumsy.

The appearance of a plate of bread and cucumber, however, soon dispelled his misgivings.

'Nathaniel, eh,' muttered the old man. 'Well, well… 'a gift of God'', he chuckled softly to himself, '…most appropriate… really most appropriate…'

Drinkwater felt a sudden surge of pure joy. The little parlour bright with chintzes and painted porcelain reminded him poignantly of home. There was even the air of threadbare gentility, of a pride that sometimes served as a substitute for more tangible sustenance.

As she poured the tea Drinkwater looked at the girl. He could see now that she was indeed his own age, though her old fashioned dress had conveyed an initial impression of greater maturity. She bit her lower lip as she concentrated on pouring the tea, revealing a row of even and near perfect teeth. Her dark hair was drawn back behind her head in an unpretentious tress and it combined with her eyes, eyes of a deep and understanding brown, to give her face the inescapable impression of sadness.

So struck was he with this melancholy that when she looked up to pass him his cup he held her gaze. She smiled and then he was surprised at the sudden vivacity in her face, a liveliness free of any reproach that his directness deserved. He felt contentment change into happiness absent from his life for many months. He felt a keen desire to please this girl, not out of mere gratuitous bravado, but because she had about her the soothing aura of calm and tranquillity. In the turmoil of his recent life he felt a powerful longing for spiritual peace.

Occupied with such thoughts he was unaware that he had consumed the greater part of the sandwiches single handed.

Isaac Bower and his daughter showed some surprise.

'Pardon me for the liberty, sir, but you have not eaten for some time?'

'I have not eaten like this for near a twelvemonth, sir…' smiled Drinkwater unabashed.

'But on board ship you eat like gentlemen and keep a good table?'

Drinkwater gave a short laugh. He told them of what his diet consisted. When the parson showed a shocked surprise he learned himself how ignorant the people of Britain were as to the condition of their seamen. The old man was genuinely upset and questioned the midshipman closely on the food, daily routines and duties of the respective persons aboard a man o'war, punctuating Drinkwater's replies with 'Pon my soul' and 'Well, well, well' and copious sighs and shakings of his venerable head. As for Drinkwater he discoursed with the enthusiastic and encyclopaedic knowledge of the professional proselyte who had done nothing but imbibe the details of his employment. His picture of life on a frigate, though slightly lurid and excusably self-important, was, once sifted by the old man's shrewdness, not far from the truth.