An Eye of the Fleet

While the men talked Elizabeth refilled their cups and studied her guest. Ignoring the soiled state of the linen about his neck and wrists she found him presentable enough. His mop of dark hair was drawn carelessly back into a queue and framed a face that had weathered to a pale tan, a tan that accentuated the premature creases around his eyes. These were of a cloudy grey, like the sky over the Lizard in a sou' westerly gale, and they were shadowed by the blue bruises of fatigue and worry.

As he talked his face blazed with infectious enthusiasm and a growing self-confidence that, if it was not apparent to its owner, was clear to Elizabeth.

For she was more than the sheltered daughter of a country parson. She had experienced near poverty since her father had lost his living some two years previously. He had unwisely attacked the profligacy of his patron's heir and suffered the heir's revenge when that worthy succeeded suddenly to the estate. The death of his wife shortly afterwards had left Bower with the child of their declining years to bring up unaided.

In the event the girl had matured quickly and assumed the burden of housekeeping without demur. Although brought up in the shadow of her father's profession, the hardships and rigours of life had not left her untouched. In his younger days Bower had been an active man, committed to his flock. Within the circumscribed world of a country parish events had served to temper Elizabeth's growing character. Much of her adolescence had been spent nursing her consumptive mother and during the last weeks of her life Elizabeth had come face to face with the concomitants of sickness and death.

As she contemplated the ruins of a fruit cake that would have lasted the parson and herself a week, she found herself smiling. She too felt grateful for the tea-party. Drinkwater had blown in with some of the freshness of youth absent from her life until that moment. It was a refreshing change from the overbearing bombast of the red- faced squireens, or the languid indolence of the garrison infantry officers who had been until then almost the only eligible members of the male sex that she had met. She detected a sympathy about the young man sitting opposite, a sensitivity in him; something contained in his expression and given emphasis by the early lines appearing on his face, the umbra of nervous strain about his eyes.

At last the discussion ceased. Both men were, by now, firm friends. Drinkwater apologised for monopolising the conversation and ignoring his hostess.

'It is quite unnecessary to apologise, Mr Drinkwater, since my father has too little of such stimulating talk.' She smiled again. 'Indeed I am glad that you have come, albeit in such circumstances.' With a little pang of conscience Drinkwater remembered he had that afternoon attended a funeral.

'Thank you, Miss Bower.'

'But tell me, Mr Drinkwater, in all these comings and goings did you not feel afraid?'

Drinkwater answered without hesitation. 'Aye greatly… as I told your father earlier… but I think fear may be the mainspring of courage…' he paused. It was suddenly imperative that he convey exactly what he meant. He did not wish the young woman opposite to misunderstand, to misjudge him.

'Not that I wish to boast of courage, but I found the more I feared the consequences of inactivity, the more I found the… the resolve to do my utmost to alter our circumstances. In this I was most ably supported by the other members of the prize crew.'

She smiled without coquetry.

Nathaniel basked in the radiance of that smile. It seemed to illuminate the whole room.

The cake consumed, the tea drunk and the conversation lapsing into the silences of companionable surfeit Drinkwater rose. The sun was westering and the room already full of shadows. He took his leave of the parson. The old man pressed his hand.

'Goodbye my boy. Please feel free to call upon us any time you are in Falmouth, though I do not yet know how much longer we shall be here.' His face clouded briefly with uncertainty then brightened again as he took the young man's hand. 'May God bless you, Nathaniel…'

Drinkwater turned away strangely moved. He bowed towards Elizabeth.

'Y'r servant, Miss Bower…'

She did not answer but turned to her father. 'I shall see Mr Drinkwater to the gate, father, do you sit and rest for you look tired after your long talk.' The old man nodded and wearily resumed his seat.

Elated at thus receiving a moment or two alone with the girl Drinkwater followed Elizabeth as she moved ahead of him, flinging a shawl about her shoulders as she left the house.

She opened the gate and stepped down into the lane. He stood beside her, looking down into her face and fumbling with his hat, suddenly miserable with the knowledge that he had enjoyed his simple tea with all its reminders of home and English domesticity. But it was more than that. It had been the presence of this girl that had made the afternoon and evening so memorable. He swallowed hard.

'Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Bower…'

The air was heavy with the scent of foliage. In the gathering gloom of the Cornish lane fern fronds curled like fingers of pale green fire in the crevices of rocks that marked the boundary of the glebe. Overhead swifts screamed and swooped.

'Thank you for your very kind hospitality, Miss Bower…' She smiled and held out her hand. He grasped it eagerly, holding her eyes with an exhilarating boldness.

'Elizabeth…' she said defying the bounds of propriety yet leaving her hand intensely passive in his firm grip, 'please call me Elizabeth…'

'Then call me Nathaniel…' They paused, uncertainly. For a second the spectre of awkwardness hovered between them. Then they smiled and laughed simultaneously.

'I thought…' she began.

'Yes…?'

'I thought… I hoped you would not disappear completely… it would be pleasant to see you again…'

In answer Nathaniel raised her hand to his lips. He felt again the coolness of her flesh, not the coolness of rejection but the balm of serenity.

'I am,' he said with absolute conviction, 'your very devoted servant, Elizabeth…' He held her hand a moment longer and turned away.

He looked back once before the lane bent away in descent. He could see her face pale in the twilight, and the flutter of her hand raised in farewell.

That night Algonquin seemed to him a prison…

Chapter Eleven Interlude

August — October 1780

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