An Eye of the Fleet

informal. After she had left Nathaniel said, 'I am, sir, very grateful for your kindness to me… it has meant a great deal to me…'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His altered outlook had found expression and practical reward.

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

He knocked and lifted the latch.

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

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

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

He saw her smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Twelve A Change of Orders

November 1780 — January 1781

Drinkwater joined Cyclops again on the last day of October 1780. She had been in Plymouth Sound some days recruiting her prize crews and taking in fresh water and the tale of the retaking of Algonquin had preceeded him, borne on board by Hagan and the others. Drinkwater therefore found himself something of a hero to the lower deck with whom he was already popular after his beating of Morris.