A King's Cutter

the grey eyes. Warren swivelled sideways. 'What d'you think Ed'd?'

Pellew was well-known for promoting able men almost as much as practising shameless nepotism when it suited him. 'Oh give him some rope, John, then he can hang himself or fashion a pretty bowline for us all to admire.' Pellew turned to Drinkwater. 'How is the worthy Griffiths these days, mister?'

'Recovering, Sir Edward. Sir John was kind enough to have his surgeon repair his stock of quinine.'

Warren was not mollified by this piece of tact and continued to look at Drinkwater with a jaundiced eye. He was well aware that both Smith and Pellew had protégés of their own and suspected their support of a neutral was-to block the advancement of his own candidate. At last he sighed. 'Very well.'

Sir John Warren's Western Squadron had been in almost continual action during that summer while Admiral Howe's desultory blockade conducted from the comfort of an anchorage at Spithead or Torbay found many critics. Nevertheless the advocates of the strategic advantages of close blockade could not fail to be impressed by the dash and spirit of the frigates, albeit with little effect on the progress of the war. There had been a fleet action too: the culmination of days of manoeuvring had come on the 'Glorious First of June' when, in mid-Atlantic, Earl Howe had beaten Villaret Joyeuse and carried away several prizes from the French line of battle. Despite this apparently dazzling success no naval officer aware of the facts could fail to acknowledge that the victory was a strategic defeat. The grain convoy that Villaret Joyeuse protected and that Vanstabel had succoured, arrived unmolested in France.

Alongside that the tactical successes in the Channel were of little importance, though they read well in the periodicals, full of flamboyant dash and enterprise. Corrosive twinges of envy settled round Drinkwater's heart as he read of his own squadron's activities. Lieutenant White had been mentioned twice, through the patronage of Smith, for Warren was notoriously parsimonious with praise. It was becoming increasingly clear to Drinkwater that, without similar patronage, his promotion to lieutenant, when it came, would be too late; that he would end up the superannuated relic he had jestingly suggested to Elizabeth.

Yet he was eager to take part in the operation proposed that evening aboard Flora, eager to seize any opportunity to distinguish himself and guiltily grateful to White whose prompting of Smith's intervention had clearly diverted Warren's purpose.

Six months after his defeat Villaret Joyeuse was known to be preparing to slip out of Brest once more. Cruising westward from St Malo Diamond had discovered a convoy of two storeships being escorted by a brig-corvette and a chasse marée, an armed lugger. Aware of the presence of Warren's squadron in the offing they made passage at night, sheltering under batteries at anchor during daylight.

The weather had been quiet, though the night of the attack was heavily overcast, the clouds seeming to clear the mastheads with difficulty like a waterlogged ceiling, bulging and imminent in their descent. The south- westerly wind was light but had a steadiness that foreshadowed a blow, while the slight sea rippled over a low, ominous swell that indicated a disturbance far to the west.

With Griffiths sick, Drinkwater and Jessup felt the want of more officers but for the descent on the convoy they had only to keep station on Diamond, Sir Sydney having left a single lantern burning in his cabin for the purpose. Just visible to the westward was the dark bulk of Arethusa.

Drinkwater went below. The air in the cabin was stale, smelling sweetly of heavy perspiration. Griffiths lay in his cot, propped up, one eye regarding Nathaniel as he bent over the chart. The acting lieutenant was scratching his scar, lost in thought. After a while their eyes met.

'Ah, sir, you are awake… a glass of water…' He poured a tumblerful and noted Griffiths's hands barely shook as he lifted it to his lips. 'Well Mr Drinkwater?'

'Well, sir, we're closing on a small convoy to attack a brig-corvette, two transports and a lugger… we're in company with Arethusa and Diamond.'

'And the plan?'

'Well sir, Arethusa is to engage the brig, Diamond will take the two transports — she has most of Arethusa'a marines for the purpose — and we will take the lugger.'

'Is she an armed lugger, a chasse marée?'

'I believe so sir, my friend Lieutenant White was of the opinion that she was. Diamond reconnoitred the enemy…' He tailed off, aware that Griffiths's opinion of White was distorted by understandable prejudice.

'The only opinion that young man had which was of the slightest value might more properly be attended by fashion-conscious young women…' Drinkwater smiled, disinclined to argue the point. Still, it was odd that a man of Griffiths's considerable wisdom could so misjudge. White was typical of his type, professionally competent, gauche and arrogant upon occasion but ruthless and brave.

Griffiths recalled him to the present. 'She'll be stuffed full of men, Nathaniel, you be damned careful, the French overman to the extent we sail shorthanded… What have you in mind to attempt?' Griffiths struggled on to one elbow. 'It had better convince me, otherwise I'll not allow you to carry it out.'

Drinkwater swallowed. This was a damned inconvenient moment for a return of the old man's faculties. 'Well sir, Sir John has approved…'

'Damn Sir John, Nathaniel. Don't prevaricate. The question is do I approve it?'

Six paces forward, six paces aft. Up and down, up and down, Diamond's bell chiming the half hours until it was several minutes overdue. 'Light's out in Diamond's cabin, sir.' It was Nicholls, the poor lookout, sent aft to interrupt Drinkwater's train of thought.

Smith was to signal which side of Diamond the Kestrel was to pass as soon as his officers, from the loftier height of her foremast, made out the enemy dispositions. 'Call all hands, there, all hands to general quarters!'

Minutes passed, then: 'Two lights, sir!'

So it was to larboard, to the eastward that they were to go. He gave his orders. Course was altered and the sheets trimmed. They began to diverge and pass the frigate, shaking out the reef that had held them back while Diamond shortened sail. Giving the men a few moments to make their preparations Drinkwater slipped below.

'Enemy's in sight, sir…' Griffiths opened his eyes. His features were sunk, yellow in the lamplight, like old parchment. But the voice that came from him was still resonant. 'Be careful, boy-o,' he said with almost paternal affection, raising a wasted hand over the rim of the cot. Drinkwater shook it in an awkward, delicate way. 'Take my pistols there, on the settee…' Drinkwater checked the pans. 'They're all ready, Nathaniel, primed and ready,' the old man said behind him. He stuck them in his belt and left the cabin. On deck he buckled on his sword and went round the hands. The men were attentive, drawing aside as he approached, muttering 'good lucks' amongst themselves and assuring him they knew what to do. As he walked aft again a new mood swept over him. He no longer envied White. He was in a goodly company, knew these men well now, had been accepted by them as their leader. A tremendous feeling of exhilaration coursed through him so strongly that for a moment he remained staring aft, picking out the pale streak of their wake while he recovered himself. Then he thought of Elizabeth, her kiss and parting remark: 'Be careful, my love…' So like Griffiths's and tonight so enormously relevant. He was on the verge of breaking that old promise of circumspection and giving way to recklessness. Then, unhidden, a fragment of long past conversation rose like flotsam on the whirlpool of his brain. 'I have heard it said, 'Appleby had averred, 'that a man who fails to feel fear when going into action is usually wounded… as though some nervous defence is destroyed by reckless passion which in itself presages misfortune…'

Drinkwater swallowed hard and walked forward. Mindful of his sword and the loaded pistols in his belt, he began to slowly ascend the rigging, staring ahead for a sight of the enemy.

'Make ready! Make ready there!' The word was passed in sibilantly urgent whispers. 'Aft there, steer two points to larboard! Larboard guns train as far forrard as you can!'

And then the need for silence was gone as, a mile west of them a ragged line of fire erupted into the night where one of the frigates loosed off her broadside. The rolling thunder of her discharge came downwind to them.

Drinkwater could see the lugger clearly now. He stood on the rail, one hand round the huge running