A King's Cutter

enthusiasm to base motives.

'By damn, Mr Drinkwater, surely you're not suggesting that as I was sick you should receive the lion's share?' Griffiths's tone was angry and his face flushed. Drinkwater, preoccupied, was suddenly aware that he had unintentionally offended.

'What's that, sir? Good God, no! Upon my honour sir…' Drinkwater came out of his reverie. 'No sir, I was wondering what became of those papers and charts I brought off her.'

Griffiths frowned. 'I had them despatched to Lord Dungarth. Under the circumstances I ignored Warren. Why d'ye ask?'

Drinkwater sighed. 'Well, sir, at first it was only a suspicion. The evidence is very circumstantial…' he faltered, confused.

'Come on, bach, if there's something troubling you, you had better unburden yourself.'

'Well among the papers was a private letter. I didn't pass it to you, I know I should have done, sir, and I don't know why I didn't but there was something about it that made me suspicious…'

'In what way?' asked Griffiths in a quietly insistent voice.

'I found it with a lock of hair, sir, auburn hair, I, er…' He began to feel foolish, suddenly the whole thing seemed ridiculously far fetched. 'Damn it, sir, I happen to think that the man who used the lugger, the man we're convinced is some kind of a French agent, is also connected with the red-haired woman we took off at Beaubigny'

'That Hortense Montholon is in some kind of league with this Santhonax?'

Drinkwater nodded.

'And the letter?'

Drinkwater coughed embarrassed. 'I have the letter here, sir. I took it home, my wife translated it. It was very much against her will, sir, but I insisted.'

'And did it tell you anything, this letter?'

'Only that the writer and this Santhonax are lovers.' Drinkwater swallowed as Griffiths raised an interrogative eyebrow. 'And that the letter had been written to inform the recipient that a certain mutual obstacle had died in London. The writer seemed anxious that the full implications of this were conveyed in the letter and that it, in some way, made a deal of difference…'

'Who is the writer?' Griffiths asked quietly.

Drinkwater scratched his scar. 'Just an initial, sir, 'H.',' he concluded lamely.

'Did you say are lovers?'

Drinkwater frowned. 'Yes sir. The letter was dated quite recently, though not addressed.'

'So that if you are right and they were from this woman who is now resident in England she and Santhonax are maintaining a correspondence at the very least?'

'The letters suggested a closer relationship, sir.'

Griffiths suppressed a smile. Having met Elizabeth he could imagine her explaining the contents of the letter in such terms. 'I see,' he said thoughtfully. After a pause he asked, 'What makes you so sure that this Miss 'H' is the young woman we took off at Beaubigny and what is the significance of this 'mutual obstacle'?'

It was the question Drinkwater had been dreading but he was too far in now to retreat and he took encouragement from Griffiths's interest. 'I'm not sure, sir. It is a feeling I have had for some time… I mean, well as you know my French is poor, sir, limited to a few stock phrases, but at the back of my mind is the impression that she didn't want to come with us that night… that she was there on sufference. I remember her standing up in the boat as we came off the beach and the French opened fire. She shouted something, something like 'don't shoot, I'm your friend, I'm your friend!'' He tried to recall the events of the night. 'It ain't much to go on, sir, we were all very tired after Beaubigny.' He paused, searching Griffiths's face for some sign of contemptuous disbelief. The old man seemed sunk in reflection. 'As for the 'obstacle',' Drinkwater plunged on, 'I just had this conviction that it was De Tocqueville…' He cleared his throat and in a firmer voice said, 'To be honest, sir, it's all very circumstantial and I apologise about the letter.' Drinkwater found his palms were damp but he felt the relief of the confessional.

Griffiths held his hand up. 'Don't apologise, bach, there may be something in what you say. When we mentioned the Montholons and Beaubigny to Major Brown something significant occurred to him. I don't know what it was but I am aware that this Captain Santhonax is not only an audacious officer but is highly placed enough to exert influence on French politics.' He paused. 'And I have often wondered why no action was ever taken after our broadside at Beaubigny. One can only assume that the matter was hushed up.' Griffiths lifted an eyebrow. 'Yet the French were damned touchy with Barlow and Childers a few weeks later…'

'That thought had occurred to me, sir.'

'Then we are of one mind, Mr Drinkwater,' said Griffiths closing the subject with a smile. Drinkwater relaxed, remembering Dungarth's words all those months ago. He began to see why Griffiths was regarded as a remarkable man. He doubted he could have told anyone else but the Welshman. The old lieutenant sat for a moment in silence, staring at the wine rings on the table cloth. Then he looked up. 'Do you return the letter to me, Mr Drinkwater. I'll inform his lordship of this. It may bear investigation.'

Relieved, Drinkwater rose and went to his cabin, returning to pass the letter to Griffiths.

'Thank you,' said the lieutenant, looking curiously at the thin plait of auburn hair. 'Well, Mr Drinkwater, out of your prize money I think you should purchase a new coat, your starboard shoulder tingle is well enough for sea service but won't do otherwise,' Griffiths indicated the repair he had effected to his coat. Elizabeth had already chid him for it. 'Take yourself to Morgan's, opposite the Fountain at number 85. You'll get yourself anything there, even another Dollond glass to replace that precious bauble you lost off Ushant…' They both laughed and Griffiths shouted at the mess-man, Merrick, to come and clear the table.

Lieutenant Griffiths's expectations of stratagems from Sir Sydney's fertile brain were to have a drastic effect upon the fortunes of Kestrel though not in the manner the old man had had in mind. Sir Sydney had conceived the idea that a French-built lugger attached to the squadron would prove a great asset in deceiving the enemy, plundering coastal trade and gathering intelligence. Her commander would be his own nomination in the person of Lieutenant Richard White, and Kestrel, with her unmistakably English rig, would be free for other duties.

Auguste Barrallier, now employed in the Royal Dockyard, arrived to authenticate the lugger's repairs and was affable to Drinkwater, watching progress from the adjacent cutter. Nathaniel did his best to disguise his pique when White arrived from Falmouth with a crew of volunteers from Warren's frigates. White, to his credit, made no attempts to lord over his old friend. He brought letters from Appleby and an air of breezy confidence that only a frigate cruising under an enterprising officer could engender. Appleby, it appeared, did not see eye to eye with this captain and White dismissed the surgeon with something like contempt. But Drinkwater was pleased when the lugger dropped out of sight behind Fort Blockhouse.

Her replacement as Warren's despatch vessel left Kestrel languishing between the greenheart piles in Haslar Creek through the still, chill grey days of January when news came of war with the Dutch. February passed and then, almost immediately it seemed, the windy equinoctials of March were over. A start had been made on removing the scars of her late action. But it was half-hearted, desultory work, badly done and Griffiths despaired, falling sick and passing to the naval hospital. Jessup took to the bottle and even Drinkwater felt listless and dispirited, sympathising with the bosun and affecting to ignore his frequent lapses.

Drinkwater's lassitude was due in part to a spiritual exhaustion after the action off the Île Vierge which combined with a helplessness consequent upon his conviction that a link existed between the mysterious Santhonax and Hortense Montholon. In sharing this suspicion with Griffiths, Drinkwater had sought to unravel it, imagining the old sea-officer might have some alchemical formula for divining such things. But this had proved foolish, and now, with Griffiths sick ashore and the authorities lacking interest in the cutter, Drinkwater felt oppressed by his helplessness, aground in a backwater of naval affairs that seemed to have no incoming tide to refloat his enthusiasm.

To some extent Elizabeth was to blame. Their proximity to Drinkwater's home meant that he took what leave he could. With Griffiths ashore his presence aboard Kestrel two or three times a week was sufficient. And the seduction of almost uninterrupted domestic life was sweet indeed. To pay for this lack of vigilance Kestrel lost six men to desertion and Drinkwater longed for orders, torn