The Corvette

'No matter,' St Vincent mused on the name, trying to recall a face. 'Drinkwater?'

'I shall have to return…' began Templeton unhappily, but the First Lord cut him off.

'Read me his file. We may appoint him temporarily without the necessity of making him post.'

Templeton's nerve was near breaking point. In attempting to shuffle the files several papers came loose and floated down onto the rich carpet. He was beginning to regret his rapid promotion and thank his stars it was only temporary. He had forgotten all about his promises to his kinsman on the Melusine.

'Er, Nathaniel Drinkwater, my Lord, commissioned lieutenant October 1797 after Camperdown. First of the brig Hellebore sent on special service to the Red Sea by order of Lord Nelson. Lieutenant- in-command of the bomb tender Virago during the Baltic Campaign, promoted Master and Commander for his services prior to and during the battle of Copenhagen on the recommendation of both Parker and Nelson. Lately wounded in Lord Nelson's bombardment of Boulogne the same year and invalided of his wound until his present persistent application, my Lord.'

St Vincent nodded. 'I have him now. I recollect him boarding Victory in '98 off Cadiz before Nelson incurred their lordships' displeasure for sending that brig round Africa. Did he not bring back the Antigone?'

Templeton flicked the pages. 'Yes, my Lord. The Antigone, French National Frigate was purchased into the Service.'

'H'm.' St Vincent considered the matter. He remembered Mr Drinkwater was no youngster as a lieutenant in 1798. Yet St Vincent had remarked him then and had a vague recollection of a firm mouth and a pair of steady grey eyes that spoke of a quiet ability. And he had impressed both Parker and Nelson, no mean feat given the differences between the two men, whilst his record and his persistent applications marked him as an energetic officer. Maturity and energy were just the combination wanted for the Melusine if the intelligence reports were accurate. St Vincent began to cheer up. Palgrave had not been his choice, for he had commanded Melusine throughout the Peace, a fact that said more about Palgrave's influence than his ability.

'There's one other thing, my Lord,' offered Templeton, eager to re-establish his own reputation in his lordship's eyes.

'What is it?'

'Drinkwater, sir,' said the clerk, plucking the fact from the file like a low trump from a bad hand, 'has been employed on secret service before: the cutter Kestrel, my Lord, employed by Lord Dungarth's department.'

A gleam of triumph showed in St Vincent's eye. 'That clinches it, Templeton. Have a letter of appointment drawn up for my signature before eight bells… noon, Templeton, noon, and instructions for Captain Drinkwater to attend here with all despatch.' He paused reflecting. 'Desire him to wait upon me on Friday.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Templeton bent to retrieve the papers scattered about the floor. St Vincent returned to his window.

'Does one smoke a viper from his nest, Templeton?' The clerk looked up.

'Beg pardon, my Lord, but I do not know.'

'No matter, but let us see what Captain Drinkwater can manage, eh?'

'Yes, my Lord.' Templeton looked up from the carpet, aware that his lordship was no longer angry with him. He wondered if the unknown Captain Drinkwater knew that the First Lord's receiving hours were somewhat eccentric and doubted it. He reflected that there were conditions to the patronage of so punctilious a First Lord as John Jervis, Earl St Vincent.

'Be so kind as to have my carriage sent round, Templeton.'

The clerk rose, his bundle of papers clasped against his chest. 'At once, my Lord.' He was already formulating the letter to his kinsman aboard the Melusine:

My Dear Germaney,

In my diurnal consultations with his excellency The First Lord, I have arranged for your new commander to he Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater. He is not to be made post, hut appointed as Job Captain so there is hope yet for your own advancement…

Chapter One The Job Captain

 May 1803

'Non, m'sieur, non… Pardon,' Monsieur Bescond smote his forehead with the palm of his right hand and switched to heavily accented English. 'The shoulder, Capitaine, it must be 'igher. More… 'ow you say? Elevated.'

Drinkwater gritted his teeth. The pain in his shoulder was still maddening but it was an ache now, a manageable sensation after the agony of splintered bone and torn muscle. And he could not blame Bescond. He had voluntarily submitted himself to this rigorous daily exercise to stretch the butchered fibres of his shoulder whose scars now ran down into the right upper arm and joined the remains of an old wound given him by the French agent Santhonax. That had been in a dark alley in Sheerness the year of the Great Mutiny and he had endured the dull pain in wet or cold weather these past six years.

Monsieur Bescond, the emigre attorney turned fencing master, recalled him to his purpose. Drinkwater came on guard again and felt his sword arm trembling with the effort. The point of his foil seemed to waver violently and as Bescond stepped back he lunged suddenly lest his opponent notice the appalling quivering.

Mr Quilhampton's attention was elsewhere. The foible of Drinkwater's foil bent satisfyingly against the padding of Quilhampton's plastron.

'Bravo, M'sieur, tres bien… that was classical in its simplicity. And for you, M'sieur,' he said addressing Quilhampton and avoiding the necessity of using his name, 'you must never let your attention wander.'

Pleased with his unlooked for success Drinkwater terminated the lesson by removing his mask before Quilhampton could avenge himself.

'Were you distracted, James?' Whipping off his own mask Quilhampton nodded in the direction of the door. Drinkwater turned.

'Yes, Tregembo, what is it?'

Drinkwater peeled off his plastron and gauntlet. His shirt stuck to his lean body, still emaciated after his wounding. A few loose locks of hair had escaped the queue and were plasted down the side of his head.

'I brought it as soon as I saw the seal, zur,' rumbled the old Cornishman as he handed the packet to Drinkwater. Quilhampton caught sight of the red wafer of the Admiralty with its fouled anchor device as Drinkwater tore it open.

Waiting with quickening pulse Quilhampton regarded his old commander with mounting impatience. He saw the colour drain from Drinkwater's face so that the thin scar on the left cheek and the blue powder burns above the eye seemed abruptly conspicuous.

'What is it, m'sieur? Not bad news?' Bescond too watched anxiously. He had come to admire the thin sea- officer with the drooping shoulder and his even skinnier companion with the wooden left hand. To Bescond they personified the dogged resistance of his adopted country to the monsters beyond the Channel who had massacred his parents and driven a pitchfork into the belly of his pregnant wife.

'Mr Q,' said Drinkwater with sudden formality, ignoring the Frenchman.

'Sir?' answered Quilhampton, aware that the contents of the packet had transformed the salle d'armes into a quarterdeck.

'It seems we have a ship at last! M. Bescond, my best attentions to you, I give you good day. Tregembo, my coat! God's bones, Mr Q, I have been made a 'Job Captain', appointed to a sloop of war!'

An elated James Quilhampton accompanied Drinkwater to his house in Petersfield High Street. Since his widowed mother had obtained him a midshipman's berth on the brig Hellebore, thanks to the good offices of Lieutenant Drinkwater, Quilhampton had considered himself personally bound to his senior.