1805

Drinkwater knew that Frey had done much to protect him from the unimaginative and over-bearing Glencross. He also knew that James Quilhampton kept a close eye on the boy, ever mindful of Gillespy's relationship with Catriona MacEwan; while Lieutenant Fraser lost no opportunity to encourage a fellow Scot among the bear-pit of Sassenachs that made up the bulk of the midshipmen's berth. He was aware that he had been staring at the boy for too long and smiled.

'I trust you are quite happy?' he asked, remembering again how this boy reminded him of his own son. He should not care for Richard Madoc to go to sea with a man who did not take some interest in him.

'Oh yes, sir.'

'Mmmm.' The removal of Walmsley's influence charged that short affirmative with great significance. Drinkwater remembered his own life in the cockpit. It had not been happy.

'Very well, Mr Gillespy. Cut along now, cully.'

The boy turned away, his hat tucked under his arm, the small dirk in its gleaming brass scabbard bouncing on his hip. The pity of his youth and circumstance hit Drinkwater like a blow. The boy's account of the action with the Magnanime read with all the fervent patriotism of youth. There was much employment of unworthy epithets. The Frogs had run from the devastating (spelt wrongly) thunder of our glorious cannon. It was the language of London pamphleteers, a style that argued a superiority of ability Drinkwater did not like to see in one so young. It was not Gillespy's fault, of course; he was subject to the influence of his time. But Drinkwater had suffered enough reverses in his career to know the folly of under-estimation.

The Magnanime had been commanded by Captain Allemand, he had discovered, one of the foremost French naval officers. It was too easy to assume that because the major part of their fleets was blockaded in harbour they were not competent seamen. With Missiessy's squadron at sea, several hundred Frenchmen would be learning fast, to augment the considerable number of French cruisers already out. Drinkwater sighed, rose and poured himself a glass of blackstrap. He was at a loss to know why he was so worried. There were captains and admirals senior to him whose responsibilities far exceeded his own. All he had to do was to patrol his cruising area, one of a cloud of frigates on the look-out for any enemy movements, who linked the major units of the British fleet, ready to pass news, to pursue or strike at enemy cruisers, and hold the Atlantic seaboard of France and Spain under a constant vigilance.

It was all very well, Drinkwater ruminated, in theory. But the practicalities were different as the events of January had shown. To the east the French Empire was under the direction of a single man. Every major military and naval station was in contact with Napoleon, whose policy could be quickly disseminated by interior lines of communication. No such factors operated in Great Britain's favour. Britain was standing on the defensive. She had no army to speak of and what she had of one was either policing the raw new industrial towns of the Midlands or preparing to go overseas on some madcap expedition to the east under Sir James Craig. Her government was shaky and the First Lord of the Admiralty, Lord Melville, was to be impeached for corruption. Her dispersed fleets were without quick communication, every admiral striving to do his best but displaying that fatal weakness of disagreement and dislike that often ruined the ambitions of the mighty. Orde, off Cadiz, hated Nelson, off Toulon, and the sentiment was returned with interest. Missiessy at sea was bad enough (and Drinkwater still smarted from a sense of failure to keep contact with the French, despite the weather at the time), but the spectre of more French battleships at sea worried every cruiser commander. With that thought he poured a second glass of wine. He doubted Ganteaume would get out of Brest, but Gourdon might give Calder the slip at Ferrol, and Villeneuve might easily get past Nelson with his slack and provocative methods. And that still left the Spanish out of the equation. They had ships at Cartagena and Cadiz, fine ships too…

His train of thought was interrupted by a knock at the cabin door. 'Enter!'

Rogers came in followed by Mr Lallo. There was enough in the expressions on their faces to know that they brought bad news. 'What is it, gentlemen?'

'It's Waller, sir…'

'He had a bad fit this morning, sir,' put in Lallo, 'I had confined him to a straitjacket, sir, but he got loose, persuaded some accomplice to let him go.' Lallo paused.

'And?'

'He went straight to the galley, sir, picked up a knife and slashed both his wrists. He was dead by the time I'd got to him.'

'Good God.' A silence hung in the cabin. Drinkwater thought of Waller defying him at Nagtoralik Bay and of how far he had fallen. 'Who let him go?'

'One of his damned whale-men, I shouldn't wonder,' said Rogers.

'Yes. That is likely. I suppose he may still have commanded some influence over them. There is little likelihood that we will discover who did it, Mr Lallo.'

The surgeon shrugged. 'No, sir. Well he's dead now and fit only for the sail-maker to attend.'

'You had better see to it, Mr Rogers.'

It was one of the ironies of the naval service, Drinkwater thought as he stood by the pinrail where the fore- sheet was belayed, that a man killed honourably in battle might be hurriedly shoved through a gun-port to avoid incommoding his mates as they plied their murderous trade, while a man whose death was as ignominious as Waller's, was attended by all the formal pomp of the Anglican liturgy. Casting his eyes over Antigone's assembled crew, the double irony hit him that only a few would be even vaguely familiar with his words. The half-dozen negroes, three Arabs and sixty Irishmen might even resent their being forced to witness a rite that, in Waller's case, might be considered blasphemous. He doubted any of the others, the Swede, Norwegians, three renegade Dutchmen and Russians, understood the words. Nevertheless he ploughed on, raising his voice as he read from Elizabeth's father's Prayer Book.

'We therefore commit…' he nodded at the burial party who raised the board upon which Waller's corpse lay stiffly sewn into his hammock under the ensign, 'his body to the deep…'

The prayer finished he closed the book and put his hat on. The officers followed suit. 'Square away, Mr Rogers, let us continue with our duties.'

He turned away and walked along the gangway as the main-yards were hauled, and was in the act of descending the companionway when he was halted by the masthead look-out.

'Deck there! Sail-ho! Broad on the lee quarter!'

Drinkwater shoved the Prayer Book in his tail-pocket and pulled out his Dolland pocket glass. It was a frigate coming up hand over fist from the southward, carrying every stitch of canvas the steady breeze allowed. Even at a distance they could see bunting streaming to leeward.

'She's British, anyway.' Of that there could be little doubt and within half an hour a boat danced across the water towards them.

'Boat ahoy!'

'Fisgard!' came the reply, and Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant.

'Side-party, Mr Rogers.' He turned to Frey who was consulting his lists.

'Captain Lord Mark Kerr, sir.'

'Bloody hell,' muttered Rogers as he called out the marine guard and the white-gloved side-boys to rig their fancy baize-covered man-ropes. Captain Lord Kerr hauled himself energetically over the rail and seized Drinkwater's hand.

'Drinkwater ain't it?'

'Indeed sir,' said Drinkwater, meeting his lordship as an equal upon his own quarterdeck.

'The damnedest thing, Drinkwater. Villeneuve's out!'

'What?'

Kerr nodded. 'I was refitting in Gib when he passed the Strait. I got out as soon as I could; sent my second luff up the Med to tell Nelson…'

'You mean Nelson wasn't in pursuit?' Drinkwater interrupted.

Kerr shook his head. 'No sign of him. I reckon he's off to the east again, just like the year one…'

'East. Good God he should be going west. Doesn't he know Missiessy's at Martinique waiting for him?'

'The devil he is!' exclaimed Kerr, digesting this news. 'I doubt Nelson knows of it. By God, that makes my haste the more necessary!'

'What about Orde, for God's sake?'