1805

Besides, in his present situation he would have precious little opportunity to worry over such a deficiency. He was, Drinkwater knew, perfect as a first luff; the very man the hands loved to hate, who was indifferent to that hatred and who could take the blame for all the hardships, mishaps and injustices the naval service would press upon their unfortunate souls and bodies.

'She's looking very tiddly, Sam. Fit for an admiral's inspection already. I congratulate you.'

Rogers gave him a grin. 'I heard about your appetite for tiddly ships after the Melusine, sir.'

Drinkwater grinned back. 'She was a damned yacht, Sam. You should have heard the gunroom squeal when I cut off her royal masts and fitted a crow's nest to con her through the ice.'

'She was different from the old Virago then?'

'As chalk is from cheese…'

They were interrupted by Lieutenant Quilhampton. 'Flag's signalling, sir: 'Captain to come aboard'.'

'Very well. Bring the ship to under the admiral's lee quarter, Mr Q… Sam be so good as to salute the flag while I shift my coat.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' The two officers began to carry out their orders as Drinkwater hurried below to where an anxious Mullender had coat, hat, cloak and sword all ready for him.

Chapter Three The Spy Master

 March 1804

Admiral Sir William Cornwallis rose from behind his desk and motioned Drinkwater to a chair. His flag- lieutenant took the offered packet of Admiralty dispatches and handed them to the admiral's secretary for opening.

'A glass of wine, Captain?' The flag-lieutenant beckoned a servant forward and Drinkwater hitched his sword between his legs, laid his cocked hat across his lap and took the tall Venetian goblet from the salver. 'Thank you. I have two bags of mail for the fleet in my barge and a draft of forty-three men for the squadron…'

'I shall inform the Captain of the Fleet, sir. Sir William, your permission?'

'By all means.' The admiral bent over the opened dispatches as the flag-lieutenant left the cabin. The servant withdrew and Drinkwater was left with Cornwallis, his immobile secretary and another man, a dark stranger in civilian clothes, who seemed to be regarding Drinkwater with some interest and whose evident curiosity Drinkwater found rather irksome and embarrassing. He avoided this scrutiny by studying his surroundings. The great cabin of His Britannic Majesty's 112-gun ship Ville de Paris was a luxurious compartment compared with his own. As a first-rate line of battleship the Ville de Paris was almost a new ship, built as a replacement for Rodney's prize, the flagship of Admiral De Grasse, taken at the Battle of Saintes in the American War and so badly knocked about that she had foundered on her way home across the stormy Atlantic. It was an irony that a ship so named should bear the flag of the officer responsible for keeping the French fleet bottled up in Brest. Drinkwater did not envy the admiral his luxury: the monotony of blockade duty would have oppressed him. Even in a frigate attached to the inshore squadron cruising off Ushant, the perils of tides and rocks would far outweigh the risk of danger from the enemy coupled as they were with the prevailing strong westerly winds. As his old friend Richard White constantly wrote and told him, he was lucky to have avoided such an arduous and thankless task. There were a few who had carved out a glorious niche for themselves with brilliant actions. Pellew, for instance, in the Indefatigable and with Amazon in company had caught the French battleship Droits de l'Homme, harried her all night and forced her to become embayed in Audierne Bay where she was wrecked. The thought of embayment still caused him a shudder and he recollected that Pellew's triumph had also caused the loss of Amazon from the same cause. No, for the most part the maintenance of this huge fleet with its frigates and its supply problems was simply to keep Admiral Truguet and the principal French fleet capable of operating in the Atlantic, securely at its moorings in Brest Road. By this means Napoleon would not be able to secure the naval supremacy in the Channel that he needed to launch his invasion. Whatever the monotony of the duty there was no arguing its effectiveness. All the same Drinkwater was not keen to be kept under the severe restraint of commanding a frigate on blockade.

There was a rustle as Cornwallis lowered the papers and leaned back in his seat. He was a portly gentleman of some sixty years of age with small features and bright, keen blue eyes. He smiled cordially.

'Well, Captain Drinkwater, you are not to join us I see.'

'No, Sir William. I am under Lord Keith's command, attached to the Downs Squadron but with discretionary orders following the delivery of those dispatches.' He nodded at the contents of the waterproof packet which now lay scattered across Cornwallis's table.

'Which are…?'

'To return to the Strait of Dover along the French coast, harrying trade and destroying enemy preparations for the invasion.'

'And not, I hope, wantonly setting fire to any French villages en route, Captain?' It was the stranger in civilian dress who put this question. Drinkwater opened his mouth to reply but the stranger continued, 'Such piracy is giving us a bad name, Captain Drinkwater, giving the idea of invasion a certain respectability among the French populace that might otherwise be not over-enthusiastic about M'sieur Bonaparte. Hitherto, whatever the enmities between our two governments, the people of the coast have maintained a, er, certain friendliness towards us, eh?' He smiled, a sardonic grin, and held up his glass of the admiral's claret. 'The matter of a butt or two of wine and a trifle or two of information; you understand?'

Drinkwater felt a recurrence of the irritation caused earlier by this man, but Cornwallis intervened. 'I am sure Captain Drinkwater understands perfectly, Philip. But Captain, tell us the news from London. What are the fears of invasion at the present time?'

'Somewhat abated, sir. Most of the news is of the problems surrounding Addington's ministry. The First Lord is under constant attack from the opposition led by Pitt…'

'And we all know the justice of Billy Pitt's allegations, by God,' put in the stranger with some heat.

Drinkwater ignored the outburst. 'As to the invasion, I think there is little fear while you are here, sir, and the French fleet is in port. I believe St Vincent to be somewhat maligned, although the difficulties experienced in fitting out do support some of Mr Pitt's accusations.' Drinkwater judged it would not do him any good to expatiate on St Vincent's well-meaning but near-disastrous attempts to root out corruption, and he did owe his own promotion to the old man's influence.

Cornwallis smiled. 'What does St Vincent say to Mr Pitt, Captain?'

'That although the French may invade, sir, he is confident that they will not invade by sea.'

Cornwallis laughed. 'There, at least, St Vincent and I would find common ground. Philip here is alarmed that any relaxation on our part would be ill-timed.' Then the humour went out of his expression and he fell silent. Cornwallis occupied the most important station in the British navy. As Commander-in-Chief of the Channel Fleet he was not merely concerned with blockading Brest, but also with maintaining British vigilance off L'Orient, Rochefort and even Ferrol where neutral Spain had been coerced into allowing France to use the naval arsenals for her own. In addition there was the immense problem of the defence of the Channel itself, still thought vulnerable if a French squadron could be assembled elsewhere in the world, say the West Indies, and descend upon it in sufficient force to avoid or brush aside the Channel Fleet. On Cornwallis's shoulder fell the awesome burden of ensuring St Vincent's words were true, and Cornwallis had transformed the slack methods of his predecessor into a strictly enforced blockade, earning himself the soubriquet of 'Billy Blue' from his habit of hoisting the Blue Peter to the foremasthead the instant his flagship cast anchor when driven off station by the heavy gales that had bedevilled his fleet since the New Year. It was clear that the responsibility and the monotony of such a task were wearing the elderly man out. Drinkwater sensed he would have liked to agree with the current opinion in London that the threat of invasion had diminished.

'Did you see much of the French forces or the encampments, Captain?' asked the stranger.

'A little above Boulogne, sir, but I was fortunate in having a favourable easterly and was ordered out by way