of Portsmouth and so favoured the English coast. I took aboard the Admiralty papers at Portsmouth.'
'It is a weary business, Captain Drinkwater,' Cornwallis said sadly, 'and I am always in want of frigates… by heaven 'tis a plaguey dismal way of spending a life in the public service!'
'Console yourself, Sir William,' the stranger put in at this show of bile, and with a warmth of feeling that indicated he was on exceptionally intimate terms with the Commander-in-Chief. 'Consider the wisdom of Pericles: 'If they are kept off the sea by our superior strength, their want of practice will make them unskilful and their want of skill, timid.' Now that is an incontestable piece of good sense, you must admit.'
'You make your point most damnably, Philip. As for Captain Drinkwater, I am sure he is not interested in our hagglings…'
The allusion to Drinkwater's junior rank, though intended to suppress the stranger, cut Drinkwater to the quick. He rose, having no more business with the admiral and having securely lodged his empty glass against the flagship's roll. 'I would not have you think, Sir William, that I am anxious to avoid any station or duty to which their Lordships wished to assign me.'
Cornwallis dismissed Drinkwater's concern. 'Of course not, Captain. We are all the victims of circumstance. It is just that I feel the want of frigates acutely. The Inshore Squadron is worked mercilessly and some relief would be most welcome there, but if Lord Keith has given you your orders we had better not detain you. What force does his Lordship command now?'
'Four of the line, Sir William, five old fifties, nine frigates, a dozen sloops, a dozen bombs and ten gun-brigs, plus the usual hired cutters and luggers.'
'Very well. And he is as anxious as myself over cruisers I doubt not.'
'Indeed, sir.'
Drinkwater moved towards the door as Cornwallis's eyes fell again to the papers. These actions seemed to precipitate an outburst of forced coughing from the stranger. Cornwallis looked up at once.
'Ah, Philip, forgive me… most remiss and I beg your pardon. Captain Drinkwater, forgive me, I am apt to think we are all acquainted here. May I introduce Captain Philip D'Auvergne, Due de Bouillon.'
Drinkwater was curious at this grandiose title. D'Auvergne was grinning at his discomfiture.
'Sir William does me more honour than I deserve, Captain Drinkwater. I am no more than a post-captain like yourself, but unlike yourself I do not have even a gun-brig to command.'
'You are a supernumerary, sir?' enquired Drinkwater.
Both Cornwallis and D'Auvergne laughed, implying a knowledge that Drinkwater was not a party to.
'I should like you to convey Captain D'Auvergne back to his post at St Helier, Captain, as a small favour to the Channel Fleet and in the sure knowledge that it cannot greatly detain you.'
'It will be an honour, Sir William.'
'Very well, Captain,' said D'Auvergne, 'I am ready. Keep in good spirits, Sir William. It will be soon now if it is ever to occur.'
Unaware to what they alluded, Drinkwater asked: 'You have no baggage, Captain D'Auvergne?'
D'Auvergne grinned again. 'Good Lord no. Baggage slows a man, eh?' And the two men laughed again at a shared joke.
The meal had been a tense affair. Captain D'Auvergne had become almost silent and Drinkwater had remained curious as to his background and his function, aware only that he enjoyed a position of privilege as Cornwallis's confidant. The only clue to his origin was in his destination, St Helier. Drinkwater knew there were a hundred naval officers with incongruous French-sounding surnames who hailed from the Channel Islands. But Cornwallis had called St Helier D'Auvergne's 'post', whatever that meant, and it was clear from his appetite that he had not lived aboard ship for some time or he would have been a little more sparing with Drinkwater's dwindling cabin stores. The decanter had circulated twice before D'Auvergne, with a parting look at the retreating Mullender, leaned forward and addressed his host.
'I apologise for teasing you, Drinkwater. The fact is Cornwallis, like most of the poor fellows, is worn with the service and bored out of his skull by the tedium of blockade. Any newcomer is apt to suffer the admiral's blue devils. 'Tis truly a terrible task and to have been a butt of his irritability is to have rendered your country a service.'
'I fear,' said Drinkwater with some asperity, 'that I am still being used as a butt, and to be candid, sir, I am not certain that I enjoy it over much.'
The snub was deliberate. Drinkwater had no idea of D'Auvergne's seniority though he guessed it to be greater than his own. But he was damned if he was going to sit at his own table and listen to such stuff from a man drinking his own port! Drinkwater had expected D'Auvergne to bristle, rise and take his leave; instead he leaned back in his chair and pointed at Drinkwater's right shoulder.
'I perceive you have been wounded, Captain, and I know you for a brave officer. I apologise doubly for continuing to be obscure… Mine is a curious story, but I am, as I said, a post-captain like yourself. I served under Lord Howe during the American War and was captured by the French. Whilst in captivity I came to the notice of the old Due de Bouillon with whom I shared a surname, although I am a native of the Channel Islands. His sons were both dead and I was named his heir after a common ancestry was discovered…' D'Auvergne smiled wryly. 'I might have been one of the richest men in France but for a trifling matter of my estates having been taken over by their tenants.' He made a deprecatory gesture.
'You might also have lost your head,' added Drinkwater, mellowing a little.
'Exactly so. Now, Drinkwater, that wound of yours. How did you come by that?'
Since his promotion to post-captain and the transfer of his epaulette from his left to his right shoulder, Drinkwater had thought his wound pretty well disguised. Although he still inclined his head to one side in periods of damp weather when the twisted muscles ached damnably, he contrived to forget about it as much as possible. He was certainly not used to being quizzed about it.
'My shoulder? Oh, I received the fragment of a mortar shell during an attack on Boulogne in the year one. It was an inglorious affair.'
'I recollect it. But that was your second wound in the right arm, was it not?'
'How the deuce d'you know that?'
'Ah. I will tell you in a moment. Was it a certain Edouard Santhonax that struck you first?'
'The devil!' Drinkwater was astonished that this enigmatic character could know so much about him. He frowned and the colour mounted to his cheeks. The relaxation he had begun to feel was dispelled by a sudden anger. 'Come, sir. Level with me, damn it. What is your impertinent interest in my person, eh?'
'Easy, Drinkwater, easy. I have no impertinent interest in you. On the contrary, I have always heard you spoken of in the highest terms by Lord Dungarth.'
' Lord Dungarth?'
'Indeed. My station in St Helier is connected with Lord Dungarth's department.'
'Ahhh,' Drinkwater refilled his glass, passing the decanter across the table, 'I begin to see…'
Lord Dungarth, with whom Drinkwater had first become acquainted as a midshipman, was the head of the British Admiralty's intelligence network. Drinkwater's personal relationship with the earl extended to a private obligation contracted when Dungarth had helped to spirit Drinkwater's brother Edward away into Russia when the latter was wanted for murder. The evasion of justice had been accomplished because he had killed a French agent known to Dungarth. Edward had in fact slaughtered Etienne de Montholon because he had found him in bed with his own mistress, but Dungarth's interest in Montholon had served to cover Edward's crime and protect Drinkwater's own career. It was an episode in his life that Drinkwater preferred to forget.
'What do
D'Auvergne looked round him. 'That he commanded this ship in the Red Sea; that you captured him and he subsequently escaped; that he was appointed a colonel in the French Army after transferring from the naval service; and that he is now an aide-de-camp to First Consul Bonaparte himself.'
'And your opinion of him?'
'That he is daring, brave and the epitome of all that makes the encampments of the French along the heights of Boulogne a most dangerous threat to the safety of Great Britain.'
Drinkwater's hostility towards D'Auvergne evaporated. The two had discovered a common ground and Drinkwater rose, crossing the cabin and lifting the lid of the big sea-chest in the corner. 'So I have always thought myself,' he said, reaching into the chest. 'Furthermore, I have this to show you…'
