Ebb tide

Devaux looked seriously at Drinkwater. 'I shouldn't be surprised, Nathaniel, if we were not to be here for some time. If you would profit from my advice, I should recommend you to seek examination at the Trinity House and secure for yourself a warrant as master. You cannot afford to kick your heels in a midshipmite's mess until someone notices you. Unless I am completely out of tune with the times, there will be fewer opportunities to make your name as this war drags to its unhappy conclusion. At least with a master's warrant, your chances of finding some employment in a peace are much enhanced.'

'I shall mind what you say, sir, and thank you for your advice.'

'Tis no matter. I should not entirely like to see your abilities wasted, though my own influence is too small to afford you any advantage.'

'I had not meant...' Drinkwater protested, but Devaux cut him short with a brief, barked laugh.

'You've no need to be ashamed of either ambition or the need to make your way in the world.'

'But I had not meant to solicit interest, sir. I think, however, that I want experience to be considered for examination.'

'Don't be so damned modest.' Devaux turned away and raised the glass again.

Drinkwater had relinquished the deck when Hope returned. A cold and windy night had set in, with the great ships tugging at their cables, their officers anxious that they should not drag their anchors. The chill struck the gunroom, and those officers not on duty were considering the benefit to be derived from the blankets of their cots when Midshipman White's head peeped round the door.

'Mr Drinkwater,' he called, 'Mr Devaux's compliments and would you join him in the captain's cabin, sir.'

Ignoring the taunts of the other officers, Drinkwater pulled on his coat, picked up his hat and made for the companionway to the gun-deck. He halted outside the captain's cabin, ran a finger round his stock, tucked his hat neatly under his arm and, as the marine sentry stood to attention, knocked upon the door.

'Come!'

Captain Hope clasped a steaming tankard of rum flip, his shivering body hunched in the attitude of a man chilled half to death as he sat in his chair while his servant chafed his stockinged feet. The flickering candles showed his gaunt face pale with the cold and his eyes reddened by the wind. Devaux sat, elegantly cross-legged, on the settee that ran athwart the ship under the stern windows over which the sashes had been drawn, so the glass reflected the light of the candelabra.

'Ah, Drinkwater, my boy. I have some news for you.'

'Sir?'

'We are to have a new third lieutenant, I'm afraid.'

Drinkwater looked for a second at Devaux, but the first lieutenant's attention was elsewhere. 'I understand, sir ...'

'No you don't,' said Hope so sharply that Drinkwater coloured, thinking himself impertinent. 'Lieutenant Wallace will join tomorrow,' Hope went on, 'but since the establishment of the ship has been increased by one lieutenant, I have persuaded the Admiral to allow you to retain your acting commission.'

'I am much obliged to you, sir.' Drinkwater shot a second glance at Devaux and saw the merest flicker of a smile pass across his face.

'I have recommended that your commission be confirmed without further examination. I can make no pledges on Admiral Kempenfelt's behalf, but he has promised to consider the matter.'

'That is most kind of you, sir.'

'Well, well. We shall see. That is all.'

In the succeeding weeks Cyclops languished at Spithead, turning to the tide every six hours, but otherwise idle. Her people were active enough, hoisting in stores, water, powder and shot, and in due course other transactions began to take place. Though unpaid, since the present commission was of less than four years' standing, the frigate's people had received their accumulated prize money. Hardly had this been doled out by Captain Hope's prize agent's clerk than Cyclops was surrounded by bum-boats and invaded by a colourful and noisy mob whose trades and skills could provide both officers and ratings with their every want. A host of tricksters, fortune-tellers, tooth-pullers, pedlars, cobblers, vendors of every manner of knick-nack, traders' runners (advertising the expertise of their principals as sword-cutlers, tailors, pawn-brokers and portrait artists), Jewish usurers, gypsy-fiddlers and two score or so of whores infested the ship.

Amid this babel, the routine duties of the ship went on. Captain Hope absented himself for three weeks and Lieutenant Devaux took a fortnight's furlough. The ship underwent a superficial survey by the master shipwright of the dockyard, and her upper masts and yards were lowered and new standing rigging set up and rattled down. Five spars were renewed and Midshipman White spent three miserable days in the launch towing out replacements from the mast-pond in Portsmouth Dockyard.

Lieutenant Wallace arrived and was revealed as a protégé of the Elliot family to whom he was distantly related. His claim on their favour was small, it seemed, and it was acknowledged that he could have been a great deal worse. Life in the gunroom was thus tolerable enough. Drinkwater enjoyed the society of his fellow- officers, particularly the amusing banter between Devaux, when he was present, and the serious-minded but pleasant Lieutenant Wheeler of the marines. The sonorous gravity of the surgeon, Mr Appleby, often verged on the pompous, but his lengthy perorations could fill the gloom of an otherwise tedious evening with amusing targets for what passed for wit. Drinkwater exercised regularly with foils, and Wheeler and he recruited White and three other midshipmen into their salle d'escrime, as Wheeler, with light-hearted pretentiousness, insisted on calling the starboard gangway. As the junior lieutenant, Drinkwater was responsible for training the hands in the use of small arms, holding regular cutlass drills and target practices when, in the wake of the marines, they would shoot at bottles slung at the main yardarm.

In the midst of this activity Drinkwater received a letter, an answer to one he had sent off almost as soon as Cyclops had dropped her anchor, and he was soon afterwards anxious to obtain a few days' leave himself. The letter was from Miss Elizabeth Bower, whom he had met when last in England and to whom he had formed a strong attachment. She, it seemed, felt similarly attracted to him and they had exchanged correspondence, but he was uncertain of her whereabouts since her widowed father, with whom she lived, had moved from the Cornish parish of which he had briefly been inter-regnant. Now, having hardly dared hope that his letter would reach her, for he had sent it by way of the Bishop of Winchester, he found that her father had been inducted as incumbent in the parish of Warnford, which lay in the upper valley of the Meon, not many miles north of Portsmouth.

... It is so Comforting to hear from You,

Elizabeth had written, for Poor Father Exhausts himself in his Exertions to help the Unfortunate and Deserving Poor hereabouts... We have a Pleasant House with more Chambers than we can Sensibly use and Father joins me in Extending a Warm Invitation to you for Christmas, should You be Fortunate to Gain Your Freedom...

Keen both to justify Hope's faith in him and to oblige Devaux in the hope that in due course the first lieutenant would indulge his request for leave, Drinkwater penned a cautious note of acceptance hedged about by riders explaining his predicament, then threw himself into his duties. Occasionally these took him out of the ship, as when he acted for Hope on some business with the captain's prize agent, carrying papers ashore to the lawyer's chambers at Southsea. On this occasion, and in confident anticipation of his request being granted, Drinkwater spent two guineas of his prize money on a present for Elizabeth and was in high good humour as he returned from his expedition.

At the Sally Port he hired a wherry to take him back to the ship. It was a fine, cold winter's afternoon, with a brisk wind out of the northeast. A low sun laid a sparkling path upon the sea and threw long, complex shadows from the spars of the fleet. The wherryman set a scrap of lugsail as the boat cleared Southsea beach and they swooped and ducked over the choppy water in the lively but remarkably dry little craft as it fought the contrary tide. The panoply of naval might lay all about them in the brilliant sunshine. Curiously Drinkwater regarded each of the great ships as they lay with their heads to the westward, stemming the flood tide but canted slightly athwart its stream by the brisk wind. As they passed each of the ships-of-the-line, though his passenger could perfectly well read them, the boatman volunteered their names as if this additional service would ensure a large gratuity.

'Edgar, sir, seventy-four guns ... Monarch, seventy-four