'Where away?'
Drinkwater shivered in the chill of dawn, peering to the eastward where Hill pointed.
'Three points to starboard, sir. Ten or a dozen small craft with a brig as escort.'
He saw them at last, faint interruptions on the steel-blue horizon, growing more substantial as every minute passed and the gathering daylight grew. Squatting, he steadied his glass and studied the shapes, trying to deduce what they might be. Behind him he heard the shuffle of feet as other officers joined Hill, together with a brief muttering as they discussed the possibility of an attack.
Drinkwater rose stiffly. His neck and shoulder arched in the chilly air. He shut the telescope with a snap and turned on the officers.
'Well, gentlemen. What d'you make of 'em, eh?'
'Invasion barges,' said Hill without hesitation. Drinkwater agreed.
'"Chalowpes" and "péniches", I believe they call the infernal things, moving eastwards to the rendezvous at Havre and all ready to embark what Napoleon Bonaparte is pleased to call the Army of the Coasts of the Ocean.'
'Clear for action, sir?' asked Rogers, his pale features showing the dark shadow of an unshaven jaw and reminding Drinkwater that daylight was growing quickly.
'No. I think not. Pipe up hammocks, send the hands to breakfast. Mr Hill, have your watch clew up the fore-course. Hoist French colours and edge down towards them. No show of force. Mr Frey, a string of bunting at the fore t'gallant yardarms. We are Frenchbuilt, gentlemen. We might as well take advantage of the fact. Mr Rogers, join me for breakfast.'
As he descended the companionway Drinkwater heard the watch called to stand by the clew-garnets and raise the fore tack and sheet. Below, the berth-deck erupted in sudden activity as the off-duty men were turned out of their hammocks. He nodded to the marine sentry at attention by his door and entered the cabin. Rogers followed and both men sat at the table which was being hurriedly laid by an irritated Mullender.
'You're early this morning, sir,' grumbled the steward, with the familiar licence allowed to intimate servants.
'No, Mullender, you are late… Sit down, Sam, and let us eat. The morning's chill has made me damned hungry.'
'Thank you. You do intend to attack those craft, don't you?'
'Of course. When I've had some breakfast.' He smiled at Rogers who once again looked at though he had been drinking heavily the night before. 'D'you remember when we were in the Virago together we were attacked off the Sunk by a pair of luggers?'
'Aye…'
'And we beat 'em off. Sank one of them if I remember right. The other…'
'Got away,' interrupted Rogers.
'For which you have never forgiven me… ah, thank you, Mullender. Well I hope this morning to rectify the matter. Let's creep up and take that little brig. She'd make a decent prize, mmm?'
'By God, I'll drink to that!' Comprehension dawned in Rogers's eyes.
'I thought you might, Sam, I thought you might. But I want those bateaux as well.'
They attacked the skillygolee enthusiastically, encouraged by the smell of bacon coming from the pantry where Mullender was still muttering, each occupied with their private thoughts. Rogers considered a naval officer a fool if he did not risk everything to make prize-money. Since he had never had the chief command of a ship, he thought himself very hard done by over the matter. The event to which Drinkwater had alluded was a case in point. Both knew that they had been fortunate to escape capture when they were engaged by a pair of lugger privateers off Orfordness when on their way to Copenhagen. But whereas Drinkwater appreciated his escape, Rogers regretted they had not made a capture, even though the odds against success had been high. The Virago had been a lumbering old bomb-vessel whose longest-range guns were in her stern, an acknowledgement that an enemy attack would almost certainly be from astern! But a pretty little brig-corvette brought under the guns of the Antigone would be an entirely different story. With such an overwhelming superiority Drinkwater would not hesitate to attack and the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Nevertheless Rogers found himself hoping the brig would have a large crew, so that he might distinguish himself and perhaps gain a mention in The Gazette.
Drinkwater's thoughts, on the other hand, were only partially concerned with the brig. It was the other vessels he was thinking of. They were five leagues south-east of Pointe de Barfleur, on the easternmost point of the Contentin Pensinsula. The convoy of invasion craft were on passage across the Baie de la Seine bound for their rendezvous at Le Havre. It was here that the French were assembling vessels built further west, prior to dispersing them along the Pas de Calais, at Etaples, Boulogne, Wimereux and Ambleteuse, in readiness for the embarkation of the army destined to conquer Great Britain and make the French people masters of the world.
Perhaps Drinkwater's experiences of the French differed from those of his colleagues who were apt to ridicule the possibility of ultimate French victory; perhaps Captain D'Auvergne had alerted him to the reality of a French invasion; but from whatever cause he did not share his first lieutenant's unconditional enthusiasm. What Rogers saw as a possible brawl which should end to their advantage, Drinkwater saw as a matter of simple necessity. It was up to him to destroy in detail before the French were able to overwhelm in force. There had been much foolish talk, and even more foolish assertions in the newspapers, of the impracticality of the invasion barges. There had been mention of preposterous notions of attack by balloon, of great barges driven by windmills, even some crackpot ideas of under-water boats which had had knowledgeable officers roaring with laughter on a score of quarterdecks, despite the fact that such an attack had been launched against Admiral Howe in New York during the American War. Drinkwater was apt to regard such arrogant dismissal of French abilities as extremely unwise. From what he had observed of those chaloupes and péniches there was very little wrong with them as sea-going craft. That alone was enough to make them worthy targets for His Majesty's frigate Antigone.
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'Yes, Mr Wickham, what is it?' Drinkwater dabbed his mouth with his napkin and pushed back his chair.
'Mr Hill's compliments, sir, and the wind's falling light. If we don't make more sail the enemy will get away.'
'We cannot permit that, Mr Wickham. Make all sail, I'll be up directly.'
Rogers followed him on deck and swore as soon as he saw the distance that still remained. Hill crossed the deck and touched his hat.
'Stuns'ls, sir?'
'If you please, Mr Hill, though I doubt we'll catch 'em now.'
Drinkwater looked round the horizon. Daylight had revealed a low mist which obscured the sharp line of the horizon. Above it the sun rose redly, promising a warm day with mist and little wind. Already the sea was growing smooth, its surface merely undulating, no longer rippling with the sharp though tiny crests of a steady breeze. Hardly a ripple ran down Antigone's side: the wind had suddenly died away and Drinkwater now detected a sharp chill. Beside him Rogers swore again. He turned quickly forward.
'Mr Hill!'
'Sir?'
'Belay those stuns'ls. All hands to man yard and stay tackles, hoist out the launch!' He turned to Rogers. 'Get the quarter-boats away, Sam, there's fog coming. You're to take charge.'
Rogers needed no second bidding. Already alert, the ship's company tumbled up to sway out the heavy launch with its snubnosed carronade mounted on a forward slide. It began to rise jerkily from the booms amidships as, near at hand, the slap of bare feet on the deck accompanied a hustling of men over the rail and into the light quarter-boats hanging in the davits. Among the jostling check shirts and pigtails, the red coats and white cross-belts of the marines mustered with an almost irritating formality.