He recalled the words of William Burroughs, first lieutenant of Russell, who had entertained him while Trollope digested his orders. 'I envy you that cutter, so will a number more, I don't wonder, once they hear old Griffiths is laid up. At least you set eyes on the squareheads, all I've seen is a few mastheads over the dunes. Trying to make an intelligent guess at the number of ships they represent is like… is like,' Burroughs had searched for a simile and failed with a shrug. 'Well you know it's damned impossible. Yes, I do envy you that. It gets deuced boring out here week after week, it's not the Mediterranean, don't you know, no blue seas and snow-capped sierras to moon over, just acres and acres of dung coloured water and a lot of squareheaded Dutchmen sitting on their arses laughing at us, eh?' It was a sentiment commonly expressed in the fleet. But Burroughs's farewell had been less flippant. 'Good fortune, m'dear fellow, we will all be relying most heavily upon you.'
Well, he must do better than Burroughs. Wiping his eye on his sleeve he replaced the glass and concentrated.
The dreary coast extended far to the south in wave after wave of dunes and marram grass. Here and there the cluster of habitations huddled round the conspicuous spires of churches. Shreds of smoke rose into the tranquil air. In the circle of the glass he picked up a lone horseman riding along the tideline keeping an eye on them. He swung left to where the parapet of the battery fronted the cottages of Kijkduin. The Dutch tricolour hung limply above the dun coloured rampart and here too he could see men, the flash of light on a bayonet or telescope. Beyond Kijkduin the coast trended away into the anchorage where the black masts of ships could be seen. He felt his heart skip as he realised that most of the ships had their yards crossed. Preparations for sailing were well advanced. Lord Dungarth was right! He counted twenty ships at the least. He swept the glass to the north. On the far side of the Zeegat van Texel the island of Texel faded into the far distance. A Dutch yacht lay in the channel. De Winter's eyes, as he was Duncan's.
Northwards in the Molen Gat he could see a little dark shape that was Diligent while to the westwards the three masts of Black Joke, one time advice boat to Earl Howe, lay anchored in the West Gat.
Between them a flat expanse of sand, fringed with the curl of shallow breakers, the Haakagronden, covering as the tide rose. To the west the sun sank redly, the sea a jade green except where the sun laid a golden bar upon its rippled surface.
He returned to the deck, prepared the signal 'Enemy has yards crossed,' hoisted it and fired a gun. As the sun set Black Joke acknowledged it and Drinkwater could just see where she repeated it to Trollope's innermost ship, the sloop Martin. Drinkwater smiled to himself with self-satisfaction. Elizabeth would think him very pompous just at the moment.
'Did you see the way Mr Drinkwater smiled just now,' muttered Tregembo to another seaman leaning on the rail beside him, 'I reckons as how us'll be seeing some action afore long, my handsome.'
The light airs had died completely by midnight and a glassy calm fell on the black water; the rudder creaked and the tiller kicked gently in the tackles.
'Good tide running now, we'll get under way with the centre plates down and sweep her up to the north a little, Mr Jessup. Call the hands.'
Drinkwater had no desire to work the men unnecessarily but one mile to the north they would command a much better view of the Dutch fleet at anchor, still out of dangerous gunshot of the battery. The centre plates would give them ample warning of going around on such a quiet night and the labour at the sweeps would keep the men busy, giving them little time to reflect on their grievances, imagined or otherwise.
The steady clunk of pawls tripping on whelps told where the windlass was manned, while down the cutter's side the carpenter and his mate were knocking the poppets out of the sweep rowlocks. A muffled thudding in the darkness amidships indicated the hands were getting the ungainly lengths of the sweeps from their stowage between the gigs into position. Two men came aft and cast off the tiller lashings. They stood ready to execute Drinkwater's orders.
From forward came the low cry, 'Up and down,' and after a little, 'Anchor's a weigh.'
'Hard a-starboard.' The two men pushed the tiller over. 'Give way together, Mr Jessup.'
The sweeps came to life, swinging awkwardly across the deck, splashing alongside while the men got into their stride and Jessup belaboured them with rhythmic obscenities, curiously inflected with emphatic syllables so that they gradually came into unison. Kestrel gathered way, turning to bring the tide under her while Jessup intoned his meaningless invective in the ingenuous way of the British seaman. Drinkwater steadied the cutter on course and half an hour later they re-anchored.
'Get a spring on the cable, Mr Jessup, then send the watch below. We'll clear for action at dawn just in case that Dutch yacht has moved.'
'Aye, aye, sir.' Jessup moved off giving orders. Drinkwater was pleased with himself. The centre plates had not touched once. They should be in the position he wanted. Wrapping himself in his cloak and kicking off his shoes he threw himself on to his cot and was soon asleep.
He was called at six. Five minutes later he was on deck. The wind was sharp and from the east. At five bells he called all hands and the men tumbled up to draw and reload the guns. Alternate lashings were cast off the mainsail and the halliards prepared for rapid hoisting, their falls faked out along the deck in case daylight revealed them too close to the battery. Daylight came with a mist.
An hour later Drinkwater stood the men down and went below to shave and break his fast. The skillygolee and molasses warmed him and only his new found dignity as commander prevented him from chaffing Appleby who was making a half-hearted protest that the creaking of the sweeps had kept him awake. The fact that the wind was from the east had set Drinkwater in a state of tension that would not let him relax.
He returned to pacing the deck while he waited for the mist over the land to lift. If they had anchored in the wrong place they might have to cut and run before being caught in the cross fire of the yacht and the heavier guns at Kijkduin. He tried to calm himself, to stay the prickling sweat between his shoulder blades and forget the fine, fire-eating phrase that kept leaping unbidden into his mind: morituri te salutant…
'Mist's clearing, Mr Drinkwater.' It was Traveller, anxious to fire his precious guns.
'Thank you Mr Traveller.' Drinkwater went forward and began climbing the mast. From his perch he could see the mast trucks of the Dutch fleet rising from the white shroud that enveloped the town of Den Helder. In the foreground the land was already clear and the solitary boom of a gun echoed seawards where the battery ranged them. The Dutch yacht still lay in the fairway, some eight cables away, and beyond her, now emerging dramatically from the evaporating vapour, lay the Dutch fleet.
Movement was clearly discernible. There were men aloft and he started to count as the ships began to warp themselves clear of the buoys. At noon Black Joke, beating skilfully up through the West Gat, came alongside. By agreement it was she that ran out to Trollope during the afternoon of the 7th October to inform him that the Dutch were on the move. There was every prospect that if the wind held east, Admiral De Winter would sail.
Late afternoon came and still the breeze was steady. Drinkwater kept the deck, not trusting himself to go below. The weary months of blockage duty had screwed him to a pitch that cried out for the release of action. What was true of him was true of all of Kestrel's people. He looked round the deck. Men lingered half hoping, half dreading that the Dutch would come out. He looked away to the east. The yacht remained at her anchor, like a dog at the door of his master's hall, and beyond…