'Yes, my Lord.'
'You'd better have him transferred over here immediately. I'll have a marine detachment sent back with you.'
'Thank you, my Lord.'
'The conduct of Captain Trollope's squadron, of which you were a part, was most gratifying and I have here a paper for you.' He held out a document and Drinkwater stood to take it. It was a commission as lieutenant.
'Thank you, my Lord, thank you very much.'
Duncan had already bent to his papers again and he said, without looking up, 'It's no more than you deserve, Mr Drinkwater.'
Drinkwater had his hand on the door handle when he recollected something. He turned. Duncan was immersed in the details of his fleet. There was talk of a court-martial on Williams of the Agincourt. Drinkwater coughed.
'My Lord?'
'Uh?' Duncan continued writing.
'My people are long overdue for their pay, my Lord, might I ask you for an order to that effect?'
Duncan laid his pen down and looked up. The admiral was too experienced a sea-officer not to know something lay behind the request. He smiled faintly at the earnest young man. 'See my clerk, Mr Drinkwater, see my clerk,' and the old admiral bent once again to his work.
Kestrel lay a week in Saltpan Reach while they did what they could to patch her up. Drinkwater was confirmed in command until they decommissioned for extensive repairs and he gave a dinner for those of his officers still alive. It was a modest affair at which they were served by Merrick and Tregembo who volunteered for the task and accomplished it with surprising adroitness. Afterwards he sought out Drinkwater.
'Begging your pardon, zur;' he began awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other and finally swallowing his diffidence. 'Ar damnation, zur, I ain't one for beating about, zur, but seeing as how you're promoted I'd like to volunteer for your cox'n, zur.'
Drinkwater smiled at the Cornishman. 'I'm only promoted lieutenant, Tregembo, that ain't quite post-captain, you know.'
'We've been shipmates a year or two now, zur…'
Drinkwater nodded, he felt very flattered. 'Look Tregembo, I can pay you nought beyond your naval pay and certainly not enough to support you and your future wife…' he got no further.
''tis enough, zur, your prize money'll buy you a handsome house, zur an' my Susan can cook, zur.' He grinned triumphantly. 'Thank 'ee, zur, thank 'ee…'
Taken aback Drinkwater could only mutter 'Well I'm damned,' and stare after the retreating seaman. He remembered Tregembo's Susan as a compact, determined woman and guessed she might have some part in it.
He had better write to Elizabeth and tell her he had a commission and she, it appeared, had a cook.
Chapter Seventeen
The Puppet Master
'Orders, sir.' Hill passed the oiled packet that the guard boat had just delivered. Drinkwater pushed the last bottle of Griffiths's sercial across to Appleby and opened the bundle on the table.
As he read the frown on his brow deepened. Silently Appleby and Hill searched their commander's face for some indication of their fate. Eventually Drinkwater looked up.
'Mr Hill, we drop down to the Nore with the ebb this afternoon and I will require a boat to take me to the Gun Wharf at five of the clock…' He looked down again at the papers.
Hill acknowledged his instructions and left the cabin. 'What is it?' enquired Appleby.
Drinkwater looked up again. 'Confidential I'm afraid, Mr Appleby,' he said with chilly formality. But it was not Appleby's curiosity that had set Drinkwater on edge. It was the signatory of his orders. They had not come from Admiral Duncan but from Lord Dungarth.
It was the earl who descended first from the carriage that swung to a halt on the windy quay. Drinkwater advanced to greet him as he turned to assist the second occupant out of the carriage. The hooded figure was obscured in the gathering dusk, but there was something about the newcomer that was vaguely familiar.
'So,' she said, looking about her, 'you are going to deport me, no? Not shoot me after all?'
Drinkwater recognised Hortense Montholon as Dungarth replied 'Aye ma'am against both my judgement and inclination, I do assure you.' He turned to Drinkwater. 'Good evening, Lieutenant.' Dungarth gave a thin smile of congratulation.
'Good evening, my Lord.'
Lord Dungarth turned to the woman and removed a pair of handcuffs from his coat pockets. 'Be so kind as to hold out your right wrist.'
'Must you practice this barbarity,' she said frowning and shooting Drinkwater a look full of pathetic helplessness. He avoided her gaze.
'We are men, not saints sweet lady,' quoted his lordship as he handcuffed himself to the prisoner then led her towards the waiting boat.
Kestrel weighed and carried a favourable westerly breeze out of the Thames. Drinkwater came below at midnight to find Lord Dungarth sitting in the lamplit cabin with Hortense Montholon asleep on the leeward settee.
Silently Drinkwater brought out a bottle. He poured two glasses and passed one to Dungarth. The wheel had come full circle now, the cutter's cabin that had been the scene of its beginning witnessed its end. Dungarth raised his glass.
'To your cockade, Nathaniel, you have earned it.'
'Thank you, my Lord.' His eyes strayed to the woman. The auburn hair tumbled about her shoulders and a slight emaciation of her face due to her incarceration lent her a saintly, martyr-like quality. Something of her effect on Drinkwater was visible on his face.
'She is as dangerous as poison,' said Dungarth in a low voice and Drinkwater turned guiltily away.
'What is to be done with her?'
Dungarth shrugged. 'Were she a man we would have shot her, were she an English woman in France the regicides would have guillotined her. As it is she is allowed her freedom.' The cynical way in which Dungarth made his remarks clearly indicated he did not approve of the decision.
'Her brother has some influence in emigré circles and pressure was brought to bear upon Government,' he sighed. 'Would that poor Brown had had such an advocate.'
'Aye my Lord…' Drinkwater thought of the gibbet hanging over the battery at Kijkduin. 'And what of Santhonax?'
'Ah,' Dungarth grunted with greater relish, a cruel smile crossing his mouth. 'We have him mewed up close, very close. You ruined his looks Nathaniel, tch, tch.' Drinkwater passed the bottle as Kestrel lurched into a wave trough. Dungarth waved it towards the sleeping woman. 'She does not yet know of his apprehension. It is going to be something of a disappointment to her when she arrives home.' He smiled and sipped his wine.
Drinkwater looked at Hortense again. She stirred as Kestrel butted another wave and her eyes opened. She sat up puzzled, then shivered and drew the cloak round her in a curiously childish way. Then her eyes recognised the company and her circumstances and an expression close to satisfaction settled upon her face.
'Watch her well, Nathaniel,' said Dungarth, 'she is an old deceiver, a veritable Eve. It was a pity Jacobin sentiment, undiscriminating though it is, had not been a little more zealously employed at Carteret and saved us the trouble of rescuing such a viper.'
'Can you believe such a face could betray her betrothed, eh?'
Drinkwater saw Hortense frown, uncomprehending. He remembered poor De Tocqueville and his unrequited passion.
'What do you mean?' she asked, 'betray…'
'Do not mock me ma'am, your lover Santhonax had De Tocqueville cut down in the gutters of London and well you know it.'
'No, no… I knew nothing of that.' For a moment she digested the news then held up her head. 'I do not believe you. You lie… you lie to protect yourself, you are fools, already your navy is crippled by the brave republicans, soon the Dutch will come to help and then all the ships will join those of France and the greatest navy in the world will be at our command…' Her eyes blazed with the conviction of one who had sustained herself in prison with such thoughts. 'Even now you have spared me to use me in your plight.'