It struck Drinkwater that if the authorities got wind of what he had done he might only have Tregembo to rely on. Except Quilhampton, perhaps, and, with a pang, he recollected James Quilhampton was a party to the little mystery of Edward's note.
Drinkwater was sweating and aware that he had been staring at Tregembo for far too long not to make some sort of confession. He swallowed, deciding on a confidence in which truth might masquerade. 'You may have seen him before, Tregembo. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?'
Tregembo shook his head. 'No zur.'
'You recollect Major Brown and our duties aboard Kestrel?' Tregembo nodded. 'Well Waters is not unconnected with the same sort of business. I do not know any details.'
'But I saw him at Petersfield, zur. I remember now.'
'Ah, I see.' Drinkwater wondered again if Elizabeth had revealed Edward's relationship. 'His arrival doubtless perturbed my wife, eh? Well I don't doubt it, he was not expecting to find me absent.' Drinkwater paused; that much was true. 'Whatever you have heard about this man Tregembo I beg you to forget it. Do you understand?'
'Aye zur.'
'If you can avoid any reference to him I'd be obliged.' Then he added as an afterthought, 'So would Lord Dungarth.'
'And that's why he is turned forrard, eh zur?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Exactly.'
Tregembo smiled. 'Thank 'ee zur. You'll be a commander afore this business is over, zur, mark my words.'
Then he turned and left the cabin and Drinkwater was unaccountably moved.
Drinkwater turned in early. The effects of his dinner had returned and made him drowsy. He longed for the oblivion of sleep. A little after midnight he was aware of someone calling him from a great distance.
He woke slowly to find Quilhampton shining a lantern into his face.
'Sir! Sir! Bengal fires and three guns from the London, sir! Repeated by St George. The signal to weigh, sir, the signal to weigh…!'
'Eh, what's that?'
'Bengal fires and three guns…'
'I heard you, God damn it. What's the signal?'
'To weigh, sir.' Quilhampton's enthusiasm was wasted at this hour.
'Return on deck, Mr Q, and read the night orders again for God's sake.'
'Aye, aye, sir,' the crestfallen Quilhampton withdrew and Drinkwater rose to wash the foulness out of his mouth. It was not Quilhampton's fault. No-one in the fleet had had a chance to study the admiral's special signals and it boded ill for the general management of the expedition. Drinkwater spat disgustedly into the bowl set in the top of his sea chest. A respectful knock announced the return of the mate. 'Well?'
'The signal to unmoor, sir.'
'Made for…?'
'The line of battleships with two anchors down.'
'And how many anchors have we?'
'One sir.'
'One sir. The signal to weigh will be given at dawn. Call all hands an hour before. Have your watch rig the windlass bars, have the topsails loose in their buntlines ready for hoisting and the stops off the heads'ls.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater retired to sleep. There was an old saying in the service. He prayed God it was true: all debts were paid when the topsails were sheeted home.
He did not know that an Admiralty messenger had exhausted three horses to bring Parker St Vincent's direct command to sail, nor that Lady Parker would return to London earlier than expected.
Chapter Eleven
Nadir
'What a God damn spectacle!' said Rogers happily as he watched the big ships weigh. The misfortunes of others always delighted him. It was one of his less likeable traits. Drinkwater shivered in his cloak, wondering whether his blood would ever thicken after his service in the Red Sea and how much longer they would have to wait. It was nine o'clock and the Viragos had been at their stations since daylight, awaiting their turn to weigh and proceed to sea through the St Nicholas Gat.
The signal to weigh had caused some confusion as no one was certain what the order of sailing was. Towards the northern end of the anchorage two battleships had run foul of each other, but already the handful of frigates and sloops had got away smartly, led out by the handsome Amazon, commanded by Edward Riou. Following them south east through the gatway and round the Scroby Sands, went the former East Indiaman Glatton, her single deck armed with the carronades which had so astonished a French squadron with their power, that she had defeated them all. Her odd appearance was belied by the supreme seamanship of the man who now commanded her. 'Bounty' Bligh turned her through the anchorage with an almost visible contempt for his reputation. Drinkwater had met Bligh and served with him at Camperdown. Another veteran of Camperdown, the old 50-gun Isis ran down in company with the incomparable Agamemnon, Nelson's old sixty-four. The order of sailing had gone by the board as the big ships made the best of their way to seaward of the sands. The 98-gun St George, with Nelson's blue vice-admiral's flag at the foremasthead was already setting her topgallants, her jacks swinging aloft like monkeys, a band playing on her poop. The strains of Rule Britannia floated over the water.
Despite himself Drinkwater felt an involuntary thrill run down his spine as Nelson passed, unable to resist the man's genius despite the cloud he was personally under. Even Rogers was silent while Quilhampton's eyes were shining like a girl's.
'Here the buggers come,' said Rogers as the other seventy-fours stood through the road; Ganges, Bellona, Polyphemus. Then came Monarch, Batter Pudding's father's flagship at Camperdown, and the rest, all setting their topgallants, their big courses in the bunt-lines ready to set when the intricacies of St Nicholas's Gat had been safely negotiated.
'Invincible's going north sir,' observed Easton pointing to the Caister end of the anchorage where the cutters and gun brigs were leaving by the Cockle Gat.
'I hope he has a pilot on board,' said Drinkwater thinking of the treacherous passage and driving Kestrel through it years ago.
'Some of the storeships goin' that way too,' offered Quilhampton, aping Drinkwater's clipped mannerism.
'Yes, Mr Q. Do you watch for Explosion's signal now.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Martin's still playing at bloody commodore,' said Rogers to Easton in a stage whisper. The master sniggered. 'Hey look, someone's lost a jib-boom…' They could not make out the ship as she was masked by another but almost last to leave was Parker's London.
'The old bastard had trouble getting his flukes out of the mud,' laughed Rogers making an onomatopoeic sucking plop that sent a burst of ribald laughter round Virago's poop.
'I hope, Mr Rogers, that is positively the last joke we hear about the subject of the admiral's nuptials,' said Drinkwater, remembering the plain-faced girl on whom he so relied. He might at least defend her honour on his own deck.