Drinkwater began to pace Virago's poop as the watch idled round the deck, needlessly coiling ropes and unenthusiastically chipping the scale off a box of shot set on the after mortar hatch. A low mumble came from them and exactly reflected the mood of the entire fleet.
Two days earlier, after conferring with Parker, Vansittart and Drummond had been sent home in the lugger Kite. Drinkwater had taken advantage of the departure of the lugger to send a letter to Lord Dungarth and the subject of that letter was the fundamental worry that underlay every thought of every waking hour. Since the interview with Jex, Drinkwater had striven to work out a solution to the problem of Edward. Sweating at the thought of his guilt, of the reception of his first letter to Dungarth sent by Lady Parker, and of Jex's knowledge, he had spent hours formulating a plan, considering every turn of events and of how each circumstance would be regarded by others. Now the constant delays denied him the opportunity to land Edward. The last few days had had a nightmare quality enhanced by the bad weather, the freezing cold and the continual nagging worries over the fleet itself.
For the first time in months he had a nightmare, the terrifying spectre of a white clad woman who reared over his supine body to the clanking of chains. With the illogical certainty of dreams she seemed to rise higher and higher above him, yet never diminished in size, while her Medusa head became the smiling face of someone he knew. He woke shivering yet soaked in sweat, his heart beating violently. Compelled by some subconscious urge he had risen in his night-shirt and struck a light to the cabin lantern and spread out the roll of canvas from the bottom of his sea-chest. Already the paint was cracking but, in the light of the lantern, it did not detract from the face that looked back at him: the face in his dream. The portrait was larger than the two now hanging on the forward bulkhead. It showed a young woman with auburn hair piled upon her head. Pearls were entwined in the coiffure that was at once negligent and contrived. Her creamy shoulders were bare and her breasts were just visible behind a wisp of gauze. The grey eyes looked directly out of the canvas and Drinkwater shivered, not from cold, but with the sensation of someone walking upon his grave. The lovely Hortense Montholon had been brought off a French beach in the last days of peace. For months she had masqueraded as an émigrée, sending information from England to her lover Edouard Santhonax in Paris. She had been returned to France by Lord Dungarth and married Santhonax on his escape following the battle of Camperdown.
Drinkwater had acquired the portrait by his capture of the French frigate Antigone in the Red Sea. She had been commanded by the same Santhonax and, though he had escaped yet again, Drinkwater had kept the canvas. It had lain in the bottom of his sea-chest, cut from its wooden stretcher and hidden from his wife, for it was unlikely that Elizabeth would understand its fascination. But to Drinkwater it symbolised something more than the likeness of a beautiful woman. The face of Hortense Santhonax was the face of the enemy, not the face of the tow-haired Danes but a manifestation of the force now consuming the whole continent of Europe.
He could not see it objectively yet, but the liberal allure of the French Revolution had long faded. Even those staunch republicans, the Americans, had disassociated themselves from the lawless disregard for order with which the French pursued their foreign policies or instructed their ragged, irresistible and rapacious armies. He remembered something Dungarth had said the night they landed Hortense upon the beach at Crieclass="underline" 'Nine parts of humanity is motivated by a combination of self-interest and apathy. Only the tenth part hungers for power, and it is this which a prudent people guards itself against. In France the tenth part has the upper hand.' As he stood shivering in the dawn Drinkwater glimpsed the future in a flash. This rupture with Denmark, whatever its sinister motivations from the steppes, was a single symptom of a greater cancer, a cancer that fed upon a doctrinaire philosophy with a spurious validity. He was engaged in a mighty struggle between moderation and excess, and his spartan life had filled him with a horror of excess.
A wild knocking at his door caused him to roll the portrait up. 'What is it?'
'The admiral's made the signal to prepare to weigh, sir.' It was Quilhampton's voice. 'Wind is fresh westerly, sir, and it's eight bells in the middle watch.'
'Very well, call all hands, I'll be up directly.'
The day that followed had been a disaster. In a rising wind which caused problems to the smaller vessels in weighing their anchors, the fleet had got under way at daylight. Led by the 74-gun Edgar with her yellow topsides, they beat to the westward, along the north coast of the flat, featureless, coast of Zeeland. Edgar's captain, George Murray, had recently surveyed the Great Belt and it was by this passage that Sir Hyde Parker had finally decided to pass into the Baltic. The Commander-in-Chief did not hold his determination very long. In the wake of Edgar, slightly inshore of the main battle fleet, the smaller ships tacked wearily to windward. Ahead of Virago were the seven bombs, astern of her the other tenders. At eleven o'clock while Drinkwater consulted his chart, listened to the monotonous chant of the leadsman and occasionally referred to the old, worn notebook left him years earlier as part of Blackmore's bequest, the Zebra struck the Zeeland's Reef.
Alarmed by the lookout's shout, Drinkwater watched Zebra's fore topgallant go by the board and ordered Virago tacked at once. Soon after, Edgar had flown Virago's pennant with the order to assist Zebra and he had sent away his boats with two spare spars to lash across their gunwhales in order to carry out her anchor.
He had watched Rogers pull away over the choppy grey sea and been forced to kick his own heels in idleness until, just before dark, the combined efforts of the bomb ships' boats succeeded in getting Zebra off the reef.
While Drinkwater had spent the afternoon at anchor, Parker had been told an even more alarming piece of news. Someone in the flagship had informed the Commander-in-Chief that greater risks would have to be run by taking the fleet through the Great Belt. Alarmed by this and the accident to Zebra, Parker countermanded his orders and the fleet was ordered to return to its anchorage off Nakke Head. Virago, escorting the Zebra, had once again dropped her anchor at midnight, and now, in the chilly sunshine of the following morning, Drinkwater looked across to where Mr Quilhampton and a party from Virago were helping the Zebra's people get up a new fore topgallant mast.
On his own fo'c's'le Mr Matchett was putting the finishing touches to the gammoning of their own refitted bowsprit. Over the rest of Virago the mood of listless despair hung like a cloud.
At last Drinkwater saw the Danish boat leave London's side and though during the afternoon reports came down to him where he dozed in his cabin, that Murray, Nelson, Graves and other officers were all visiting the flagship, nothing else happened.
Drinkwater woke from his sleep at about four o'clock. He could not afterwards explain it, but his mind was resolved over the problem of Edward. He would brook no further delay. He passed word for Quilhampton and Rogers.