While the big ships sailed to seek out the squadron from Carlscrona, the bombs and small fry waited in Kioge Bay and wondered if they were to sail against the Russians. Despite the recent carnage of the battle, relations with the Danes were good and the anchorage was usually enlivened by the sight of several Danish galliots among the anchored ship, selling cream for the officers' coffee and cheese and chickens to those who could afford them.
Then Parker had returned with the news that Tsar Paul had been assassinated and that his son Alexander had succeeded to the throne and declared his friendship with Britain. It was news already three weeks old.
So were the letters brought by Lynx, but nobody minded. The distribution of the mail had its usual effect. Men with letters ran off to sit in obscure corners or in the tops, painfully to spell out the ill-written scrawl of loved ones. Those without went off to sulk or affected indifference, according to their temperament. Saddest were the letters that arrived for the dead. There was one such for Easton, scented with lavender and superscribed in a delicate, feminine hand. It lay upon Drinkwater's table waiting to be returned unopened with his condolences.
There were three letters for Drinkwater. One was in Elizabeth's hand and one in Richard White's, but it was the third that he opened first.
Dear Drinkwater,
Your letters reached me safely and I desire that you wait upon me directly you return to London.
Dungarth.
It was frigidly brief and reawakened all Drinkwater's doubts about his conduct over Edward. Jex's death, though it had freed him from accusation from one quarter, had not released him entirely. It came as small consolation to learn that the Danish and Prussian troops had abandoned Hamburg.
He had gone on deck and paced the poop for over an hour before remembering the other letters. When he had sufficiently calmed himself he returned below and picked up the next. It was from his old friend Richard White, now a post-captain and blockading Brest in a frigate.
My Dear Nathaniel,
We are still here, up and down the Goulet and in sight of the batteries at St Matthew. I am sick of the duty and the incessant wearing of men and ships, but I suppose you would say there was no help for it: So thinks the First Lord, and no-one is disposed to argue with him. I heard you had command of a tender and if you can make nothing of it I would welcome a head I can rely on here. Write and let me know if you wish to serve as my first lieutenant…
Drinkwater laid the letter down. If he could contrive to get transferred to White's ship directly, without the need to call upon Dungarth, he could serve for years on the Brest blockade. The affair of Edward Drinkwater would blow over. He picked up the third letter and opened it. Elizabeth had been right all along; he was no dissembler, he knew that he would have to face the music. Sighing, he began to read.
My Dearest Nathaniel,
Charlotte and I are well, although we miss you. I grow exceedingly rotund. Louise is a great solace and constantly asks if I have heard of James.
We are starved of news from the Baltic and I wait daily to hear from you. Unrest in the country grows and there is uncertainty everywhere. We long for peace and I pray daily for your safe return, my dearest…
Drinkwater waited in London's ante-room, nervous and tense, the subject of Edward uppermost in his mind. There had been ample time for the authorities to make arrangements for his arrest, perhaps Otway himself had brought a warrant… Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades. The dapper little midshipman who had brought Parker's summons had 'requested' he wore full uniform. Wondering if that insistence might not be sinister, he looked down at his coat and breeches.
The uniform was mildewed from languishing in his closet and the lace had become green. Tregembo's efforts prior to the battle had not been very successful and the smell of powder smoke was still detectable from the heavy cloth. Drinkwater felt exceedingly uncomfortable as he waited.
Parker's secretary appeared at last and called him into the great cabin. It was richly appointed; the furniture gleamed darkly, crystal decanters and silver candelabra glittered from the points of light that were reflected upwards from the sea through the stern windows and danced on the white-painted deckhead.
'Ah, Drinkwater…' the old man paused, apparently weighed down by responsibilities. 'I am to be superseded you know…' Drinkwater remained silent. 'Do you think I did wrong?'
'I sir??' That Parker should consult him was ludicrous. He felt out of his depth, aware only of the need to be tactful. 'Er, no, sir. Surely we have achieved the object of our enterprise.'
Parker looked at him intently, then seemed to brighten a little. 'It was not an easy task…' he muttered, more to himself than to Drinkwater. It was clear from his next remark that Drinkwater's acquaintance with his wife had allowed the friendless old man to speak freely.
'My wife reminds me constantly of my duty towards you in her letters…'
'Her ladyship is too kind, sir,' Drinkwater flushed; this solicitude on the part of Lady Parker was becoming a trifle embarrassing. Nelson had jumped to the wrong conclusion; was Parker about to do the same? Were not elderly husbands supposed to suspect young wives of all manner of infidelities?
'…And Lord Nelson is constantly complaining that I have failed to recognise your services both before and during the recent action. I believe you commanded Virago in the bombardment?'
'That is so, sir,' Drinkwater's heart was thumping painfully. Parker's nepotistic promotions after the battle of Copenhagen had aroused a storm of fury and it had taken all Nelson's persuasive powers to have a small number of highly deserving officers given a step in rank.
Parker picked up a paper and handed it to Drinkwater. 'Perhaps they will leave an old man in peace now.'
Drinkwater picked up the commission that made him Master and Commander.
The celebratory dinner in Virago's cabin was a noisy affair. Out of courtesy Drinkwater had invited Lord Nelson, but the new Commander-in-Chief had taken his battleships off to demonstrate British seapower before the guns of Carlscrona and Revel.
The senior officer present was Captain Martin who did his best to hide his mortification at not being made post. He consoled himself by getting drunk. From some macabre source available in the aftermath of a bloody battle Rogers had acquired an old epaulette which they now presented to their commander.
''Tis a trifle tarnished, Drinkwater, but in keeping with the rest of your attire,' said Martin as he banged a spoon against a glass and called for silence. 'Gentlemen, I ask you to charge your glasses. To your swab, Drinkwater!'
'Drinkwater's swab!' The glasses banged down on the table and Tregembo and the messman moved rapidly to fill them again. Drinkwater looked round the grinning faces. Rogers flushed and half-drunk; Quilhampton, smiling seraphically, slipping slowly down in his chair banging on the table the fine, new wooden hand that Willerton had fashioned for him. Lettsom dry and birdlike; Tumilty red-faced and busy getting roaring drunk.
'An' I suppose I'll be having to call you "sir", Nat'aniel,' he shouted thickly, slapping Drinkwater's back in an insubordinate way.