'Or three, I daresay, but that don't serve.' Drinkwater mused for a moment, then added expansively, 'What I need to know, Mr Marlowe, is what is the earliest time I might see the Prince?'
'In a good humour I daresay too,' added Marlowe, smiling, extrapolating Drinkwater's intentions.
'To be frank, Mr Marlowe,' Drinkwater added, a tone of asperity creeping into his voice, 'I don't much care in what humour His Royal Highness is, just so long as he is sufficiently awake to understand what I wish to communicate to him.' Marlowe's look of astonishment at this apparent lèse-majesté further irritated Drinkwater who was conscious that he had confided too much in his untried subordinate. 'Have my gig ready in an hour, and pass word for my servant.'
As he shaved, Drinkwater turned over the idea he had. It seemed to have formed instantaneously whilst he had been importuned by Marlowe. The young officer had seen little service of an active nature, although his references spoke of several months on blockade duty off Brest. Still, that did not equate with a similar number of weeks in a frigate in a forward position or an independent cruise, though that was not poor Marlowe's fault. Drinkwater wondered if what he was currently meditating would appeal to Marlowe, whose career, at this onset of peace, seemed upon the brink of termination with no opportunity for him to distinguish himself. Perhaps it would not matter to the well-connected Marlowe, but it might to others, for quite different reasons.
And then Drinkwater extinguished the thought with a wince of almost physical pain. How long had he yearned for a cessation of this tedious and debilitating war? How often had he vowed to give it all up? Had he not received with something akin to relief, orders to pay off Andromeda and go onshore, to take up half-pay and wait for death or the superannuated status of a yellow-admiral?
God knew he was haunted by the dead, whose shadows waited for his own to join them. The order to pay off had been rescinded and instead, as a mark of respect to Admiral-of-the-Fleet, His Royal Highness, The Prince William Henry, Duke of Clarence and Earl of Munster, Andromeda had been ordered to join the Royal Squadron off Dover!
'We're going out with a bang!' Drinkwater had overheard one of the afterguard remark to a mate, and knew the mood of the men was one of willing co-operation in seeing Fat Louis back to France, before finally laying up the frigate and being paid off to go home. And yet despite this imminent end to the ship's commission, Chatham dockyard had spared no expense and effort to make good the damage Andromeda had suffered in the Vikkenfiord.
'You would not believe the difficulties I had to fit out the bomb-vessel Virago in the year one,' Drinkwater had remarked to Lieutenant Frey, repeating the wonder he had expressed to Birkbeck, 'and then we were under orders to join the great secret expedition to the Baltic. Now we are off on a merry jape to Calais with His Most Christian Majesty which will last a week at the most, and we are getting more paint than a first-rate at Spithead before a review!' And the two of them had resumed their pacing, shaking their heads at the perverse logic of the naval service, while the ship's company fell to their pointless task with evident enthusiasm.
Now Drinkwater was meditating destroying that almost covenanted expectation. He finished shaving and, waving aside his neck linen, sat at the table and drew a sheet of paper towards him. He began to write as his servant poured coffee, pausing occasionally to gather his wits and couch his words in the most telling manner.
It was only as he completed the fourth missive that it occurred to him that the perversity permeating the naval service also ran through its officers. He himself was not exempt from this duplicity: on the one hand he had just poured out expressions of regret to his wife, yet on the other there was a sense almost of relief that he did not yet have to go home and take off his gold-laced undress uniform coat for the last time.
Why was that? he wondered, sealing the letter to Elizabeth. Because he could not face the obscurity of domesticity, or because he was not yet ready to meet the shades of the dead who awaited him there?
His Royal Highness was not yet awake when Drinkwater presented himself upon the quarterdeck of the Impregnable, but Blackwood emerged blear-eyed to greet Drinkwater a little coolly.
'My dear fellow, 'tis a trifle early. Can't you sleep?'
'I beg your pardon, Blackwood, but the matter is important, too important to allow me to sleep.'
'I smell intrigue. I thought you had shaken the dust of the Secret Department off your feet...'
'So did I, and I wish to God I had, but it dogs me and last night was no exception.' Drinkwater dropped his voice. 'I had a visit from the shore. An agent of long-standing', Drinkwater lied, 'has given me disturbing intelligence which, under the circumstances, needs to be communicated to His Royal Highness without further delay.' Tiredness and excitement made him light-headed. He almost choked on the prince's title.
A curious look of doubt and indecision crossed Blackwood's face.
'My dear Drinkwater, is this wise? I mean His Royal Highness may be an admiral-of-the-fleet but he is, how shall I put it... ?'
'But a fleeting one?' In his elevated state, Drinkwater could not resist the pun. 'I have no doubt His Royal Highness will grasp the import of my news, at least sufficient to give me what I want.'
'Which is?'
'Carte blanche, Blackwood, carte blanche.''
'To do what, in heaven's name?' asked the mystified Blackwood.
'To chase to the westward. Listen, Blackwood, if I take this news back to Dover and post up to town, I shan't be there before Wednesday and by the time the board have cogitated and informed the Prime Minister and given me my orders it will be too late ...'
'Well what is this news?' an exasperated Blackwood asked.
'Oh, I beg your pardon. I've been so preoccupied ... They're going to spring Boney; just when we think we've got him in the bag, he'll be spirited away to America ...'
'Good heavens! D'you mean Boney will then be free to raise Cain in Canada?'
'Exactly so!'
Blackwood looked straight at Drinkwater. 'By God, Drinkwater, you want discretionary orders over Silly Billy's signature.'
'Yes, I want a clear yard-arm, Blackwood. Two ships have already left Antwerp. I don't have much time. None of us have much time. This American business could drag on for years. If Napoleon is involved ... well, do I have to spell it out? Surely this whole damned war has to be ended one day.'
'Aye, and the sooner the better...' But Blackwood was not so easily impressed and his expression clouded, marked by second thoughts. 'But hold hard. 'Twould not be easy to get Boney out of the Med from Elba ...'
'But it ain't to be Elba, don't you see; 'tis to be the Azores!'
'But the newspapers ... I mean they've been talking about Elba... The other day the Courier mentioned it — there's a copy in my cabin.'
'Blackwood, for pity's sake,' Drinkwater's voice was suddenly hardened by exasperation and conviction, 'I have been up all night, mulling the matter in the wake of this news. You must know the degree to which I have dabbled in intelligence.'
Blackwood stared for a moment at his visitor. 'I've heard you're a shrewd cove, Drinkwater ...'
'Not really, just grasping at straws in the wind, but experience tells me the wind has a direction and a force.' Drinkwater paused and Blackwood smiled.
'Eloquently put.'
'D'you think Silly Billy knows I have had any connections with the Secret Department?'