The Corvette (4 page)

‘There are reports, Nathaniel, that Bonaparte would make himself king and found a dynasty. God knows, but a man like that might stoop to divorce La Josephine and marry a Hohenzollern or a Romanov, even a Hapsburg if he can dictate a peace from a position of advantage.
You
know damned well he reached for India.' Dungarth looked unhappily at Drinkwater who nodded.

‘Yes, my Lord, you are right.'

‘On land France will exhaust herself and it is our duty to outlast her.'

‘But she will need to be defeated on land in the end, my Lord, and if our own forces . . .'

Dungarth laughed. ‘The British Army? God, did you see what a shambles came out of Holland? No, the Horse Guards will achieve nothing. We must look to Russia, Nathaniel, Russia with her endless manpower supported by our subsidies and the character of Tsar Alexander to spur her on.'

‘You purport to re-establish liberty, my Lord, with the aid of Russia?' Drinkwater was astonished. Enough was known of Holy Russia to mark it as a strange mixture of refinement and barbarism. Russian ships had served with the Royal Navy in the North Sea, their officers a mixture of culture and incompetence. Russian troops had served in the Dutch campaign and relations between the two armies had been strained, while Suvorov's veterans had established a name in Northern Italy as synonymous with terror as anything conceived in Paris. Only two years earlier Alexander's father, the sadistic Tsar Paul, had turned on his British ally and leagued himself with France in a megalomaniac desire to carve up Europe with Bonaparte. Although Alexander professed himself the friend of England and a Christian Prince, he was suspected of conniving at his own father's assassination.

‘I am informed,' Dungarth said with heavy emphasis and a nod that implied a personal connection, ‘that Tsar Alexander wishes to atone for certain sins and considers himself a most liberal prince.' Dungarth's tone was cynical.

‘So Vorontzoff's man is of some use . . .?'

Dungarth nodded. ‘Together with a certain Countess Marie Narishkine . . . Still, this is not pertinent to your present purpose, Nathaniel. It is more in the line of, er, shall we say, family news, eh?'

Drinkwater grinned. Clearly Edward was more than a courier and Dungarth had made him an agent in his own right. He wondered how Edward liked his new life and, recalling the man aboard the
Virago
, decided he would manage.

‘Doubtless St Vincent mentioned that the late and unlamented Peace afforded the French every oppportunity to get ships away to cruise against our trade. This is the most dangerous weapon the French can bring against our sea-power. Look at the success enjoyed by privateers in the American War. Yankees, French and Irish snapped up prizes on our own doorstep, reduced our ports to poverty, raised insurance rates to the sky and induced the merchant classes to whine until the government rocked to their belly-aching. There won't be a captain in command of an escort like yours that don't bear a burden as heavy as that of a seventy-four on blockade duty. Mark me, Nathaniel, mark me. Loss of trade is loss of confidence in the Royal Navy and, bearing in mind the effort we must sustain for the foreseeable future, that augurs very ill.

‘Now, to be specific, there are some whispers lately come from sources in Brittany that a number of ships, well armed and equipped, sailed north a year ago. They have not returned, neither has any news of them. Their most obvious destination is Canada where they may make mischief for us. But no news has come from the Loyalists in New Brunswick who keep a sharp eye on our interests. Neither have they been seen in American waters . . .'

‘Ireland?'

‘Perhaps, but again, nothing. The Norwegian coast provides ample shelter for privateers and was used by the Danes before Copenhagen but I am inclined to think they lie in wait for our whalers. Two disappeared last summer and although the loss of these ships is not remarkable, indeed they may simply have wintered in the ice, there is a story of some sighting of vessels thought not to be whalers by the Hull fleet last season.'

‘You mean to imply that two whalers might have been taken by French privateers during the peace?'

‘I do not know, Nathaniel. I only tell you this because these ships have not been heard of since they left France bound to the northward. It is a possibility that they have wintered in a remote spot like
Spitzbergen and are waiting to strike against the whale-fishery on the resumption of hostilities. It is not improbable. French enterprise has sent letters-of-marque-and-reprisal to cruise in most of the areas frequented by British merchantmen. Opportunism may sometimes have the appearance of conspiracy and most of us knew the peace would not last.'

‘Do you know the force of these vessels?'

‘No, I regret I do not.'

Drinkwater digested the news as Dungarth sat down again. ‘There is one other thing you should know.' Dungarth broke into his thoughts.

‘My Lord?'

‘Captain Palgrave did not leave his command willingly.'

‘I heard he was indisposed.'

‘He was shot in a duel. A very foolish affair which I heard of due to the loose tongue of one of the clerks here who is related to your first lieutenant. It seems that Palgrave had some sort of altercation with one of the captains of the whalers. Nothing will be done about it, of course; Palgrave cannot afford scandal so he has resigned his command and he has enough clout to ensure the facts do not reach the ears of the Court. But it is exceedingly unusual that a merchant master should incapacitate the captain of the man-of-war assigned to give him the convoy he has been bleating for.'

‘Perhaps some affair locally, my Lord, an insult, a woman . . .'

‘I grow damnably suspicious in my old age, Nathaniel,' Dungarth smiled, ‘but since you speak of women, how is Elizabeth and that charming daughter of yours. And I hear you have an heir too . . .'

Drinkwater leaned from the window of the mail-coach as the fresh horses were whipped up to draw them out of Barnet. Dusk was already settling on the countryside and he could make out little of the landmarks of his youth beyond the square tower of Monken Hadley church whose Rector had long ago recommended him to Captain Hope of the
Cyclops
.

From above his head a voice called, ‘Why she flies like a frigate going large, sir.' Looking up he saw Mr Quilhampton's face excited by their speed, some eight or nine miles to the hour.

Drinkwater smiled at the young man's pleasure and drew back into the coach. Since his breakfast with Lord Dungarth it had been a busy day of letter writing and last minute purchases. There had been a brace of pistols to buy and he had invested in a chronometer and a sextant, one of Hadley's newest, which now nestled beneath his feet. They had seen the bulk of their luggage to the Black Swan at Holborn and left it in the charge of Tregembo to bring on by the slower York Stage.

He and Quilhampton had arrived at Lombard Street just in time to catch the Edinburgh Mail, tickets for which Quilhampton had purchased earlier in the day. He smiled again as he remembered the enthusiasm of Mr Quilhampton at the sight of the shining maroon and black Mails clattering in and out of the Post Office Yard, some dusty from travel, others new greased and washed, direct from Vidler's Millbank yard and ready to embark on their nocturnal journeys. The slam of the mail boxes, shouts of their coachmen and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles as their scarlet wheels spun into motion was one of affecting excitement, Drinkwater thought indulgently as he settled back into the cushions, and vastly superior to the old stage-coaches.

The lady opposite returned his smile, removing her poke bonnet to do so and Drinkwater suffered sudden embarrassment as he realised
that not only had he been grinning like a fool but his knees had been in intimate contact with those of the woman for some minutes.

‘You are going to join your ship, Captain?' Her Edinburgh accent was unmistakable as was the coquettish expression on her face.

‘Indeed, ma'am, I am.' He coughed and readjusted his position. The woman was about sixty and surely could not suppose . . .

‘Catriona, my niece here,' the lady's glove patted the knee of a girl in grey and white sitting in the centre of the coach, ‘has been visiting with me in London, Captain, at a charming villa in Lambeth. Do you live in London, Captain?'

Drinkwater looked at the girl, but the shadow of her bonnet fell across her face and the lights would not be lit until the next stop. As she boarded the coach he remembered her as tall and slim. He inclined his head civilly in her direction.

‘No, ma'am, I live elsewhere.'

‘May one ask where, sir?' Drinkwater sighed. It was clear the widow was determined to extract every detail and he disliked such personal revelations. He answered evasively. ‘Hampshire, ma'am.'

‘Ah, Hampshire, such a
fashionable
county.'

As Mistress MacEwan rattled on he smiled and nodded, taking stock of the other passengers. To his left an uncomfortably large man in a snuff-coloured coat was dozing, or perhaps feigning to doze and thus avoid the widow's quizzing; while to his right a soberly dressed divine struggled to read a slim volume of sermons in the fast fading light. Drinkwater suspected he, like the corpulent squire, affected his occupation to avoid the necessity of conversation.

There was, however, no doubt about the condition of the sixth occupant of the swaying coach. He was sunk in a drunken stupor, snoring gracelessly and sliding further down in his seat.

‘. . . And at the reception given by Lady Rochford, Catriona was fortunate enough to be presented to . . .'

The widow MacEwan's prattle was beginning to irritate him. The overwhelming power of her nonsense was apt to give the impression that all women were as ridiculously superficial. His thoughts turned to Elizabeth and their children and the brief note he had written to her explaining the swift necessity of his departure. Elizabeth would understand, but that did not help the welling sadness that filled his heart and he cursed the weakness acquired from a long convalescence at home.

‘. . . And then the doctor advised the poor woman to apply poultices of green hemlock leaves to her breast and to consume as many
millipedes as her stomach could take in a day and the tumour was much reduced and the lady restored to health. Is that not a remarkable story, Captain? You are a married man, sir?'

Drinkwater nodded wearily, aware that the clergyman next to him had let his book fall in his lap and his head droop forward.

‘Of course, sir, I knew you were, you have the unmistakable stamp of a married man and a gallant officer. My husband always said . . .'

Drinkwater did not attend to the late Mr MacEwan's homespun wisdom. He had a sudden image of Richard standing naked after his fall in the Tilbrook while Susan Tregembo rubbed him dry.

‘. . . But I assure you, Captain, it was not something to smile about. She died of smallpox within a month, leaving the child an orphan . . .' Catriona's knee was patted a second time.

‘My apologies, ma'am, I was not smiling.'

Drinkwater felt the coach slow down and a few minutes later it stopped to change horses at Hatfield. ‘Your indulgence ma'am, but forgive me.' He rose and flung open the coach door, going in search of the house of office and, having returned, shouted up to Quilhampton.

‘Mr Q, we will exchange for a stage or two.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.' Quilhampton descended. The new horses were already being put to and the Guard was consulting his stage-watch. ‘Half-a-minute, gentlemen.'

‘Your boat cloak, Mr Q.' Drinkwater took the heavy cloak and whirled it round his shoulders. He reached inside the coach for his hat.

‘I beg your forgiveness ma'am, but I am a most unsociable companion. May I present Mr Quilhampton, an officer of proven courage now serving with me. Mr Q, Mrs MacEwan.' He ignored Quilhampton's open jaw and shoved him forward. ‘Have a care for the instruments.'

‘Oh!' he heard Mrs MacEwan say, ‘Honoured I'm sure, but Captain, the night air will affect you to no good purpose, sir and may bring on a distemper.' The speech ended in a little squeal of horror and Drinkwater grinned as he hoisted himself up. Mrs MacEwan had discovered Mr Quilhampton's wooden hand.

‘All aboard!' called the guard mounting the box and raising his horn. He jammed his tricorne down on his head as the coach leapt forward. The blast of the horn covered his laughter. They had been less than the permitted five minutes in changing their horses.

Above the racing coach the sky was bright with stars. A slim, crescent moon was rising. The mail was passing through the market-garden
country north of Biggleswade and the horses were stretching out. He did not encourage his fellow outsiders to converse, indeed their deference to his rank made it clear that Mr Quilhampton had been telling tall stories. He was left alone with his thoughts and dismissed those of Elizabeth and the children to concentrate upon the future. He was pleased to be appointed to the
Melusine
even as a ‘Job Captain', a stand-in. It was a stroke of good fortune, for she would be manned by volunteers having been in service throughout the peace. All her men would be thorough-going seamen. The officers, however, were likely to be different, probably place-seekers and time-servers. Influence and patronage had triumphed once again, even in the short period of the Peace of Amiens. Worthy officers of humble origins had been denied appointments.
Melusine
was unlikely to have avoided this blight. He knew nothing about Palgrave beyond the fact that he was a baronet and had been compelled to resign his command after being seriously wounded in a duel. In the sober judgement of Nathaniel Drinkwater those two facts spoke volumes.