There was no opportunity to study the chart in the prevailing conditions. The deck was continually sluiced by seas coming aboard so that the two boats on chocks amidships appeared to be afloat of their own accord.
After a further hour of this the sails suddenly slatted. At once several men perceived the veering of the wind.
'Keep her full and bye,' roared Drinkwater to the helmsmen, to which a slightly reproachful voice answered, 'Aye, aye, but that's north, sir.'
Drinkwater checked himself reflecting that this was no king's ship and the helmsman's reply was not insubordinate but informative.
North.
He shook his head to clear away fatigue and too much of Calvert's port. With leeway and a roaring flood tide to set them east he might be setting on to the Wolf Rock! A knot of panic gripped his stomach until he mastered it with the thought that the total area of the rock was less than that of the cutter's deck. Surely the odds were impossibly against them striking that isolated spot?
A figure loomed up beside him. It was Poulter.
'Heard her luff, cully. You'll be concerned about the Wolf.' It was not a question but a statement simply made. Drinkwater felt the load lifted from his shoulders. His brain cleared and he was able to think.
'D'ye wish me to put about again Captain Poulter, with the shift of wind she'll hold a more westerly course, sir…?'
Poulter was glancing at the dimly lit compass. Drinkwater thought he caught a glimpse of a smile in the wet darkness.
'That will do very well, Mr Drinkwater. See to it if ye please.'
'Aye, aye, sir…'
The Trinity Yacht arrived off Hugh Town later that day and remained there for several days. Calvert and Poulter had themselves pulled across to St Agnes and the crew discharged several cauldrons of coal into their boats to feed the light's chauffer-fires.
Ten days after leaving Plymouth Calvert pronounced himself satisfied with the lighthouse and on coming aboard from a final visit Drinkwater overheard him talking to Poulter.
'Well Jonathan, we'll make passage tomorrow at first light observing the cresset again tonight. I'll post to London from Falmouth and you may then proceed to the east'ard.' Calvert's words fell dully on Drinkwater's ears until he mentioned Falmouth.
Falmouth meant Elizabeth.
On arrival at Falmouth it was discovered that the yacht's second mate had recovered sufficiently to rejoin the ship. Drinkwater was therefore discharged by Poulter with a letter explaining his absence and a certificate as to his proficiency. Greatly delighted with his luck he was even more astonished when Calvert sent for him and presented him with four guineas for his services and another certificate testifying that as an Elder Brother of the Trinity House he had examined Mr Drinkwater and found him to be competent in navigation and seamanship. The document he presented to Drinkwater certified that he had passed the examination for master's mate.
'There, Mr Drinkwater. Under the latest regulations you are now permitted to board prizes as prize-master in your own right. Good luck to ye.'
Stammering his delighted surprise Drinkwater shook hands with Calvert and was pulled ashore with the Elder Brother. Having seen Calvert off in the post chaise Drinkwater turned his steps to the vicarage.
Autumn was in the air but he strode along without a care in the world, his heart thumping at the prospect of seeing Elizabeth again.
He swung back the gate. At the door he hesitated, his hand actually in the act of drawing back the knocker. Changing his mind he moved to a side window. It was the parson's study. Peering in he saw the bald dome of the old man's head, the white locks from the sides and nape of his head falling sideways in the relaxation of sleep.
Drinkwater crept round to the rear of the house. He found Elizabeth in the garden. She was unaware of his presence and for a moment he stood watching her.
She was picking fruit from a tree whose gnarled boughs were bent under a load of russet apples. As she stretched out to pluck the fruit her face was in profile. The lower lip was caught in her teeth in an expression he recognised as one of concentration. There was something sweetly pastoral in the scene to one whose eyes had become accustomed to the monotony of the sea.
He coughed and she started, losing hold of her apron. A cascade of apples ran out on to the grass. 'Oh!… Nathaniel!'
He laughed, running over to help pick them up. 'I'm sorry to have startled you.'
She smiled at him. Kneeling, their faces were very close. He felt her breath on his cheek and was about to throw caution to the winds when she stood, brushing a wisp of hair behind her neck.
'I am glad that you have come. How long can you stay?'
Drinkwater had not given the matter much thought. He shrugged.
'How long would you have me stay…?' he smilingly asked.
It was her turn to shrug. She laughed, refusing to be drawn, but he could tell she was pleased.
'I ought to return to Plymouth tomorrow… well I ought to return today but…' he shrugged again, 'well let us say I am recuperating.'
'The New York packet is due and there'll be a post leaving soon, stay till then?'
'Well, er, I, er…'
'Father will be delighted, please stay…'
She uttered the last words pleadingly, so that Nathaniel had little choice and less inclination to choose. He looked into her brown eyes. They waited for his reply anxiously…
'Would you wish it that I stayed?'
She smiled. She had given away too much already. She gathered the last of the apples and moved towards the house.
'Do you like apple pie, Nathaniel?' she called over her shoulder.
The day passed delightfully. Cyclops, Morris and the anxieties and fears of the past months might have been the experience of another person, a callow frightened youth compared with the vibrantly energetic young man Drinkwater had become.
As his daughter had said the old parson was delighted to entertain the midshipman. He took great pride in showing Drinkwater his library and it was clear that the collection of books constituted practically the whole of Bower's possessions, since the artefacts of the house were the property of the absent clergyman. Closer acquaintance with Isaac Bower revealed him to be a man of considerable learning who had not only brought his daughter up but educated her himself. She was, he told Nathaniel with an air of confidentiality, the equal to most men and the superior of many in her knowledge of mathematics, astronomy, Greek and Latin, while her literary tastes encompassed those French authors who did not abjure the existence of God. Had there been any doubts about Elizabeth's talents in other directions these were swiftly dispelled at dinner when a roasted chicken was followed by an apple pie of generous proportions.
After dinner Drinkwater found himself alone in a darkening room with a bottle of port that Bower had unearthed in his host's cellar. He had drunk two glasses when the old man came into the room. He threw some logs on to the fire and poured himself a glass.
'I, er, had a little news the other day… after you had left. My Lord Bishop of Winchester had appointed me to a parish near Portsmouth. It is a poor parish, I believe, but…' the old man shrugged resignedly, '… that is of no matter. At least,' he continued on a brighter note, '… it will bring us nearer you brave naval fellows and, I trust,' he looked pointedly at Nathaniel, 'I trust you will continue to visit us there.'
Warmed by the wine Nathaniel replied enthusiastically. 'I shall be delighted, sir, absolutely delighted… After my last visit I found the prospect of reacquainting myself with you and Eliz… Miss Bower most comforting.'
Bower asked him something of his own circumstances and he told the parson of his widowed mother. Elizabeth joined them for a while before she announced she was retiring and the conversation was relaxed and informal. After she had left Nathaniel said, 'I am, sir, very grateful for your kindness to me… it has meant a great deal to me…'
The two men drained the bottle. Nathaniel's remark unsprung the older man's greatest fear. 'My boy, I do not expect to r
emain much longer in this world. I have no fortune to leave after me but my daughter and on her account I am oppressed in spirit…' he coughed a little self-consciously.
'I would have her left with one friend, for I fear she has had no opportunity to establish herself anywhere whilst following me upon my travels…' he paused diffidently, then, with a note of firmness in his voice he said, 'D'ye take my meaning?'
'I am sure, sir,' said Nathaniel, 'that I shall do all in my power to assist your daughter should she need my protection.'
The old man smiled into the darkness. He had known it the instant the boy told them his name… Nathaniel… in the Hebrew tongue it meant a gift from God. He sighed with contentment.
The unusual sound of birdsong woke Drinkwater next morning. Realisation that he lay under the same roof as Elizabeth woke him to full consciousness. He was quite unable to sleep so rose and dressed.
Quietly descending the stairs he moved through the kitchen and unlatched the door. The invigorating chill of early morning made him shiver as he strode out on the dew-wet grass.
Without thinking he began pacing up and down the lawn, head down, hands behind his back, plunged in thoughts of last night's conversation with the old parson.
He felt a surge of excitement and relief at Bower's approval and smiled inwardly with self-congratulation. He stopped midway between the apple trees and the house. 'You're a lucky dog, Nathaniel,' he muttered to himself.
The creak of an opening window and the ring of laughter brought him back to reality.
From the kitchen window Elizabeth, her hair about her shoulders, was smiling at him.
'Are you pacing your quarterdeck, sir,' she mocked.
Nathaniel was suddenly struck by the ridiculousness of his actions. With the whole of Cornwall at his feet he had paced over an area roughly equal to a frigate's quarterdeck.
'Why…' he raised his hands in a shrug, '… I never gave it a thought.' Elizabeth was laughing at him, the sound of her laughter coming out of the window borne on the scent of frying eggs.
The haunting paradoxes of Cyclops and the malice of Morris seemed no longer important. All that mattered now was the laughter and the smiling face… and the sizzling freshness of fried eggs.
'Y're a lucky dog, Nathaniel,' he muttered again as he crossed the grass to the kitchen door.
The London mail left Falmouth later that day with Nathaniel perched on its exterior bound for Plymouth. By the time it reached Truro Nathaniel, riding on the crest of growing confidence, had ascertained he possessed sufficient funds for the fare to London and back.
The weather remained fair and the experience of hurtling through towns and villages so agreeable and in harmony with his spirits that he decided the Plymouth guardship could do without him for a further three or four days. The idea had come to him while pacing the lawn that morning. Discussion of his family had filled him with a longing to return home, no matter how briefly. There had been no news of Cyclops when he had left Plymouth in the Trinity Yacht and Poulter, he knew, would not put into Plymouth to inform the authorities that he had landed him at Falmouth. It was, therefore probable that a few days of additional absence would go unnoticed.
He came to an arrangement for a half price fare riding on the 'conveniency' and settled down to enjoy the unprecedented pleasure of a journey through the green of southern England on an uncommonly fine day.
It was late in the afternoon following when, stiff from the long journey and tired from the trudge up the Great North Road, Drinkwater reached Barnet. He pressed on to Monken Hadley reaching the small house at last.
His desire to see his mother and brother had increased with the growing love he felt for Elizabeth. The strong attraction of her home had reminded him of his own and Bower's infirmity had emphasised the effect of passing time upon his remaining parent. His stay in Falmouth was limited by propriety yet he did not wish to kick his heels aboard that festering guardship.
Nathaniel, despite his fatigue, was pleased with himself. The freedom and independence he had experienced on Algonquin and the Trinity Yacht had served to mature him, the responsibility of the prize had stamped its imprint upon his character. His growing relationship with Elizabeth, certain in at least its foundation, lent him both hope and stability, banishing many of the uncertainties of the past.
His altered outlook had found expression and practical reward.
He had looted King's small hoard of gold from the Algonquin somewhat shamefacedly, aware that his morality was questionable despite the usages of war. When this had been supplemented by Calvert's respectably acquired guineas and, most important of all his certificate of examination as master's mate, he had a degree of autonomy for the first time in his life. It lent a jauntiness to the final steps to his mother's front door.
He knocked and lifted the latch.
Afterwards, when there was time to think, he realised he was right to come. His mother's pleasure in his visit was only clouded by its brevity. To him, however, her failing health and increasingly obvious penury were distressing and oppressive. He had not stayed long. He had talked and read to his mother and, when she dozed, slipped out to ask the Rector to engage someone from Barnet to attend to some of her needs. Calvert's guineas had gone there, and from the Rector he had learned that Ned was rarely seen in Monken Hadley. Nathaniel's brother had found employment as a groom at West Lodge with his beloved horses, had taken a common-law wife from among the maids there and come near to breaking his poor mother's heart. The Rector had shaken his head and muttered 'Like father, like son…', but he promised to do what he could for Mrs Drinkwater, closing his hand over the gold.
Nathaniel sat in the quiet of the room watching motes of dust in the oblique shaft of sunlight that streamed in through the little window. He would return to Plymouth on the morrow; he felt the inactivity, the strange silence, discomposing. His mother dozed and, recalling the reason for his visit, he quietly resumed his letter to Ned. It was badly phrased, awkward in admonition but it spoke with the new-found authority of the young man. 'What are you doing?' the old lady's voice startled him.
'Oh! Mother!… You are awake… just a note to Ned, to tell him to take more care of you.'
He saw her smile.
'Dear Nathaniel,' she said simply. 'You cannot stay longer?'
'Mother, I must return to duty, already I…'
'Of course my dear… you are a King's officer now… I understand…'
She held out her hand and Nathaniel knelt by her chair. He felt her frail arthritic hand brush his hair. He could think of no words adequate to the moment and had lost the means to say them.
'Do not be too hard on Edward,' she said quietly. 'He has his own life to lead and is very like his father…'
Nathaniel rose and bent over his mother, kissing her forehead, turning away to hide the tears in his eyes.
When he left next morning it was still dark. He did not know it but his mother heard him leave. It was only then she wept.
Chapter Twelve
November 1780—January 1781
A Change of Orders
Drinkwater joined Cyclops again on the last day of October 1780. She had been in Plymouth Sound some days recruiting her prize crews and taking in fresh water and the tale of the retaking of Algonquin had preceeded him, borne on board by Hagan and the others. Drinkwater therefore found himself something of a hero to the lower deck with whom he was already popular after his beating of Morris.
The latter, however, had re-established something of his former ascendancy in the cockpit. Drinkwater's absence had helped, but a few new appointees to the frigate in the form of very young midshipmen had given Augustus Morris more victims. There was, though, one new member of the mess whom Drinkwater was quick to realise was a potential ally. Midshipman Cranston, a silent man of about thirty, had little liking for Morris's bombast or bullying. A former seaman, Cranston had fought his way up from the lower deck by sheer ability. He was clever and tough, and utterly unscrupulous. Drinkwater
liked him instantly. He also liked another, though much younger addition to the mess. Mr White was a pale, diminutive boy of thirteen. White was the obvious choice for victimisation by Morris.
In the course of the succeeding weeks the now overpopulated cockpit, whose members varied in age and pursuits was to become a bedlam of noise and quarrels.
Towards the end of November Captain Hope expressed himself ready once more to cruise against the enemy and the frigate left Plymouth beating west and south to resume her station. The weather was now uniformly foul. Depression succeeded depression and a cycle was established of misery below decks and unremitted labour above. The outbreaks of petty thieving, fighting, insubordination and drunkenness that were the natural consequences of the environment broke out again. When a man was flogged for petty theft Drinkwater wondered if it was the same man who had been instrumental in the retaking of the Algonquin. At all events he no longer baulked at such a spectacle, inured now to it, though he knew other methods existed to keep men at unpleasant labour. But they had no part here, in the overcrowded decks of Cyclops and he felt no anger with Captain Hope for maintaining discipline with the iron hand that enabled the Royal Navy to sustain its ceaseless vigilance.
To the ship's company of Cyclops it was the dull, monotonous routine of normality. A fight with the enemy would have come as a blessed relief to both officers and men.
Captain Hope appeared on deck as little as possible, nursing a grievance that he had not yet received his share of the prize money for the capture of the Santa Teresa. Lieutenant Devaux showed signs of strain from similar motives, his usual bantering tones giving way to an uncharacteristic harassment of his subordinate lieutenants, especially Mr Skelton, a young and inexperienced substitute for the late Lieutenant Price.
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