A King's Cutter

by Richard Woodman

  It was late afternoon before Drinkwater emerged from the brief but deep sleep of utter exhaustion. He was slumped in a chair and woke to surroundings unfamiliar enough to jar his brain into rapid recollection. As he emerged into full consciousness he was aware of a fact that needed urgent clarification. He rushed on deck, ignoring the startled look of the two helmsmen. He found what he was looking for amidships and pulled the black flag from where it had been shoved on lowering. He held it out and the wind caught it, fluttering the soft woollen material and arousing the attention of three of the Bretons exercising forward.

  It was a black swallowtail flag.

  ‘Mr Short!’

  ‘Sir?’ Short hurried up.

  ‘What’s the name of this lugger?’

  Short scratched his head. ‘Er Cityee-en Jean, I think sir.’

  ‘Citoyenne Janine?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s it, sir.’ The man nodded his curly head.

  ‘Where’s her commander? Who was in charge when we took her? Is Tregembo in the prize crew?’

  Short recoiled at the rapid questioning. ‘Well, sir, that blackguard there, sir,’ He pointed at a man standing by the forward gun. ‘As to Tregembo, sir, he ain’t in the crew, sir . . .’

  ‘Damn. Bring that man aft here . . .’ Drinkwater unhitched the black flag as Short shoved the man aft. He wore a plain blue coat and while not very senior, was clearly an officer of sorts.

  ‘Ou est vôtre capitaine?’ he asked in his barbarous French. The Frenchman frowned in incomprehension and shrugged.

  ‘Vôtre capitaine?’ Drinkwater almost shouted.

  Understanding woke in the man, and also perhaps a little cunning, Drinkwater thought. ‘Mon capitaine?’ he said with some dignity. ‘M’sieur, je suis le capitaine.’

  Drinkwater held the flag under his nose. ‘Qu’est-ce c’est.’ He met the Frenchman’s eyes and they looked at each other long enough for Drinkwater to know he was right. Even as the Frenchman shrugged again Drinkwater had turned aft.

  He noticed the aftermost guns turned inboard, each with a seaman stationed with a lighted match ready to sweep the waist. Drinkwater did not remember turning any guns inboard but Short seemed in total control and relishing it. The presence of Kestrel on the weather beam was reassuring and Drinkwater called ‘Carry on Mr Short,’ over his shoulder as he slid down the companionway, leaving the startled Short gaping after him while the Frenchman turned forward, a worried frown on his face.

  Below, Drinkwater began to ransack the cabin. It had two cots one of which was in use. He flung open a locker door and found some justification for his curiosity. Why did the skipper of a small lugger have a bullion-laden naval uniform, along with several other coats cut with the fashionable high collar?

  With a sense of growing conviction Drinkwater pulled out drawers and ripped the mattress off the cot. His heart was beating with excitement and it was no surprise when he found the strong box, carefully hidden under canvas and spunyarn beneath the stern settee. Without hesitation he drew a pistol and shot off the lock. Before he could open it Short was in the doorway, panting and eager for a fight.

  To Drinkwater he looked ridiculous but his presence was reassuring.

  ‘Obliged to you Mr Short but there’s nothing amiss. I’m just blowing locks off this fellow’s cash box,’ Short grinned. ‘If there’s anything in it, Mr Short, you’ll get your just deserts.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Short closed the door and Drinkwater expelled his breath. At least with such a maniac on board there was little chance of being surprised by the enemy attempting to retake their ship. He dismissed the memory of similar circumstances aboard Algonquin. When one sailed close to the wind the occasional luff was easily dismissed. Provided one avoided a dismasting.

  He opened the box. There was money in it. English money. Sovereigns, guineas and coins of small denominations. There were also a number of charts rolled up and bound with tape. They were charts of the English coast, hand done on linen-backed paper with the carefully inscribed legend of the French Ministry of Marine. A small signal book with a handwritten code was tied up with a bundle of letters. These Drinkwater gave only a cursory glance, for something else had caught his eye, something which he might almost have imagined himself to have been looking for had not the notion been so improbable.

  It was a single letter, written in a female hand on rice paper and bound with a thin plait of hair. Human hair.

  And the hair was an unmistakable auburn.

  * Nelson’s spelling

  Chapter Seven

  December 1794–August 1795

  An Insignificant Cruiser

  Villaret Joyeuse escaped from Brest at Christmas dogged by Warren and his frigates. In Portsmouth Kestrel lay in Haslar Creek alongside the Citoyenne Janine while they awaited the adjudication of the prize court. No decision was expected until the New Year and as the officers of the dockyard seemed little inclined to refit the cutter until then, Kestrel’s people were removed into the receiving guardship, the Royal William. Drinkwater took leave and spent Christmas with Elizabeth. They were visited by Madoc Griffiths. The old man’s obvious discomfiture ashore was as amusing as it was sad, but by the evening he was quite at ease with Elizabeth.

  At the end of the first week in January the prize court decided the two transports be sold off, the corvette purchased into the service and the lugger also bought into the navy. Griffiths was triumphant.

  ‘Trumped their ace, by damn, Mr Drinkwater. Hoist ’em with their own petards . . .’ He read the judgement from a Portsmouth newspaper then grinned across the table, over the remnants of a plum duff, tapping the wine-stained newsprint.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I don’t see how . . .’

  ‘How I hoist ’em? Well the frigate captains had an agreement to pool all prize money so that they shared an equal benefit from any one individual on detached duty. I, being a mere lieutenant, and Kestrel being a mere cutter, was neither consulted nor included. As a consequence, apart from the commodore’s share, we will have exclusive rights to the condemned value of the Citoyenne Janine. You should do quite handsomely, indeed you should.’

  ‘Hence the insistence I took the prize over . . . ?’

  ‘Exactly so.’ Griffiths looked at his subordinate. He found little of his own satisfaction mirrored there, riled that this rather isolated moment of triumph should be blemished. In his annoyance he ascribed Drinkwater’s lack of enthusiasm to base motives.

  ‘By damn, Mr Drinkwater, surely you’re not suggesting that as I was sick you should receive the lion’s share?’ Griffiths’s tone was angry and his face flushed. Drinkwater, preoccupied, was suddenly aware that he had unintentionally offended.

  ‘What’s that, sir? Good God, no! Upon my honour sir . . .’ Drinkwater came out of his reverie. ‘No sir, I was wondering what became of those papers and charts I brought off her.’

  Griffiths frowned. ‘I had them despatched to Lord Dungarth. Under the circumstances I ignored Warren. Why d’ye ask?’

  Drinkwater sighed. ‘Well, sir, at first it was only a suspicion. The evidence is very circumstantial . . .’ he faltered, confused.

  ‘Come on, bach, if there’s something troubling you, you had better unburden yourself.’

  ‘Well among the papers was a private letter. I didn’t pass it to you, I know I should have done, sir, and I don’t know why I didn’t but there was something about it that made me suspicious . . .’

  ‘In what way?’ asked Griffiths in a quietly insistent voice.

  ‘I found it with a lock of hair, sir, auburn hair, I, er . . .’ He began to feel foolish, suddenly the whole thing seemed ridiculously far fetched. ‘Damn it, sir, I happen to think that the man who used the lugger, the man we’re convinced is some kind of a French agent is also connected with the red-haired woman we took off at Beaubigny.’

  ‘That Hortense Montholon is in some kind of league with this Santhonax?’

  Drinkwater nodded.

  ‘And the letter?’ />
  Drinkwater coughed embarrassed. ‘I have the letter here, sir. I took it home, my wife translated it. It was very much against her will, sir, but I insisted.’

  ‘And did it tell you anything, this letter?’

  ‘Only that the writer and this Santhonax are lovers.’ Drinkwater swallowed as Griffiths raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘And that the letter had been written to inform the recipient that a certain mutual obstacle had died in London. The writer seemed anxious that the full implications of this were conveyed in the letter and that it, in some way, made a deal of difference . . .’

  ‘Who is the writer?’ Griffiths asked quietly.

  Drinkwater scratched his scar. ‘Just an initial, sir, ‘H.’, he concluded lamely.

  ‘Did you say are lovers?’

  Drinkwater frowned. ‘Yes sir. The letter was dated quite recently, though not addressed.’

  ‘So that if you are right and they were from this woman who is now resident in England she and Santhonax are maintaining a correspondence at the very least?’

  ‘The letters suggested a closer relationship, sir.’

  Griffiths suppressed a smile. Having met Elizabeth he could imagine her explaining the contents of the letter in such terms. ‘I see,’ he said thoughtfully. After a pause he asked, ‘What makes you so sure that this Miss ‘H’ is the young woman we took off at Beaubigny and what is the significance of this “mutual obstacle”?’

  It was the question Drinkwater had been dreading but he was too far in now to retreat and he took encouragement from Griffiths’s interest. ‘I’m not sure, sir. It is a feeling I have had for some time . . . I mean, well as you know my French is poor, sir, limited to a few stock phrases, but at the back of my mind is the impression that she didn’t want to come with us that night . . . that she was there on sufferance. I remember her standing up in the boat as we came off the beach and the French opened fire. She shouted something, something like “don’t shoot, I’m your friend, I’m your friend!” ’ He tried to recall the events of the night. ‘It ain’t much to go on, sir, we were all very tired after Beaubigny.’ He paused, searching Griffiths’s face for some sign of contemptuous disbelief. The old man seemed sunk in reflection. ‘As for the “obstacle”,’ Drinkwater plunged on, ‘I just had this conviction that it was De Tocqueville . . .’ He cleared his throat and in a firmer voice said, ‘To be honest, sir, it’s all very circumstantial and I apologise about the letter.’ Drinkwater found his palms were damp but he felt the relief of the confessional.

  Griffiths held his hand up. ‘Don’t apologise, bach, there may be something in what you say. When we mentioned the Montholons and Beaubigny to Major Brown something significant occurred to him. I don’t know what it was but I am aware that this Captain Santhonax is not only an audacious officer but is highly placed enough to exert influence on French politics.’ He paused. ‘And I have often wondered why no action was ever taken after our broadside at Beaubigny. One can only assume that the matter was hushed up.’ Griffiths lifted an eyebrow. ‘Yet the French were damned touchy with Barlow and Childers a few weeks later . . .’

  ‘That thought had occurred to me, sir.’

  ‘Then we are of one mind, Mr Drinkwater,’ said Griffiths closing the subject with a smile. Drinkwater relaxed, remembering Dungarth’s words all those months ago. He began to see why Griffiths was regarded as a remarkable man. He doubted he could have told anyone else but the Welshman. The old lieutenant sat for a moment in silence, staring at the wine rings on the table cloth. Then he looked up. ‘Do you return the letter to me, Mr Drinkwater. I’ll inform his lordship of this. It may bear investigation.’

  Relieved, Drinkwater rose and went to his cabin, returning to pass the letter to Griffiths.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the lieutenant, looking curiously at the thin plait of auburn hair. ‘Well, Mr Drinkwater, out of your prize money I think you should purchase a new coat, your starboard shoulder tingle is well enough for sea service but won’t do otherwise,’ Griffiths indicated the repair he had effected to his coat. Elizabeth had already chid him for it. ‘Take yourself to Morgan’s, opposite the Fountain at number 85. You’ll get yourself anything there, even another Dollond glass to replace that precious bauble you lost off Ushant . . .’ They both laughed and Griffiths shouted at the messman, Meyrick, to come and clear the table.

  Lieutenant Griffiths’s expectations of stratâgems from Sir Sydney’s fertile brain were to have a drastic effect upon the fortunes of Kestrel though not in the manner the old man had had in mind. Sir Sydney had conceived the idea that a French built lugger attached to the squadron would prove a great asset in deceiving the enemy, plundering coastal trade and gathering intelligence. Her commander would be his own nomination in the person of Lieutenant Richard White, and Kestrel, with her unmistakably English rig, would be free for other duties.

  Auguste Barrallier, now employed in the Royal Dockyard, arrived to authenticate the lugger’s repairs and was affable to Drinkwater, watching progress from the adjacent cutter. Nathaniel did his best to disguise his pique when White arrived from Falmouth with a crew of volunteers from Warren’s frigates. White, to his credit, made no attempt to lord it over his old friend. He brought letters from Appleby and an air of breezy confidence that only a frigate cruising under an enterprising officer could engender. Appleby, it appeared, did not see eye to eye with this captain and White dismissed the surgeon with something like contempt. But Drinkwater was pleased when the lugger dropped out of sight behind Fort Blockhouse.

  Her replacement as Warren’s despatch vessel left Kestrel languishing between the greenheart piles in Haslar Creek through the still, chill grey days of January when news came of war with the Dutch. February passed and then, almost immediately it seemed, the windy equinoctials of March were over. A start had been made on removing the scars of her late action. But it was half-hearted, desultory work, badly done and Griffiths despaired, falling sick and passing to the naval hospital. Jessup took to the bottle and even Drinkwater felt listless and dispirited, sympathising with the bosun and affecting to ignore his frequent lapses.

  Drinkwater’s lassitude was due in part to a spiritual exhaustion after the action off the Ile Vierge which combined with a helplessness consequent upon his conviction that a link existed between the mysterious Santhonax and Hortense Montholon. In sharing this suspicion with Griffiths, Drinkwater had sought to unravel it, imagining the old sea-officer might have some alchemical formula for divining such things. But this had proved foolish, and now, with Griffiths sick ashore and the authorities lacking interest in the cutter, Drinkwater felt oppressed by his helplessness, aground in a backwater of naval affairs that seemed to have no incoming tide to refloat his enthusiasm.

  To some extent Elizabeth was to blame. Their proximity to Drinkwater’s home meant that he took what leave he could. With Griffiths ashore his presence aboard Kestrel two or three times a week was sufficient. And the seductions of almost uninterrupted domestic life were sweet indeed. To pay for this lack of vigilance Kestrel lost six men to desertion and Drinkwater longed for orders, torn between Elizabeth and the call of duty.

  Then, one sharp, bright April morning when the sun cracked over the roofs of Portsea with an expectant brilliance, a post captain came aboard, clambering over the rail from a dockyard boat unannounced, anonymous in plain clothes. He had with him a fashionably dressed and eccentric looking man who seemed familiar with the cutter.

  It was Tregembo who warned Drinkwater and he had only learned from the grinning crew of the dockyard skiff that the gentlemen were of some importance. Some considerable importance in fact. Suddenly guilty, and thanking providence that this morning he had happened to be on board, Drinkwater hurried on deck, but the strangers were nowhere to be seen. Then a seaman popped out of the hold.

  ‘Hey, sir, some bleeders down ’ere are poking about the bottom of the ship. One of ’em’s a bleeding Frog unless I’m a Sumatran strumpet, sir . . .’

  Bursting with apologies Dr
inkwater flung himself below to make his introductions. The intruders were dimly visible peering into Kestrel’s bilge having prised up a section of the ceiling.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen, please accept my . . . good lord! M’sieur Barralier is it not?’

  ‘Ah! My young friend, ’ullo. I have not come to build you your frigate, alas, but this is Captain Schank, and we have come to, how you say – modify – your fine cutter.’

  Drinkwater turned to the gentleman rising from his knees and brushing his breeches. Captain Schank waved aside his apologetic protestations and in five minutes repaired his morale and reinspired him.

  Later that day in Haslar Hospital Drinkwater explained to Griffiths.

  ‘What he does is this, sir. He reinforces the keel with cheeks, then he cuts slots like long mortices through which he drops these plates, centre plates he calls ’em. The idea’s been used in America for some time, on a small scale, d’you see. Captain Schank saw them when he was master’s mate but,’ Drinkwater smiled ruefully, ‘master’s mates don’t carry much weight in these matters.’

  Griffiths’s brow wrinkled in concentration. ‘Sort of miships leeboards, is it?’

  ‘Aye, sir, that’s it exactly,’ replied Drinkwater nodding enthusiastically. ‘Apparently you point up better to windward, haul your wind closer and reduce leeway significantly.’

  ‘Wait,’ interrupted Griffiths pondering, ‘I recollect the name now. He built Trial like that in ninety or ninety-one. She and Kestrel were on the same lines. Yes, that’s the man. Trial’s fitted with three of these, er, centre plates . . .’ They began discussing the advantages it would give Kestrel and then Griffiths asked ‘If they are doing all this have you got wind of any likely orders for us?’