The flying squadron nd-11

by Ричард Вудмен

  Drinkwater received the young man with considerable courtesy, invited him below and introduced him to Mr Vansittart, whom he had ensconced in his own cabin. There was, Drinkwater observed, a regrettable air of condescension about Mr Vansittart, trifling enough in itself, but obvious enough to provoke a reaction from the American lieutenant, whose corn-pone homeliness was laid on a little for Vansittart's benefit.

  Nevertheless, Lieutenant Jonas Tucker went back to his ship with a request for Vansittart's passport to be honoured. The two ships lay-to together for half an hour within sight of Cape Charles and Cape Henry awaiting the American commander's sanction before Lieutenant Tucker returned with his senior officer's compliments. Drinkwater refused his offer of pilotage as being not consonant with the dignity of the British flag, but diplomatically accepted an escort into Chesapeake Bay.

  'If you will follow our motions, sir,' Tucker had drawled, addressing Drinkwater and ignoring Vansittart, who had accompanied him on to the quarterdeck, 'and bring to your anchor here.' He unrolled a chart and Drinkwater bent to study it.

  'Off Castle Point?' Drinkwater had asked.

  'Just so, sir.'

  Drinkwater had looked up, 'Mr Wyatt, do we have Castle Point on our chart?'

  'You may have the loan of this one, sir,' said Tucker.

  'Thank you.' Drinkwater had accepted the American's offer. 'We will salute the American flag, Lieutenant, immediately upon anchoring, if you will reciprocate.'

  'I guess that will be an honour, sir,' Tucker had replied with insincere formality, and had taken his departure.

  They had doubled Cape Charles, standing south towards Cape Henry to avoid the Middle Ground before hauling the yards and swinging north-west into the bay. Ahead the American sloop led them in. They cleared the Horse Shoe shoal and The Spit, between which the York river debouched into the bay and where thirty years earlier Cornwallis had surrendered to Washington and Rochambeau, effectively ending the American War and ensuring independence from Great Britain. They steadied on a northward course, forming in line ahead, finally entering the mouth of the Potomac and anchoring two miles below Falmouth township, off Castle Point.

  The rumble of the veering cable ceased with the application of the compressor bars. Patrician brought up to her anchor and immediately from her forecastle the first boom of the salute reverberated around the anchorage. Clouds of pigeons rose in a clattering of wings from the adjacent woods and a flock of quacking duck and wildfowl flew up from the reedbeds fringing the river. The concussion of the gunfire echoed back and forth, returned by the classical façade of the mansion. The exact, five-second intervals between each explosion were timed by Mr Gordon, so that the twenty-one discharges sounded like a cannonade, only to be repeated and amplified by the gunners of the Yankee sloop they now knew to be the USS Stingray.

  As the last echoes faded away, Drinkwater turned to Vansittart.

  'Well, Vansittart, it's up to you now.' He paused to stare through his glass again at the American ship, continuing to speak. 'I imagine our friend will provide a boat escort, but you can take my barge up to Washington. 'Tis a goodish pull, but unless we can obtain some horses ...' A solitary figure was staring back at them. Drinkwater lowered his glass and raised his hat by the fore-cock. The American commander ignored the courtesy, but continued to stare through his own telescope.

  'Perhaps he didn't see you,' Vansittart consoled.

  'Oh, he saw me all right,' Drinkwater replied. The thought of horses made him swivel round and refocus his glass. The Negro was walking away from the mounting block and Drinkwater was just in time to see the big chestnut break into a canter and disappear into the trees to the right of the house. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman in grey with a feathered bonnet riding side-saddle. 'I wonder', he remarked, 'why we have been brought to an anchor here ... ?'

  'Even I, in my ignorance, know "goodish pull" to be something of a euphemism, Captain,' said Vansittart, grinning. 'It must be forty miles to Washington.'

  'I'm glad to see our somewhat land-locked surroundings have persuaded you to recover your good humour,' Drinkwater riposted, but both men were interrupted by Midshipman Belchambers reporting the approach of a boat. Ten minutes later Lieutenant Tucker once again stood on the quarterdeck.

  'Captain Stewart presents his compliments, gentlemen. He intends to let the Administration know of the arrival of Mr Vansittart himself without delay. He hopes to return shortly with the Administration's response.'

  'Would he be kind enough, Lieutenant Tucker, to convey a letter from myself to Mr Foster?'

  'Mr Foster, sir?'

  'His Britannic Majesty's ambassador to your government,' Vansittart explained.

  Tucker shrugged. 'I guess so, sir.'

  'If you would give me five minutes.' Vansittart withdrew below.

  'Well, sir,' Drinkwater said, attempting to fill the five minutes with polite if meaningless small-talk, 'it is beautiful country hereabouts.'

  'It sure is,' said Tucker bluntly, awkwardly adding, lest he seem too abrupt, 'real beautiful...'

  'Plenty of wildfowl,' said Metcalfe, coming up and joining in with the cool effrontery he often displayed. Drinkwater, irritated at the intrusion but equally relieved to have his burden halved, recalled Metcalfe's expertise with the Ferguson rifle. They were standing staring ashore at the parkland surrounding the Palladian mansion when from the trees whence she had disappeared earlier, Drinkwater saw the lone horsewoman reappear. Her horse was stretched at a gallop and the plumed hat, which he had noticed earlier, was missing. She brought the horse to a rearing halt a pistol-shot short of the river-bank and Drinkwater thought she was waving at them. Beside him Lieutenant Tucker chuckled.

  'Reckon Belle Stewart's just had a scare,' he remarked. 'That goddam gelding of hers must've had a rare fright from the salutin' cannon.'

  'She's shaking her fist and not waving, then,' Drinkwater said.

  'She could be doin' either, Cap'n, she could be doin' either. She might be shakin' her fist, 'n' she might not. She might be wavin' at her brother, Cap'n Stewart, Master Commandant of the United States Sloop o' War Stingray, but then again, she might be a-shakin' it at you for a-firing all those guns.'

  'I'd say we were both equally guilty,' Metcalfe said, matching Tucker's condescending drawl.

  Drinkwater ignored the implied slight. 'Ah, I see. Captain Stewart resides hereabouts, then,' he said, indicating the house.

  'Well, not exactly resides ... his sister does the residin', but I guess it was in his mind to get a horse here.'

  'I understand. And will that facility be extended to Mr Vansittart, d'you think?'

  'I don't know, Cap'n. Matter of fact, I don't know exactly what's in Cap'n Stewart's mind, sir.'

  Vansittart reappeared with his letter and Lieutenant Tucker took his departure. Drinkwater, Metcalfe and Vansittart lingered, watching the return of the American boat and then, sweeping round the sloop's stern, the departure of a second boat from the Stingray. She was a smart gig with white stars picked out along her blue sheerstrake. Red oars with white blades swung and dipped in the dark waters of the Potomac river. Upright in her stern stood a midshipman, hand on tiller, beside whom sat a sea-officer. He was, Drinkwater guessed, the same man who had scrutinized them from the quarterdeck of the Stingray. Drinkwater walked aft to the taffrail and stared down as the gig pulled close under Patrician's stern. Vansittart and Metcalfe joined him. Again he lifted his hat.

  The midshipman, curious about the heavy British frigate, was looking up at the three men and could not have missed the private salutation. They saw him turn and address a remark to the officer sitting next to him. No flicker of movement came from the immobile figure; he continued to stare straight ahead, just as his oarsmen, bending to their task, stared astern, over the shoulders of their officers, as if the British ship did not exist. The officer must have made some remark to the midshipman, for the boy solemnly raised his own hat.

  'That's a gesture of the most sterile courtes
y,' Vansittart objected.

  'That, I fear, is Master Commandant Stewart,' Drinkwater concluded, 'and I hope he don't exemplify the kind of response you're going to get in Washington, Vansittart.'

  Vansittart grunted.

  'I collect that we should blow the insolent ass's piddling sloop out of the water while it lies so conveniently under our guns,' Metcalfe interjected, with such pomposity that Drinkwater understood the motive for his earlier intrusion. Metcalfe was eager to ingratiate himself with Vansittart. Drinkwater wondered how much of this insinuating process had already been accomplished during their crossing of the Atlantic. The idiocy of the remark was so at variance with the first lieutenant's earlier caution that Drinkwater was compelled to remark upon it. 'I thought, Mr Metcalfe, you were opposed to provokin' hostilities with the United States.'

  'Well, I consider ...' Metcalfe blustered uncomfortably, clearly having abandoned reason in favour of making an impression, but could find nothing further to say.

  'I think we may forgive a little rudeness from so young a Service, mayn't we, Mr Vansittart?' Drinkwater said archly, catching the diplomat's eye.

  'I think so, Captain Drinkwater. Particularly from the commander of a ship whose company had their sails furled half a minute before our own.'

  Metcalfe opened his mouth, thought better of saying anything further and stumped away with a mumbled, 'By y're leave, gentlemen ...'

  'Touché Vansittart,' Drinkwater murmured.

  Vansittart and Drinkwater idly watched the Stingray's gig ground on a bright patch of sand lying in a shallow bay. The horsewoman in grey walked her now quietened mount towards the boat and they watched the mysterious Captain Stewart address her, saw her turn her horse and, with Stewart walking beside her, return to the house. She looked back once at the two anchored ships, then both disappeared inside. Shortly afterwards a man rode off on horseback.

  'So there goes Captain Stewart, bound for Washington.'

  'Is it unusual for a, what d'you call him ...?'

  'Master Commandant,' Drinkwater explained, 'their equivalent of Master and Commander; a sloop-captain, in fact.'

  'I see; is it usual then for such a curious beast to be absent from his ship under the circumstances?'

  'The circumstances being your arrival, I should say it was essential,' Drinkwater said.

  'Might he not be suspicious of your taking men out of his ship?'

  'To be truthful, Vansittart, I am more concerned to stop my men deserting to his.'

  'D'you think it likely?' asked Vansittart, displaying a mild surprise.

  'Certainly 'tis a possibility. Did you not mark the furling of the sails? You noticed we were slower.'

  'I, er, assumed it not to be significant...'

  'The last tucks in the fore t'gallant were deliberately delayed. I conceive that to have been a mark of sympathy with the Yankees.'

  'A form of insolence, d'you mean?'

  'Something of the kind.' Drinkwater raised his voice, Mr Metcalfe! Mr Moncrieff!'

  When the two officers had approached he said, 'Gentlemen, I wish you to consider the possibility of desertion to the American ship or', he looked towards the longer distance separating the frigate from the lush greensward sweeping down to the Potomac, 'directly ashore. Mr Moncrieff, your sentries are to be especially alert. They must first challenge but thereafter they may fire. They are to bear loaded weapons.' He turned to the first lieutenant. 'Mr Metcalfe, we will row a guard-boat day and night. The midshipmen to be in command. There will be no communication whatsoever with either the shore or the American ship.' He paused. 'I am sorry for the Draconian measures, gentlemen, but I'm sure you'll understand.'

  'Of course, sir,' Moncrieff nodded.

  'Yes, sir,' Metcalfe acknowledged.

  'You will be pleased to pass on to all the officers that the desertion of a single man in such circumstances', he gestured at their idyllic, land-locked situation, 'may not be a disaster in practical terms for the ship, but it will be a considerable embarrassment to the Service. I therefore require the lieutenants and the master to maintain their watches even though we are anchored. Is that understood?'

  'Aye, aye, sir,' Metcalfe said woodenly.

  'You are taking this seriously,' Vansittart said, after the two officers had been dismissed.

  Vansittart's apparent flippancy revealed the maritime naivety of the man. Vansittart had not been witness to Thurston's oratory; nor would he have been so susceptible, Drinkwater thought, coming as he did from a family long in the public service. Mr Vansittart would have scoffed at Captain Drinkwater's misgivings. Such guilty considerations had kept Drinkwater from revealing anything of his private thoughts. Besides, he did not need to be told his duty and he had at least the satisfaction of knowing that Thurston was kept obedient and under his immediate eye. 'Oh yes, indeed I am,' he said, 'I cannot tolerate a single desertion. The consequences acting upon the remainder of the people would be most unfortunate.'

  They passed an uneasy night. The knocking of the guard-boat's oar looms against the thole pins, the routine calls of the sentinels that all was well, and the airless, unaccustomed stillness of the ship after her ocean passage, combined with Drinkwater's anxiety to keep him awake, or half-dozing, until dawn, when sheer exhaustion carried him off.

  They estimated that Captain Stewart, at best, would not return until the following evening. The parallel existences of the two ships passed the hours: the trilling of the pipes, the shouting of orders and the regularity of the bells, each chiming just sufficiently asynchronously to remind their companies they each belonged to different navies, lent a suspense to the day. Occasionally a boat put off from the American ship and her midshipmen doffed their hats to those rowing their tedious duty round Patrician. The absence of so crude and despotic a routine about the Stingray was a permanent reproach to the British and a source of delight to the Americans.

  Towards late afternoon, however, the returning American cutter, instead of taking a sweep round the circuit of the guard-boat, cut inside, making for Patrician's side. A midshipman, smart in blue, white and gold, a black cockade in his stovepipe hat, came smartly up the side and, saluting in due form, handed a note to the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Frey. Frey took the missive below to Captain Drinkwater.

  'Enter.' The September sunshine slanted into the great cabin, picking up motes of dust in the heavy air. Drinkwater, his shoes kicked off and in his shirt sleeves, was slumped in a chair dozing before the stern windows.

  'What is it?' he murmured drowsily, his eyes closed.

  'Message from the shore, sir.'

  'Read it, then.'

  Frey slit the wafer. 'It's an invitation, sir ... er, Mr Zebulon and Mistress Arabella Shaw of Castle Point request the pleasure of the company of the Captain of the

  English frigate and his officers, at six of the clock ...' Frey broke off, a note of excitement testimony to the boredom of his young life. 'There'll be food, sir, and music, and', he added wistfully, 'company.'

  'I suppose you'd like me to accept on your behalf, Mr Frey.'

  'Well, yes please, sir.' The merest suggestion that Drinkwater might refuse clearly alarmed Frey.

  'Zebulon who?' Drinkwater queried in a disinterested voice.

  'Er,' Frey studied the invitation again. 'Shaw, sir.'

  Drinkwater was silent for a while. 'You were with me on the Melusine, weren't you?'

  'Yes, sir,' replied Frey, impatiently wondering where this line of questioning was leading them and rather hurt that it was necessary.

  'We didn't have much opportunity for social life in the Greenland Sea, did we?'

  'Not a great deal, sir.'

  'And the natives were not particularly attractive, were they?'

  'No, sir, their huts weren't quite like the wigwam ashore there, sir.' Ducking his head Frey could see a white corner of the stables adjoining the classical frontage of Castle Point.

  'I wonder why they call it Castle Point. .. ?'

  'There are som
e battlements, sir.'

  'Are there? Well, well.' Gantley Hall had no battlements. 'You'd better call Thurston…'

  'I'll write the reply myself, sir, if you like,' Frey said, then thinking he was being too forward he added, 'there's a midshipman from the Yankee sloop waiting on deck

  'Is there, by God?' Drinkwater said, sitting up, rubbing his eyes and feeling for his shoes. 'Then we'd better jump to it and not keep young Master Jonathan waiting ...'

  'I beg your pardon ...'

  'Don't be a fool, Frey. I know full well you want to stretch your legs, and preferably alongside a rich Virginian belle in the figures of a waltz. It's a damned sight better than takin' the air on the quarterdeck, ain't it?'

  Drinkwater gestured for the note; Frey gave it to him.

  The paper gave off a faint fragrance and was covered in an elegant, feminine script. Presumably the patrician hand of Mistress Shaw. Going to his desk he drew a sheet of paper towards him, lifted the lid of his ink-well and picked up the Mitchell's pen Elizabeth had given him.

  'To Mister and Mistress Zebulon Shaw...' he murmured as he wrote, wondering what manner of man and wife owned so luxurious a property. The bare untitled names reminded him of the virtues of republicanism. Perhaps it was as well he had not summoned Thurston to pen this acceptance. When he had sanded it dry he gave it to Frey.

  'There, Mr Frey, and remember we are ourselves ambassadors in our small way.'

  'Aye, aye, sir,' replied Frey, grinning happily and retreating as hurriedly as decency permitted.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Widow Shaw

  September 1811