The flying squadron nd-11

by Ричард Вудмен

  He turned and looked at her, and saw her eyes were brim full of tears.

  'I think we are both too old for such ... such rioting to be passed over thus easily.'

  'It doesn't signify ...'

  'On the contrary,' he said gently, 'even madness has its own place under heaven.'

  'Do you feel any different now?'

  He smiled sadly. 'Not all men spend in the same manner as they piss, Arabella. Perhaps I wish I did, it would make my infidelity the easier to bear.'

  'I do not think', she said, her voice trembling, 'you should reproach yourself. I am not...'

  He took her hand and smiled at her. The boyish attractiveness had gone, replaced by something she could not describe, but which would, she knew with the certainty of true foreboding, haunt her future loneliness. 'My darling ...' she breathed.

  They arrived back at Castle Point at sunset. As they approached, walking their horses for fear they might arrive too soon, yet both aware their arrival was inevitable, the sound of shots rang out. Seized by a sudden awful thought that his absence had precipitated wholesale desertion, he pushed the mare forward until he saw Moncrieff's scarlet coat floundering through a reedbed waving a duck above his head. Relieved, he watched the wildfowling party which appeared to consist of Moncrieff, Metcalfe and Davies, one of the master's mates, until Arabella drew level with him.

  'They are fowling,' he said, 'I hope with your father-in-law's permission.'

  'You are forgetting me already,' she reproached him.

  'When I heard those shots I feared for my life,' he remarked grimly, then turned towards her. Her hair was dishevelled and her cheeks were wet with tears. 'My dear,' he said, his voice thick with emotion, 'you make me reproach myself... please, do not cry, I am not worth it.'

  She sniffed noisily. 'We must ride back to the house. Let us at least look as if the day was enjoyable.' And she drove her spurs into the chestnut's flanks so that the galled horse reared up and then leapt forward into a gallop.

  Drinkwater followed as best he could, but she was already dismounting as he drew rein in the gravelled courtyard before the stables. The negro groom was rubbing down a large black stallion and, as the horses whinnied at each other and the stallion stamped, Zebulon Shaw came towards them.

  'Bella ... Captain Drinkwater, I trust you enjoyed your excursion.' He clapped his hands and a little negro stable-boy ran out and took the two bridles. Shaw spoke to his daughter-in-law and she turned to her guest.

  'My brother is back and wishes that you and Mr Vansittart join us for dinner. He has brought the answer we wish for.' Her triumph was tempered by the formality about to overlay the day's intimacy.

  'It is surely good news, Captain Drinkwater,' Shaw said.

  'Surely, sir,' Drinkwater replied, easing himself out of the saddle. He looked at Arabella. 'It is for the best, I think,' he added in a low voice.

  She caught his eye and then bit her lip, just as Elizabeth was wont to do, turned away and went into the house.

  'Shall we say in two hours, Captain?' asked Shaw, looking from the retreating back of his daughter-in-law to the large turnip-watch in his red fist. 'Charles has retreated to his ship refusing the ministrations of our servants to wash the dust off him, but I reckon he'll be ashore again by then.'

  'I'll fetch Vansittart, Mr Shaw, and perhaps we can make some travelling arrangements for him ...'

  'Of course, of course,' Shaw waved aside any trifling difficulties of that nature. "Tis in a good cause, Captain, the noble cause of peace.'

  'Indeed, sir, it is.'

  It was almost dark when he reached the water's edge at the same time as the returning shooting-party.

  'Have you had a good bag?' he asked and was caught up in the jocular repartee of their high spirits. Metcalfe seemed to have forgiven Drinkwater his absence and had gathered an impressive bag. Already the events of the afternoon were become a memory.

  He paused on the quarterdeck and looked back at the shore. The white fagade of Castle Point was grey in the gathering dusk. A few lit windows blazed out, some hid behind curtains. Was Arabella concealed behind one, washing him from her voluptuous body and dressing for the evening?

  'Post coitus omnes triste est,' murmured Drinkwater to himself, and went unhappily below.

  CHAPTER 8

  The Master Commandant

  September 1811

  The sudden transition from the company of Arabella Shaw to that of his high-spirited officers with their bag of duck and snipe gave Drinkwater little time to reflect upon the events of the day. Even in the odd moments that followed his return to Patrician in which his mind had the opportunity to wander, other, more pressing matters supervened. In any case, the day was not yet over and his subconscious subdued his conscience with the certainty of being in Arabella's company again that evening.

  The shots of the wildfowlers which had so alarmed him reawakened his fear of mutiny, tapping the greater guilt of absence from the ship which, in its turn, combined with the knowledge that Captain Stewart had returned to his own ship prior to their meeting over dinner, and made Drinkwater consider his coming encounter with the Yankee. From what he had gleaned of Stewart's character so far, and in particular the American's hostile taciturnity, the evening promised more of confrontation than conviviality. The fact that Drinkwater had already established an intimacy at Castle Point gave him a frisson of expectation. Such was his state of mind that he was both ashamed and, less creditably, gratified by this, a feeling of elated excitement further enhanced every time he caught sight of the American sloop through the stern windows of his cabin. It was fading in the twilight, merging with the opposite river-bank, but he remained acutely aware of its presence. Not since he had joined Patrician in Cawsand

  Bay had he felt so full of vigour.

  There was a knock at the cabin door. 'Come!'

  'Is there anything ...' Thurston began, but Drinkwater cut him short.

  'No, thank you, Thurston. I am dining ashore tonight.' He unrolled his housewife, drew out his razor and began stropping it. 'There is one thing,' he said as Thurston was about to withdraw, 'be so kind as to ask Mr Vansittart to join me for a moment, would you?'

  He began to shave. Vansittart entered while he waited for Mullender to prepare his bath. He passed on Zebulon Shaw's invitation, adding, 'We can make all arrangements for your travelling through Shaw; he's a most obligin' fellow.'

  The diplomat's self-imposed quarantine, though doubtless proper, seemed a little foolish under the circumstances. Shaw was quite clearly opposed to war and if not an Anglophile, he was worldly enough to regard open hostilities between two countries as in nobody's interests. Vansittart might, Drinkwater reflected, profit much from his conversation by way of a briefing before leaving for Washington and he expressed this opinion while he shaved. Vansittart, his elegant legs crossed and a glass of the captain's Madeira in his hand, lounged on a chair and contemplated the dishevelled Drinkwater.

  'But supposing, my dear fellow,' Vansittart said in a superior tone suggesting he was already conducting negotiations on the part of His Majesty's government, 'supposing this fellow Shaw has his own axes to grind.'

  'I don't follow ...' Drinkwater stretched his cheek and drew the razor carefully over the thin scar left by a sword cut.

  'Well, let us hypothesize that his pacific intentions are governed by his desire not to have some aspect of his personal economy interrupted by war; or perhaps he has some disagreement with a congressman from New England who is of a contrary opinion

  'Suppose he has?' broke in Drinkwater, sensing the looming prevarications and evasions, the tortuous and meaningless sophistry of political blustering. 'What the devil does it signify? If he serves our purpose in bringin' the weight of his opinion in favour of headin' off a rupture, he serves our cause ...'

  'Ah, but nothing,' Vansittart said smoothly and with a hint of patronizing, 'is quite as simple as that.'

  Drinkwater looked at the urbane young man. He had been right ab
out the proximity of the land. It had had its effect upon Vansittart, even though he had yet to step ashore. He was no longer a bewildered ignoramus, lost among the technical mysteries of a man-of-war, but a member of an elite upon whose deliberations the fates of more ordinary mortals depended. Already Vansittart's imagination inhabited the drawing-rooms of the American capital and the success his intervention would achieve.

  'We are none of us exempt from our personal entanglements,' said Drinkwater pointedly, a small worm of uneasiness uncoiling itself in his belly, 'and now if you'll excuse me ...' He wiped his razor clean.

  Mullender was pouring the last of the hot water from the galley range into the tin bath and the cabin was filling with steam. Drinkwater began pulling his shirt over his head. Mixed with the smell of his own sweat a sweet fragrance lingered.

  Vansittart watched for a moment, saw the scarred lacerations and mutilation of Drinkwater's right shoulder and hurriedly rose, tossing off his glass. 'Well, I shall have the opportunity of judging this Shaw for myself,' he said. 'In any event my bags are packed, so I will leave you to your ablutions.'

  'I shall be half an hour at the most.'

  Drinkwater sank back into the delicious warmth of the bath. 'Well, Mullender,' he said, 'what news have you?'

  'Mr Moncrieff has presented you with a brace of ducks, sir.'

  'That's very kind of Mr Moncrieff.' He entertained a brief image of Arabella sitting down to a dinner of roast duck with him in the intimacy of the cabin, then dismissed the notion as dangerously foolish.

  'Do you want the boots again today, sir? As they're muddy I'll have to clean them.'

  'No, no, full dress ...'

  ''Tis already laid out, sir, and I've the sponging of your old coat in hand, sir.'

  They had lain upon the old, shabby undress coat he had worn for the expedition. The reminder made him move restlessly, slopping water in his sudden search for the soap.

  He stood before the mirror with comb and brush, an uncharacteristic defensive vanity possessing him. He suppressed his conscience by convincing himself it was to make an impression on Stewart that he dressed with such care. Mullender moved one of the lanterns and the silk stockings and silver buckled shoes, the white breeches, waistcoat and stock seemed to glow in the reflected lamp-light. He handed the comb and brush to Mullender who, with a few deft and practised strokes, quickly finished the captain's hair off in a queue.

  'I suppose I should have it cut,' Drinkwater said.

  'Wouldn't be you, sir,' Mullender said with finality, drawing the black ribbon tight and levelling its twin tails. Drinkwater held his arms out and Mullender helped him on with the coat. He felt the weight of the heavy bullion epaulettes, one on each shoulder as befitted a senior post-captain, and his gold cuff lace rasped that on his lapels as he adjusted the set of the garment. Mullender pulled the long queue clear of the collar and flicked at Drinkwater's shoulders before stepping back and picking up sword and belt.

  'No sword tonight, Mullender, thank you.'

  'Aye, sir,' grunted Mullender, clearly disapproving of Drinkwater's tact.

  'Call away my barge, if you please.'

  Mullender opened the cabin door and spoke to the marine sentry. Drinkwater took one final look at himself in the mirror and picked up his hat.

  'Barge crew called, sir,' Mullender reported, 'and Mr Metcalfe said to tell you what looks like a Yankee schooner has just anchored on the far side o' that Yankee sloop.'

  'Very well,' Drinkwater said absently and swung round.

  'We must get that bulkhead painted,' he remarked suddenly. Mullender looked up.

  'Sir?'

  'That bulkhead, get it painted!' snapped Drinkwater, abruptly leaving the cabin.

  'What now?' Mullender muttered, and sighed, scratching his head uncomprehendingly. He did not see, as Drinkwater saw, the faint discolourations where once the twin portraits of Elizabeth and his children had hung.

  'Sir, the Yankee has just gone over the side, if you hurry…'

  They could hear the squealing of the pipes floating over the still water from the dark shape of the Stingray, her tall masts and yards black against the dark velvet of the night sky with its myriad stars. He could see nothing of the schooner beyond her. Metcalfe's almost childish urgency irritated Drinkwater.

  'I don't want to make a damned undignified race of it,' he said curtly. 'Let the bugger go ahead ...' Metcalfe opened his mouth to say something, but Drinkwater was in no mood now to bandy words with his first lieutenant. 'Do you make sure the sentries present arms as he goes past. We are not at war with the United States, Mr Metcalfe, and I'll see the courtesies extended while we are within American waters.'

  Metcalfe's mouth shut like a trap and he spun on his heel, but Moncrieff had already dealt with the matter. The American gig, a chuckle of phosphorescence at her cutwater, the faint flash of her oar blades rising and dipping, approached them in a curve to pass under the Patrician's stern. The dim light of a lantern in her stern-sheets reflected upon the face of Captain Stewart and his attendant midshipman.

  Moncrieff called the deck sentinels to attention. 'Present arms!' The American boat swept past, Stewart and the midshipman unmoving.

  'Insolent devil,' said Moncrieff in a voice that must have been heard in the still darkness. 'Shoulder arms!'

  Are you ready, Vansittart?' Drinkwater enquired as a grey shape joined them.

  'I am indeed, Captain Drinkwater.'

  'After you, then.' Drinkwater gestured and Vansittart peered uncertainly over the side. Midshipman Belchambers looked up from the barge.

  'Just hold on to the man-ropes, sir, and lean back ...'

  He saw her first, in a full-skirted dress of watered green silk the origin of which was not Parisian. Her raven hair was up and a rope of Bahamian pearls wound round her slender neck. She looked remote, proper, Shaw's daughter-in-law-cum-hostess and not the creature who ...

  'Captain Drinkwater, good of you to come.'

  'Your servant, sir. May I present Mr Henry Vansittart ... Mr Shaw.'

  'Mr Vansittart, you are very welcome. Captain Drinkwater, you have met my daughter-in-law. Mr Vansittart, may I present Mrs Arabella Shaw ...'

  Bows and curtsies were exchanged, Vansittart bent solicitously over Arabella's hand and Drinkwater turned away. He found himself face to face with Master Commandant Stewart.

  He had his sister's features and the likeness shocked him. Yet there was nothing effeminate in the American officer's handsome face, on the contrary, his dark features conveyed the immediate impression of a boldness and resolution which, as he confronted the Englishman, were unequivocally hostile. Drinkwater had the unnerving sensation that, despite his own superiority in years and rank, the American held himself in all respects the better man. A cooler head than Drinkwater possessed at that instant might have considered this impression as a consequence of underlying guilt on his own part and an overweening pride and youthful contempt on the American's. At that moment, however, the impact was uncanny and overwhelming, and Drinkwater endeavoured to conceal his inner confusion with an over-elaborate greeting that the American attributed to condescension.

  'Captain Stewart, I presume. I am your servant, sir, and delighted to make your acquaintance.'

  The younger man's face split in a lupine grin. From the moment his topman reported the approach of the British frigate, Stewart had been both affronted by the British man-o'-war's presence in American waters, and hoping for some means by which he, the most junior commander on the American Navy List, might personally tweak the tail of the arrogant British lion. Captain Drinkwater, a greying tarpaulin officer of no particular pretension, offered him a perfect target. Stewart would not have admitted fear of any British naval officer, but he nursed an awkwardness in the presence of those urbane and languid sprigs of good families he had once met in New York. Vansittart was so clearly an example of the class, if not the type. In needling Drinkwater he felt he opened a mine under British conceit, laid under so easy and fo
olish a target as Captain Drinkwater, the more readily to wound Vansittart. The prospect of this revenge for past humiliations, real or imagined, amused and stimulated him.

  'You presume a great deal, Captain. As for being my servant that's fair enough, but your delight concerns me not at all...' It was a gauche, clumsy and foolish speech, but made to Drinkwater in his present mood and made loud enough for all the company to hear, it had its desired effect, bolstering Stewart's pride and leaving the witnesses nonplussed as they, in full expectation of a sharp-tongued response, left Captain Drinkwater to defend himself.

  But Drinkwater blushed to his hair-roots, dropping his foolishly extended hand. Vansittart's inward hiss of breath, of apprehension rather than outrage, broke the silence.

  'Gennelmen, a glass,' Shaw drawled, motioning to a negro servant in a powdered wig and a ludicrous canary-yellow livery. He bore a salver upon which the touching rims of the glasses tinkled delicately.

  'I thought rum appropriate to the occasion,' said Shaw, clearly practising a joke he had rehearsed earlier and which was now quite inappropriate to the occasion.

  'Indeed, ' Vansittart waded in, 'almost the vin du pays, what? Your health, ma'am, and yours, sir, and yours, Captain Stewart. That's a fine ship you command, by the by.'

  'Indeed it is,' replied Stewart, clearly enjoying himself and never taking his eyes off Drinkwater, 'the match of any ship, even one of reputedly superior force.'

  The sarcasm brought Drinkwater to himself. He mastered his discomfiture and met the younger man's eyes. 'Let us hope, Captain Stewart, the matter is not put to the test.'

  'It wouldn't concern me one damn jot, Captain, were it to be put to the test tomorrow morning.'

  'Come, come, gennelmen,' said Shaw, stepping between the two sea-officers and smiling nervously at Vansittart, 'damn me, Vansittart, we will have our work cut out to keep such hotheads from tearing each other to pieces. Tis as well they put these fellows under orders, or what would become of the peace of the world?'