Occupied with such thoughts he was unaware that he had consumed the greater part of the sandwiches single handed.
Isaac Bower and his daughter showed some surprise.
'Pardon me for the liberty, sir, but you have not eaten for some time?'
'I have not eaten like this for near a twelvemonth, sir…' smiled Drinkwater unabashed.
'But on board ship you eat like gentlemen and keep a good table?'
Drinkwater gave a short laugh. He told them of what his diet consisted. When the parson showed a shocked surprise he learned himself how ignorant the people of Britain were as to the condition of their seamen. The old man was genuinely upset and questioned the midshipman closely on the food, daily routines and duties of the respective persons aboard a man o'war, punctuating Drinkwater's replies with 'Pon my soul' and 'Well, well, well' and copious sighs and shakings of his venerable head. As for Drinkwater he discoursed with the enthusiastic and encyclopaedic knowledge of the professional proselyte who had done nothing but imbibe the details of his employment. His picture of life on a frigate, though slightly lurid and excusably self-important, was, once sifted by the old man's shrewdness, not far from the truth.
While the men talked Elizabeth refilled their cups and studied her guest. Ignoring the soiled state of the linen about his neck and wrists she found him presentable enough. His mop of dark hair was drawn carelessly back into a queue and framed a face that had weathered to a pale tan, a tan that accentuated the premature creases around his eyes. These were of a cloudy grey, like the sky over the Lizard in a sou' westerly gale, and they were shadowed by the blue bruises of fatigue and worry.
As he talked his face blazed with infectious enthusiasm and a growing self-confidence that, if it was not apparent to its owner, was clear to Elizabeth.
For she was more than the sheltered daughter of a country parson. She had experienced near poverty since her father had lost his living some two years previously. He had unwisely attacked the profligacy of his patron's heir and suffered the heir's revenge when that worthy succeeded suddenly to the estate. The death of his wife shortly afterwards had left Bower with the child of their declining years to bring up unaided.
In the event the girl had matured quickly and assumed the burden of housekeeping without demur. Although brought up in the shadow of her father's profession, the hardships and rigours of life had not left her untouched. In his younger days Bower had been an active man, committed to his flock. Within the circumscribed world of a country parish events had served to temper Elizabeth's growing character. Much of her adolescence had been spent nursing her consumptive mother and during the last weeks of her life Elizabeth had come face to face with the concomitants of sickness and death.
As she contemplated the ruins of a fruit cake that would have lasted the parson and herself a week, she found herself smiling. She too felt grateful for the tea-party. Drinkwater had blown in with some of the freshness of youth absent from her life until that moment. It was a refreshing change from the overbearing bombast of the red-faced squireens, or the languid indolence of the garrison infantry officers who had been until then almost the only eligible members of the male sex that she had met. She detected a sympathy about the young man sitting opposite, a sensitivity in him; something contained in his expression and given emphasis by the early lines appearing on his face, the umbra of nervous strain about his eyes.
At last the discussion ceased. Both men were, by now, firm friends. Drinkwater apologised for monopolising the conversation and ignoring his hostess.
'It is quite unnecessary to apologise, Mr Drinkwater, since my father has too little of such stimulating talk.' She smiled again. 'Indeed I am glad that you have come, albeit in such circumstances.' With a little pang of conscience Drinkwater remembered he had that afternoon attended a funeral.
'Thank you, Miss Bower.'
'But tell me, Mr Drinkwater, in all these comings and goings did you not feel afraid?'
Drinkwater answered without hesitation. 'Aye greatly… as I told your father earlier… but I think fear may be the mainspring of courage…' he paused. It was suddenly imperative that he convey exactly what he meant. He did not wish the young woman opposite to misunderstand, to misjudge him.
'Not that I wish to boast of courage, but I found the more I feared the consequences of inactivity, the more I found the… the resolve to do my utmost to alter our circumstances. In this I was most ably supported by the other members of the prize crew.'
She smiled without coquetry.
Nathaniel basked in the radiance of that smile. It seemed to illuminate the whole room.
The cake consumed, the tea drunk and the conversation lapsing into the silences of companionable surfeit Drinkwater rose. The sun was westering and the room already full of shadows. He took his leave of the parson. The old man pressed his hand.
'Goodbye my boy. Please feel free to call upon us any time you are in Falmouth, though I do not yet know how much longer we shall be here.' His face clouded briefly with uncertainty then brightened again as he took the young man's hand. 'May God bless you, Nathaniel…'
Drinkwater turned away strangely moved. He bowed towards Elizabeth.
'Y'r servant, Miss Bower…'
She did not answer but turned to her father. 'I shall see Mr Drinkwater to the gate, father, do you sit and rest for you look tired after your long talk.' The old man nodded and wearily resumed his seat.
Elated at thus receiving a moment or two alone with the girl Drinkwater followed Elizabeth as she moved ahead of him, flinging a shawl about her shoulders as she left the house.
She opened the gate and stepped down into the lane. He stood beside her, looking down into her face and fumbling with his hat, suddenly miserable with the knowledge that he had enjoyed his simple tea with all its reminders of home and English domesticity. But it was more than that. It had been the presence of this girl that had made the afternoon and evening so memorable. He swallowed hard.
'Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Bower…'
The air was heavy with the scent of foliage. In the gathering gloom of the Cornish lane fern fronds curled like fingers of pale green fire in the crevices of rocks that marked the boundary of the glebe. Overhead swifts screamed and swooped.
'Thank you for your very kind hospitality, Miss Bower…' She smiled and held out her hand. He grasped it eagerly, holding her eyes with an exhilarating boldness.
'Elizabeth…' she said defying the bounds of propriety yet leaving her hand intensely passive in his firm grip, 'please call me Elizabeth…'
'Then call me Nathaniel…' They paused, uncertainly. For a second the spectre of awkwardness hovered between them. Then they smiled and laughed simultaneously.
'I thought…' she began.
'Yes…?'
'I thought… I hoped you would not disappear completely… it would be pleasant to see you again…'
In answer Nathaniel raised her hand to his lips. He felt again the coolness of her flesh, not the coolness of rejection but the balm of serenity.
'I am,' he said with absolute conviction, 'your very devoted servant, Elizabeth…' He held her hand a moment longer and turned away.
He looked back once before the lane bent away in descent. He could see her face pale in the twilight, and the flutter of her hand raised in farewell.
That night Algonquin seemed to him a prison…
Chapter Eleven
Interlude
August — October 1780
It was autumn before Drinkwater rejoined Cyclops. News had arrived in England of the defection of Benedict Arnold to the King's cause and the consequent shameful hanging of Major John Andre. To Drinkwater, however, languishing at Plymouth, it scarcely seemed possible that a ferocious war was taking place at all.
Arriving in that port with Algonquin he had been swiftly dispossessed of the schooner which passed to the port admiral's hands. He found himself with Stewart, Sharples and the rest, kicking his heels on the guardship. This vess
el, an obsolete 64-gun battleship, was overcrowded and stinking, filled with newly-pressed seamen awaiting ships and young officers like himself daily expecting the return of their own vessels or the arrival of new posting. The conditions on board necessitated the vessel being run like a prison and the consequent corruption found in those institutions therefore prevailed. Gambling, rat-baiting and cockfighting were clandestinely practised. Drunken and sexual orgies took place almost nightly and the enforced idleness of twelve hundred and seventy men gave the devil's agents excessive scope for improvisation.
From command of his own ship Drinkwater became less than nothing, one of many midshipmen and master's mates with sufficient time to reflect on the paradoxes of a sea officer's career.
It was a dismal time for him. The thought of Elizabeth Bower plagued him. Falmouth was not too far away. He panicked at the thought of her father's interregnum ending and the pair being sent God knew where. He had never been in love before and submitted to the self-centred lassitude of the besotted in an atmosphere utterly conducive to the nurturing of such unsociable emotions.
Week succeeded week and the period was one of utter misery.
Yet in its way the amorous depression that accompanied the congested privation served to keep him away from other more immediate amusements. His romantic preoccupations encouraged him to read, or at least to daydream over, such books as the guard-ship possessed.
As time passed the memory of Elizabeth faded a little and he read more diligently. He spent some of his small stock of gold on books purchased from messmates needing ready cash for betting. In this way he acquired a copy of Robertson's 'Elements of Navigation' and one of Falconer, reflecting that the money, some loose Spanish coin he had found on Algonquin and rightly the property of the crown, was being correctly spent on the training of a King's officer and not lining the pockets of an Admiralty lackey.
After ten weeks of ennui Drinkwater had a stroke of luck. One morning an elaborately decorated cutter anchored in Jennycliff Bay. A boat pulled over to the guardship with a request to the commanding officer for the loan of one master's mate or midshipman. It so happened that the second mate of the cutter had been taken ill and her master required a replacement for a few days.
By chance Drinkwater happened to be on deck and the first person the lieutenant dispatched to find a 'volunteer' clapped eyes on. Within minutes he was in the cutter's gig and being rowed across the steely waters of the Sound. A sprinkling rain began to patter on the water.
The boat rounded the cutter's stern and Drinkwater looked up to see the state cabin windows richly ornamented with gilt work and a coat of arms consisting of four ships quartered by St George's Cross. The ensign at the vessel's stern was red and bore a similar device in the fly. The officer in charge of the boat, who happened to be the mate of the cutter, explained that she was the Trinity House Yacht, bound to the Scillies to attend St Agnes lighthouse.
Drinkwater had heard of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House who maintained buoys in the Thames estuary and some lighthouses around the coast. However his main source of information had been Blackmore. As a sailing master in the Royal Navy Blackmore had had to suffer examination by the Brethren, who passed the navy's navigators, before he could obtain his warrant. Blackmore, the former master of a Baltic trader had resented the fact and commented somewhat acidly on the practice.
However Drinkwater was immediately impressed by the immaculate appearance of the Trinity Yacht. The crew, all volunteers exempt from the press-gang, were smart and well fed when compared with the Royal Navy's raggamuffins. The master, one John Poulter, seemed a pleasant man and welcomed Drinkwater cordially. On explaining his lack of clothing (since his chest remained on Cyclops) the master offered him fresh ducks, a tarpaulin and a pea jacket.
A great sensation of relief flooded over Drinkwater as he settled into his tiny cabin. He luxuriated in the privacy which, although he had partaken of it aboard Algonquin, had not been without the worrying responsibility of command. Until that moment he had not realised the extent of the guardship's oppression upon his spirit.
Later he went on deck. It was now raining steadily. The Cawsand shore was blurred into grey mist but the rain fell with the hiss of freedom. Pulling the tarpaulin round him he examined the vessel. She was sturdily built and mounted a few swivel guns on either side. Her mainsail was clearly larger than Algonquin's and she had a solider, more permanent feel about her. This was due to her oak construction and opulent appointments, for she fairly dripped with gilt gingerbread-work. Her spars gleamed even in the dreary weather and Drinkwater examined the details of her rigging with great interest.
Captain Poulter had come on deck and walked over to him.
'Well, cully, had much experience with this kind of vessel?' His accent was unmistakably that of the capital.
'Not a cutter, sir, but I was lately prize-master of a schooner.'
'Good. I hope I shall not detain you long from the King's business but I am bound for the Scilly Islands with Captain Calvert to examine the lighthouse there. Perhaps a King's officer may find that interesting.' Drinkwater detected the flicker of insinuation in Poulter's voice. He recognised it as a device used by old Blackmore and other merchant masters who resented the navy's social superiority. To his credit he coloured.
'To tell the truth, sir, I am greatly obliged to you for removing me from yonder guardship. Methought I might die of boredom before I saw action again.'
'That's well,' said Poulter turning to windward and sniffing the air. 'Plague on this damn coast. It's always raining.'
The Trinity Yacht left Plymouth two days later. August had passed into September. The rain had given way to windy, mist-laden days. But the weather had no power to depress the young midshipman's spirits. After the claustrophobic atmosphere of the guardship, service on the Trinity Yacht was stimulating in the extreme. Here was a fine little ship run as efficiently as a first-rate without the lash and human degradation prevalent in His Majesty's service.
Captain Poulter and his mate proved generous instructors and Drinkwater quickly learned more of the subtleties of handling the fore and aft rig of the big cutter than he had mastered aboard Algonquin.
He found Captain Anthony Calvert willing to discourse with him, even interested to hear how Drinkwater would undertake certain navigational problems. He joined the Elder Brother and Poulter at dinner one evening. Calvert was treated with as much deference as Drinkwater had seen accorded to Admiral Kempenfelt. Indeed the captain flew his own flag at the cutter's masthead, although his privileges and responsibilities were considered to be exterior to the management of the yacht. Nevertheless he proved to be an interesting and interested man. As the cutter bucked her way to the west Drinkwater found himself recounting the story of the recapture of the Algonquin. At midnight Drinkwater left Poulter and Calvert to relieve the mate. It was still blowing hard, the night black, wet and inhospitable.
The mate had to bellow in Drinkwater's ear as he passed over the position and course.
'Keep her off on the starboard tack another hour. You're well off the Wolf Rock now but keep a sharp lookout when you stand north. We should be well west of it by now but the flood's away and will be fierce as the devil's eyebrows with this wind behind it. Ye'll be well advised to use caution.'
'Aye, aye,' replied Drinkwater, shouting back to the black figure whose tarpaulin ran with rain and spray. He was left to the night ruminating on the dangers of the unmarked Wolf. This totally isolated pinnacle of rock was, with the Eddystone, the most feared danger to mariners on the south coast of England. Continually swept by swells on even the calmest days it was to be 1795 before an abortive attempt was made to erect a beacon on it. This structure collapsed at the first gale and it was to be a generation before a permanent seamark was finally grouted into that formidable outcrop.
It was claimed by some that in certain sea conditions a subterraneous cavern produced a howling noise and this had given the rock its name, but, howling noise or no
t, nothing could have been heard that night above the roar of the gale and the creak and crash of the Trinity Yacht as she drove to the south-south-west.
Poulter had put four reefs into the enormous mainsail before dark. He was in no hurry since he wished to heave to off the Scillies to observe the light at St Agnes. It was for this purpose Calvert had journeyed from London.
At two bells Drinkwater prepared to put about on to the port tack. Before doing so he went forward to inspect the headsails. The staysail was reefed down but out on the long bowsprit a small spitfire jib stood against the gale. Drinkwater had learned that to balance the huge mainsail a jib had to be kept as near the end of the bowsprit as conditions permitted. He watched the big spar stab at a wave-crest even as the bow he stood on pitched down off its predecessor. Beneath him the figurehead of a lion guardant disappeared in a welter of white water that rolled hissing away from the cutter's steadily advancing stem.
He returned aft, calling the watch to their stations, glanced at the compass then up at Calvert's flag standing out from the masthead like a board. Two men leaned against the big tiller. He shouted at them:
'Down helm!' They grunted with exertion.
The yacht's heel reduced, she came upright, her canvas slatting madly, cracking like thunder. The hull swooped and ducked as she met the seas head on.
Drinkwater bit his lip. She took her time passing through the eye of the wind but her crew clearly knew their business. His orders were as much for his own satisfaction as the vessel's management. As she paid slowly off to starboard the little spitfire jib was held aback. The wind caught it and suddenly it exerted its tremendous leverage at the extremity of the bowsprit. The cutter spun on her heel, the mainsail filled, then the staysail was hauled over. Finally the weather jib sheet was started and the canvas cracked like a gun before it was tamed by the lee sheet. The yacht sped away to the north west and Drinkwater breathed a sigh of relief.
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