A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Read Free Book Online

the London mail Christmas Eve. Until then, my love
,
    I remain, Ever your Devoted Wife
,
    Elizabeth
    Drinkwater grinned to himself in anticipation. Perhaps his judgement of White had been a trifle premature. Only a friend would have thought of that. Warmed by his friend’s solicitude and happy that he was soon to see Elizabeth he threw himself into the refitting of the cutter with enthusiasm. And for a time the shadow of war receded from his mind.
    The topgallant yard was crossed, braced and the new sail sent up and bent on by the 23rd December. By the morning of Christmas Eve the rigging was set up. Drinkwater notified the clerk of the cheque and he sent a shrivelled little man with a bound chest, a marine guard and a book as big as a hatch-board to pay the cutter’s people. By noon the harbour watch had been set and
Kestrel
was almost deserted, many of her crew of volunteers being residents of Plymouth. Free of duty Drinkwater hurried below to shift his coat, ship his hanger and then made his way ashore. He was met by Tregembo who knuckled his forehead ablaze in all the festive finery of a tar, despite the chill, with a beribboned hat and blue monkey jacket spangled with brass buttons, a black kerchief at his muscular neck, and feet shoved awkwardly into cheap pumps.
    â€˜I booked your room, zur, at Willson’s, like you axed, zur, an’ beggin’ your pardon, zur, but the London mail’s delayed.’
    â€˜Damn!’ Drinkwater fished in his pocket for a coin, aware of Tregembo looking nervously over his shoulder. Behind him stood a girl of about twenty, square built and sturdy, slightly truculent in the presence of the officer, as though embarrassed for the station of herman. The red ribbon in her hair was carelessly worn, as though new purchased and tied with more ardour than art. ‘Here,’ he began to fish for another coin. Tregembo flushed.
    â€˜No, zur. It ain’t that, er, zur, I was wondering if I could . . .’ He hung his head.
    â€˜I expect you aboard by dawn on the 26th or I’ll have every foot patrol in Plymouth out for a deserter.’ Drinkwater saw the look of relief cross Tregembo’s face.
    â€˜Thank ’ee, zur, and a merry Christmas to you an’ Mrs Drinkwater.’
    Elizabeth arrived at last, wearied by her journey and worried over the possibility of war. They greeted each other shyly and there was a reticence about them, as if their previous intimacies were not to be repeated until released from their present preoccupations. But the wine warmed them and their own company insulated them at last against the world outside, so that it was breakfast of Christmas morning before Elizabeth first spoke of what troubled her.
    â€˜Do you think war is likely, Nathaniel?’
    Drinkwater regarded the face before him, the frown on the broad sweep of the brow, the swimmingly beautiful brown eyes and the lower lip of her wide mouth caught apprehensively in her teeth. He was melted with pity for her, aware that for him war might have its terrible compensations and grim opportunities, whereas for her it offered the corrosion of waiting. Perhaps for the remainder of her life. He wanted to lie to her, to tell her everything would be all right, to soothe her fears with platitudes. But that would be contemptible. Leaving her with a false half-hope would be worse than the truth.
    He nodded. ‘Everyone is of the opinion that if the French invade Holland it is most likely. For my own part, Bess, I promise you this, I shall be circumspect and take no unnecessary risks. Here,’ he reached out for the coffee pot, ‘let us drink a toast to ourselves and to our future. I shall try for my commission and at the present rate of progress, retire a half-pay commander, superannuated through old age to bore you with tales of my exploits . . .’ He saw her lips twist. Elizabeth, bless her, was gently mocking him.
    He grinned back. ‘I shall