A King's Cutter by Richard Woodman Page B

stiff with blood. Drinkwater realised he could only see through one eye, that a crust of dried blood filled his right ear. He tried to sit up, feeling his head spin.
    ‘Ah, Mr Drinkwater, you are with us again
    ‘ Drinkwater got himself into a sitting position. Griffiths nodded to the biscuit barrel on the locker. ‘Take some biscuits and a little cognac
    you will mend in an hour or so.’ Drinkwater complied, avoiding too protracted a look at the several wounded lying gasping about the cabin.
    ‘A big butcher’s bill, Mr Drinkwater, Diamond’s surgeon is coming over
    Eight killed and fifteen wounded badly
    ‘ A hint of reproach lay in Griffiths’s eyes.
    ‘But the lugger, sir?’ Drinkwater found his voice a croak and remembered himself screaming like a male banshee.
    ‘Rest easy, you took the lugger.’ Griffiths finished bandaging a leg and signalled the messman to drag the inert body clear of the table. ‘When you’ve recovered yourself I want you to take charge of her, Jessup’s fitting things up at the moment. I’ve my own reasons for not wanting a frigate’s mate sent over.’
    On deck Drinkwater looked about him. It was quite light now and the wind was freshening. The squadron was hove to, the coast of France blue grey to the south of them. Arethusa and Diamond lay-to apparently unscathed, as were the two transports. But the French corvette, her tricolour fluttering beneath the British ensign, had lost a topmast, was festooned in loose rigging with a line of gunports opened into one enormous gash. Her bulwarks were cut up and she had about her an air of forlorn hopelessness.
    Kestrel’s own deck showed signs of enemy fire. A row of stiffened hammocks lay amidships, eight of them. Her bulwarks were jagged with splinters while aloft her topmast was wounded and her topsail yard hung down in two pieces which banged against the mast as she rolled. A party of men were lowering the spar to the deck.
    Tregembo rolled up, a grin on his face. ‘We did for ‘em proper ‘andsome, zur.’ He nodded cheerfully to starboard where eighty yards distant the lugger lay a shambles. Her rails were almost entirely shot away. That first, double-shotted broadside had been well laid. With her rails had gone the chains and she had rolled her topmasts over the side. Tendrils of blood could still be seen running down her brown sides.
    ‘Oh, my God,’ whispered Drinkwater to himself.
    ‘Ay, there’ll be some widders in St Malo tonight I’m thinking, zur
    ‘
    ‘How many were killed aboard her, Tregembo, d’you know?’ Drinkwater asked, knowing the mutual comprehension of the Cornish and Bretons.
    ‘I heard she had ninety-four zouls on board, zur, an’ we counted four dozen still on their legs. Mr Jezup’s got his mate Short over there along of him, keeping order.’ Tregembo smiled again. Short was the more ruthless of Kestrel’s two bosun’s mates and on a bigger ship would have become a brutal bully. ‘Until you’m ready to take over, zur.’ Tregembo concluded with relish. Mr Drinkwater had been a veritable fury in last night’s fight. He had been just the same in the last war, Tregembo had told his cronies, a terrible man once he got his dander up.
    The boat bearing Diamond’s surgeon arrived and Appleby climbed wearily aboard. He stared at Drinkwater unblinking, shaking his head in detached disapproval as he looked about the bloody deck.
    ‘Devil’s work, Nathaniel, damned devil’s work,’ was all he said by way of greeting and Drinkwater was too tired to answer as Appleby had his bag passed up. He took passage in Diamond’s boat across to the lugger.
    The shambles apparent from Kestrel’s deck was ten times worse upon that of the lugger. In an exhausted state Drinkwater stumbled round securing loose gear, assessing the damage and putting the chasse marée in a fit state to make sail. He avoided the sullen eyes of her captive crew and found himself staring at a small bundle of bunting. It was made