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the foot patrols for help. I want a crew aboard this cutter after Christmas.’
    Drinkwater acknowledged the sense of Griffiths’s draconian measures. His commander had somewhat anticipated the festive season, if his high colouring and desire to talk were anything to go by.
    ‘And let the pawn shops know the people are being paid. That way their women might get to hear of it and it may not all go down the drain.’ He paused to drink, then reached into his tail pocket. ‘Here, this was given me at the port admiral’s office.’ He pulled out a crumpled letter and held it out. The superscription was in a familiar hand.
    ‘Thank you, sir.’ Drinkwater took the letter and turned it over, impatient for the privacy of his own cabin. Griffiths hoisted himself on to his settee and closed his eyes. Drinkwater made to leave.
    ‘Oh, Mr Drinkwater,’ an eye opened. ‘The importunate ninny with an undeserved cockade who gave me that letter told me I ought to give you leave over Christmas.’ Drinkwater paused, looking from the letter to Griffiths. ‘I do not hold with such impertinence.’ There was a long silence during which the eye slowly closed. Drinkwater stepped puzzled into the lobby.
    ‘You can take leave when that t’gallant yard is crossed, Mr Drinkwater, and not a moment sooner.’
    Half smiling Drinkwater closed the door and slipped into his own cubbyhole. He hastily slit the wafer and began to read.
    My Darling Nathaniel,
    I write in haste. Richd White called on me today on his way to see Sir S. Smith’s prize agent at Portsmouth and promised to collect a letter for you on his return this evening. He is expectant of seeing you in Plymouth I understand. Thank you for yours of 29th. The news that you are likely to be idle at Plymouth combines with my great anxiety and apprehension I feel over the news of France and I worry greatly. Should it be true that war is likely as Richd is convinced, I cannot miss an opportunity to see my dearest. Please meet 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.
    ‘I booked your room, zur, at Wilson’s like you axed, zur, an’ beggin’ your pardon, zur, but the London mail’s delayed.’
    ‘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 her man. 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.
    ‘No, zur. It ain’t that, er, zur, I was wondering if I could
    ‘ He hung his head.
    ‘I expect you aboard by dawn on the