An Eye of the Fleet

Chapter Seven The Duel

On awakening next morning Drinkwater had only the haziest notions of turning in the previous night. He was not sure at what hour the Admiral had left for after his toast the evening had become a blur. The blue and white uniforms, the gold braid and pink faces seemed shrouded in more than tobacco smoke. Wheeler's scarlet coat and glittering gorget had glowed like a surrogate sun in the candlelight as they joked and laughed and became serious again. The conversation had turned on a variety of topics; had been general, then particular; bawdy then technical as the portions of the table concentrated, divided then joined again in a verbal tide.

The event had been a triumph for Henry Hope. As a crowning to the evening Blackmore had suggested a little music and word was passed for O'Malley. The diminutive Irish cook entered, stealing sidelong glances at the ruins of the meal and the empty bottles. He produced some sweet and melancholic airs after the fashion of the time which brought an appreciative silence to the table. He concluded to loud applause with a frantic jig from his native land which, drawn from the wild turbulence of his people, seemed to Drinkwater to summarise the exhilaration of that Moonlight Battle in which these genial fellows had taken such a part.

Little O'Malley had gone forward two guineas better off with a farewell whose obsequiousness was not that of sobriety but suggested that, in the course of roasting the very capons whose ruins he had so enviously regarded, he had partaken of 'pusser's dips'.

Despite the vague recollections of a successful evening Drinkwater woke to the disturbing sensation that all was not well. He had a headache due to the quite unaccustomed quantity of wine he had consumed but it was more than that. He groped in his mind for some memory that would give him a clue to his disquiet. At first he thought he had committed some impropriety. His stomach contracted at the thought of an indiscretion in front of the admiral. But the approach of a figure traversing the darkened orlop brought the memory back.

It was Morris coming to call him at one bell to stand the morning anchor watch. Morris's face was lit demoniacally by the lantern. The rest of his body was invisible in the blackness of the cockpit. This apparition finding Drinkwater awake was a very mask of malice which spat out a torrent of invective in a sibilant whisper. Nathaniel was transfixed with horror, a feeling made worse by his prone position. Jealousy and hate burned within Morris, contesting with the fear of Drinkwater's knowledge of himself. The resulting conflict of powerful emotion burned within him in a terrible, bullying anger.

'Come on admiral's lickspittle, get out of your hammock and convey your greasy arse on deck, damn you for a crawling get!'

Drinkwater made no reply, vulnerably shrinking within his blanket. For a second Morris's face hung over him, the malevolence in his eyes an almost physical force. In a sudden, swift movement Morris had a knife out, the lantern catching the dull glint of its blade. It was a micro second of suspense wherein Drinkwater suddenly, inexplicably, found himself drained of all fear. He simply tensed and awaited the inevitable…

Morris slashed with the knife. The hammock lashing parted and with a jarring crash Drinkwater landed on the deck. Fighting out of his blanket he found himself alone in the creaking darkness.

On deck a squall of rain skittered across Spithead and the wind behind it was cutting. Drinkwater shivered and drew his cloak closer around him. Dawn was not yet visible and Morris's figure was barely discernible, huddled in the paltry shelter of the mizen rigging.

The figure detached itself and approached Drinkwater. Morris's face, dark now, came close. The older midshipman gripped the arm of the younger. Spittle flecked offensively on to Drinkwater's cheek.

'Now listen,' hissed Morris, 'just because you are a crawling little bastard don't get any God-damned ideas about anything. Threddle hasn't forgotten his flogging and neither of us have forgotten Humphries. So don't forget what I'm saying. I mean it.' Morris's vehemence was irresistible. Drinkwater shrunk from the voice, from the spittle and the vicious grip upon his arm. Morris's knee came up into his groin. He gasped with pain. 'D'ye understand, God-damn you?' queried Morris, an undetected doubt in his voice.

'Y… yes,' whispered Drinkwater doubling with agony and nausea, his head swimming. Another figure loomed out of the rainswept darkness. For a terrifying moment Drinkwater thought it was Threddle but the voice of Tregembo asked, 'Everything air right, Mr Drinkwater?' He felt Morris freeze then relax as he straightened up. Tears flowed down his cheeks but he managed to steady his nerve enough to mutter, 'Yes thank you.'

In a clipped tone Morris handed over the watch. 'The lieutenants are excused watches tonight. Call all hands at three bells.' A quartermaster approached, the half-hour glass in his hand. The lower half was almost full.

'Eight bells, Mr Morris.'

'Make it so then.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Four o'clock in the morning.

When Morris had gone below Drinkwater went to the weather side. The rain stung and wet his face. He felt it with relief. The pain in his groin eased and his head felt less thick. Then a wave of nausea swept over him. The pain, the wine and the self-disgust caused him to vomit into the inky, hissing waters of Spithead. After that he felt better. He still stared to windward, his hands gripping the rail. His self-disgust rankled. Why had he not hit Morris back? Just once. He had to face the fact that he was scared, forgetful of the bold resolutions he had formulated and continually put off, pending a more propitious opportunity. He had one now. Morris had assaulted him. Hitherto he had lain low in the hope that by effacing himself Morris would leave him alone. But Morris could not do that…

The thing that he knew about Morris he devoutly wished he did not know. It was so disgusting that the very image of it, so vivid in his impressionable mind, was abominable to him.

Drinkwater was terrified of what he had seen almost more than of those who had been doing it. In that terror was submerged the realisation of the power he had over Morris. In Morris's aggression all Drinkwater saw was brutality. He failed to perceive the brutality masked fear. He saw nothing of the source, only the source's manifestation.

He was suddenly aware of someone alongside of him.

'H-h'm.' A voice coughed apologetically.

Drinkwater nervously began to move away. 'Beg pardon, zur…'

'Yes?'

'I saw what 'appened, zur. I saw 'im 'it 'ee… if you'm be wantin' a witness, zur.'

'No, Tregembo, thank you,' Drinkwater paused. He remembered that conversation with Tregembo in the Mediterranean. A brief memory of Humphries flashed in his brain, of Sharples and Threddle, and of the flogging Tregembo had received. Drinkwater looked hard at Tregembo… the seaman expected Drinkwater to thrash Morris, Tregembo would otherwise see Drinkwater as a coward…

Drinkwater suddenly recalled the moment when fear had left him not an hour earlier. A bold feeling swept over him. He could no longer suffer Morris's tyranny and determined to challenge his senior. It was a desperate throw but in such circumstances resolves are easily made, though less easily carried out. He forced a grim note into his voice. 'No Tregembo, this is a cockpit matter, as you said. I'll thank you to hold your tongue…'

The man backed away disappointed. He had mistimed his assistance to the young gentleman. Having conceived a respect for the midshipman, Tregembo had assumed that he sought a legitimate means to encompass the destruction of Morris. Tregembo remembered the Twenty-Ninth Article of War, if ever one man held the other in the palm of his hand Drinkwater held sway over Morris. Tregembo was puzzled. He had 'taken' to the youth and could not understand why some attack had not been made on Morris as he had seen many of the youngsters carry out from time to time on various ships. Tregembo was too blunt to be aware of Drinkwater's sensibilities just as Drinkwater was unaware that Morris's bullying concealed a pusillanimous soul, a fact that was very plain to Tregembo.

In the first glimmer of dawn Drinkwater saw the topman's crestfallen retreat.

'Tregembo!'

'Zur?' The man hesitated.

'Quietly have a word with one of the carpenter's mates to get two ash single sticks made up. Each thirty inches long, d'you understand?'

'Aye zur. And thank'ee.'

Drinkwater had not the slightest idea why Tregembo had thanked him but suddenly the rain fell sweet upon his upturned face.

The news of Cyclops's prize and the promise of allowing visitors on board made her the happiest vessel in the anchorage. Before the morning watch was over the hands, uncommonly cheerful, had swabbed her decks and flaked and coiled all the ropes. When Devaux appeared the brasswork already gleamed in a watery sunshine that promised a fair day after the dawn's wet beginning.

The men were already staring across the leaden water to Fort Gilkicker and Portsmouth Harbour. For days past hired punts and galleys had brought out women and children. Many were full of whores but there had been some with wives of both the churched and common law variety. They had made a forlorn sight, lying just clear of the ship's sides, exchanging unhappy waves or little snatches of conversation with the sailors until the bosun's mates or the officers had driven the men back to their work. The boats too were driven off either by the abuse of the ship's officers and marine sentries, or by the efforts of the guard-boats provided by the units of fleet themselves. This was an especial joy to the seamen who manned them for, if you are denied the pursuit of pleasure yourself there is a certain gratification in denying it to others.

Although Cyclops had commissioned at Chatham some of her company, volunteers mainly, had wives in the Portsmouth area. Occasionally a young wife would travel, at God knows what cost and on the chance that leave would be given to meet her man. But it was the other variety of female that most interested Cyclops's hands that pale morning. Today no guard-boat could interrupt them as they took their pleasure, a fact that was doubly appreciated by the messes as they broke their fast to the news that Meteor was rowing guard. It was a sweet revenge for their consort's debauch at Port Mahon.

In the gunroom Lieutenant Devaux presided over fresh coffee and toast in evident good humour. 'Well Appleby,' he said addressing the chubby surgeon, 'Why are you looking so damned glum?'

'The reason for my glumness is occasioned by my contemplation of the follies of mankind, Mr Devaux. Ah, yes, a cup of coffee would be most welcome, I thank you for your courtesy.' He sat in the chair indicated by the first lieutenant.

Devaux poured. 'The women, Mr Appleby?' enquired Devaux with a smile.

'The women, Mr Devaux,' replied the surgeon resignedly. 'And, of course — the men.'

Devaux laughed outright. 'Poor Appleby, we win or lose in action but you can never win, poor devil.'

'But you've plenty of mercury, I don't doubt, to cope with the inevitable problems?' interjected Lieutenant Price with a sense of nicety in which his sensibility fought a losing action with his curiosity.

Appleby drew a deep breath and Devaux knew he was about to deliver a lengthy peroration, for which he was notorious.

'Mr Price, the provision of mercury by My Lords Commissioners for the execution of the office of Lord High Admiral, I say the provision of mercury to ships of war is insufficient to combat the outbreak of a chronic dose of syphilis in all but the smallest vessels, since their Lordships have failed to take cognisance of the fact that vessels of the various rates have an increasing number in their complement in inverse proportion to the number of their rating.

'Now — by syphilis I mean that corrupting infection of the blood known colloquially as 'pox' (which euphemism scarcely moderates its effect upon the human body, but only serves to render its acquisition a little easier to the witless sailor who foolishly considers it no worse than the common cold, having been misapprehended by the employment of the common vernacular). Unfortunately he continues in this mind until, with unsteady tread and wandering mind, disfigured beyond his fellow's toleration, he is led raving to an asylum, to the inevitable shame of his family and the everlasting damnation of his immortal soul.' Devaux had heard it before.

'Furthermore,' Appleby continued as Devaux groaned. 'Furthermore, the administration of mercury, in my opinion, only serves to suppress the symptoms rendering the individual's life more agreeable, but enabling him to pass the contagion on to other partners undetected. In time, however, the bacilli attack essential organs and precipitate death by a stroke or other cessations of essential bodily functions.'

'Don't you consider the expression of lust an "essential bodily function"?' asked Devaux, winking at Price. The latter was exhibiting a distinct pallor.

'The Honourable John Devaux asks me a question to which a man of his erudition surely knows the answer.'

'The expression of lust is a natural manifestation of procreational urges which holy ordinances proclaim sanctified under the matrimonial coverlet. Nature did not intend its indiscriminate proliferation…'

'But it is, Bones,' interrupted Price again, rallying now the discussion was of a less medical nature.

'Aye, Mr Price, and so is the proliferation of the disease so lately under discussion. Surely a punishment from God.'

'Pah!' exploded Devaux at last exasperated by the doctor.

'Not "Pah!", sirrah,' droned on Appleby, undeterred. 'Consider the evidence. The appearance of Christ on this earth was followed by an expansion of the church under the divine felicity and a thousand years in which the Christian religion gained ground against paganism. Only when the Church of Rome reached a state of corruption offensive to God did the devil descend to tempt men's hearts with temporal arts, and produce what educated people are pleased to call the "renaissance". Off men went in search of "knowledge". And what did Columbus bring back from his fabulous Americas? Syphilis!'

'Bravo medico.' laughed Devaux sardonically. 'Such a simple deduction scarcely becomes a man of science whose profession descends from such self-same intellectual quest; who would be an indigent fellow without it and whose mind has such a high regard for its own opinions.'

'I cannot escape my time,' replied the good surgeon whose tragic tones were not ennobled by his pudgy frame.

'You sound like a God-damned Wesleyan, Appleby.'

'Maybe I have some sympathy with the man.'

'Hah! Then I'm damned if ye'll get any more coffee at my table. Yes, Drinkwater?' This last was addressed to the midshipman who had appeared at the gunroom door.

'Beg pardon, sir, but boats approaching.' The gleam in Devaux's eye was an eloquent endorsement of the accuracy of Appleby's forebodings.

'Thank you, Drinkwater.' The midshipman turned away. 'Oh, Drinkwater!'

'Sir?'

'Sit down, cully, and listen to some good advice,' said the first lieutenant indicating a vacant chair. Drinkwater sat and looked at the two lieutenants with a bewildered expression on his face. 'Mr Appleby has something to say to you, haven't you Appleby?'

Appleby nodded, marshalled his facts and began cannonading the midshipman.

'Now young man, the first lieutenant is alluding to a contagion which is best and successfully avoided by total abstinence…'

For a second Devaux watched the look of horror cross Drinkwater's face, then, clapping the tricorne on his head and waving Price out behind him, the two lieutenants quit the gunroom.

'… total… abstinence to which end I do earnestly implore you to bend and address your best endeavours…'

The arrival of the women brought all hands on deck. Men craned over the hammock nettings, leaned from gunports and ascended the lower rigging to leer at the wherries bobbing alongside.

The hands gave no thought to the fact that what was to follow was no substitute for proper shore leave, something they could not have for fear they might desert. The immediate preoccupation was a debauch.

Women and gin were aboard.

Whilst Wheeler and his marines made a token effort to maintain order the usage of the service permitted all classes of women to board and all offences of drunkenness and fornication to be ignored. It was inevitable therefore that the greater part of the women were whores and that the mess-deck deteriorated instantly into an inferno of desperate debauchery. The women were of various ages: tired, painted and blowsy doxies in worn and soiled dresses whose vernacular was as explicit as 'Jolly Jacks', and younger molls, their youth blown on the winds of experience, their eyes dull with the desperate business of survival.

Some few were bona fide wives. The older among them used to their sisters in trade, the two or three younger astonished and shocked at the dim squalor of the gun-deck. Where, perhaps, a poor counting-house clerk had been pressed into the service his wife, possessing some slender claim to gentility, found her husband living in the vilest conditions. Such women instantly became a butt for the others to vent their coarse wit upon, which was a double tragedy since their husbands had probably just managed to live down their genteel origins. Legitimate wives were quickly recognised by their demeanour at the entry port, for they waved chits and passes at the marine sentries.

These genuine spouses looked earnestly for their husbands and avoided the leering and grasping propositions of others. For several such wives their journey ended in battle royal. Not expecting their spouses, men were engaged in coupling with whores. One enormous creature, the churched wife of a yeoman of sheets, found her man thus occupied between two twelve pounders. She belaboured his heaving buttocks with the tattered remnants of a parasol. A stream of filthy invective poured from her and she was quickly surrounded by a mass of cheering seamen and harlots who egged the trio on. The wife ceased her beating and took a long pull at a gin bottle someone held out to her. In the interval her husband finished his business and, to a cheer, the girl wriggled out from beneath him, hastily covering herself. She held out her hand for money but changed her mind when she saw the expression in the wife's eyes. She dodged under the barrel of the adjacent cannon as the offended lady screeched at her, 'Try and take the money that's mine ye painted trollop, why, ye don't know y're business well enough to axe fur it fust!'

At this remark the yeoman caught his wife's arm and slapped her across the mouth with 'And how in hell's name ud youm be knowin' that, my Polly?'

The crowd melted away for this was now a domestic matter and not the common property of the gun-deck.

All day the ebb and flow of liaisons took place. What little money the men had soon found its way into the pockets of the women. Mr Copping, the purser, in the manner of his race, set up a desk at which the eager men could sign a docket relinquishing a portion of their pay or prize money for an advance of cash. Many thus exceeded the dictates of prudence, the favours of a woman being a most urgent requirement. Thus were pursers a hated breed, though rarely a poor one.

Meteor rowed a dismal guard around Cyclops. Occasionally a bottle or a woman's drawers would be thrown out of an open gun-port to an accompaniment of cheers and shrieks. The cutter's crew visibly smouldered and at one point she ran in and hailed the quarterdeck. The master's mate in charge of the boat was livid.

'Sir,' he yelled at Lieutenant Keene. 'Yer men show no respect. There are three of them baring their arses at me from yer gun-ports…'

Appleby joined the chuckling lieutenant who disdained to reply.

'Sure you did not bare yours at Mahon, mister?' enquired the surgeon.

There was no reply. 'That found its mark, eh lieutenant?' said Appleby as the man looked sulkily away.

'If the ship offends ye, sirrah, row guard round the rest of the fleet. Ye'll get little pickings from this lot!'

The master's mate spat overside and snarled at his boat's crew, 'Give way you damned lubbers.'

During the forenoon the wife of the man Sharples made her appearance at the entry port. She was very young and, though few knew it, had made the journey from Chatham purely on the chance of seeing her husband. The journey had taken a week and her expectant condition had made of it a nightmare.

But Sharples had seen her board and embraced her at the entry port amid the sentimental cheers of his messmates. No one had seen the sour look on the face of Mr Midshipman Morris who happened to be passing at the time. No one, that is, except Tregembo who, by another coincidence, was in search of Morris.

As Sharples and his wife, clasped together, stepped over the prostrate, active bodies, oblivious of the parodies of love enacted all about them, Tregembo stepped up to Morris and touched his forelock.

'Beg pardon, Mr Morris,' said Tregembo with exaggerated politeness, 'Lieutenant Keene's orders and will ye take the launch over to flag for orders.'

Morris snarled at Tregembo then a gleam of viciousness showed in his eyes. Calling a bosun's mate known for 'starting' he strode forward. As he went he called men's names. They were the least desirable of Cyclops's company. A few, otherwise engaged, told him to go to the devil, one or two he let off, the rest he left to the bosun's mate.

At the forward end of the gun-deck Morris ran his quarry to earth. Sharples and his wife lay on the deck. Her head was pillowed on his hammock and her face wore a look of unbelieving horror. Her man, father of her unborn child whose image she had cherished, lay sobbing in her arms. The whole foul story of Morris had poured out of him for there was no way he could be a man to her until he had unburdened himself. Sharples was unaware of the presence of Morris until the author of his misfortune had been standing over the pair for a whole minute.

'Sharples!' called Morris in a voice which cut through the unhappy man's monologue. 'You are required for duty.'

The girl knew instinctively the identity of the intruder and struggled to her knees. 'No! No!' she protested.

Morris grinned. 'Are you questioning my orders?'

The girl faced Morris, biting her lip.

'I can report you for obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty. The punishment is a flogging… your husband is already guilty of disobeying orders in having a hammock out of the nettings…' He spat the words in her face. This threat to his wife revived Sharples who pulled his wife gently aside.

'W-what orders, Mr Morris?'

'Man the launch.'

The topman hesitated. He was not in the boat's crew. 'Aye, aye;' then turning to his wife he whispered 'I'll be back.'

The girl collapsed sobbing on the deck and one of the older women, to whom midshipmen were small fry, put an arm around her. A stream of filth followed Morris down the deck.

The launch was absent three hours. After a while the girl, disgusted with the scenes on the gun-deck, sought fresh air and light on deck. Finding her way to the forward companionway she groped her way to the starboard side where she made a little bright patch against the coils of black hemp belayed and hung upon the pinrail.

Staring out over the bright waters of Spithead she touched the life quickening within her. Her heart was full to bursting with her misery. The horrors of her week-long journey rose again before her at a time when she had thought to be burying them in happiness. Shame for her man and for herself, shame for the unborn child and for the depths of degradation to which one human could subject another welled up within her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

Her eyes stared out unseeing at the ships lying to the tide. She was a small, broken piece of the price Britain paid for its naval puissance.

It was some time before old Blackmore noticed the lonely figure forward. He had relieved Keene of the deck and soon sent Drinkwater to turn the woman below again. Blackmore, trained in the merchant service, retained his civilian prejudice for refusing women leave to come on board. He sighed. In the merchant service a master gave his crew shore leave. If they wished to visit a brothel that was their affair, but they could be relied upon to return to their ship. The navy's fear of desertion prevented any liberty and resulted in the drunken orgy at present in progress between decks. If the old sailing master could do nothing to alter the crazy logic of Admiralty he was damned if he would have the upper deck marred by the presence of a whore.

Drinkwater approached the girl. In her preoccupation she did not hear him. He coughed and she turned, only to blench at his uniform. She drew back against the coils of hemp imagining Morris's threat of a flogging about to be carried out.

'Excuse me ma'am,' began Drinkwater, unsure of himself. The woman was obviously distressed. 'The Master's compliments and would you please to go below…'

She looked at him uncomprehending.

'Please ma'am,' the midshipman pleaded, 'None of you, er, ladies are permitted above decks.' She began to perceive his meaning and his embarrassment. Her courage rallied. Here was one she could answer back.

'D'you think I'm one of them 'arlots?' she asked indignantly. Drinkwater stepped back and the girl gained more spirit from his discomfiture.

'I'm a proper wife, Mrs Sharples to the likes o'you, and I journeyed a week to see my 'usband Tom…' she hesitated and Drinkwater tried to placate her.

'Then, please ma'am, will ye go to Sharples and bide with him.'

She rose in scorn. 'Aye willingly, Mister Officer, if ye'd return him to me but he's out there…' she waved over the side, 'off in a boat, an' me with child and a week on the road only to find 'im beat and, and…' here she could not bring herself to say more and her courage failed her. She stepped forward and fainted into the arms of a confused Drinkwater. Then in an intuitive flash he realised she knew of her husband's humiliation.

He called aft for Appleby and the surgeon puffed up along the gangway. A glance took in the lady's condition and her nervous state. Appleby chafed her wrists and sent Drinkwater off for sal volatile from his chest. A few minutes later the girl recovered consciousness. Blackmore had come up and demanded an explanation. Having made an enquiry on passing through the gun-deck en route to the surgeon's chest, Drinkwater was able to tell the master that Sharples had gone off in the launch with Morris. 'But the man's not in the launch crew.'

'I know, Mr Blackmore,' replied Drinkwater.

'Did Morris single him out?'

'It appears so, sir.' Drinkwater shrugged and bit his lip.

'D'ye have any idea why?' asked Blackmore, shrewdly noticing the midshipman's face shadowed by doubtful knowledge. Drinkwater hesitated. It was more eloquent than words.

'Come on now, young shaver, if ye know, let's have it out.'

The midshipman swallowed hard. He looked at the distressed girl, golden curls fell about a comely face and she looked like a damsel in distress. Drinkwater burnt his boats.

'Morris has been buggering her husband,' he said in a low voice.

'And Sharples?' enquired Blackmore.

'He was forced, sir…'

Blackmore gave Drinkwater another hard look. He did not have to ask more. Long experience had taught him what had occurred. Morris would have bullied Drinkwater, may even have offered him physical violence or worse. The old man was filled with a loathing for this navy that ran on brutality.

'Let the lady get some air,' said Blackmore abruptly and turned aft for the quarterdeck.

When the launch returned Sharples was reunited with his wife. He had endured three hours of abuse and ridicule from Morris and his boat's crew.

Having delivered the Admiral's orders Morris made his way to the cockpit.

Drinkwater had also been relieved and going below he met Tregembo. The Cornishman was grinning. He held in his hand two ash sticks, each three feet long, with a guard of rattan work obviously untwisted from one of the blacksmith's withy chisels. 'Here, zur,' said Tregembo. Drinkwater took the sticks.

Drinkwater looked at Tregembo. He had better let the man know what had happened on the upper deck before it became known below.

'The Master knows Morris has been buggering Sharples, Tregembo. You'd better watch Threddle…'

A cloud crossed the Cornishman's face and then he brightened again. The midshipman was not such a disappointment after all.

'Ye'll thrash him easy, zur. Good luck…' Drinkwater continued below. He had uttered words that could hang a man, words that he would never have dared to utter at home. And now he felt ice cold, apprehensive but determined…

In the cockpit Morris and the other midshipmen were eating, mugs of ale at their places. The messman produced a plate for Drinkwater. He waved it aside, went to his place and, standing, cleared his throat.

'H'hmm.' Nobody took any notice. The blood pounded in his throat and adrenaline poured into his blood stream. But still he was cool. 'Mr Morris!' he shouted. He had their attention now.

'Mr Morris. This morning you threatened me and struck me…' A master's mate put his head in through the canvas door. The tableau was lit by two lanterns even at 2 p.m. here in the orlop. The air crackled with tension. Two master's mates were now looking on.

Morris rose slowly to his feet. Drinkwater did not see the apprehension turning to fear in his eyes. He was too busy remaining cool.

'You struck me, sir,' he repeated. He threw a single stick on the table, it knocked over a mug of ale and in the ensuing pause the air was filled with the gurgle of beer running on to the deck.

'Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my dinner if you please…'

He sat down grateful that his own mug remained full. The meal was completed in total silence. The two master's mates disappeared.

It was afterwards agreed that Drinkwater had been extremely sporting in allowing notice of the forthcoming match to be circulated. It was quite a crowd that eagerly cleared a space for the protagonists while Drinkwater removed his coat and stock. Both combatants were in their shirt-sleeves and Drinkwater took up his stick and tested it for balance. He had chosen the weapon for its familiarity. In Barnet it had been a favourite with the lads, imitating the gentleman's short sword, it combined the finesse of that weapon with some of the blunt brutality of the quarterstaff. The carpenter's mate had done well.

Drinkwater watched Beale push the last sea-chest back against the ship's side.

'Mr Beale, will 'ee stand second to me?'

'With pleasure, Mr Drinkwater,' said the other youngster shooting a sidelong glance at Morris.

The latter looked desperately around him. At last one of the master's mates stood second to Morris rather than spoil the match.

As duelling was illegal on board ship Drinkwater's choice of weapons was fortuitously apt. Although he had been guided by his own proficiency with the weapon and chose the single stick in ignorance, any action by the lieutenants could be circumvented by an explanation that it was a sporting occasion. To this end the seconds conferred and decided to send the messman in search of Wheeler who, despite his commissioned status, could be relied upon for his vanity in presiding over such a match.

It was a tiny space in which they had to fight, about five feet four inches high and some fifteen feet by ten in area. The spectators backed up against the ship's side further restricted it. Someone offered odds and the babble of excited voices attracted more attention. Into this babel, calling for order strode the resplendent figure of Lieutenant Wheeler. His arrival was accompanied by a rending of canvas as the forward screen was demolished, thus augmenting the spectators by some two score. Wheeler looked about him.

'Damn my eyes, what an evil coven have we here. For the love of God bring more lanterns, a fencing master has to see, d'ye hear…'

The protagonists faced each other and Wheeler issued his instructions.

'Now gentlemen, the rules of foil, hits with the point, on the trunk only. You are unmasked, which I do not like, but as this is only a sporting match,' this with a heavy emphasis, 'I should not have to caution you.' He paused.

'En garde!'

'Êtes vous prêts?'

'Aye,' 'Aye,' Wheeler grimaced at the common response.

'Allez.'

Drinkwater's legs were bent ready for the lunge and his left hand was on his hip as there was no room for it in equipoise. Morris had adopted a similar position. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

Drinkwater beat Morris's stick; it gave. He beat again and lunged. The point hit Morris on the breastbone but he side swiped and would have hit Drinkwater's head but the latter parried on the lunge and recovered.

'Halte!' yelled Wheeler, then, 'En garde.'

This time Drinkwater extended, drew Morris's stick and disengaged, pressing the lunge. His point, blunt though it was, scraped and bruised Morris's upper arm, ripping his shirt away.

'Halte!' cried Wheeler but as Drinkwater returned to guard Morris, with a yell of rage, cut at his opponent's flank. The blow stung Drinkwater's sword arm and bruised his ribs so that tears started in his eyes and his arm dropped. But it was only for a second. He lost his temper and jabbed forward. Wheeler was yelling for them to stop but Drinkwater's stick drove savagely into Morris's stomach muscles. Morris stumbled and bent forward. Drinkwater recovered and raised his smarting arm. He beat the length of his stick down upon Morris's back.

'Halte! Halte!' screamed Wheeler jumping up and down with the excitement.

'Leave 'em! Leave 'em!' yelled the cheering onlookers.

Drinkwater hit Morris again as he went down. His arm was filled now with the pent-up venom in his soul. He struck Morris for himself, for Sharples and for Kate Sharples until someone pinioned him from behind. Morris lay prone. Someone passed a bucket along. A woman shouted it was full of lady's pee' and the crowd roared its approval as it was emptied over Morris's back.

Lieutenant Devaux, disturbed from the quiet consumption of a third bottle of looted Madeira by the yelling and stamping, elbowed his way through the crowd. He was blear-eyed and dishevelled. He regarded the scene with a jaundiced eye.

'Our bloody little fire eater, eh?'

Silence fell. Punters melted away into the darkness. 'Send this rabble forward. Wheeler! What in God's name are you doing here? Who's in charge? Wheeler, what's the meaning of all this tomfoolery?'

But as Wheeler began to explain an astonished Lieutenant Price came in. Looking at the tableau in ill-disguised regret that he had missed the rout, he addressed the first lieutenant.

'Captain's compliments, Mr Devaux, and will you attend him in the cabin immediately'

For answer Devaux swore horribly and left the company. A few moments later, hair clubbed, hatted and coated he made his way aft.

'Orders to sail, I believe,' Price said quietly to Wheeler by way of explanation.

Drinkwater overheard. He drew a deep, deep breath and turned his back on the shakily standing Morris. They could sail to hell and back now, thought Nathaniel, for he no longer felt oppressed by his boyhood.