The Bomb Vessel

Chapter One A Fish Out of Water

Nathaniel Drinkwater did not see the carriage. He was standing disconsolate and preoccupied outside the bow windows of the dress-shop as the coach entered Petersfield from the direction of Portsmouth. The coachman was whipping up his horses as he approached the Red Lion.

Drinkwater was suddenly aware of the jingle and creak of harness, the stink of horse-sweat, then a spinning of wheels, a glimpse of armorial bearings and shower of filth as the hurrying carriage lurched through a puddle at his feet. For a second he stared outraged at his plum coloured coat and ruined breeches before giving vent to his feelings.

'Hey! Goddamn you, you whoreson knave! Can you not drive on the crown of the road?' The coachman looked back, his ruddy face cracking into a grin, though the bellow had surprised him, particularly in Petersfield High Street.

Drinkwater did not see the face that peered from the rear window of the coach.

'God's bones,' he muttered, feeling the damp upon his thighs. He shot an uneasy glance through the shop window. He had a vague feeling that the incident was retribution for abandoning his wife and Louise Quilhampton, and seeking the invigorating freshness of the street where the shower had passed, leaving the cobbles gleaming in the sudden sunshine. Water still ran in the gutters and tinkled down drainpipes. And dripped from the points of his new tail-coat, God damn it!

He brushed the stained breeches ineffectually, fervently wishing he could exchange the stiff high collar for the soft lapels of a sea-officer's undress uniform. He regarded his muddied hands with distaste.

'Nathaniel!' He looked up. Forty yards away the carriage had pulled up. The passenger had waved the coach on and was walking back towards him. Drinkwater frowned uncertainly. The man was older than himself, wore bottle-green velvet over silk breeches with a cream cravat at his throat and his elegance redoubled Drinkwater's annoyance at the spoiling of his own finery. He was about to open his mouth intemperately for the second time that morning when he recognised the engaging smile and penetrating hazel eyes of Lord Dungarth, former first lieutenant of the frigate Cyclops and a man currently engaged in certain government operations of a clandestine nature. The earl approached, his hand extended.

'My dear fellow, I am most fearfully sorry…' he indicated Drinkwater's state.

Drinkwater flushed, then clasped the outstretched hand. 'It's of no account, my lord.'

Dungarth laughed. 'Ha! You lie most damnably. Come with me to the Red Lion and allow me to make amends over a glass while my horses are changed.'

Drinkwater cast a final look at the women in the shop. They seemed not to have noticed the events outside, or were ignoring his brutish outburst. He fell gratefully into step beside the earl.

'You are bound for London, my lord?'

Dungarth nodded. 'Aye, the Admiralty to wait upon Spencer. But what of you? I learned of the death of old Griffiths. Your report found its way onto my desk along with papers from Wrinch at Mocha. I was delighted to hear Antigone had been purchased into the Service, though more than sorry you lost Santhonax. You got your swab?'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'The epaulette went to our old friend Morris, my lord. He turned up like a bad penny in the Red Sea…' he paused, then added resignedly, 'I left Commander Morris in a hospital bed at the Cape, but it seems his letters poisoned their Lordships against further application for a ship by your humble servant.'

'Ahhh. Letters to his sister, no doubt, a venomous bitch who still wields influence through the ghost of Jemmy Twitcher.' They walked on in silence, turning into the yard of the Red Lion where the landlord, apprised of his lordship's imminent arrival by the emblazoned coach, ushered them into a private room.

'A jug of kill-devil, I think landlord, and look lively if you please. Well, Nathaniel, you are a shade darker from the Arabian sun, but otherwise unchanged. You will be interested to know that Santhonax has arrived back in Paris. A report reached me that he had been appointed lieutenant-colonel in a regiment of marines. Bonaparte is busy papering over the cracks of his oriental fiasco.'

Drinkwater gave a bitter laugh. 'He is fortunate to find employment…' He stopped and looked sharply at the earl, wondering if he might not have been unintentionally importunate. Colouring he hurried on: 'Truth to tell, my lord, I'm confounded irked to be without a ship. Living here astride the Portsmouth Road I see the johnnies daily posting down to their frigates. Damn it all, my lord,' he blundered on, too far advanced for retreat, 'it is against my nature to solicit interest, but surely there must be a cutter somewhere…'

Dungarth smiled. 'You wouldn't sail on a frigate or a line of battleship?'

Drinkwater grinned with relief. 'I'd sail in a bath-tub if it mounted a carronade, but I fear I lack the youth for a frigate or the polish for a battleship. An unrated vessel would at least give me an opportunity.'

Dungarth looked shrewdly at Drinkwater. It was a pity such a promising officer had not yet received a commander's commission. He recognised Drinkwater's desire for an unrated ship as a symptom of his dilemma. He wanted his own vessel, a lieutenant's command. It offered him his only real chance to distinguish himself. But passed-over lieutenants grew old in charge of transports, cutters and gun-brigs, involved in the tedious routines of convoy escort or murderous little skirmishes unknown to the public. Drinkwater seemed to have all the makings of such a man. There was a touch of grey at the temples of the mop of brown hair that was scraped back from the high forehead into a queue. His left eyelid bore powder burns like random ink-spots and the dead tissue of an old scar ran down his left cheek. It was the face of a man accustomed to hard duty and disappointment. Dungarth, occupied with the business of prosecuting an increasingly unpopular war, recognised its talents were wasted in Petersfield.

The rum arrived. 'You are a fish out of water, Nathaniel. What would you say to a gun-brig?' He watched for reaction in the grey eyes of the younger man. They kindled immediately, banishing the rigidity of the face and reminding Dungarth of the eager midshipman Drinkwater had once been.

'I'd say that I would be eternally in your debt, my lord.'

Dungarth swallowed his kill-devil and waved Drinkwater's gratitude aside.

'I make no promises, but you'll have heard of the Freya affair, eh? The Danes have had their ruffled feathers smoothed, but the Tsar has taken offence at the force of Lord Whitworth's embassy to Copenhagen to sort the matter out. He resented the entry of British men of war into the Baltic. I tell you this in confidence Nathaniel, recalling you to your assurances when you served aboard Kestrel…'

Drinkwater nodded, feeling his pulse quicken. 'I understand, my lord.'

'Vaubois had surrendered Malta to us. Pitt is of the opinion that Mahon is a sufficient base for the Mediterranean but many of us do not agree. We will hold Malta.' Dungarth raised a significant eyebrow. 'The Tsar covets the island, so too does Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies, but Tsar Paul is Grand Master of the Order of St John and his claim has a specious validity. At the present moment the Coalition against France threatens to burst like a rotten apple: Austria has not fired a shot since her defeat at Marengo in April. In short the Tsar has it in his power to break the whole alliance with ease. He is unstable enough to put his wounded pride before political sense.' He paused to toss off the rum. 'You will recollect at our last contre-temps with His Imperial Majesty, he offered to settle the differences between our two nations in single combat with the King!' Dungarth laughed. 'This time he has settled for merely confiscating all British property in Russia.'

Drinkwater's eyes widened in comprehension.

'I see you follow me,' went on Dungarth. 'For a change we are remarkably well informed of developments both at St Petersburg and at Copenhagen.' He smiled with an ironic touch of self-congratulation. 'Despite the massive subsidies being paid him the Tsar feigns solicitude for Denmark. A predatory concern, but that is the Danes' affair. To be specific, my dear fellow, the pertinent consequence of this lunatic's phobia is to revive the old Armed Neutrality of the Baltic States, moribund since the American War. The combination is already known to us and means the northern allies have an overwhelming force available for operations in concert with the French and Batavian fleets in the North Sea. I have no idea how to reconcile mad Paul with First Consul Bonaparte, but they are said to have a secret understanding. After your own experiences with the Dutch I have no need to conjure to your imagination the consequences of such a combined fleet upon our doorstep.'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'Indeed not.'

'So whatever the outcome…' A knock at the door was accompanied by an announcement that the fresh horses had been put-to. Dungarth picked up his hat. 'Whatever the outcome we must strike with pre-emptive swiftness.' He held out his hand. 'Good-bye, Nathaniel. You may rely on my finding something for you.'

'I am most grateful, my lord. And for the confidences.' He stood, lost in thought as the carriage clattered out of the yard. Less than half an hour had passed since the same coach had soiled his clothes. Already he felt a mounting excitement. The Baltic was comparatively shallow; a theatre for small ships; a war for lieutenants in gun-brigs. His mind raced. He thought of his wife with guilty disloyalty, then of Louise Quilhampton, abandoned in the dressshop with Elizabeth, whose son he had brought home from the Red Sea with an iron hook in place of his left hand.

Drinkwater's mind skipped to thoughts of James Quilhampton, Mr Q as he had been known to the officers of the brig Hellebore. He too was unemployed and eager for a new appointment.

He picked up his hat and swore under his breath. There was also Charlotte Amelia, now nearly two years of age. Drinkwater would miss her sorely if he returned to duty. He thought of her bouncing upon Susan Tregembo's knee as they had left the house an hour earlier. And there was Tregembo, too, silently fretful on his own account at his master's idleness.

The old disease gnawed at him, tugging him two ways: Elizabeth and the trusting brown eyes of his daughter, the comforts and ease of domestic life. And against it the hard fulfilment of a sea-officer's duty. Always the tug of one when the other was to hand.

Elizabeth found him emerging from the Red Lion, noting both his dirtied clothes and the carriage drawing steadily up Sheet Hill.

'Nathaniel?'

'Eh? Ah. Yes, my dear?' Guilt drove him to over-played solicitude. 'Did you satisfy your requirements, eh? Where is Louise?'

'Taken offence, I shouldn't wonder. Nathaniel, you are cozening me. That coach…?'

'Coach, my dear?'

'Coach, Nathaniel, emblazoned three ravens sable upon a field azure, among other quarterings. Lord Dungarth's arms if I mistake not.' She slipped an arm through his while he smiled lopsidedly down at her. She was as lovely as when he had first seen her in a vicarage garden in Falmouth years earlier. Her wide mouth mocked him gently.

'I smell gunpowder, Nathaniel.'

'You have disarmed me, madam.'

'It is not very difficult,' she squeezed his arm, 'you are a poor dissembler.'

He sighed. 'That was Dungarth. It seems likely that we will shortly be at war with the Northern Powers.'

'Russia?'

'You are very perceptive.' He warmed to her and the conversation ran on like a single train of thought.

'Oh, I am not as scatter-brained as some of my sex.'

'And infinitely more beautiful.'

'La, kind sir, I was not fishing for compliments, merely facts. But you should not judge Louise too harshly though she runs on so. She is a good soul and true friend, though I know you prefer the company of her son,' Elizabeth concluded with dry emphasis.

'Mr Q's conversation is merely more to my liking, certainly…'

'Pah!' interrupted Elizabeth, 'he talks of nothing but your confounded profession. Come, sir, I still smell gunpowder, Nathaniel,' and added warningly, 'do not tack ship.'

He took a deep breath and explained the gist of Dungarth's news without betraying the details.

'So it is to be Britannia contra mundum,' she said at last.

'Yes.'

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. 'The country is weary of war, Nathaniel.'

'Do not exempt me from that, but…' he bit his lip, annoyed that the last word had slipped out.

'But, Nathaniel, but? But while there is fighting to be done it cannot be brought to a satisfactory conclusion without my husband's indispensable presence, is that it?'

He looked sharply at her, aware that she had great reason for bitterness. But she hid it, as only she could, and resorted to a gentle mockery that veiled her inner feelings. 'And Lord Dungarth promised you a ship?'

'As I said, my dear, you are very perceptive.'

He did not notice the tears in her eyes, though she saw the anticipation in his.

Chapter Two A Knight Errant

'Drinkwater!'

Drinkwater turned, caught urgently by the arm at the very moment of passing through the screen-wall of the Admiralty into the raucous bedlam of Whitehall. Recognition was hampered by the shoving that the two naval officers were subjected to, together with the haggard appearance of the newcomer.

'Sam? Samuel Rogers, by all that's holy! Where the deuce did you spring from?'

'I've spent the last two months haunting the bloody waiting room of their exalted Lordships, bribing those bastard clerks to put my name forward. It was as much as the scum could do to take their feet out of their chair-drawers in acknowledgement…' Rogers looked down. His clothes were rumpled and soiled, his stock grubby and it was clear that it was he, and not the notorious clerks, that were at fault.

'I must have missed you when I tarried there this morning.' Drinkwater fell silent, embarrassed at his former shipmate's penury. All around them the noise of the crowds, the peddlers, hucksters, the groans of a loaded dray and the leathery creak of a carriage combined with the ostentatious commands of a sergeant of foot-guards to his platoon seemed to emphasise the silence between the two men.

'You've a ship then,' Rogers blurted desperately. It was not a question. The man nodded towards the brown envelope tucked beneath Drinkwater's elbow.

Drinkwater feigned a laugh. 'Hardly, I was promised a gun-brig but I've something called a bomb-tender. Named Virago.'

'Your own command, eh?' Rogers snapped with a predatory eagerness, leaning forward so that Drinkwater smelt breath that betrayed an empty belly. Rogers seemed about to speak, then twisted his mouth in violent suppression. Drinkwater watched him master his temper, horrified at the sudden brightness in his eyes.

'My dear fellow… come…' Taking Rogers's elbow, Drinkwater steered him through the throng and turned him into the first coffee house in the Strand. When he had called for refreshment he watched Rogers fall on a meat pie and turned an idea over in his mind, weighing the likely consequences of what he was about to say.

'You cannot get a ship?'

Rogers shook his head, swallowing heavily and washing the last of the pie down with the small beer that Drinkwater had bought him. 'I have no interest and the story of Hellebore's loss is too well known to recommend me.'

Drinkwater frowned. The brig's loss had been sufficiently circumstantial to have Rogers exonerated in all but a mild admonishment from the Court of Enquiry held at Mocha the previous year. Only those who knew him well realised that his intemperate nature could have contributed to the grounding on Daedalus Reef. Drinkwater himself had failed to detect the abnormal refraction that had made the reckoning in their latitude erroneous. Rogers had not been wholly to blame.

'How was it so "well known", Sam?'

Rogers shrugged, eyeing Drinkwater suspiciously. He had been a cantankerous shipmate, at odds with most of the officers including Drinkwater himself. It was clear that he still nursed grievances, although Drinkwater had felt they had patched up their differences by bringing home the Antigone.

'You know well enough. Gossip, scuttlebutt, call it what you will. One man has the ear of another, he the ears of a dozen…'

'Wait a minute Sam. Appleby was a gossip but he's in Australia. Griffiths is dead. I'll lay a sovereign to a farthing that the poison comes from Morris!' Rogers continued to look suspiciously at Drinkwater, suspecting him still, of buying the pie and beer to ease his own conscience. Drinkwater shook his head.

'It was not me, Sam.' Drinkwater held the other's gaze till it finally fell. 'Come, what d'you say to serving as my first lieutenant?'

Rogers's jaw dropped. Suddenly he averted his face and leaned forward to grasp Drinkwater's hand across the table. His mouth groped speechlessly for words and Drinkwater sought relief from his embarrassment in questions.

'Brace up, brace up. You surely cannot be that desperate. Why your prize money… whatever happened to reduce you to this indigent state?'

Rogers mastered himself at last, shrugging with something of his old arrogance. 'The tables, a wench or two…' He trailed off, shamefaced and Drinkwater had no trouble in imagining the kind of debauch Samuel Rogers had indulged in with his prize money and two years celibacy to inflame his tempestuous nature. Drinkwater gave him a smile, recollecting Rogers's strenuous efforts in times of extreme difficulty, of his personal bravery and savage courage.

'Empty bellies make desperate fellows,' he said, watching Rogers, who nodded grimly. Drinkwater called for coffee and sat back. He considered that Rogers's chastening might not be such a bad thing, just as in battle his violent nature was such an asset.

'It is not exactly a plum command, Samuel, but of one thing I am certain…'

'And that is?'

'That we both need to make something of it, eh?'

Drinkwater lent Rogers ten pounds so that he might make himself more presentable. Their ship lay above Chatham and Rogers had been instructed to join Drinkwater at his lodgings the following morning. In the meantime Drinkwater had to visit the Navy Office and he left the latter place as the evening approached, his mind a whirl of instructions, admonitions and humiliation at being one of the lowest forms of naval life, a lieutenant in command, permitted into those portals of perfidy and corruption. It was then he had the second encounter of the day.

Returning west along the Strand he came upon a small but vicious mob who had pulled a coachman from his box. It was almost dark and the shouts of disorder were mixed with the high-pitched screams of a woman. Elbowing the indifferent onlookers aside Drinkwater pressed forward, aware of a pale face at the carriage window. He heard a woman in the crowd say, 'Serve 'im bleedin' right for takin' 'is whip to 'em!'

Drinkwater broke through the cordon round the coach to where a large grinning man in working clothes held the tossing heads of the lead-horses. The whites of their eyes were vivid with terror. Rolling almost beneath the stamping hooves, the triplecaped bundle of a bald-headed coachman rolled in the gutter while three men, one with a lacerated cheek, beat him with sticks.

The offending whip lay on the road and the coachman's huge tricorne was being rescued and appropriated by a ragged youth, to the whoops of amusement of his fellows. Several hags roared their approval in shrill voices, while a couple of drabs taunted the woman in the coach.

Drinkwater took in the situation at a glance. A momentary sympathy for the man who had been whipped faded in his angry reaction to disorder. The noise of riot was anathema to him. As a naval officer his senses were finely tuned to any hint of it. London had been wearing him down all day. This final scene only triggered a supressed reaction in him.

Still in full dress he threw back his cloak and drew his hanger. His teeth were set and he felt a sudden savage joy as he shoved his heel into the buttocks of the nearer assailant. A cry of mixed anger and encouragement went up from the mob. The man fell beneath the pawing hooves and rolled away, roaring abuse. The other two men paused panting, their staves ready to rebuff their attacker. Drinkwater stepped astride the coachman, who moaned distressingly, and brought his sword point up to the throat of the man with the whipped face. With his left hand he felt in his pocket.

'Come now,' Drinkwater snapped, 'you've had your sport. Let the lady proceed.'

The man raised his stave as though about to strike. Drinkwater dropped the coin onto the back of the coachman. The glint of the half-crown caught the man's eye and he bent to pick it up, but Drinkwater's sword point caught the back of his neck.

'You will let the fellow go, eh? And set him upon his box if you please…' He could feel the man's indignation. 'I'm busy manning a King's ship, cully. Do you take the money and set the fellow up again.' Drinkwater sensed the man acquiesce, stepped back and put up his sword. Threat of the press worked better than the silver, but Drinkwater did not begrudge the money, disliking the arrogant use of corporal punishment for such trivialities.

The man rose and jerked his head at his accomplice. The coachman was hauled to his feet and bodily thrown onto the box. His hat had disappeared and he put his face into his hands as the crowd taunted him and cheered. Drinkwater turned to the window.

'Would you like me to accompany you, ma'am?' The face was pale and round in the gloom. He could not hear her whispered reply but the door swung open and he climbed in.

'Drive on!' he commanded as he closed the door. When he had pulled the blinds he sat opposite the occupant. She was little more than a child, still in her teens. The yellow carriage lights showed a plain face that seemed somehow familiar. He removed his hat.

'You are not hurt?' She shook her head and cleared her throat.

'I… I am most grateful, sir.'

'It was nothing. I think, ma'am, you should tell your coachman to be less eager to use his whip.'

She nodded.

'Are you travelling far?' he went on.

'To Lothian's hotel in Albemarle Street. Will that take you far out of your way? If so, I shall have poor Matthew drive you wherever you wish.' She began to recover her composure.

Drinkwater grinned. 'I think that inadvisable. My lodgings are off the Strand. I can return thither on foot. Please do not trouble yourself further.'

'You are very kind, sir. I see that you are a sea-officer. May I enquire your name?'

'Drinkwater, ma'am, Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater. May I know whom I had the honour of assisting?'

'My name is Onslow, Lieutenant, Frances Onslow.'

'Your servant, Miss Onslow.' They smiled at each other and Drinkwater recognised the reason for her apparent familiarity. 'Forgive my curiosity but are you related to Admiral Sir Richard Onslow?'

'His daughter, Mr Drinkwater. You are acquainted with my father?'

'I had the honour to serve under him during the Camperdown campaign.' But Drinkwater was thinking he knew something else about Miss Onslow, something more keenly concerning herself, but he could not recollect it and a minute or two later the carriage turned off Piccadilly and drew to a halt in Albemarle Street.

After handing the young lady down he refused her invitation to reacquaint himself with the admiral.

'I regret I have pressing matters to attend to, Miss Onslow. It is enough that I have been of service to you.' He bent over her hand.

'I shall not forget it, Mr Drinkwater.'

Drinkwater forgot the encounter in the next few days. He became immersed in the countless details of preparing his ship for sea. He visited the Navy Board again, bribed clerks in the Victualling Office, wrote to the Regulating Captain in charge of the Impress Service at Chatham. He accrued a collection of books and ledgers; Muster books, Sick and Hurt books, Account books, Order books, orders directives. He had many masters; the Admiralty, the Navy Board, the Victualling Board, Greenwich hospital, even the Master-General of the Ordnance at Woolwich. Towards the end of November, he paid his reckoning, complaining about the exhorbi-tant charge for the candles he had burned in their Lordships' service. In company with a sprightlier Lieutenant Rogers he caught the Dover stage from the George at Southwark at four in the morning and set out for Chatham.

As the stage crossed the bridge at Rochester and he glimpsed the steel-grey Medway, cold beneath a lowering sky, he recalled the contents of a letter sent to his lodgings by Lord Dungarth. The earl had concluded… I realise, my dear Nathaniel, that she is not what you supposed would be in my power to obtain for you, nevertheless the particular nature of the service upon which you are to be employed would lend itself more readily to your purpose of advancement were you in a bomb. Virago is a bomb in fact, though not in name. I leave it to your ingenuity to alter the matter…

Drinkwater frowned over the recollection. It might be a palliative, though it was unlike Dungarth to waste words or to have gone to any effort to further the career of a nobody. What interested Drinkwater was the hint underlying the encouragement. Virago had been built as a bomb vessel, though her present job was to act as a mere tender to the other bomb ships. That degrading of her made her a lieutenant's command, though she ought really to have a commander upon her quarterdeck. He could not resist a thrill of anticipation as the stage rolled to a halt outside the main, red-brick gateway of Chatham Dockyard. As they descended, catching the eye of the marine sentry, the wind brought them the scent of familiar things, of tar and hemp cordage, of stored canvas and coal-fired forges and the unmistakable, invigorating smell of saltings uncovered by the tide.

Despatching Rogers with their sea chests and a covey of urchins to lug them to an inn, Drinkwater was compelled to kick his heels for over an hour in the waiting room of the Commissioner's house, a circumstance that negated their early departure from the George and reminded Drinkwater that his belly was empty. In the end he was granted ten minutes by a supercilious secretary who clearly objected to rubbing shoulders with lieutenants, whether or not they were in command.

'She is one of several tenders preparing to serve the bombs,' he drawled in the languid and increasingly fashionable manner of the ton. 'As you may know your vessel was constructed as a bomb in '59 whereas the other tenders are requisitioned colliers. Your spars are allocated, your carpenter's and gunner's stores in hand. The Victualling Yard is acquainted with your needs. You have, lieutenant, merely to inform the Commissioner when your vessel is ready to proceed in order to receive your orders to load the combustibles, carcases, powder and so on and so forth from the Arsenal…' he waved a handkerchief negligently about, sitting back in his chair and crossing his legs. Drinkwater withdrew in search of Rogers, aware that if all had been prepared as the man said, then the dockyard was uncommonly efficient.

Fifteen minutes later, with Rogers beside him, he sat at the helm of a dockyard boat feeling the tiller kick gently under his elbow. The wind was keen on the water, kicking up sharp grey wavelets and whipping the droplets from the oar blades. The sun was already well down in the western sky.

'She's the inboard end of the western trot,' said the boatman curtly as he pulled upstream. Drinkwater and Rogers regarded the line of ships moored two and three abreast between the buoys. The flood tide gurgled round their bluff bows. Two huge ninety-eights rode high out of the water without their guns or stores, laid up in ordinary with only their lower masts stepped. Astern of them lay four frigates wanting men, partially rigged but with neglected paintwork, odd gun-ports opened for ventilation or the emergence of temporary chimneys. Upper decks were untidy with lines of washing which told of wives living on board with the 'standing officers', the warrant gunners, the masters, carpenters and boatswains. Drinkwater recognised two battered and decrepit Dutch prizes from Camperdown and remembered laying Cyclops up here in '83. There had been many more ships then, a whole fleet of them becoming idle at the end of the American War. The boatman interrupted his reverie.

'Put the helm over now, sir, if'ee please. She be beyond this'n.' Drinkwater craned his neck. They began to turn under the stern of a shot-scarred sloop. The tide caught the boat and the two oarsmen pulled with increased vigour as they stemmed it. Drinkwater watched anxiously for the stern of Virago.

Chapter Three The Bomb Tender

The richness of the carved decoration on her stern amazed him. It was cracked and bare of paint or gilt, but its presence gave him a pleasurable surprise. The glow of candles flickered through the stern windows. The boat bumped alongside and Drinkwater reached for the manropes and hauled himself on deck.

It was deserted. There were no masts, no guns. The paint on the mortar hatches was flaking; tatty canvas covers flapped over the two companionways. In the autumnal dusk it was a depressing sight. He heard Rogers cluck his tongue behind him as he came over the rail and for a moment the two officers stood staring about them, their boat cloaks flapping in the breeze.

'There's a deal of work to be done, Mr Rogers.'

'Yes, sir.'

Drinkwater strode aft, mounted the low poop and flung back the companion cover. The smell of food and unwashed humanity rose, together with a babble of conversation. Drinkwater descended the steep ladder, turned aft in the Stygian gloom of an unlit lobby and flung open the door of the after cabin. Rogers followed him into the room.

The effect of their entrance was instantaneous. The occupants of the cabin froze with surprise. If Drinkwater had felt a twinge of irritation at the sight of candles burning in his cabin, the scene that now presented itself was a cause for anger. He took in the table with its greasy cloth, the disorder of the plates and pots, the remnants of a meal, the knocked over and empty bottles. His glance rolled over the diners. In the centre lolled a small, rotund fellow in a well-cut coat and ruffled shirt. He had been interrupted in fondling a loosely-stayed woman who lay half across him, her red mouth opened in a grimace as the laughter died on her lips. Two other men also sprawled about the table, their dress in various states of disorder, each with a bare-shouldered woman giggling on his lap. There was a woman's shoe lodged in the cruet and several ankles were visible from yards of grubby petticoats.

The oldest of the women who sat on the round, well-dressed man's knee, was the first to recover. She hove herself upright, shrugged her shoulders in a clearly practised gesture and her bosom subsided from view.

'Who are you gentlemen then?' The other women followed her example, there was a rustling of cotton and the shoe disappeared.

'Lieutenants Drinkwater and Rogers, madam. And you, pray?' Drinkwater's voice was icily polite.

'Mrs Jex,' she said, setting off giggles on either side of her, 'just married to 'Ector Jex, here… my 'usband,' she added to more giggles. 'My 'usband is purser of this ship.' There was a certain proprietary hauteur in her voice. Mr Jex remained silent behind the voluptuous bulk of his wife.

'And these others?'

'Mr Matchett, boatswain and Mr Mason, master's mate.'

'And the ladies?' Drinkwater asked with ironic emphasis, eyeing their professional status.

'Friends of mine,' replied Mrs Jex with the sharp certainty of possession.

'I see. Mr Matchett!'

Matchett pulled himself together. 'Sir?'

'Where are the remainder of the standing warrant officers?'

'H'hm. There is no gunner appointed, nor a master.'

'How many men have we?'

'Not including the warrant officer's mates, who number four men, we have eighteen seamen. All are over sixty years of age. That is all…'

'Well, gentlemen, I shall be in command of the Virago. Mr Rogers will be first lieutenant. I shall return aboard tomorrow morning to take command. I shall expect you to be at your duty.' He swept them with a long stare then turned on his heel and clattered up the ladder. He heard Rogers say something behind him as he regained the cold freshness of the darkened deck.

As they made for the ladder and the waiting dockyard boat a figure appeared wearing an apron, huge arms in shirtsleeves despite the chill wind. He touched his forehead.

'Beg pardon, sir. Willerton, carpenter. You've seen that pack of whores aft sir? Don't hold with it sir. Tis the wages of sin they have coming to 'em. There's nowt wrong with the ship, sir, she's as fine today as when they built her, she'll take two thirteen inch mortars and not crack a batten… nowt wrong with her at all…'

Slightly taken aback at this encounter Drinkwater thanked the man, reflecting, as he took his seat in the boat, that there were clearly factions at work on the Virago with which he would become better acquainted in the days ahead.

'You are required and directed without delay to take command of His Majesty's Bomb Tender Virago, which vessel you are to prepare for sea with all despatch…'

He read on in the biting wind, the commission flapping in his hands. When he had finished he looked at the small semi-circle of transformed warrant officers standing with their hats off. The sober blue of their coats seemed the only patches of colour against the flaked paintwork and bare timbers of the ship. They had clearly been at some pains to correct the impression their new commander had received the previous evening. They should be given some credit for that, Drinkwater thought.

'Good morning gentlemen. I am glad to see the adventures of the night have not prevented you attending to your duty.' He looked round. Matchett's eighteen seamen, barefoot and shivering in cotton shirts and loose trousers, were standing holding their holystones in one hand, their stockingette hats in the other. Drinkwater addressed them in an old formula. He tried to make it sound as though he meant it though there was a boiling anger welling up in him again.

'Do your duty men. You have nothing to fear.' He strode aft.

The cabin had been cleared. All that remained from the previous night were the table and chairs. Rogers followed him in. Drinkwater heard him sigh.

'There is a great deal to do, Sam.'

'Yes,' said Rogers flatly. From an adjacent cabin the sound of a cough was hurriedly muted and the air was still heavy with a mixture of sweat and lavender water.

Drinkwater returned to the lobby and threw open the door of the adjacent cabin. It was empty of people though a sea-chest, bedding and cocked hat case showed it was occupied. He tried the door on the opposite cabin. It gave. Mrs Jex was dressing. She feigned a decorous surprise then made a small, suggestive gesture lo him. Her charms were very obvious and in the silence he heard Rogers behind him swallow. He closed the door and turned on the first lieutenant.

'Pass word for Mr Jex, Mr Rogers. Then make rounds of the ship. I want a detailed report on her condition, wants and supplied state. Come back in an hour.'

He went into the cabin and sat down. He looked round at the bare space, feeling the draughts whistling in through the unoccupied gunports. The thrill of first command was withering. The amount of work to be done was daunting. The brief hope of raising the status of Virago as Lord Dungarth suggested seemed, at that moment, to be utterly impossible. Then he remembered the odd encounter with Mr Willerton, that vestigial loyalty to his ship. Almost childlike in its pathetic way and yet as potent to the carpenter as the delights of the flesh had been to last night's revellers. Drinkwater took encouragement from the recollection and with the lifting of his spirits the draught around his feet seemed a little less noticeable, the cabin a little less inhospitable.

Mr Jex knocked on the cabin door and entered. 'Ah, Mr Jex, pray sit down.'

Jex's uniform coat was smartly cut and a gold ring flashed on his finger. His hands had a puffy quality and his cheeks were marred by the high colour of the bibulous. The Jexes, it seemed, were sybaritic in their way of life. Money, Nathaniel observed, was not in short supply.

'When I was at the Navy Board, Mr Jex, they did not tell me that you were appointed purser to this ship. Might I enquire as to how long you have held the post?'

'One month, sir.' Mr Jex spoke for the first time. His voice had the bland tone of the utterly confident.

'Your wife is still on board, Mr Jex…'

'It is customary…'

'It is customary to ask permission.'

'But I have, sir.' Jex stared levelly at Drinkwater.

'From whom, may I ask?'

'My kinsman, the Commissioner of the Dockyard offered me the appointment. I served as assistant purser on the Conquistador, Admiral Roddam's flagship, sir, the whole of the American War.' Drinkwater suppressed a smile. Mr Jex's transparent attempt to threaten him with his kindred was set at nought by the latter revelation.

'How interesting, Mr Jex. If I recollect aright, Conquistador remained guardship at the Nore for several years. Your experience in dealing with the shore must, therefore, be quite considerable.' Drinkwater marked the slightest tightening of the lips. 'I do not expect to see seamen on deck without proper clothing, Mr Jex. An officer of your experience should have attended to that.' Jex opened his mouth to protest. 'If you can see to the matter for me and, tomorrow morning, bring me a list of all the stores on board we may discuss your future aboard this ship.' Indignation now blazed clearly from Jex's eyes, but Drinkwater was not yet finished with him. In as pleasant a voice as he could muster he added:

'In the meantime I shall be delighted to allow you to retain your wife on board. Perhaps she will dine with all of the officers. It will give us the opportunity to discuss the progress of commissioning the ship, and the presence of a lady is always stimulating.' Jex's eyes narrowed abruptly to slits. Drinkwater had laid no special emphasis on the word 'lady' but there was about Mrs Jex's behaviour something suspicious.

'That will be all, Mr Jex. And be so kind as to pass word for Mr Willerton.'

Several days passed and Drinkwater kept Jex in a state of uncertainty over his future. The men appeared in guernseys and greygoes so that it was clear Jex had some influence over the dockyard suppliers. Drinkwater was pleased by his first victory.

He listened in silence as Rogers told of the usual dockyard delays, the unkept promises, the lack of energy, the bribery, the venality. He listened while Rogers hinted tactfully that he lacked the funds to expedite matters, that there were few seamen available for such an unimportant vessel and those drafted to them were the cast-offs from elsewhere. Drinkwater was dominated by the two problems of want of cash and men. He had already spent more of his precious capital than he intended and as yet obtained little more than a smartened first lieutenant, a few documents necessary to commission his ship, only obtained by bribing the issuing clerks, and victuals enough for the cabin for a week. Apart from the imposition of further bribing dockyard officials for the common necessities needed by a man of war, he had yet to purchase proper slops for his men, just a little paint that his command might not entirely disgrace him, a quantity of powder for practice, and a few comforts for his own consumption: a dozen live pullets, a laying hen, a case or two of blackstrap. He sighed, listening again to Rogers and his catalogue of a first lieutenant's woes. As he finished Drinkwater poured him a glass of the cheap port sold in Chatham as blackstrap.

'Press on Samuel, we do make progress.' He indicated the litter of papers on the table. Rogers nodded then, in a low voice and leaning forward confidentially he said, 'I, er, have found a little out about our friend Jex.'

'Oh?'

'More of his wife actually. It seems that after the last war Jex went off slaving. As purser he made a deal of money and accustomed himself to a fine time.' There was a touch of malice in Rogers as he sipped the wine, he was contemplating the fate of another brought low by excess. 'I gather he invested a good bit of it unwisely and lost heavily. Now, after some time in straightened circumstances, he is attempting to recoup his finances from the perquisites of a purser's berth and marriage to his lady wife.' Rogers managed a sneer. 'Though not precisely a trollop she did run a discreet little house off Dock Road. Quite a remunerative place, I am led to believe.'

'And a berth in a King's ship purchases Madame Jex a measure of respectability. Yes, I had noticed an assumption of airs by her ladyship,' concluded Drinkwater, grinning as an idea occurred to him. Making up his mind he slapped his hand on the table. 'Yes, I have it, it will do very nicely. Be so good as to ask Mr Jex to step this way.'

Jex arrived and was asked to sit. His air of confidence had sagged a little and was replaced by pugnacity. The purser's arms were crossed over his belly and he peered at his commander through narrowed eyes.

'I have come to a decision regarding you and your future.' Drinkwater spoke clearly, aware of the silence from the adjoining cabin. Mrs Jex would hear with ease through the thin bulkhead.

'Your influence with the dockyard does you credit, Mr Jex. I would be foolish not to take advantage of your skill and interest in that direction…' Drinkwater noted with satisfaction that Jex was relaxing. 'I require that you do not sleep out of the ship until you have completed victualling for eighty souls for three months. Your wife may live on board with you. You will be allowed the customary eighth on your stores, but a personal profit exceeding twelve and one half per cent will not be tolerated. You will put up the usual bond with the Navy Board and receive seven pounds per month whilst on the ship's books. Until the ship is fully manned you may claim a man's pay for your wife but she shall keep the cabin clean until my servant arrives. You will ensure that the stores from the Victualling Yard are good, not old, nor in split casks. You may at your own expense purchase tobacco and slops for the men. You will, as part of this charge, purchase one hundred new grey-goes, one hundred pairs of mittens, a quantity of woollen stockings and woollen caps, together with some cured sheepskins from any source known to you. You will in short, supply the ship with warm clothes for her entire company. Do you understand?'

Jex's jaw hung. In the preceeding minutes his expression had undergone several dramatic changes but the post of purser in even the meanest of His Britannic Majesty's ships was sought after as a source of steady wealth and steadier opportunity. Drinkwater had not yet finished with the unfortunate man.

'We have not, of course, mentioned the fee customarily paid to the captain of a warship for your post. Shall we say one hundred? Come now, what do you say to my terms?'

'Ninety.'

'Guineas, my last offer, Mr Jex.'

Drinkwater watched the purser's face twist slowly as he calculated. He knew he could never stop the corruption in the dockyards, nor in the matter of the purser's eighth, but he might put the system to some advantage. There was a kind of rough justice in Drinkwater's plan. Mrs Jex's wealth came from the brief sexual excesses of a multitude of unfortunate seamen. It was time a little was returned in kind.

Virago presented something of a more ordered state a day or two later. Both Matchett and Mason, despite their unprepossessing introduction a few days earlier, turned out to be diligent workers. With a third of Jex's ninety guineas Drinkwater was able to 'acquire' a supply of paint, tar, turpentine, oakum, rosin and pitch to put the hull in good shape. He also acquired some gilt paint and had Rogers rig staging over the stern to revive the cracked-acanthus leaves that roved over the transom.

While Drinkwater sat in his cloak in the cabin, the table littered with lists, orders, requisitions and indents, driving his pen and dispatching Mason daily to the dockyard or post-office on ship's business, Rogers stormed about the upper deck or terrorised the dockyard foremen with torrents of foul-mouthed invective that forced reaction from even their stone-walling tactics. Storemen and clerks who complained about his bullying abuse usually obliged Drinkwater to make apologies for him. So he developed an ingratiating politeness that disguised his contempt for these jobbers. With a little greasing of palms he could often reverse the offended clerk's mind and thus obtain whatever the ship required.

Drinkwater made daily rounds of the ship. Forward of the officers' accommodation under the low poop stretched one huge space. It was at once hold and berthing place for the hammocks of her crew. Gratings decked over the lower section into which the casks of pork, peas, flour, oatmeal, fish and water were stowed. Here too, like huge black snakes, lay the vessel's four cables. Extending down from deck to keelson in the spaces between the two masts were two massive mortar beds. These vast structures were of heavy crossed timbers, bolted and squeezed together with shock-absorbent hemp poked between each beam. Drinkwater suspected he was supposed to dismantle them, but no one had given him a specific order to do so and he knew that the empty shells, or carcases, stowed in the gaps between the timbers. He would retain those shell rooms, and therefore the mortar beds, for without them, opportunity or not, Virago would be useless as anything but a cargo vessel. Store rooms, a carpenter's workshop and cabin each for Matchett and Willerton were fitted under the fo'c's'le whilst beneath the officers' accommodation aft were the shot rooms, spirit room, fuse room and bread room. Beneath Drinkwater's own cabin lay the magazine space, reached through a hatchway for which he had the only key.

It was not long before Drinkwater had made arrangements to warp Virago alongside the Gun Wharf, but he was desperate for want of men to undertake the labour of hoisting and mounting the eight 24-pounder carronades and two 6-pounder long guns that would be Virago's armament. They received a small draft from the Guardship at the Nore and another from the Impress service but still remained thirty men short of their complement. By dint of great effort, by the second week in December, the carronades were all on their slides, the light swivels in their mountings and the two long guns at their stern ports in Drinkwater's cabin. The appearance of the two cold black barrels upon which condensation never ceased to form, brought reality to both Mrs Jex and to Drinkwater himself. To Mrs Jex they disturbed the domestic symmetry of the place, to Drinkwater they reminded him that a bomb vessel was likely to be chased, not do the chasing.

Virago had been built as one of a number of bomb ships constructed at the beginning of the Seven Years War. She was immensely strong, with futtocks the size of a battleship. Though only 110 feet long she displaced 380 tons. She would sit deep in the water when loaded and, Drinkwater realised, would be a marked contrast to the nimble cutter Kestrel or the handy brig Hellebore. She was reduced to a tender by the building of a newer class of bomb vessel completed during the American War. Normally employed on the routine duties of sloops, the bomb vessels only carried their two mortars when intended for a bombardment. For this purpose they loaded the mortars, powder, carcases and shells from the Royal Artillery Arsenal at Woolwich, together with a subaltern and a detachment of artillerymen. The mortars threw their shells, or bombs (from which the ships took their colloquial name) from the massive wooden beds Drinkwater had left in place on Virago. The beds were capable of traversing, a development which had revolutionised the rig of bomb vessels. As of 1759 the ketch rig had been dispensed with. It was no longer necessary not to have a foremast, nor to throw the shells over the bow, training their aim with a spring to the anchor cable. Now greater accuracy could be obtained from the traversing bed and greater sailing qualities from the three-masted ship-rig.

Even so, Drinkwater thought as he made one of his daily inspections, he knew them to be unpopular commands. Virago had fired her last mortar at Le Havre in the year of her building. And convoy protection in a heavily built and sluggish craft designed to protect herself when running away was as popular as picket duty on a wet night. So although the intrusion of the stern chasers into the cabin marked a step towards commissioning, they also indicated the severe limitations of Drinkwater's command.

However he cheered himself up with the reflection that Virago would be sailing in company with a fleet, the fleet destined for the 'secret expedition' mentioned in every newspaper, and for the 'unknown destination' that was equally certain to be the Baltic.

Even as Mr Matchett belayed the breechings of the intrusive six-pounders, muttering about the necessity of a warrant gunner, Drinkwater learned of the collapse of the Coalition. The Franco-Austrian armistice had ended, hostilities had resumed and the Austrians had been smashed at Hohenlinden. Suddenly the Baltic had become a powder keg.

Although Bonaparte, now first consul and calling himself Napoleon, was triumphant throughout Europe, it was to the other despot that all looked. Sadistic, perverted and unbalanced, Tsar Paul was the cynosure for all eyes. The thwarting of his ambitions towards Malta had led to mistrust of Britain, despite the quarter of a million pounds paid him to which a monthly addition of £75,000 was paid to keep 45,000 Russian soldiers in the field. When Napoleon generously repatriated, at French expense, 5,000 Russian prisoners of war after Britain had refused to ransom them, Tsar Paul abandoned his allies.

The Tsar's influence in the Baltic was immense. Russia had smashed the Swedish empire at Poltava a century earlier, and Denmark was too vulnerable not to bend to a wind from the east. Her own king was insane, her Crown Prince, Frederick, a young man dominated by his ministers.

When the Tsar revived the Armed Neutrality he insisted that the Royal Navy should no longer be able to search neutral ships, particularly for naval stores, those exports from the Baltic shores that both Britain and France needed. The Baltic states wanted to trade with whomsoever they wished and under the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs they would be able to do so; the British naval blockade would be rendered impotent and France, controlling all the markets of Europe, triumphant. With one head of the Russian eagle ready tensed to stretch out a talon to cripple impotent Turkey, the effect of the other's influence in the Baltic would finish Britain at a stroke.

So, inferred Drinkwater, argued Count Bernstorff, Minister to Crown Prince Frederick. And though Russia was the real enemy it was clear that the Royal Navy could not go into the Baltic leaving a hostile Denmark in its rear.

Drinkwater coughed as clouds of smoke erupted into the cabin from the bogey stove.

'I beg you, Mrs Jex, to desist. I would rather sit in my cloak than be suffocated by that thing.' He leant helplessly on the table, covered, as was usual, with papers.

''Twill not draw, Mr Drinkwater, 'tis the wind. For shame I will perish with the marsh ague if I do not freeze first.' She sniffed and snumed with a streaming cold.

'Perhaps madam, if you wore more clothes…' offered Drinkwater drily.

She gave him a cold look. Her early attempt to flirt with him had ceased when she learned of the bargain he had driven with her husband. He bent once more to the tedious task of the inventory, almost welcoming the interruption of a knock at the door, though the blast of icy air made him swear quietly as it blew papers from his desk.

'Beg pardon, sir…'

'Mr Willerton, come in, come in, and shut that door. What can I do for you?'

'We needs a leddy, sir.'

'A leddy? Ah, a lady, a figurehead, d'you mean?'

'Aye sir.'

Drinkwater frowned. It was an irrelevance, an expensive irrelevance too, one that he would have to pay for himself since he had spent the rest of Mr Jex's contribution on barrels of sauerkraut. He shook his head. 'I'm afraid that ain't possible, Mr Willerton. We have a handsome scroll and, in accordance with regulations, as I have no doubt you well know, ships below the third rate are not permitted individual figureheads. Most make do with a lion, we have a handsome scroll…' He tailed off, aware that Mr Willerton was not merely stubborn, but felt strongly enough to oppose his commander. Mr Willerton's almost bald head was shaking.

'Won't do sir. Bad luck to have a ship without a figurehead, sir. I was in the Brunswick at the First of June, sir. Damned Frogs shot the duke's hat off. We lashed a laced one on and sent the Vengeur to the bottom, sir. Ships without figureheads are like dukes without hats.'

Drinkwater met the old man's level gaze. There was not a trace of humour in his eyes. Mr Willerton spoke with the authority of holy writ.

'Well, Mr Willerton, if you feel that strongly…'

'I do, sir, and so does the men. We've raised a subscription of fifteen shillings.'

'Upon my soul!' Drinkwater's astonishment was unfeigned. Together with the realisation that his financial preoccupations were making him mean, came the reflection that the carpenter's request and the response of his motley little crew somehow reflected credit on the ship. He suddenly felt a pang of self-reproach for his tight-fistedness. If that shivering huddle of men he had seen on deck the morning he had read his commission at the gangway had enough esprit-de-corps to raise a subscription for a figurehead, the least he could do was encourage it. He tried to suppress any too obvious emotion, but the brief silence had not gone unnoticed. Mr Willerton pressed his advantage. 'I have ascertained, sir, that a virago is a bad tempered, shrewish woman what spits fire.' Drinkwater watched a slight movement of his eyes to Mrs Jex, who sat huddled in sooty disarray over the smoking stove. As the former madame of a brothel she would have had a choice phrase or two to exchange with the men in One of her less ladylike moods.

'I believe that is correct, Mr Willerton,' replied Drinkwater gravely, mastering sudden laughter.

'I have my eye on a piece of pine, sir, but it cost eight shilling. Then there is paint, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Willerton.' Drinkwater reached into his pocket and laid a guinea on the table. 'The balance against your craftsmanship, but be careful how you pick your model.'

For a second their eyes met. Willerton's were a candid and disarming blue, as innocent as a child's.

Chapter Four A Matter of Family

Lieutenant Drinkwater was in ill humour. It was occasioned by exasperation at the delays and prevarications of the dockyard and aggravated by petty frustrations, financial worries and domestic disappointment.

The latter he felt keenly for, as Christmas approached, he had promised himself a day or two ashore in lodgings in the company of his wife. Elizabeth was to have travelled to Chatham with Tregembo and his own sea-kit, but now she wrote to say she was unwell and that her new pregnancy troubled her. She had miscarried before and Drinkwater wrote back urging her not to risk losing the child, to stay with Charlotte Amelia and Susan Tregembo in the security of their home.

Tregembo was expected daily. The topman who had, years ago, attached himself to young Midshipman Drinkwater, was now both servant and confidant. Also expected was Mr Midshipman Quilhampton. Out of consideration for Louise, Drinkwater had left her son at home when he himself went to London. Later he had written off instructions to the young man to recruit hands for Virago. Now Drinkwater waited impatiently for those extra men.

But it was not merely men that Drinkwater needed. As Christmas approached, the dockyard became increasingly supine. He wanted masts and spars, for without them Virago was as immobile as a log, condemned to await the dockyard's pleasure. And Drinkwater was by no means sure that Mr Jex was not having his revenge through the influence of his kinsman, the Commissioner. As the days passed in idleness Drinkwater became more splenetic, less tolerant of Mrs Jex, less affable to Rogers. He worried over the possibilities of desertion by his men and fretted over their absence every time a wooding party went to search the tideline for driftwood. Unable to leave his ship by Admiralty order he sat morosely in his cloak, staring gloomily out over the dull, frosty marshes.

His misgivings over his first lieutenant increased. Rogers's irascibility was irritating the warrant officers and Drinkwater's own doubts about selecting Rogers grew. They had already argued over the matter of a flogging, Drinkwater ruling the laxer discipline that customarily prevailed on warships in port mitigated the man's offence to mere impudence. The knock at the door brought him out of himself.

'Come in!'

'Reporting aboard, sir.'

'James! By God, I'm damned glad to see you. You've men? And news of my wife?'

James Quilhampton warmed himself over the smoking stove. He was a tall, spare youth, growing out of his uniform coat, with spindle-shanked legs and a slight stoop. Any who thought him a slightly ridiculous adolescent were swiftly silenced when they saw the heavy iron hook he wore in place of a left hand.

'Aye sir, I have fifteen men, a letter from your wife and a surgeon.' He stood aside, pulling a letter from his breast. Taking the letter Drinkwater looked up to see a second figure enter his cabin.

'Lettsom, sir, surgeon; my warrant and appointment.' Drinkwater glanced at the proffered papers. Mr Lettsom was elderly, small and fastidious looking, with a large nose and a pair of tolerant eyes. His uniform coat was clean, though shiny and with overlarge, bulging pockets.

'Ah, I see you served under Richard White, Mr Lettsom, he speaks highly of you.'

'You are acquainted with Captain White, Lieutenant Drinkwater?'

'I am indeed, we were midshipmen together in the Cyclops, I saw him last at the Cape when he commanded the Telemachus.'

'I served with him in the Roisterer, brig. He was soon after posted to Telemachus.'

'I have no doubt we shall get along, Mr Lettsom.' Drinkwater riffled through the papers on his table. 'I have some standing orders here for you. You will find the men in reasonable shape. I have had their clothes replaced and we may thus contain the ship-fever. As to diet I have obliged the purser to buy in a quantity of sauerkraut. Its stink is unpopular, but I am persuaded it is effective against the scurvy.' Lettsom nodded and glanced at the documents. 'You are a disciple of Lind, Mr Drinkwater, I congratulate you.'

'I am of the opinion that much of the suffering of seamen in general is unnecessary.'

Lettsom smiled wryly at the earnest Drinkwater. 'I'll do my best, sir, but mostly it depends upon the condition of the men:

When people's ill, they come to I,

I physics, bleeds and sweat's 'em;

Sometimes they live, sometimes they die,

What's that to I? I let's 'em.'

For a second Drinkwater was taken aback, then he perceived the pun and began to laugh.

'A verse my cousin uses as his own, sir,' Lettsom explained, 'he is a physician of some note among the fashionable, but of insufficient integrity not to claim the verse as his own. I regret that he plagiarised it from your humble servant.' Lettsom made a mock bow.

'Very well, Mr Lettsom, I think we shall get along… Now gentlemen, if you will excuse me… '

He slit open Elizabeth's letter impatiently and began to read, lost for a while to the cares of the ship.

My Dearest Husband,

It is with great sadness that I write to say I shall not see you at Christmastide. I am much troubled by sickness and anxious for the child whom, from the trouble he causes, I know to be a boy. Charlotte chatters incessantly…

There was a page of his daughter's exploits and a curl of her hair. He learned that the lateness of Tregembo's departure was caused by a delay in the preparation of his Christmas gift and that Louise Quilhampton was having her portrait painted by Gaston Bruilhac, a paroled French sous-officier, captured by Drinkwater in the Red Sea who had executed a much admired likeness of his captor during the homeward voyage. There was town gossip and Elizabeth's disapproval of Mr Quilhampton's recruiting methods. Then, saved in Elizabeth's reserved manner for a position of importance in the penultimate paragraph, an oddly disquieting sentence:

On Tuesday last I received an odd visitor, your brother Edward whom I have not seen these five or six years. He was in company with a lively and pretty French woman, some fugitive from the sans culottes. He spoke excellent French to her and was most anxious to see you on some private business. I explained your whereabouts but he would vouchsafe me no further confidences. I confess his manner made me uneasy…

Drinkwater looked up frowning only to find Quilhampton still in the cabin.

'You wish to see me, Mr Q?'

'Beg pardon, sir, but I am rather out of pocket. The expense of bringing the men, sir…'

Drinkwater sighed. 'Yes, yes, of course. How much?'

'Four pounds, seventeen shillings and four pence ha'penny, sir. I kept a strict account…'

The problem of the ship closed round him again, driving all thoughts of his brother from his mind.

Mr Easton, the sailing master, with a brand new certificate from the Trinity House and an equally new warrant from the Navy Board joined them on the last day of the old century. Six days later Drinkwater welcomed his final warrant officer aboard. They had served together before. Mr Trussel was wizened, stoop-shouldered and yellow-skinned. Lank hair fell to his shoulders from the sides and back of his head, though his crown was bald.

'Reporting for duty, Mr Drinkwater.' A smile split his face from ear to ear.

'God bless my soul, Mr Trussel, I had despaired of your arrival, but you are just in time. Pray help yourself to a glass of blackstrap.' He indicated the decanter that sat on its tray at the end of the table, remembering Trussel's legendary thirst which he attributed to a lifelong proximity to gunpowder.

'The roads were dreadful, sir,' said Trussel, helping himself to the cheap, dark wine. 'I gather we are a tender, sir, servicing bombs.'

'Exactly so, Mr Trussel, and as such most desperately in want of a gunner. I shall rely most heavily upon you. As soon as we are rigged we are ordered to Blackstakes to load ammunition and ordnance stores. You will of course have finished your preparations of the magazines by then. Willerton, the carpenter, has a quantity of tongued deals on board and has made a start on them. I've no need to impress upon your mind that not a nail's to be driven once we've a grain of powder on board.'

'I understand, sir.' He paused. 'I saw Mr Rogers on deck.' The statement of fact held just the faintest hint of surprise. Trussel had been gunner of the brig Hellebore when Rogers wrecked her in the Red Sea.

'Mr Rogers is proving a most efficient first lieutenant Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater paused, watching Trussel's face remain studiously wooden. 'Well, I'd be obliged if you would be about your business without delay; time is of the very essence.'

Trussel rose. 'One other thing, sir.'

'Yes, what is that?'

'Are we to embark a detachment of artillerymen?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'I have received notice to that effect. It is customary to do so when ordnance stores are loaded.'

'Then we are for the Baltic, sir?'

Drinkwater smiled. 'You may conjecture as you see fit. I have no orders beyond those to load powder at Blackstakes.' Trussel grinned comprehendingly back.

'I hear Lord Nelson is to be employed upon a secret expedition. The papers had it as I came through London.' He smiled again, aware that the news had come as a surprise to the lieutenant.

'Lord Nelson…' mused Drinkwater, and it was some moments before he bent again to his work.

'I congratulate you, Mr Willerton.' Drinkwater regarded the brilliantly painted figurehead that perched on Virago's tiny fo'c's'le. The product of Willerton's skill with mallet and gouge was the usual mixture of crude suggestion and mild obscenity. The half bust showed a ferociously staring woman with her head thrown back. A far too beautiful mouth gaped violently revealing a protruding scarlet tongue, like the tongue of flame that must once have issued from Virago's mortars.

To the face of this harpy Mr Willerton's artistry had added the pert, up-tilted breasts of a virgin, too large for nature but erotic enough to satisfy the prurience of his shipmates. But it was the right arm that attested to Mr Willerton's true genius. While the left trailed astern the right crooked under an exaggerated breast, its nagging forefinger erect in the universally recognisable position of the scold. The 'leddy' was both termagant wanton and nagging wife, a spitfire virago eminently suitable to a bomb vessel. It was a pity, thought Drinkwater as he nodded his approval, that they were not so commissioned.

The handful of men detailed by Lieutenant Rogers to assist Willerton in fitting the figurehead grinned appreciatively, while Willerton sucked his teeth with a peculiar whistling noise.

'Worthy of a first rate, Mr Willerton. A true virago. I am glad you heeded my advice,' he added in a lower voice.

Willerton grinned, showing a blackened row of caried teeth. 'The right hand, sir, mind the right hand.' His blue eyes twinkled wickedly.

Drinkwater regarded the nagging finger. Perhaps there was some suggestion of Mrs Jex there, but it was not readily recognisable to him. He gave Willerton formal permission to fit the figurehead and turned aft.

A keen easterly wind canted Virago's tub-like hull across the river as she lay to her anchor clear of the sheer hulk. The three lower masts had been stepped and their rigging, already made up ashore and 'lumped' for hoisting aboard, had been fitted over the caps and hove tight to the channels by deadeyes and lanyards. The double hemp lines of fore, main and mizzen stays had been swigged forward and tightened. Rogers and Matchett were at that moment hoisting up the maintopmast, its heel-rope leading down to the barrel windlass at the break of the fo'c's'le, the pawls clicking satisfactorily as the topmast inched aloft.

Drinkwater began to walk aft, past the sweating gangs of sea and landsmen being bullied and sworn at by the bosun's mates, round the heaps and casks being counted by Mr Jex, and ascended the three steps to the low poop. He cast a glance across the river where Mr Quilhampton brought the cutter out from the dockyard, towing the mainyard from the mast pond. Over the poop with its huge tiller, a mark of Virago's age, fluttered the ensign. In its upper hoist canton it bore the new Union flag with St Patrick's saltire added after the recent Act of Union with Ireland. For a second he regarded it curiously, seeing a fundamental change in something he had come to regard as almost holy, something to fight and perhaps to die under. Of the Act and its implication he thought little, though it seemed to make sense to his ordered mind as did Pitt's attempt to emancipate the Roman Catholics of that unfortunate island.

He descended the companionway into his cabin. Mrs Jex had been evicted. On 27th January the Admiralty had ordered a squadron of bombs and their tenders to assemble at Sheerness. The dockyard had woken to its responsibilities. All was now of the utmost urgency before their Lordships started asking questions of the Commissioner.

Tregembo was hanging Elizabeth's gift, the cause of his delay in joining. Drinkwater watched, oddly moved. Bruilhac's skill as a portraitist showed Elizabeth cool and smiling with Charlotte Amelia chubby and serious. He was suddenly filled with an immense pride and tenderness. From his position at the table his two loved ones looked down at him, illuminated by the light that entered the cabin from the stern windows behind him, the moving light that, even on a dull day, did not enter his cabin without reflecting from the sea.

Mr Quilhampton interrupted his reverie. 'Mainyard's alongside, sir, and I've a letter left for you at the main gate.' He handed the paper over and Drinkwater slit the wafer.

My Dear Nathaniel,

I'd be obliged if you would meet meat the sign of the Blue Fox this evening.

Your brother, Edward

He looked up. 'Mr Q. Be so good as to ask the first lieutenant to have a boat for me at four bells.'

The Blue Fox was in a back street, well off the Dock Road and in an alley probably better known for its brothels than its reputable inns. But the place seemed clean enough and the landlord civil, evincing no surprise when Drinkwater asked for his brother. The man ushered Drinkwater to a private room on the upper floor.

Edward Drinkwater rose to meet him. He was of similar height to Nathaniel, with a heavier build and higher colour. His clothes were fashionably cut, and though not foppish, tended to the extremes of colour and decoration then de rigeur.

'Nathaniel! My dear fellow, my dear fellow, you are most kind to come.'

'Edward. It has been a very long time.' They shook hands.

'Too long, too long… here I have some claret mulling, by heaven damned if it ain't colder here than in London… there, a glass will warm you. Your ship is nearly ready then?'

Nathaniel nodded as he sipped the hot wine.

'Then it seems I am just in time, just in time.'

'Forgive me, Edward, but why all the mysterious urgency?'

Edward ran a finger round his stock with evident embarrassment. He avoided his brother's eyes and appeared to be choosing his words with difficulty. Several times he raised his head to speak, then thought better of it.

'Damn it Ned,' broke in Drinkwater impatiently, ''tis a woman or 'tis money, confound it, no man could haver like this for ought else.'

'Both Nat, both.' Edward seized on the opportunity and the words began to tumble from him. 'It is a long story, Nat, one that goes back ten or more years. You recollect after mother died and you married, I went off to Enfield to work for an India merchant, with his horses. I learned a deal about horses, father was good with 'em too. After a while I left the nabob's employ and was offered work at Newmarket, still with horses. I was too big to race 'em but I backed 'em and over a long period made enough money to put by. I was lucky. Very lucky. I had a sizeable wager on one occasion and made enough in a single bet to live like a gentleman for a year, maybe two if I was careful.' He sighed and passed a hand over his sweating face.

'After the revolution in France, when the aristos started coming over there were pickings of all sorts. I ran with a set of blades. We took fencing lessons from an impoverished marquis, advanced an old dowager some money on her jewels, claimed the debt… well, in short, my luck held.

'Then I met Pascale, she was of the minor nobility, but penniless. She became my mistress.' He paused to drink and Drinkwater watching him thought what a different life from his own. There were common threads, perceptible if you knew how to identify them. Their boyhood had been dominated by their mother's impecunious gentility, widowed after their drunken father had been flung from a horse. Nathaniel was careful of money, neither unwilling to loot a few gold coins from an American prize when a half-starved midshipman, nor to lean a little on the well-heeled Mr Jex. But where he had inherited his mother's shrewdness Edward had been bequeathed his father's improvidence as he now went on to relate.

'Things went well for a while. I continued to gamble and, with modest lodgings and Pascale to keep me company, managed to cut a dash. Then my luck changed. For no apparent reason. I began to lose. It was uncanny. I lost confidence, friends, everything.

'Nathaniel, I have twenty pounds between me and penury. Pascale threatens to leave me since she has received an offer to better herself…' He fell silent.

'As another man's mistress?'

Edward's silence was eloquent.

'I see.' Drinkwater felt a low anger building up in him. It was not enough that he should have spent a great deal of money in fitting out His Britannic bloody Majesty's bomb tender Virago. It was not enough that the exigencies of the service demanded his constant presence on board until sailing, but that this good-for-nothing killbuck of a brother must turn up to prey on his better nature.

'How much do you want?'

'Five hundred would…'

'Five hundred! God's bones, Edward, where in the name of Almighty God d'you think I can lay my hands on five hundred pounds?'

'I heard you did well from prize money…'

'Prize money? God, Ned, but you've a damned nerve. D'you know how many scars I've got for that damned prize money, how many sleepless nights, hours of worry…? No, of course you don't. You've been cutting a dash, gaming and whoring like the rest of this country's so-called gentry while your sea-officers and seamen are rotting in their wooden coffins. God damn it, Ned, but I've a wife and family to be looked to first.' His temper began to ebb. Without looking up Edward muttered:

'I heard too, that you received a bequest.'

'Where the hell d'you learn that?' A low fury came into his voice.

'Oh, I learned it in Petersfield.' That would not be difficult. There were enough gossips in any town to know the business of others. It was true that he had received a sizeable bequest from the estate of his former captain, Madoc Griffiths. 'They say it was three thousand pounds.'

'They may say what the hell they like. It is no longer mine. Most is in trust for my children, the remainder made over to my wife.' He paused again and Edward looked up, disappointed yet irritatingly unrepentant.

It suddenly occurred to Drinkwater that the expenses incurred in the fitting out of a ship, even a minor one like Virago, were inconceivable to Edward. He began to repent of his unbrotherly temper; to hold himself mean, still reproved in his conscience for the trick he had played on Jex, no matter how many barrels of sauerkraut it had bought.

'Listen, Ned, I am more than two hundred pounds out of pocket in fitting out my ship. That is why we receive prize money, that and for the wounds we endure in an uncaring country's service. You talk of fencing lessons but you've never known what it is to cut a man down before he kills you. You regard my uniform as some talisman opening the salons of the ton to me when I am nothing but a dog of a sailor, lieutenant or not. Why, Ned, I am not fit to crawl beneath the bootsoles of a twelve-year-old ensign of horse whose commission costs him two thousand pounds.' All the bitterness of his profession rose to the surface, replacing his anger with the gall of experience.

Edward remained silent, pouring them both another drink. After several moments Nathaniel rose and went to a small table. From the tail pocket of his coat he drew a small tablet and a pencil. He began to write, calling for wax and a candle.

After sealing the letter he handed it to his brother. 'That is all I can, in all conscience, manage.'

Then he left, picking up his hat without another word, leaving Edward to wonder over the amount and without waiting for thanks.

He was too preoccupied to notice Mr Jex drinking in the taproom as he made his way through to the street.

Chapter Five The Pyroballogist

Drinkwater raised the speaking trumpet. 'A trifle more in on that foretack, if you please Mr Matchett.' He transferred his attention to the waist where the master attended the main braces. 'You may belay the main braces Mr Easton.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Virago slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. 'Full and bye.'

'Full an' bye, zur.' Tregembo answered from the. tiller. Drinkwater, short of men still, had rated the Cornishman quartermaster.

They cleared the end of the trot, slipping beneath the wooded hill at Upnor.

'Up helm!' Virago swung, turning slowly before the wind. Drinkwater nodded to Rogers. 'Square the yards.' Rogers bawled at the men at the braces as Virago brought the wind astern, speeding downstream with the ebb tide under her, her forecourse, three topsails and foretopmast staysail set. The latter flapped now, masked by the forecourse.

They swung south east out of Cockham Reach, the river widening, its north bank falling astern, displaced by the low line of Hoo Island. They passed the line of prison hulks, disfigured old ships, broken, black and sinister. The hands swung the yards as the ship made each turn in the channel, the officers attentive during this first passage of the elderly vessel. They rounded the fort on Darnetness.

'Give her the main course, Mr Rogers.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Main yard there! Let fall! Let fall! Mind tacks and sheets there, you blasted lubbers! Look lively there! Watch, God damn it, there's a kink in the starboard clew garnet! It'll snag in the lead block, Mr Quil-bloody-hampton!'

Virago gathered speed, the tide giving Drinkwater a brief illusion of commanding something other than a tub of a ship. He smiled to himself. Though slow, Virago was heavy enough to carry her way and would probably handle well enough in a seaway. She had a ponderous certainty about her that might become an endearing quality, Drinkwater thought. He swung her down Kethole Reach and Rogers braced the yards up again as the wind veered a point towards the north. To the west the sky was clearing and almost horizontal beams of sunlight began to slant through the overcast, shining ahead of them to where the fort at Garrison Point and the Sheerness Dockyard gleamed dully against the monotones of marsh and islands.

'Clew up the courses as we square away in Saltpan Reach, Mr Rogers.' He levelled his glass ahead. Half a dozen squat hulled shapes were riding at anchor off Deadman's Island, a mile up stream from Sheerness. They were bomb vessels anchored close to the powder hulks at Blackstakes.

A chattering had broken out amidships. 'Silence there!' snapped Rogers. Drinkwater watched the line of bombs grow larger. 'Up courses if you please.'

Rogers bawled, Quilhampton piped and Matchett shouted. The heavy flog of resisting canvas rose above Drinkwater's head as he studied the bombs through his glass, selecting a place to bring Virago to her anchor.

They were abeam the upstream vessel, a knot of curious officers visible on her deck. There was a gap between the fourth and fifth bomb vessel, sufficient for Virago to swing. Drinkwater felt a thrill of pure excitement. He could go downstream and anchor in perfect safety at the seaward end of the line; but that gap beckoned.

'Stand by the braces, Mr Rogers! Down helm!'

'Down helm, zur!' Virago turned to starboard, her yards creaking round in their parrels, the forestaysail filling with a crack.

'Brace sharp up there, damn it!' he snapped, then to the helm, 'Full and bye!'

'Full an' bye, zur,' replied the impassive Tregembo.

Drinkwater sailed Virago as close to the wind as possible as the ebb pushed her remorselessly downstream. If he made a misjudgement he would crash on board the bomb vessel next astern. He could see a group of people forward on her, no doubt equally alerted to the possibility. He watched the relative bearing of the other vessel's foremast. It drew slowly astern: he could do it.

'Anchor's ready, sir,' muttered Rogers.

'Very well.' They were suddenly level with the bow of the other ship.

'Down helm!' Virago turned to starboard again, her sails about to shiver, then to flog. She carried her way, the water chuckling under her bow as she crept over the tide, leaving the anxious watchers astern and edging up on the ship next ahead.

Drinkwater watched the shore, saw its motion cease. 'All aback now! Let go!'

He felt the hull buck as the anchor fell from the cathead and watched the cable rumble along the deck, saw it catch an inexperienced landsman on the ankle and fling him down while the seamen laughed.

'Give her sixty fathoms, Mr Matchett, and bring her up to it.'

He nodded to Rogers. 'Clew up and stow.'

Mr Easton went below to plot their anchorage on the chart and when the vessel was reported brought to her cable Drinkwater joined him. Looking at the chart Drinkwater felt satisfied that neither ship nor crew had let him down.

His satisfaction was short-lived. An hour later he stood before Captain Martin, Master and Commander of His Majesty's bomb vessel Explosion, senior officer of the bomb ships assembled at Sheerness. Captain Martin was clearly intolerant of any of his subordinates who showed the least inclination to further their careers by acts of conspicuousness.

'Not only, lieutenant, was your manoeuvre one that endangered your own ship but it also endangered mine. It was, sir, an act of wanton irresponsibility. Such behaviour is not to be tolerated and speaks volumes on your character. I am surprised you have been entrusted with such a command, Mr Drinkwater. A man responsible for carrying quantities of powder upon a special service must needs be steady, constantly thoughtful, and never, ever hazard his ship.'

Drinkwater felt the blood mounting to his cheeks as Martin went on. 'Furthermore you have been most dilatory in the matter of commissioning your ship. I had reason to expect you to join the bombs under my command some days ago.'

Martin looked up at Drinkwater from a pair of watery blue eyes that stared out of a thin, parchment coloured face. Drinkwater fought down his sense of injustice and wounded pride. Feeling like a whipped midshipman he applied the resilience of the orlop, learned years ago.

'If my conduct displeased you I apologise, sir. I had no intention of causing you any concern. As to the manner of my commissioning I can only say that I exerted every effort to hasten the matter. I was prevented from so doing by the officials of the dockyard.'

'The dockyard officers have their own job to attend to, Mr Drinkwater, you cannot expect them to give priority to a bomb tender…' Aware that he had offended (Martin was probably related to some jobber in the dockyard), Drinkwater could not resist the opening.

'Precisely my point, sir,' he said drily. Martin's upper lip curled slightly, a mark of obvious displeasure, and Drinkwater added hastily, 'I mean no offence, sir.'

He stared down the commander who eventually said, 'Now, to your orders for the next week…'

'Your sport was most profitable, Mr Q,' said Drinkwater laying down his knife and fork upon an empty plate.

'Thank you sir. Did you favour the widgeon or the teal?'

'I fancy the teal had the edge. Mr Jex, would you convey my appreciation to the cook.'

Jex nodded, his mouth still full. Drinkwater looked round the table. It was a cramped gathering, sharing his small cabin with the officers were the two stern chasers and two 24-pound carronades in the aftermost side ports.

The cloth was drawn and the decanter of blackstrap placed in front of Drinkwater. They drank the loyal toast at their seats then scraped their chairs back. A cigar or two appeared, Trussel brought out a long churchwarden pipe and Willerton slipped a surreptitious quid of tobacco into his mouth. Lettsom took snuff and Drinkwater reflected that apart from himself and Rogers and Mr Quilhampton all those present, which excepted Mr Mason on deck, were well over forty-five, possibly over fifty. The preponderance of warrant officers carried by Virago ensured this, but it sometimes made Drinkwater feel old before his time, condemned to spend his life in the society of elderly men. He sighed, remembering the attitude of Captain Martin. Then he remembered something else, something he had been saving for this moment. 'By the way gentlemen, when I was aboard Explosion this morning I learned some news from London that will affect us all. Has anyone else learned of it?'

'We know that Admiral Ganteaume got out of Brest with seven of the line,' said Rogers.

'Aye, these damned easterlies, but I heard that Collingwood's gone in pursuit,' added Matchett. Drinkwater shook his head.

'You mean, sir, that it is intended to defend the Thames by dropping stone blocks into it?' asked Quilhampton ingenuously.

'No, young shaver, I do not.' He looked round. No one seemed to have any idea. 'I mean that Billy Pitt's resigned and that Mr Speaker Addington is to form a new government…' Exclamations of surprise and dismay met the news.

'Well, 'twill be of no account, Addington's Pitt's mouthpiece…'

'No wonder there are no orders for us…'

'So the King would not stomach emancipating the papists.'

'Damned good thing too…'

'Come Mr Rogers, you surely cannot truly think that?'

'Aye, Mr Lettsom, I most certainly do, God damn them…'

'Gentlemen please!' Drinkwater banged his hand on the table. The meal was intended to unite them. 'Perhaps you would like to know who is to head the Admiralty?' Their faces turned towards him. 'St Vincent, with Markham and Troubridge.'

'Who is to replace St Vincent in the Channel, sir?'

'Lord Cornwallis.'

'Ah, Billy Blue, well I think that is good news,' offered Lettsom, 'and I hear St Vincent will be at Sir Bloody Andrew Snape Hammond's throat. He has sworn reform and Hammond is an infernal jobber. Pray heaven they start at Chatham, eh?'

'I'll drink to that, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater smiling.

'What d'you say Jex?' said the surgeon turning to the purser, 'got your dirty work done just in time, eh?' There was a rumble of laughter round the table. Jex flushed.

'I protest… sir…'

'I rule that unfair, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater still smiling. 'Consider that Mr Jex paid for the sauerkraut.'

'The hands'll not thank you for that sir, however good an antiscorbutic it is.'

Drinkwater ignored Jex's look of startled horror. He did not see it subside into an expression of resentment. 'What about the other members of the cabinet?' asked Lettsom.

'I forget, Mr Lettsom. Only that that blade Vansittart is to be Joint Secretary to the Treasury or something. That is all I recollect…'

'Well the damned politicians forget us; why the hell should we remember them?' Rogers's flushed face expressed approval at his own jest.

'I have it!' said Lettsom suddenly, snapping his fingers as the laughter died away.

'Have what sir?' asked Quilhampton in precocious mock horror, 'The lues? The yaws?'

'An epigram, gentlemen, an epigram!' He cleared his throat while several banged the table for silence. Lettsom struck a pose:

'If blocks can from danger deliver,

Two places are safe from the French,

The first is the mouth of the river,

The second the Treasury Bench.'

'Bravo! Bravo!' They cheered, banged the table and were unaware of the strange face that appeared round the doorway. Drinkwater saw it first, together with that of Mason behind. He called for silence. 'What is it Mr Mason?'

The assembled officers turned to stare at the newcomer. He wore a royal blue tail coat turned back to reveal scarlet facings. His breeches were white and a cocked hat was tucked underneath his arm. His face was round and red, covered by peppery hair that grew out along his cheekbones, though his chin was shaved yet it had the appearance of being constantly rasped raw as if to keep down its beard. The man's head sat low upon his shoulders, like a 12-pound shot in the garlands.

'God damn my eyes, it's a bloody lobster,' said Rogers offensively and even though the man wore the blue uniform of the Royal Artillery his apoplectic countenance lent the welcome an amusing aptness.

'Lieutenant Tumilty of the artillery, sir,' said Mason filling the silence while the artillery officer stared aggressively round his new surroundings.

Drinkwater rose. 'Good day, lieutenant, pray sit down. Mr Tumility, make way there. You are to join us then?' He passed the decanter down the table and the messman produced a glass. The other occupants of the cabin eyed the stranger with ill-disguised curiosity.

Tumilty filled his glass, downed it and refilled it. Then he fixed Drinkwater with a tiny, fiery eye.

'I'm after asking if you're in command of the ship?' The accent was pugnaciously Irish.

'That is correct, Mr Tumilty.'

'It's true then! God save me but 'tis true, so it is.' He swallowed again, heavily.

'What exactly is true, Mr Tumilty?' asked Drinkwater, beginning to feel exasperated by the artilleryman's circumlocution.

'Despite appearances to the contrary, and begging your pardon, but you being but a lieutenant, then this ain't a bomb vessel, sir. Is that, or is that not the truth of the matter?'

Drinkwater flushed. Tumilty had touched a raw nerve. 'Virago was built as a bomb vessel, but at present she is commissioned only as a tender…'

'Though there's nothing wrong with her structure,' growled the hitherto silent Willerton.

'Does that answer your question?' added Drinkwater, ignoring the interruption.

Tumilty nodded. 'Aye, God save me, so it does. And I'll not pretend I like it lieutenant, not at all.' He suddenly struck his hat violently upon the table.

'Devil take 'em, do they not know the waste; that I'm the finest artilleryman to be employed upon the service?' He seemed about to burst into tears, looking round the astonished faces for agreement. Drinkwater was inclined to forgive him his behaviour; clearly Mr Tumilty was acting as a consequence of some incident at Woolwich and cursing his superiors at the Royal Arsenal.

'Gentlemen, pity me, I beg you. I'm condemned to hand powder like any of your barefoot powder-monkeys. A fetcher and carrier, me!'

'It seems, Mr Tumilty, that, to coin a phrase, we are all here present in the same boat.' A rumble of agreement followed Drinkwater's soothing words.

'But me, sir. For sure I'm the finest pyroballogist in the whole damned artillery!'

Chapter Six Powder and Shot

'Pyroballogy, Lieutenant Drinkwater, is the art of throwing fire. 'Tis both scientific and alchemical, and that is why officers in my profession cannot purchase their commissions like the rest of the army, so it is.'

Drinkwater and Tumilty stood at the break of the poop watching the labours of the hands as they manned the yardarm tackles, hoisting barrel after barrel of powder out of the hoy alongside. They had loaded their ordinary powder and shot, naval gunner's stores for their carronades and long guns, from the powder hulk at Blackstakes. Now they loaded the ordnance stores, sent round from Woolwich on the Thames. From time to time Tumilty broke off his monologue to shout instructions at his sergeant and bombadier who, with Virago's men, were toiling to get the stores aboard before the wind freshened further.

'No sir, our commissions are all issued by the Master-General himself and a captain of artillery may have more experience than a field officer, to be sure. I'm not after asking if that's a fair system, Mr Drinkwater, but I'm telling you that a man can be an expert at his work and still be no more than a lieutenant.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'And I'd not be wanting to argue with you Mr Tumilty,' he said drily.

'Tis an ancient art, this pyroballogy. Archimedes himself founded it at the siege of Syracuse and the Greeks had their own ballistic fireballs. Now tell me, Mr Drinkwater, would I be right in thinking you'd like to be doing a bit of the fire-throwing yourself?'

Drinkwater looked at the short Irishman alongside him. He was growing accustomed to his almost orientally roundabout way of saying something.

'I think perhaps we both suffer from a sense of frustration, Mr Tumilty.'

'And the carpenter assures me the ship's timbers are sound enough.' Drinkwater nodded and Tumilty added, ''Tis not to be underestimated, sir, a thirteen-inch mortar has a chamber with a capacity of thirty-two pounds. Yet a charge in excess of twenty will shake the timbers of a mortar bed to pieces in a very short time and may cause the mortar to explode.'

'But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.'

'True, true, but you've not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I'm asking myself, would that be?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place…'

'And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?'

'That is correct.'

'Well now that's very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?'

Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.

'I don't think I quite understand.'

'Well look,' Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy's hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of Virago. The hoy's crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. 'Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one ten-inch weighing forty-one hundredweights. Why don't we ship them on the beds, eh?'

'I take it they're spares.' Tumilty nodded. Drinkwater knew the other bomb vessels already had their own mortars fitted for he had examined those on the Explosion. There seemed no very good argument against fitting them in the beds even if they were supposed to be struck down into the hold. After all Virago had been fitted to carry them. He wondered what Martin would say if he knew, as doubtless he would in due course.

'By damn, Mr Tumilty, it is getting dark. Let us have those beauties swung aboard as you suggest. We may carry 'em in their beds safer than rolling about in the hold.'

'That's the spirit, Mr Drinkwater, that's the spirit to be sure.'

'Mr Rogers! A word with you if you please.' Rogers ascended the ladder.

'Sir?'

'We have two mortars to load, spares for the squadron. I intend to lower them on the beds. D'you understand Sam? If we've two mortars fitted we may yet get a chance to do more than fetch and carry…'

The gleam of enthusiasm kindled in Rogers's eye. 'I like the idea, damned if I don't.' He shot a glance at Tumilty, still suspicious of the artilleryman who seemed to occupy a position of a questionable nature aboard a King's ship. The Irishman was gazing abstractedly to windward.

'Now, 'twill be ticklish with this wind increasing but it will likely drop after sunset. Brace the three lower yards and rig preventers on 'em, then rig three-fold purchases as yard and stay tackles over both beds. Get Willerton to open the hatches and oil the capsquares. Top all three yards well up and put two burtons on each and frap the whole lot together. That should serve.'

'What weights, sir?'

'Eighty-two hundred weights to come in on the after bed and…'

'Forty-one on the forward…'

'Forrard, Mr Tumilty.'

'I'm sure I'm begging your pardon, Mr Rogers.' Rogers hurried away shouting for Matchett and Willerton. 'Why he's a touchy one, Mr Drinkwater.'

'We're agreed on a number of things, Mr Tumilty, not least that we'd both like to add 'Captain' to our name, but I believe there was much bad blood between the artillery and the navy the last time an operation like this took place.'

'Sure, I'd not be knowing about that sir,' replied Tumilty, all injured innocence again.

Virago creaked and leaned to starboard as the weight came on the tackles. The sun had already set and in the long twilight the hands laboured on. The black mass of the ten-inch mortar, a little under five feet in length, hung above the lightened hoy.

At the windlass Mr Matchett supervised the men on the bars. Yard and stay tackles had been rigged with their hauling parts wound on in contrary directions so that as the weight was eased on the yard arms it was taken up on the stay tackles. The doubled-up mainstay sagged under the weight and Rogers lowered the mortar as quickly as possible. Mr Willerton's party with handspikes eased the huge iron gun into its housing and snapped over the cap-squares. Virago was upright again, though trimming several inches by the head.

'Throw off all turns, clear away the foretackles, rig the after tackles!'

It was as Drinkwater had said. The wind had died and the first mortar had come aboard without fuss. Mr Tumilty had left the pure seamanship to the navy and gone to closet himself with his sergeant and Mr Trussel, while they inspected the powder stowage and locked all the shell rooms, powder rooms, fuse rooms and filling rooms that Willerton had lined with the deal boards supplied by Chatham Dockyard.

The tackles suspended from the main and crossjack yards were overhauled and hooked onto the carefully fitted slings round the thirteen-inch mortar. Next the two centreline tackles were hooked on. To cope with the additional weight of the larger mortar Drinkwater had ordered these be rigged from the main and mizzen tops, arguing the mizzen forestay was insufficient for the task.

Again the hauling parts were led forward and the slack taken up. There were some ominous creakings but after half an hour the trunnions settled on the bed and Mr Willerton secured the second set of capsquares. The sliding section of the mortar hatches were pulled over and the tarpaulins battened down. The last of the daylight disappeared from the riot of cloud to the west and the hands, grumbling or chattering according to their inclination, were piped below.

For the first time since the days of disillusion that followed his joining the ship, Nathaniel Drinkwater felt he was again, at least in part, master of his own destiny.

'Well, Mr Tumilty, perhaps you would itemise the ordnance stores on board.'

'Sure, and I will. We have two hundred of the thirteen-inch shell carcases, two hundred ten-inch, one hundred and forty round, five-vented carcases for the thirteens, forty oblong carcases for the tens. Five thousand one pound round shot, the same as you have for your swivels…'

'What do you want them for?' asked Rogers.

'Well now, Mr Rogers,' said Tumilty, tolerantly lowering his list, 'if you choke up the chamber of a thirteen inch mortar with a couple of hundred of they little devils, they fall like iron rain on trenches, or open works without casemates, or beaches, or anywhere else you want to clear of an enemy. Now to continue, we have loaded two hundred barrels of powder, an assortment as you know of fine cylinder, restoved and mealed powder. I have three cases of flints, five of fuses, six rolls of worsted quick-match, a quantity of rosin, turpentine, sulphur, antimony, saltpetre, spirits of wine, isinglass and red orpiment for Bengal lights, blue fires and fire balls. To be sure, Mr Rogers, you're sitting on a mortal large bang.'

'And you've everything you want?' Tumilty nodded. 'Are you happy with things, Mr Trussel?'

'Aye, sir, though I'd like Mr Willerton to make a new powder box. Ours is leaky and if you're thinking that… well, maybe we might fire a mortar or two ourselves, then you'll need one to carry powder up to the guns.'

'Mr Trussel's right, Mr Drinkwater. The slightest leak in a powder box lays a trail from the guns to the filling room in no time at all. If the train fires the explosion'll be even quicker!' They laughed at Tumilty's diabolical humour; the siting of those ugly mortars had intoxicated them all a little.

'Very well, gentlemen. We'll look at her for trim in the morning and hope that Martin does not say anything.'

'Let us hope Captain Martin'll be looking after his own mortars and not overcharging them so that we haven't to give up ours,' said Tumilty, blowing his red nose. He went on: 'And who had you in mind to be throwing the shells at, Mr Drinkwater?'

'Well it's no secret that the Baltic is the likely destination, gentlemen,' he looked round at their faces, expectant in the gently swinging light from the lamp. From the notebooks he had inherited from old Blackmore, sailing master of the frigate Cyclops, he had learned a great deal about the Baltic. Blackmore had commanded a snow engaged in the timber trade. 'If the Tsar leagues the navies of the north, we'll have the Danes and Swedes to deal with, as well as the Russians. If he doesn't, we've still the Russians left. They're based at Revel and Cronstadt; iced up now, but Revel unfreezes in April. As to the Swedes at Carlscrona, I confess I know little of them. Of the Danes at Copenhagen,' he shrugged, 'I do not think we want to leave 'em in our rear.'

'It's nearly the end of February now,' said Trussel, 'if we are to fight the Danes before the Russkies get out of the ice, we shall have to move soon.'

'Aye, and with that dilatory old bastard Hyde Parker to command us, we may yet be too late,' added Rogers.

'Yes, I'm after thinking it's the Russkies.' Tumilty nodded, tugging at the hairs on his cheeks.

'Well, they say Hyde Parker's marrying some young doxy, so I still say we'll be too late.' Rogers scratched the side of his nose gloomily.

'They say she's young enough to be his daughter,' grinned Trussel.

'Dirty old devil.'

'Lucky old sod.'

'Tis what comes of commanding in the West Indies and taking your admiral's eighth from the richest station in the service,' added the hitherto silent Easton.

'Well well, gentlemen, 'tis of no importance to us whom Admiral Parker marries,' said Drinkwater, 'I understand it is likely that Nelson will second him and he will brook no delay.'

'Perhaps, perhaps, sir, but I'd be willing to lay money on it,' concluded Rogers standing up, taking his cue from Drinkwater and terminating the meeting.

'Let us hope we have orders to proceed to the rendezvous at Yarmouth very soon, gentlemen. And now I wish you all a good night.'

Chapter Seven Action off the Sunk

Lieutenant Drinkwater hunched himself lower into his boat cloak, shivering from the effects of the low fever that made his head and eyes ache intolerably. The westerly wind had thrown a lowering overcast across the sky and then whipped itself into a gale, driving rain squalls across the track of the squadron as it struggled out of the Thames Estuary into the North Sea.

Their visible horizon was circumscribed by one such squall which hissed across the wave-caps and made Virago lean further to leeward as she leapt forward under its impetus. A roil of water foamed along the lee scuppers, squirting inboard through the closed gunports and Drinkwater could hear the grunts of the helmsmen as they leaned against the cant of the deck and the kicking resistance of the big tiller. A clicking of blocks told where the quartermaster took up the slack on the relieving tackles. Drinkwater shivered again, marvelling at the chill in his spine which was at odds with the burning of his head.

He knew it could be typhus, the ship-fever, brought aboard by the lousy draft of pressed men, but he was fastidious in the matter of bodily cleanliness and had not recently discovered lice or fleas upon his person. He had already endured the symptoms for five days without the appearance of the dreaded 'eruption'. Lettsom had fussed over him, forcing him to drink infusions of bark without committing himself to a diagnosis. The non-appearance of a sore had led Drinkwater to conclude he might have contracted the marsh-ague from the mists of the Medway. God knew he had exposed himself to chills and exhaustion as he had striven to prepare his ship, and his cabin stove had been removed with Mrs Jex, prior to the loading of powder.

He thought of the admonition he had received from Martin and the recollection made him search ahead, under the curved foot of the forecourse to where Explosion led the bomb vessels and three tenders to the north eastward. What he saw only served to unsettle him further.

'Mr Easton!' he shouted with sudden asperity, 'do you not see the commodore's signalling?' Martin, the epitome of prudence tending to timidity, was reducing sail, brailing up his courses and snugging down to double reefed topsails and a staysail forward. Drinkwater left Easton to similarly reduce Virago's canvas and repeat the signal to the vessels astern. He fulminated silently to himself, having already decided that Martin was a cross they were all going to have to bear. As senior officer he had been most insistent upon being addressed as 'commodore' for the short passage from Sheerness to Yarmouth. Drinkwater found that sort of pedantry a cause for contempt and irritation. He was aware, too, that Martin was not simply a fussy senior officer. It was clear that whatever advancement Drinkwater expected to wring out of his present appointment was going to have to be despite Captain Martin, who seemed to wish to thwart the lieutenant. Drinkwater threw off his gloomy thoughts, the professional melancholy known as 'the blue devils', and watched a herring gull glide alongside Virago, riding the turbulent air disturbed by the passage of the ship. With an almost imperceptible closing of its wings it suddenly sideslipped and curved away into the low trough of a wave lifting on Virago's larboard quarter.

'Sail reduced sir.'

'Very well, Mr Easton. Be so good as to keep a sharp watch on the commodore, particularly in this visibility.'

Easton bit his lip. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

'When will we be abeam the Gunfleet beacon?'

'Bout an hour, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Easton turned away and Drinkwater looked over the ship. His earlier premonition had been correct. She had an immensely solid feel about her, despite her lack of overall size. Her massive scantlings gave her this, but she was also positive to handle and gave him a feeling of confident satisfaction as his first true command.

He looked astern at the remainder of the squadron. Terror, Sulphur, Zebra and Hecla could just be made out. Discovery and the other two tenders, both Geordie colliers, were lost in the rain to the south westward. The remaining bomb, Volcano, was somewhere ahead of Explosion.

He saw one of the tenders emerge from the rain astern of Hecla. She was a barque rigged collier called the Anne Reed, requisitioned by the Ordnance Board and fitted up as an accommodation vessel for the Royal Artillery detachment, some eight officers and eighty men who, in addition to half a dozen ordnance carpenters from the Tower of London, would work the mortars when the time came. Lieutenant Tumilty was somewhere aboard her, no doubt engaged in furious and bucolic debate with his fellow 'pyroballogists' over the more abstruse aspects of fire-throwing.

Drinkwater smiled to himself, missing the man's company. Doubtless there would be time for that later, when they reached Yarmouth and again when they entered the Baltic.

A stronger gust of wind dashed the spray of a breaking wave and whipped it over Virago's quarter. A cold trickle wormed its way down Drinkwater's neck, reminding him that he need not stand on deck all day. Already the Swin had opened to become the King's Channel, now that too merged with the Barrow Deep. Easton lifted his glass and stared to the north. The rain would prevent them seeing the Naze and its tower. Drinkwater fumbled in his tail pocket and brought out his own glass. He scanned the same arc of the horizon, seeing it become indistinct, grey and blurred as yet another rain squall obscured it. He waited patiently for it to pass, then looked again. This time Easton beat him to it.

'A point forrard of the beam, sir.'

Drinkwater hesitated. Then he saw it, a pole surmounted by a wooden cage over which he could just make out a faint, horizontal blur. The blur was, he knew, a huge wooden fish.

'Very well, Mr Easton, a bearing if you please and note in your log.'

A quarter of an hour later the Gunfleet beacon was obliterated astern by more rain and as night came on the wind increased.

By midnight the gale was at its height and the squadron scattered. Drinkwater had brought Virago to an anchor, veering away two full cables secured end to end. For although they were clear of the longshoals that run into the mouth of the Thames they had yet to negotiate the Gabbards and the Galloper and the Shipwash banks, out in the howling blackness to leeward.

The fatigue and anxiety of the night seemed heightened by his fever and he seemed possessed of a remarkable energy that he knew he would pay dearly for later, but he hounded his officers and took frequent casts of the lead to see whether their anchor was dragging. At six bells in the middle watch the atmosphere cleared and they were rewarded by a glimpse of the lights of the floating alarm vessel[1] at the Sunk. With relief he went below, collapsing across his cot in his wet boat cloak, his feet stuck out behind him still in their shoes. Only his hat rolled off his head and into a damp corner beneath a carronade slide.

Lieutenant Rogers relieved Mr Trussel at four in the morning.

'Wind's abating, sir,' added Trussel after handing the deck over to the lieutenant.

'Yes.'

'And veering a touch. Captain said to call him if it veered, sir.'

'Very well.' Rogers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the pewter mug that was now empty of coffee into the bottom shelf of the binnacle. He looked up at the dark streamer of the masthead pendant, then down at the oscillating compass. The wind was indeed veering.

'Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Pass word to the Captain that the wind's veering, north west a half west and easing a touch, I fancy.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

The cloud was clearing to windward and a few stars were visible. Rogers crossed the deck to look at the traverse board then hailed the masthead to see if anything was visible from there.

Drinkwater arrived on deck five minutes later. It had taken him a great effort to urge his aching and stiffened limbs to obey him.

'Morning sir.'

'Mornin',' Drinkwater grunted, 'any sign of the commodore or the Sunk alarm vessel?'

'No sign of the commodore but the Sunk's still in sight. She's held to her anchor.'

'Very well. Wind's easing ain't it?'

'Aye, 'tis dropping all the time.'

'Turn the hands up then, we'll prepare to weigh.'

Drinkwater walked aft and placed his hands on the caned taffrail, drawing gulps of fresh air into his lungs and seeking in vain some invigoration from the dawn. Around him the ship came to life. The flog of topsails being cast loose and sheeted home, the dull thud of windlass bars being shipped. There was no fiddler aboard Virago and the men set up a low chant as they began to heave the barrels round to a clunking of pawls. The cable came in very slowly.

They had anchored north east of the Sunk, under the partial shelter of the Shipwash Sand and Virago rolled as her head was pulled round to her anchor. Already a faint lightening of the sky was perceptible to the east. Drinkwater shook the last of the sleep from him and turned forward.

'Forrard there, how does she lead?'

'Two points to larboard, sir, and coming to it.' Matchett's voice came back to him from the fo'c's'le. Drinkwater drummed his fingers on the poop rail.

'Up and down, sir.'

'Anchor's aweigh!'

'Topsail halliards, away lively there… haul away larboard braces, lively now! Ease away that starboard mainbrace damn you…!' The backed topsails filled with wind even before their yards had reached their proper elevation. Virago began to make a stern board.

'Foretopmast staysail, aback to larboard Mr Matchett.' The ship began to swing. 'Helm a-lee!'

'Helium's a-leek, zur.'

'Larboard tack, Mr Rogers, course nor' nor' east.'

He left Rogers to haul the yards again and steady Virago on her new course. They would be safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads before another midnight had passed. Around him the noises of the ship, the clatter of blocks, the grind of the rudder, the flog of canvas and creak of parrels, told him Rogers was steadying Virago on her northward course. He wondered how the other members of the squadron had fared during the night and considered that 'commodore' Martin might be an anxious and exasperated man this morning. The thought amused him, although it was immediately countered by the image of Martin and the other ships sitting in Yarmouth Roads awaiting the arrival of Virago.

The ship heeled and beneath him the wake began to bubble out from under her stern as she gathered headway. Instinctively he threw his weight on one hip, then turned and began pacing the windward side of the poop. The afterguard padded aft and slackened the spanker brails, four men swigging the clew out to the end of the long boom by the double outhauls.

'Course, nor' nor' east, sir.'

'Very well, Sam. You have the deck, carry on.'

Rogers called Matchett to pipe up hammocks. The routine of Virago's day had begun in earnest. Drinkwater walked forward again and halted by the larboard mizzen rigging at the break of the poop. He searched for a glimpse of Orfordness lighthouse but his attention was suddenly attracted by something else, an irregularity in the almost indistinguishable meeting of sea and sky to the north of them. He fished in his tail pocket for the Dolland glass.

'Mr Rogers!'

'Sir?'

'What d'you make of those sails,' said Drinkwater without lowering his glass, 'there, half a point on the larboard bow?'

Rogers lifted his own glass and was silent for a moment. 'High peaks,' he muttered, 'could be bawleys out of Harwich, but not one of the squadron, if that's what you're thinking.'

'That ain't what I'm thinking Sam. Take another look, a good long look.'

Rogers whistled. One of the approaching sails had altered course, slightly more to the east and they were both growing larger by the second.

'Luggers, by God!'

'And if I'm not mistaken they're in chase, Sam. French chasse-marées taking us for a fat wallowing merchantman. I'll wager they've been lying under the Ness all night.'

'They'll eat the logline off this tub, God damn it, and be chock full of men.'

'And as handy as yachts', added Drinkwater, remembering the two stern chasers in his cabin and his untried crew. He would be compelled to fight for he could not outrun such swift enemies.

'Wear ship, Sam, upon the instant. Don't be silly man, we're no match for two Dunkirkers, we'll make the tail of the bank and beat up for Harwich.'

Rogers shut his gaping mouth and turned to bawl abusively at the hands milling in the waist as they carried the hammocks up and stowed them in the nettings. The first lieutenant scattered them like a fox among chickens.

Drinkwater considered his situation. To stand on would invite being out-manoeuvred, while by running he would not only have his longest range guns bearing on the enemy, but might entice the luggers close enough to pound them with his carronades. If he could outrun them long enough to make up for the Sunk and Harwich they might abandon the chase, privateers were unwilling to fight if the odds were too great and there was a guardship in Harwich harbour.

The spanker was brailed up again as Virago's stern passed through the wind. Drinkwater tried to conceal the trembling of his hand, which was as much due to his fever as his apprehension, while he tried to hold the images of the approaching luggers in the circle of the glass. Thanks to the twilight they had been close enough when first spotted. They were scarcely a mile distant as Rogers shrieked at topmen too tardily loosing the topgallants for his liking.

'Look lively you damned scabs, you've a French hulk awaiting you if you don't stop frigging about…'

'Beg pardon, sir.'

Drinkwater bumped into a crouching seaman scattering sand on the deck. He abandoned a further study of the enemy and looked to the trim of the sails. Easton was at the con now, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

'We'll make up for Harwich as soon as we're clear of the Shipwash Sand, Mr Easton. Do you attend to the bearing of the alarm vessel.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Daylight was increasing by the minute and Drinkwater looked astern again. He could see the long, low hulls, the oddly raked masts and the huge spread of canvas set by the luggers. He was by no means confident of the outcome, and both of the pursuing sea-wolves were coming up fast.

Drinkwater walked forward again. Rogers reported the ship cleared for action.

'Very well. Mr Rogers, you are to command the two chasers in the cabin. We will do what damage we can before they close on us. They will likely take a quarter each and try to board.' Rogers and Easton nodded.

'Mr Easton, you have the con. From time to time I may desire you to ease away a little or to luff half a point to enable Mr Rogers to point better.'

'Aye, sir, I understand.'

'Mr Mason the larboard battery, Mr Q the starboard. Rapid fire as soon as you've loosed your first broadside. For that await the command. Mr Rogers you may fire at will.'

'And the sooner the better.'

Drinkwater ignored Rogers's interruption. 'Is that clear gentlemen?'

There was a succession of 'ayes' and nods and nervous grins.

Drinkwater stood at the break of the low poop. The waisters were grouped amidships, the gun crews kneeling at their carronades. They all looked expectantly aft. They had had little practice at gunnery since leaving Chatham and Drinkwater was acutely conscious of their unpreparedness. He looked now at the experienced men to do their best.

'My lads, there are two French privateers coming up astern hand over fist. They've the heels of us. Give 'em as much iron as they can stomach before they close us. A Frog with a bellyful of iron can't jump a ditch…' He paused and was gratified by a dutiful ripple of nervous laughter at the poor jest. 'But if they do board I want to see you busy with those pikes and cutlasses…' He broke off and gave them what he thought was a confident, bloodthirsty grin. He was again relieved to see a few leers and hear the beginnings of a feeble cheer.

He nodded. 'Do your duty, lads.' He turned to the officers, 'Take post gentlemen.'

It suddenly occurred to him that he was unarmed. 'Tregembo, my sword and pistols from the cabin if you please.'

He looked aft and with a sudden shock saw the two luggers were very much closer. The nearer was making for Virago's lee quarter, the larboard.

'God's bones,' muttered Drinkwater to himself, trying to fend off a violent spasm of shivering that he did not want to be taken for fear.

'Here zur,' Tregembo held out the battered French hanger and Drinkwater unhooked the boat cloak from his throat and draped it over Tregembo's outstretched arm. He buckled on the sword then took the pistols.

'I've looked to the priming, zur, and put a new flint in that 'un, zur.'

'Thank you, Tregembo. And good luck.'

'Aye, zur.' The man hurried away with the cloak and reappeared on deck at the tiller almost at once.

A fountain of water sprung up alongside them, another rose ahead.

'In range, sir,' said Easton beside him, 'they'll be good long nines, then.'

'Yes,' said Drinkwater shortly, aware that his tenure of command might be very short indeed, his investment in Virago a wasted one. An uncomfortable vision of the fortresses of Verdun and Bitche rose unbidden into his mind's eye. He swore again softly, cursing his luck, his fever and the waiting.

Beneath his feet he felt a faint rumble as Rogers had the chaser crews run the 6-pounders through the stern ports. He thought briefly of the two portraits hanging on the forward bulkhead and then forgot all about them as the roar of Virago's cannon rang in his ears.

He missed the fall of shot, and that of the second gun. At least Samuel Rogers would do his utmost, of that Drinkwater was certain.

At the fourth shot a hole appeared in the nearer lugger's mizen. Beside Drinkwater Easton ground his right fist into the palm of his left hand with satisfaction.

'Mind you attend to the con, Mr Easton,' Drinkwater said and caught the crest-fallen look as Easton turned to swear at the helmsmen.

The nearer lugger was overhauling them rapidly, her relative bearing opening out broader on the quarter with perceptible speed. 'Luff her a point Mr Easton!'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Virago's heel eased a little and Rogers's two guns fired in quick succession.

Drinkwater watched intently. He fancied he saw a shower of splinters somewhere amidships on the Frenchman then Mason was alongside him.

'Beg pardon sir, but I can get the aftermost larboard guns to bear on that fellow, sir.' The enemy opened fire at that very moment and a buzz filled the air together with a whooshing noise as double shotted ball and canister scoured Virago's deck. Drinkwater heard cries of agony and the bright gout of blood appeared as his eye sought out the damage to his ship.

'Very well, Mr Mason…' But Mason was gone, he lay on the deck silently kicking, his face contorted with pain.

'You there! Get Mr Mason below. Pass word to Mr Q to open fire with both batteries. Independent fire…'

His last words were lost in a crack from aloft and the roar of gunfire from the enemy. The mainyard had been shot through and was sprung, whipping like a broomstick.

'Mains'l Mr Easton! And get the tops'l off her at once…' Men were already starting the tacks and sheets. Matchett's rattan rose and fell as he shoved the waisters towards the clew and buntlines, pouring out a rich and expressive stream of abuse. Even as the car-ronades opened fire Virago slowed and suddenly the leeward lugger was upon them.

Lining her rail a hedge of pikes and sword blades appeared.

'Boarders!' Drinkwater roared as the two vessels ground together. A grapnel struck the rail and Drinkwater drew his hanger and sliced the line attached to it.

He saw the men carrying Mason drop him halfway down the poop ladder as they raced for cutlasses.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater screamed with sudden fury as the Frenchmen poured over the rail. His hanger slashed left and right and he seemed to have half a dozen enemies in his front. He pulled out a pistol and shot one through the forehead, then he was only aware of the swish of blades hacking perilously close to his face and the bite and jar in his mangled arm muscles as steel met steel.

The breath rasped in his throat and the fever fogged him with the first red madness of bloodlust longer than was usual. The cool fighting clarity that came out of some chilling primeval past revived him at last. The long fearful wait for action was over and the realisation that he was unscathed in those first dreadful seconds left him with a detachment that seemed divorced from the grim realities of hand to hand fighting. He was filled with an extraordinary nervous energy that could only have owed its origins to his fevered state. He seemed wonderfully possessed of demonic powers, the sword blade sang in his hand and he felt an overwhelming and savagely furious joy in his butchery.

He was not aware of Tregembo and Easton rallying on him. He was oblivious to James Quilhampton a deck below still pouring shot after shot into the French lugger's hull at point blank range with two 24-pounder carronades. Neither did he see Rogers emerge on deck with the starboard gun crews who had succeeded in dismasting the other lugger at a sufficient distance, nor that Quilhampton had so persistently hulled their closer adversary that her commander realised he had caught a Tartar and decided to withdraw.

He did not know that the Viragos were inspired by the sight of their hatless captain, one foot on the rail, hacking murderously at the privateersmen like a devil incarnate.

Drinkwater was only aware that it was over when there were no more Frenchmen to be killed and beneath him a widening gulf between the two hulls. He looked, panting, at his reeking hands; his right arm was blood-soaked to the elbow. He was sodden from the perspiration of fever and exertion. He watched their adversary drop astern, her sails flogging. She was low in the water, sinking fast. Several men swam round her, the last to leave Virago he presumed. Staggering as though drunk, he looked for the second lugger. Her foremast was gone and her crew were sweeping her up to the assistance of her foundering consort.

Drinkwater was aware of a cheer around him. Men were shouting and grinning, all bloody among the wounded and the dead. Rogers was coming towards him, his face cracked into a grin of pure delight. Then there was another cheer out to starboard and Virago surged past the anchored red bulk of the Sunk alarm vessel, her crew waving from the rail, her big Trinity House ensign at the dip.

'They bastards've bin 'anging round three days 'n' more,' he heard her master shout in the Essex dialect as they passed.

'I fancy we fooled the sods then, God damn 'em,' said Rogers as the cheers died away. Drinkwater's head cleared to the realisation that he was shivering violently. He managed a thin smile. Ship and company had passed their first test; they were blooded together but now there was a half-clewed main course to furl, a topsail to secure and a mainyard to fish.

'Do you wish to put about and secure a prize, sir?' asked the ever hopeful Rogers.

'No Sam, Captain Martin would never approve of such a foolhardy act. Do you put about for Yarmouth, we must take the Shipway now. Those luggers'll not harm the alarm vessel and have problems enough of their own. Mr Easton, a course to clear Orfordness if you please. See word is passed to Willerton to fish that bloody yard befofe it springs further, and for Christ's sake somebody get that poor fellow Mason below to the surgeon.'

Drinkwater was holding the poop rail to prevent himself keeling over. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to go below but there was one last thing to do.

'Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Do you bring me the butcher's bill in my cabin directly.'