The Bomb Vessel

Chapter Eight An Unlawful Obligation

'Hold him!' Lettsom snapped at his two mates as they struggled to hold Mason down on the cabin table. A cluster of lanterns illuminated the scene as Lettsom, stripped to the shirt-sleeves, his apron stained dark with blood, bent again over his task.

Despite a dose of laudanum Mason still twitched as the surgeon probed the wound in his lower belly. The bruised flesh gaped bloodily, the jagged opening in the groin where the splinter had penetrated welled with blood.

Drinkwater stood back, against the bulkhead. Since the action with the luggers that morning he had slept for five hours and fortified himself against his fever with half a bottle of blackstrap. Virago was now safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads in company with a growing assembly of ships, partly the preparing Baltic fleet, partly elements of Admiral Dickson's Texel squadron. Drinkwater was feeling better and the absence of Explosion had further encouraged him.

Mason was the last of the three serious casualties to receive Lettsom's attention. One seaman had lost an arm. Another, like Mason, had received severe splinter wounds. An additional eight men had received superficial wounds and there were four of their own people dead. The seven French corpses left on board had been thrown overboard off Lowestoft without ceremony.

Lettsom had left Mason until Virago reached the relative tranquility of the anchorage. He knew that the long oak sliver that had run into Mason's body could only be extracted successfully under such conditions.

Drinkwater watched anxiously. He knew Lettsom was having difficulties. The nature of the splinter was to throw out tiny fibres of wood that acted like barbs. As these carried fragments of clothing into the wound the likelihood of a clean excision was remote.

The set of Lettsom's jaw and the perspiration on his forehead were evidence of his concern.

Lettsom withdrew the probe, inserted thin forceps and drew out a sliver of wood with a sigh. He held it up to the light and studied it intently. Drinkwater saw him swallow and his eyes closed for a moment. He had been unsuccessful. He rubbed his hand over his mouth in a gesture of near despair, leaving a smear of blood across his face. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat.

'Put him in my cot,' said Drinkwater, realising that to move Mason further than was absolutely necessary would kill him. Lettsom caught his eye and the surgeon shook his head. The two men remained motionless while the surgeon's mates bound absorbent pledgets over the wound and eased Mason into the box-like swinging bed. Lettsom rinsed his hands and dropped his reeking apron on the tablecloth while his mates cleaned the table and cleared Drinkwater's cabin of the gruesome instrument chest. Drinkwater poured two glasses of rum and handed one to the surgeon who slumped in a chair and drained it at a swallow.

'The splinter broke,' Lettsom said at last. 'It had run in between the external iliac vein and artery. They were both intact. That gave me a chance to save him…' He paused, looked at Drinkwater, then lowered his eyes again. 'That was a small miracle, Mr Drinkwater, and I should have succeeded, but I bungled it. No don't contradict me, I beg you. I bungled it. The splinter broke with its end lodged in the obturator vein, the haemorrage was dark and veinous. When he turns in his sleep he will move it and puncture his bladder. Part of his breeches and under garments will have been carried into the body.'

'You did your utmost, Mr Lettsom. None of us can do more.'

Lettsom looked up. His eyes blazed with sudden anger. 'It was not enough, Mr Drinkwater. God damn it, it simply was not enough.'

Drinkwater thought of the flippant quatrain with which Lettsom had introduced himself. The poor man was drinking a cup of bitterness now. He leaned across and refilled Lettsom's glass. Drinkwater was a little drunk himself and felt the need of company.

'You did your duty…'

'Bah, duty! Poppycock, sir! We may all conceal our pathetic inadequacies behind our "duty". The fact of the matter is I bungled it. Perhaps I should still be probing in the poor fellow's guts until he dies under my hands.'

'You cannot achieve the impossible, Mr Lettsom.'

'No, perhaps not. But I wished that I might have done more. He will die anyway and might at least have the opportunity to regain his senses long enough to make his peace with the world.'

Drinkwater nodded, looking at the hump lying inert in his own bed. He felt a faint ringing in his ears. The fever did not trouble him tonight but he seemed to float an inch above his chair.

'I don't believe a man must shrive his soul with a canting priest, Mr Drinkwater,' Lettsom went on, helping himself to the bottle. 'I barely know whether there is an Omnipotent Being. A man is only guts sewn up in a hide bag. No anatomist has discovered the soul and the divine spark is barely perceptible in most.' He nodded at the gently swinging cot. 'See how easily it is extinguished. How much of the Almighty d'you think he contains to be snuffed like this?' he added with sudden vehemence.

'You were not responsible for Mason's wound, Mr Lettsom,' Drinkwater said with an effort, 'those luggers…'

'Those luggers, sir, were simply a symptom of the malignity of mankind. What the hell is this bloody war about, eh? The king of Denmark's mad, Gustav of Sweden's mad, Tsar Paul is a dangerous and criminal lunatic and each of these maniacs is setting his people against us. And what in God's name are we doing going off to punish Danes and Swedes and Russians for the crazy ambitions of their kings? Why, Mr Drinkwater, it is even rumoured that our very own beloved George is not all that he should be in the matter of knowing what's what.' Lettsom tapped his head significantly.

'We are swept up like chaff in the wind. Mason is hit by the flail and I bungle his excision like a student. That's all there is to it, Mr Drinkwater. One may philosophise over providence, or what you will, as long as you have a belly empty of splinters, but that is all there is to it…'

He fell silent and Drinkwater said nothing. His own belief in fate was a faith that drew its own strength from such misgivings as Lettsom expressed. But he could not himself accept the cold calculations of the scientific mind, could not agree with Lettsom's assumption of ultimate purposelessness.

They were both drunk, but at that brief and peculiarly lucid state of drunkenness that it is impossible to maintain and is gone as soon as attained. In this moment of clarity Drinkwater thought himself the greater coward.

'Perhaps,' said Lettsom at last, 'the French did themselves a service by executing King Louis, much as we did the first Charles. Pity of the matter is we replaced a republic by a monarchy and subjected ourselves voluntarily to the humbug of parliamentary politics…'

'You are an admirer of the American rebels, Mr Lettsom?'

The surgeon focussed a shrewd eye on his younger commander. 'Would you not welcome a world where ability elevated a man quicker than birth or influence, Mr Drinkwater?'

'Now you sound like a leveller. You know, you quacks stand in a unique position in relationship to the rest of us. Wielding the knife confers a huge moral advantage upon you. Like priests you are apt to resort to pontification…'

'Moral superiority is conferred on any man with a glass in his hand…'

'Aye, Mr Lettsom, and when we rise tomorrow morning the world will be as it is tonight. Imperfect in all its aspects, yet oddly beautiful and full of hidden wonders, cruel and harsh with battles to be fought and gales endured. There is more honesty at a cannon's mouth than may be found elsewhere. Kings and their ambition are but a manifestation of the world's turbulence. As a scientist I would have expected you to acknowledge Newton's third law. It governs the entire travail of humanity Mr Lettsom, and is not indicative of tranquil existence.'

Lettsom looked at Drinkwater with surprise. 'I had no idea I was commanded by such a philosopher, Mr Drinkwater.'

'I learnt the art from a surgeon, Mr Lettsom,' replied Drinkwater drily.

'Your journals, Mr Q.' Drinkwater held out his hand for the bound notebooks. He opened the first and turned over the pages. The handwriting was large and blotchy, the pages wrinkled from damp.

'They were rescued from the wreck of the Hellebore, sir,' offered the midshipman.

Drinkwater nodded without looking up, stifling the images that rose in his mind. He took up a later book. The calligraphy had matured, the entries were briefer, less lyrical and more professional.

A drawing appeared here and there: The arrangement of yards upon a vessel going into mourning. Drinkwater smiled approvingly, discovering a half-finished note about mortars.

'You did not complete this, Mr Q?'

'No sir. Mr Tumilty left us before I had finished catechising him.'

'I see. How would you stow barrels, Mr Q?'

'Bung up and bilge free, sir.'

'A ship is north of the equator. To find the latitude, given the sun's declination is south and the altitude on the meridian is reduced to give a correct zenith distance, how do you apply that zenith distance to the declination?'

'The declination is subtracted from the zenith distance, sir, to give the latitude.'

'A vessel is close hauled on the larboard tack, wind southwesterly and weather thick. You have the deck and notice the air clearing with blue sky to windward. Of what would you beware and what steps would you take?'

'That the ship might be thrown aback, the wind veering into the north west. I would order the quartermaster to keep the vessel's head off the wind a point more than was necessary by the wind.'

'Under what circumstances would you not do this?'

Quilhampton's face puckered into a frown and he caught his lip in his teeth.

'Well, Mr Q? You are almost aback, sir.'

'I… er.'

'Come now. Under what circumstances might you not be able to let the vessel's head pay off? Come, summon your imagination.'

'If you had a danger under the lee bow, sir,' said Quilhampton with sudden relief.

'Then what would you do?'

'Tack ship, sir.'

'You have left it too late, sir, the ship's head is in irons…' Drinkwater looked at the sheen of sweat on the midshipman's brow. There was enough evidence in the books beneath Drinkwater's hands of Quilhampton's imagination and he was even now beset by anxiety on his imaginary quarterdeck.

'Pass word for the captain, sir?' Quilhampton suggested hopefully.

'The captain is incapacitated and you are first lieutenant, Mr Q, you cannot expect to be extricated from this mess.'

'Make a stern board and hope to throw the ship upon the starboard tack, sir.'

'Anything else?' Drinkwater looked fixedly at the midshipman. 'What if you fail in the sternboard?'

'Anchor, sir.'

'At last! Never neglect the properties of anchors, Mr Q. You may lose an anchor and not submit your actions to a court-martial, but it is quite otherwise if you lose the ship. A prudent man, knowing he might be embayed, would have prepared to club-haul his ship with the larboard anchor. Do you know how to club-haul a ship?'

Quilhampton swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing round his grubby stock.

'Only in general principle, sir.'

'Make it your business to discover the matter in detail. Now, how is a topmast stuns'l set?'

'The boom is rigged out and the gear bent. Pull up the halliards and tack, keeping fast the end of the deck sheet. The stops are cut by a man on the lower yard. The tack is hauled out and the halliards hove. The short sheet is rove round the boom heel and secured in the top.'

Drinkwater smiled, recognising the words. 'Very well, Mr Q. Consequent upon the death of Mr Mason I am rating you acting master's mate. You will take over Mason's duties. Please take your journals with you.'

He waved aside Quilhampton's thanks. 'You will not thank me when the duty becomes arduous or I am dissatisfied with your conduct. Go and look up how to club-haul in that excellent primer of yours.'

Drinkwater picked up his pen and returned to the task he had deliberately interrupted by summoning Quilhampton.

Dear Sir, he began to write, It is with great regret that my painful duty compels me to inform you of the death of your son…

Explosion and the rest of the squadron came into Yarmouth Roads during the next two days to join the growing number of British men of war anchored there. Most of the other bomb vessels had been blown to leeward and Martin merely nodded when Drinkwater presented his report. The fleet was reduced to waiting while the officers eagerly seized on the newspapers to learn any-thing about the intentions of the government in respect of the Baltic crisis.

A number of British officers serving with the Russian navy returned to Britain. One in particular arrived in Yarmouth: a Captain Nicholas Tomlinson, who had been reduced to half-pay after the American War and served with the Russians at the same period as the American John Paul Jones. He volunteered his services to the commander-in-chief. Admiral Parker, comfortably ensconced at the Wrestler's Inn with his young bride, refused to see Tomlinson.

No orders emanated from either Parker or London. It was a matter that preoccupied the officers of Virago as they dined in their captain's absence.

'Lieutenant Drinkwater is endeavouring to discover some news of our intentions either from Martin or anyone else who knows,' explained Rogers as he took his place at the head of the cabin table and nodded to the messman.

'I hear the King caught a severe chill at the National Fast and Humiliation,' said Mr Jex in his fussy way, 'upon the thirteenth of last month.'

'National Farce,' corrected Rogers, sarcastically.

'I heard he caught a cold in the head,' put in the surgeon with heavy emphasis.

'At all events we must wait until either Addington's kissed hands or Parker has got out of his bed,' offered Easton.

'At Parker's age he'll be a deuced long time getting up with a young bride in his bed,' added Lettsom with a grin, sniping at the more accessible admiral in the absence of a king.

'At Parker's age he'll be a deuced long time getting it up, you mean Mr Lettsom,' grunted Rogers coarsely.

'Yes, I wonder who exhausts whom, for it is fearful unequal combat to pit eighteen years against sixty-four.'

'Experience against enthusiasm, eh?'

'More like impotence against ignorance, but wait, I have the muse upon me,' Lettsom paused. 'I am uncertain on whom to lay the greater blame for our woes.

'Why here is a thing to raise liberal hopes;

Government can't do as it pleases,

While the entire fleet 'waits the order to strike

Addington awaits the King's sneezes.'

A cheer greeted this doggerel but Lettsom shook his head with dissatisfaction.

'It don't scan to my liking. I think the admiral the better inspiration:

'Tis not for his slowness in firing his shot

That our admiral is known every night,

But his laxness in heaving his anchor aweigh

Must dub him a most tardy knight.'

There were more cheers for the surgeon and it was generally accepted that the second verse was much better than the first.

'But the lady's no fool, Mr Lettsom, and I'll not subscribe to her ignorance,' Rogers said as the laughter died away. 'Parker flew his flag in the West Indies. He's the richest admiral on the list. His fortune is supposed to be worth a hundred thousand and all she has to put up with is a few years of the old pig grunting about the sheets before the lot'll fall into her lap. Why 'tis a capital match and I'll drink to Lady Parker. There's many a man as would marry for the same reason, eh Mr Jex?' Rogers leered towards the purser.

Jex shot a venomous look at the first lieutenant. His conduct during the fight with the luggers had not been exactly valorous and he had dreaded this exposure as the butt of the officers' jests.

'Ah, Mr Jex has seen victory betwixt the sheets and is accustomed to seek it between the sails, eh?' There was another roar of laughter. At the end of the action off the Sunk Jex had been discovered hiding in the spare sails below decks.

'You are being uncharitable towards Mr Jex, Mr Rogers. I have it on good authority he was looking for his honour,' Lettsom said as Jex stormed from the cabin the colour of a beetroot.

'Come in. Yes Mr Q, what is it?' Drinkwater's voice was weary.

'Beg pardon, sir, but the vice-admiral's entering the anchorage.' Drinkwater looked up. There was a light in the young man's eyes. 'Lord Nelson, sir,' he added excitedly. Drinkwater could not resist Quilhampton's infectious enthusiasm.

'Thank you, Mr Q,' he said smiling. The hero of the Nile had a strange way of affecting the demeanour of his juniors. Drinkwater remembered their brief meeting at Syracuse and that same infectious enthusiasm that had seemed to imbue Nelson's entire fleet, despite their vain manoeuvrings in chase of Bonaparte. What a shame the same spirit was absent from the present assembly of ships. Drinkwater sighed. The subsequent scandal with Hamilton's wife and the vainglorious progress through Europe that followed the victory at Aboukir Bay, had curled the lip of many of Nelson's equals, but Drinkwater had no more appetite for his paper-work and he found himself pulling a muffler round his neck under his boat cloak to join the men at Virago's rail cheering the little admiral as the St George stood through the gatway into Yarmouth Roads.

The battleship with her three yellow strakes flew a blue flag at her foremasthead and came in with two other warships. Hardly had her sheet anchor dropped from her bow than her cannon boomed out in salute to Parker's flag, flying nominally at the main-masthead of the 64-gun Ardent until the arrival of Parker's proper flagship. The flag's owner was still accommodated at the Wrestler's Inn and this fact must have been early acquainted to Nelson for his barge was shortly afterwards seen making for the landing jetty. It was later rumoured that, although he received a cordial enough welcome from the commander-in-chief, Parker refused to discuss arrangements for the fleet on their first meeting.

Although a man who appeared to have lost both head and heart to Emma Hamilton, Nelson had never let love interfere with duty. It was soon common knowledge in the fleet that his criticisms of Parker were frank, scatological and scathing. Nelson's dissatisfaction spread like wildfire, and ribald jests were everywhere heard, particularly among the hands on the ships that waited in the chill winds and shivered in their draughty gun decks while Sir Hyde banked the bedroom fire in the Wrestler's Inn. In addition to Lettsom's doggerel there were other ribaldries, mostly puns upon the name of the hostelry where Parker lodged and all of them enjoyed with relish in gunrooms as on gun decks, in cockpits and in staterooms. Nelson had given a dinner the evening of his arrival and expressed his fears on the consequences of a delay. His impatience did not improve as day succeeded day.

The final preparations for the departure of the expedition were completed. Nearly eight hundred men of the 49th Foot with a company of rifles had been embarked under Colonel Stewart. Eleven masters of Baltic trading ships and all members of the Trinity House of Kingston-upon-Hull had joined for the purpose of piloting the fleet through the dangers of the Baltic Sea. On Monday 9th March Parker's flagship the London arrived and his flag was ceremoniously shifted aboard her at eight o'clock the next morning. The admiral remained ashore.

Later that day an Admiralty messenger arrived in Yarmouth with an order for Parker to sail, but still he prevaricated. His wife had arranged a ball for the coming Friday and, to indulge his Fanny, Parker postponed the fleet's departure until after the event.

That evening Lieutenant Drinkwater also received a message, scribbled on a piece of grubby paper:

Nathaniel

I beg you come ashore at eight of the clock tonight. I must see you on a matter of the utmost urgency.

I beg you not to ignore this plea and I will await you on the west side of the Yare ferry.

Ned

The word must was underlined heavily. Drinkwater looked up at the longshoreman who had brought the note and had refused to relinquish it to Mr Quilhampton who now stood protectively suspicious behind the ragged boatman.

'The man was insistent I give it to you personal, sir,' he said in the lilting Norfolk accent.

'What manner of man was it gave you this note?'

'Why, I'd say he were a serving man, sir. Not a gentleman like you sir, though he was gen'rous with his master's money…' The implication was plain enough without looking at the man's face. Drinkwater drew a coin from his pocket.

'Here,' he passed it to the boatman, frowning down at the note. He dismissed the man. 'Mr Q.'

'Sir?'

'A boat, please, in an hour's time.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And Mr Q, not a word of this to anyone if you please.' He fixed Quilhampton with a baleful glance. If Edward was reduced to penury in a matter of weeks he did not want the world to know of it.

A bitter easterly wind blew across the low land south of the town. The village of Gorleston exhibited a few lights on the opposite bank as he descended into the ferry. Darkness had come early and the fresh wind had led him to order his boat off until the following morning. To the half guinea the note had cost him it now looked as though he would have to add the charge of a night's lodging ashore. Brotherly love was becoming an expensive luxury which he could ill afford. And now, he mused as the ferryman held out a fist, there was an added penny for the damned ferry.

Clambering up the far bank he allowed the other passengers to pass ahead of him. He could see no one waiting, then a shadow detached itself from a large bush growing on the river bank.

'God damn it, Ned. Is that you?'

'Ssh, for the love of Christ…'

'What the devil are you playing at?'

'I must talk to you…' Edward loomed out of the shadows, standing up suddenly in front of Drinkwater. Beneath a dark cloak Drinkwater could see the pale gleam of a shirt. Edward's hair was undressed and loosely blowing round his face. Even in the gloom Drinkwater could see he was in a dishevelled state. He was the longshoreman's 'serving man'.

'What in God's name…?'

'Walk slowly, Nat, and for heaven's sake spare me further comment. I'm deep in trouble. Terrible trouble…' Edward shivered, though whether from cold or terror his brother could not be sure.

'Well come on, man, what's amiss? I have not got all night…' But of course he had. 'Is it about the money, Edward?'

He heard the faint chink of gold in a purse. 'No, I have the remains of that here. It is not a great deal… Nat, I am ruined…'

Drinkwater was appalled: 'D'you mean you have lost that two hundred and fifty…? My God, you'll have no more!'

'God, Nat, it isn't money that I want.'

'Well what the devil is it?'

'Can you take me on your ship? Hide me? Land me wherever you are going. I speak French. Like a German they say. For God's sake, Nat you are my only hope, I beg you.'

Drinkwater stopped and turned to his brother. 'What the hell is this all about, Ned?'

'I am a fugitive from the law. From the extremity of the law, Nat. If I am taken I…' he broke off. 'Nat, when I heard your ships were assembling at Yarmouth and arrived to find Virago anchored off the shore I… I hoped…'

'What are you guilty of?' asked Drinkwater, a cold certainty settling round his heart.

'Murder.'

There was a long silence between the brothers. At last Drinkwater said, 'Tell me what happened.'

'I told you of the girl? Pascale?'

'Aye, you did.'

'I found her abed with her God damned marquis.'

'And whom did you murder?'

'Both of them.'

'God's bones!' Drinkwater took a few paces away from his brother, his brain a turmoil. Like at that moment in the Strand, his instinct for order reeled at the prospect of consigning his brother to the gallows. He remembered his mother, then his wife and child in a bewildering succession of images that drove from his mind the necessity of making a decision and only further confused him. Edward was guilty of Edward's crimes and should suffer the penalty of the law; yet Edward was his brother. But protecting Edward would make him an accessory, while Edward's execution would ensure his own professional oblivion.

He swore beneath his breath. In his passion Edward had murdered a worthless French aristocrat and his whore. How many Frenchmen had Nathaniel murdered as part of his duty? Lettsom's words about duty came back to him and he swore again.

But those were moral judgements of an unrecognised morality, a morality that might appeal to Lettsom and his Paine-like religion of humanity. In the harsher light of English justice he had no choice: Edward was a criminal.

The vain pontifications of the other night, as he and Lettsom had exchanged sallies over the dying body of Mason, came back to confront him now like some monstrous ironic joke. He felt like a drowning man. What would Elizabeth think of him if he assisted his brother up the steps of the scaffold? Would she understand his quixoticism if he helped Edward escape? Was his duty to Edward of greater significance than that he owed his wife?

'Nat, I beg you…'

'I do not condone what you have done. You confront me with an unlawful obligation.'

A thought occurred to him. At first it was no more than a half-considered plan and owed its inception to a sudden vicious consideration that it might cost this wastrel brother his life. Edward would have to submit to the harsh judgement of fate.

'How much money have you left?'

'Forty-four pounds.'

'You must return it to me. You have no need of money.' He heard the sigh of relief. 'You will accompany me back to the ship and will be entered on the books as Edward Waters, a landsman volunteer. Tell your messmates you are a bigamist, that you have seduced a young girl while being married yourself, any such story will suffice and guarantee they understand your morose silences. You will make no approach to me, nor speak to me unless I speak to you. If you transgress the regulations that obtain on board you will not be immune from the cat. As far as I am concerned you importuned me whilst ashore and asked to volunteer. Being short of men I accepted your offer. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Nat. And thank you, thank you…'

'I think you will have little to thank me for, Ned. God knows I do not do this entirely for you.'

Chapter Nine Batter Pudding

Drinkwater woke in the pre-dawn chill. By an inexplicable reflex of the human brain he had fallen instantly asleep the night before, but now he awoke, his mind restlessly active, his body in a lather of sweat, not of fever, but of fear.

His first reaction was that something was terribly wrong. It took him a minute to separate fact from fancied dreaming, but when he realised the extent of reality he was appalled at his own conduct. He got out of his cot, dragged his blankets across the deck and slumped in the battered carver he had inherited as cabin furniture in the Virago.

Staring unseeing into the darkness it was some time before he had stopped cursing himself for a fool and accepted the events of the previous evening as accomplished facts. The residual effects of his fever sharpened his imagination so that, for a while, his isolation threatened to prevent him thinking logically. After a little he steadied himself and began to examine his actions in returning to the ship.

The first point in his favour was that he and Edward had returned in a hired beach boat picked up in the River Yare. The boatmen had got a good price for the passage out through the breakwaters and Edward a soaking by way of an introduction to the sea-service. Drinkwater had insisted on his brother leaving the cloak on the bank of the Yare, thinking the more indigent he looked the better. The fugitive had been frozen, wet and dishevelled enough not to excite any comment as to there being any connection between the two men. Indeed the silence between them had been taken for disdain on Drinkwater's part to the extent of one of the longshoremen offering a scrap of tarpaulin to the shuddering Edward. And, now that he recollected it, he had heard a muttered comment about 'fucking officers' from the older of the two boat-men as he had agilely scrambled up Virago's welcome tumble-home.

He wondered if he had over-played his hand in arriving upon the deck, for in the darkness the officer on watch, already expecting the captain to remain ashore until the morning, had not manned the side properly. Trussel's embarrassment was obvious and Drinkwater pitied the quartermaster who had not spotted the boat in time.

Trussel's apologies had been profuse and Drinkwater had excused them abruptly.

'Tis no matter, Mr Trussel, I went upon a fool's errand and am glad to be back.' Drinkwater turned aft and had one foot on the poop ladder when he appeared to recollect something. 'Oh, Mr Trussel,' he looked back at the rail over which the sopping figure of Edward was clambering. He had clearly been sluiced by the sea as he jumped from the boat and even in the gloom the dark stain of water was visible around his feet. He stood shivering, pathetically uncertain.

'This fellow importuned me ashore. Damned if he didn't volunteer; on the run from some jade's jealous husband I don't wonder. See he's wrapped up for the night and brought before Lettsom and the first lieutenant in the morning.'

He heard Trussel acknowledge the order and knew Edward's reception would be cruel. Trussel would not welcome the necessity of turning out blankets and hammock at that late hour and Jex, the issuing officer, would be abusive at being turned from his cot to oblige the gunner. Trussel's own irritation at being found wanting in his duty on deck only added to the likelihood of Edward becoming a scapegoat. Now, in the cold morning air, Drinkwater hoped that his play-acted unconcern had sounded more genuine to Trussel and the other members of the anchor watch than to his own ears.

He made to find his flint to light a lantern, then realised that it would not do to let the morning anchor watch know he was awake by the glow in the skylight. He continued to sit until the wintry dawn threw its cold pale light through the cabin windows, gleaming almost imperceptibly on the black breeches of the two stern chasers. Then he roused himself and passed word for hot water. Already the hands were turning up to scrub decks. After he had shaved and dressed his mind was more composed. He had formulated a plan to save Edward's neck and his own honour. By the time he was ready to put it into practice there was enough light in the cabin by which to write.

The easterly wind had died in the night and the morning proved to be one of light airs and sunshine, picking out the details of the fleet with great clarity, lending to the bright colours of the ensigns, jacks, command flags and signals the quality of a country fair; quite the reverse of their stern military purpose. Had Drinkwater been less preoccupied by his dilemma he might have remarked on the irony of the situation, for the Baltic enterprise seemed to be in abeyance while preparations were made for Lady Parker's ball. Around St George there congregated an early assortment of captain's gigs; water beetles collecting round the core of disapproval at the frivolous attitude of the fleet's commander-in-chief.

Pacing his tiny poop Drinkwater resisted the frequent impulse to touch the sealed letter in his breast pocket. He should have called his own boat away half an hour ago but morbid curiosity kept him on deck to see what his brother would make of his first forenoon in the Royal Navy. Edward had one powerful incentive to keep his mouth shut and Drinkwater had advised him of it just before he hailed the boatman on the beach the previous night.

'If the people ever learn they've their captain's brother among them they will make your life so hellish you'd wish you'd not asked for my protection.'

If Edward had doubted his brother then, he had little cause to this morning. Graham, bosun's mate of the larboard watch, was giving him a taste of the starter as he hustled the new recruit aft to where Mr Lettsom sat on the breech of a gun waiting to give the newcomer his medical examination.

Drinkwater stopped his pacing at the poop rail. 'Is that our new man, Mr Lettsom?'

'Aye sir.' Lettsom looked up at his commander. Drinkwater studiously ignored his brother although he felt Edward's eyes upon him.

'I don't want that fellow bringing the ship-fever aboard. God knows what hole he's out of, but if he wants a berth aboard Virago he must formerly have been quartered in a kennel.'

Lettsom grinned with such complicity that Drinkwater thought his own performance must be credible. With an assumed lofty indifference he resumed his pacing as Lettsom commanded 'Strip!'

As Drinkwater paced up and down he caught glimpses of his unfortunate brother. First shivering naked, then being doused by a washdeck hose pumped enthusiastically by grinning seamen, and finally bent double while Lettsom examined him for lice.

'Well, Mr Lettsom?'

'No clap, pox or crabs, sir. Teeth fair, no hernias, though a little choleric about the gills. Good pulse, no fever. Sound in wind and limb. Washed from truck to keel in the German Ocean and fit for service in His Britannic Majesty's Navy'

'Very well. Ah, Mr Rogers…' Drinkwater touched his hat in acknowledgement of Rogers's salute.

'Good morning sir.'

'I have a new hand for you. Volunteered last night and I knew you were still short of men. God knows what induces voluntary service but a mad husband or a nagging wife may drive a man to extremes.'

'Not a damned felon are you, cully?' Rogers asked in a loud voice that started the sweat prickling along Drinkwater's spine.

Already ashamed of his nakedness Edward did not raise his eyes. 'N… No…'

Graham's starter sliced his buttocks and the bosun's mate growled 'No sir.'

'No sir.'

Drinkwater had had enough. 'Take him forward, Graham, the fellow's cold. Volunteers are rare enough without neglecting 'em. See he washes the traps he wore aboard and is issued with slops from the purser, including a greygoe. Oh, and Graham, get that hair cut.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Graham hustled Edward forward. Drinkwater had one last thought. Afterwards he thought the timing capped the whole performance. 'By the way, what's your name?'

'Waters, sir… Edward Waters.'

'Very well Waters, do your duty and you have nothing to fear.' The old formula had a new meaning and the two brothers looked at each other for a moment then Drinkwater nodded his dismissal and Graham led 'Waters' away.

Drinkwater resumed his pacing, aware that he was shaking with relief. When he had calmed himself he called for his gig.

Great Yarmouth is a town built on the grid pattern, squeezed into the narrow isthmus between the North Sea and the River Yare that flows southwards, parallel to the sea from the tidal Broadlands, then turns abruptly, as if suddenly giving up its independence and surrendering to the ocean. More than once in its history the mouth had moved and the population turned out to dig a cut to preserve the river mouth that ensured their prosperity.

The walled section of the old town had streets running from north to south between the quays lining the Yare and a sea road contiguous with the beach. At right angles to the streets, alleys cut east to west, from sea to river, and Drinkwater was hopelessly lost in these before he eventually discovered the Wrestler's Arms in the market place.

He walked past it three or four times before making up his mind to carry out his plan. The metaphor to be hung for a sheep as a lamb crossed his mind with disquieting persistence, but he entered the coffee room and called for a pot of coffee. It was brought by a pleasant looking girl with soft brown hair and a smile that was pretty enough to distract him. He relaxed.

'Be that all, sir?' she asked, her lilting accent rising on the last syllable.

'No, my dear. Have you pen, paper and ink, and would you oblige me by finding out if Lady Parker is at present in her rooms?'

The girl nodded. 'Oh, yes sir. Her ladyship's in sir, her dressmaker's expected in half an hour sir and she's making preparations for a gala ball on Friday, sir…'

'Thank you,' Drinkwater cut in abruptly, 'but the paper, if you please…'

The girl flushed and bobbed a curtsey, hurrying away while Drinkwater sipped the coffee and found it surprisingly delicious.

When the girl returned he asked her to wait while he scribbled a note requesting permission for Lieutenant Drinkwater to wait upon her ladyship at her convenience, somewhat annoyed at having to use such a tone to an eighteen-year-old girl, but equally anxious that the gala would not turn her ladyship's mind from remembering her deliverer in the Strand.

Giving the girl the note and a shilling he watched her bob away, her head full of God knew what misconceptions. She returned after a few minutes with the welcome invitation that Lady Parker would be pleased to see Lieutenant Drinkwater at once.

He found her ladyship in an extravagant silk morning dress that would not have disgraced Elizabeth at the Portsmouth Assembly Rooms. The girl's plain face was not enhanced by the lace cap that she wore. Drinkwater much preferred the French fashion of uncovered hair, and he could not but agree with Lord St Vincent's nickname for her: Batter Pudding. But somehow her very plainness made his present task easier. Her new social rank had made her expect deference and her inexperience could not yet distinguish sincerity from flattery.

Drinkwater bent over her hand. 'It is most kind of your ladyship to receive me.' He paused and looked significantly at a door which communicated with an adjacent room and from which the low tone of male voices could be heard. 'I do hope I am not disturbing you…'

'Not at all. Thank you Annie, you may go.' The girl withdrew and Lady Parker seated herself at a table. There was a stiffness about her, as though she were very conscious of her deportment. He felt suddenly sorry for her and wondered if she had yet learned to regret being unable to behave like any eighteen-year-old.

'Would you join me in a cup of chocolate, Lieutenant?'

He felt it would be churlish to refuse despite his recent coffee. 'That would be most kind of you.'

'Please sit down.' She motioned to the chair opposite and turned to the tray with its elegant silver pot and delicate china cups.

'May I congratulate you, Lady Parker. At our last meeting I had not connected your name with Admiral Parker's. You must forgive me.'

She smiled and Drinkwater noticed that her eyes lit up rather prettily.

'I had hoped, sir, that you had come to see me as a friend and were not calling upon me as your admiral's wife…'

The blow was quite sweetly delivered and Drinkwater recognised a certain worldly shrewdness in her that he had not thought her capable of. It further reassured him in his purpose.

'Nothing was further from my mind, ma'am. I came indeed to see you and the matter has no direct connection with your husband. I come not so much as a friend but as a supplicant.'

'No direct connection, Mr Drinkwater? And a supplicant? I will willingly do anything in my power for you but I am not sure I understand.'

'Lady Parker forgive me. I should not have importuned you like this and I do indeed rely heavily upon having been able to render you assistance. The truth of the matter is that I have a message I wish delivered in London. It is both private and public in that the matter must remain private, but it is in the public interest.'

She lowered her cup and Drinkwater knew from the light in her eyes that her natural curiosity was aroused. He went on: 'I know I can rely upon your discretion, ma'am, but I have been employed upon special services. That is a fact your own father could verify, though I doubt your husband knows of it. In any event please confirm the matter with the recipient of this letter before you deliver it, if you so wish.' He drew out the heavily sealed letter from his coat and held it out. She hesitated.

'It is addressed to Lord Dungarth at his private address…'

'And the matter is in the public interest?'

'I believe it to be.' His armpits were sodden but she took the letter and Drinkwater was about to relax when the sound of raised voices came from the other room. He saw her eyes flicker anxiously to the door then return to his face. She frowned.

'Lieutenant Drinkwater, I hope this is not a matter of spoiling my ball.'

'I am sorry ma'am, I do not understand.'

'Certain gentlemen are of the opinion that it would be in the public interest if I were not to hold a ball on Friday, they are urging Sir Hyde to sail at once, even threatening to write to London about it.'

'Good heavens, ma'am, my letter has no connection with the fleet. I would not be so presumptuous…' He had appeased her, it seemed. 'The matter is related to affairs abroad,' he added with mysterious significance, 'I am sorry I cannot elaborate further.'

'No, no, of course not. And you simply wish me to deliver this to his lordship?'

'Aye, ma'am, I should consider myself under a great obligation if you would.'

She smiled and again her eyes lit attractively. 'You will be under no obligation Mr Drinkwater, provided you will promise to come to my ball.'

'It will give me the greatest pleasure, ma'am, and may I hope for a dance?'

'Of course, Lieutenant.' He stood. The noises from the other room sounded hostile and he wished to leave before the door opened. 'It would be better if no one knew of the letter, your ladyship,' he indicated the sealed paper on the table.

'My dressmaker comes soon…' She reached for her reticule and hid the letter just as the door burst open. As Drinkwater picked up his hat he came face to face with a short florid man in a grey coat. He was shaking his head at someone behind him.

'No, damn it, no… Ah, Fanny, my dear,' he saw Drinkwater, 'who the deuce is this?'

'May I present Lieutenant Drinkwater, Hyde dear.' Drinkwater bowed.

'Of which ship, sir?' Parker's eyes were hostile.

'Virago, bomb-tender, sir. I took the liberty…'

'Lieutenant Drinkwater took no liberties, my dear, it was he who rescued me from the mob in the Strand last October. The least I could do was present him to you.'

Parker seemed to deflate slightly. He half faced towards the man in the other room, whose identity was still unknown to Drinkwater, then turned again to the lieutenant.

'Obliged, I'm sure, Lieutenant, and now, if you'll excuse me…'

'Of course sir. I was just leaving…' But Lady Parker had a twinkle in her eye and Drinkwater, grateful and surprised at the skill of her intervention, suspected her of enjoying herself.

'Lieutenant Drinkwater served under father at Camperdown, Hyde, I am sure he is worthy of your notice.'

Parker shot him another unfriendly glance and Drinkwater wondered if the admiral thought he had put his wife up to this currying of favour. Clearly the other man was forming some such notion for he appeared disapprovingly in the doorway. The shock of recognition hit Drinkwater like a blow. If he thought Parker saw him in a poor light it was clear Lord Nelson saw him in a worse.

'If you want your dance, Sir Hyde, and your wife wants her amusements, then the fleet and I'll go hang. But I tell you time, time is everything; five minutes makes the difference between a victory and a defeat.'

Chapter Ten Truth in Masquerade

Drinkwater began Tuesday afternoon pacing his poop as the sky clouded over and the wind worked round to the west. The encounter with Lord Nelson had made him resentful and angry. He paced off his fury at being taken by his lordship for one of Lady Parker's amusements. The sight of the little admiral, his sleeve pinned across his gold-laced coat, his oddly mobile mouth in its pale, prematurely worn face, with the light of contempt in his one good eye had had an effect on Lieutenant Drinkwater that he was still trying to analyse. It had, he concluded, been like receiving raking fire, so devastating was Nelson's disapproval. The second and more powerful emotion which succeeded in driving from his mind all thoughts of his brother, was the despair he felt at having earned Nelson's poor opinion.

He found Sir Hyde Parker's assurance of 'taking notice of the Lieutenant's conduct to please my wife', which ordinarily ought to have been a matter for self-congratulation, brought him no comfort at all. Nelson had cut him as they both left the Wrestler's Inn and Drinkwater felt the slight almost as intensely as a physical wound.

Drinkwater began to realise the nature of Nelson's magic. He had glimpsed it two years earlier at Syracuse animating a weary fleet that had been beaten by bad luck, bad weather and compounded the break-out of the French through their blockade of Toulon by an over-zealous pursuit that had made them overtake the enemy without knowing it. Yet Nelson had led them back east to smash Brueys in Aboukir Bay in the victory that was now known as The Nile. Now Drinkwater stood condemned as the epitome of all that Nelson despised in Parker and Parker's type.

And because it was unjust he burned with a fury to correct Nelson's misconception.

As he paced up and down he realised the hopelessness of his case. He began to regret asking Dungarth for his own command. What hope had he of distinguishing himself in the old tub that Virago really was? Those two mortars that Tumilty had so slyly placed in their beds were no more than a charade. There would be no 'opportunity' in this expedition, only drudgery, probable mismanagement and a glorious debacle to amuse Europe. No fleet orders had been issued to the ships, no order of sailing. All was confusion with a few of Nelson's intimates forming a cabal within the hierarchy of the fleet which threatened to overset the whole enterprise.

Added to the demoralisation of the officers were the chills, fevers, agues and rheumatism being experienced by many of the seamen. The much publicised Baltic Fleet had the constitution of an organism in an advanced state of rot. Drinkwater's own condition was merely a symptom of that decay.

Only that morning on his return from the shore Rogers had brought a man aft for spitting on the deck. Although Drinkwater suspected the fellow had fallen into an uncontrollable fit of violent coughing he had ordered the grating rigged and the man given a dozen lashes. It was only hours later that he felt ashamed, unconsoled by the reflection that many captains would have ordered three dozen, and only recognising the unpleasant fact that events of the last few days had brutalised him. He had watched Edward's face as Cottrell had been flogged. Only once had his brother looked up. Nathaniel realised now that he had flogged Cottrell as an example to Edward, and he cursed the rottenness of a world that penned men in such traps.

But Lieutenant Drinkwater's wallow in the mire of self-pity did not last long. It was an unavoidable concomitant of the isolation of command and the antidote, when it came in the person of a midshipman from Explosion, was most welcome. He was invited to dine on the bomb vessel within the hour. The thought of company among equals, even equals as bilious-eyed as Martin, was preferable to his own morbid society.

It proved to be a surprisingly jolly affair. After a sherry or two he relaxed enough to cast off the 'blue-devils'. If they were going to war he might as well enjoy himself. In a month he might be dead. If they ever did sail of course, and it was this subject that formed the conversation as the officers of the bomb vessels gossiped. The fleet was buzzing with a rumour that delighted both the naval and the artillery officers crowded into Martin's after cabin. Lord Nelson, it was said, had written direct to Earl St Vincent, the First Lord. Lady Parker's ball and the delay it was causing was believed to be the subject of his lordship's letter. Among the assembly an atmosphere of almost school-boy glee prevailed. They waited eagerly for the outcome, arguing on whether it would be the super-cession of Parker by Nelson or an order to sail.

Drinkwater exchanged remarks with two white-haired lieutenants who were in command of the other tenders and normally employed by the Transport Board. They were both over sixty and he soon gravitated towards Tumilty and the other artillery officers who were more his own age. The merry-eyed Lieutenant English, attached to Explosion, sympathised with him over Martin's apparent animosity and cursed his own ill-luck in being appointed to the ship. Fitzmayer of the Terror and Jones of the Volcano seemed intent on insulting Admiral Parker and had embarked on a witty exchange of military double entendres designed to throw doubts on the admiral's ability to be a proper husband to his bride. The joke was becoming rather stale. From Captain-Lieutenant Peter Fyers of Sulphur he learned something of the defences of Copenhagen where Fyers had served the previous year in a bomb vessel sent as part of Lord Whitworth's embassy. Captain-Lieutenant Lawson, attached to Zebra, was expatiating on the more scandalous excesses and perverted pastimes of the late Empress Catherine and the even less attractive sadism of her son Tsar Paul, 'the author', as he put it, 'of our present misfortune, God-rot his Most Imperial Majesty.'

'There seems a deal of hostility to kings among these king's officers,' remarked Drinkwater to Tumilty, thinking of the regicide tendencies of his own surgeon.

'Ah,' explained Tumilty with inescapable Irish logic, 'but we're not exactly king's officers, my dear Nat'aniel, no we're not. As I told you our commissions are from the Master General of the Ordnance, d'you see. Professional men like yourself, so we are.' He paused to drink off his glass. 'We're pyroballogists that'll fire shot and shell into heaven itself if the devil's wearing a general's tail coat. Motivated by science we are, Nat'aniel, and damn the politics. Fighting men to be sure.'

Drinkwater was not sure if that was true of all the artillery officers mustered in Explosion's stuffy cabin, but it was certainly true of Lieutenant Thomas Tumilty whose desire to be throwing explosive shells at anyone unwise enough to provoke him, seemed to consume him with passion so that he sputtered like one of his own fuses.

'And I've some news for you personal like. Our friend Captain Martin has heard that our mortars are mounted. I'd not be surprised if he were to mention it to you…' Tumilty's eyes narrowed to slits and the hair on his cheeks bristled as he sucked in his cheeks in mock disapproval. He took another glass from the passing mess-man and turned away with an obvious wink as Captain Martin approached.

The commander's appearance as though on cue was uncanny, but Drinkwater dismissed the suspicion that Tumilty intended anything more than a warning.

'Well, Mr Drinkwater, itching to try your mortars at the enemy are you?'

'Given the opportunity I should wish to render you every possible assistance in my power, sir,' he said diplomatically.

'Were you not ordered to strike those mortars into your hold, Mr Drinkwater?' asked Martin, an expression of extreme dislike crossing his pale face.

'No sir,' replied Drinkwater with perfect candour, 'the existence of the mortar beds led me to suppose that the mortars might be shipped therein with perfect safety. The vessel would not become excessively stiff and they are readily available should they be required by any other ship. Struck into the hold they might have become overstowed by other…'

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater,' Martin snapped, 'you have made your point.' He seemed about to turn away, riled by Drinkwater's glib replies but recollected something and suddenly asked, 'How the devil did you get command of Virago?'

'I was appointed by the Admiralty, sir…'

'I mean, Mr Drinkwater,' said Martin with heavy emphasis, 'by whose influence was your application preferred?'

Drinkwater flushed with sudden anger. He appreciated Martin's own professional disappointments might be very great, but he himself hardly represented the meteoric rise of an admiral's eleve.

'I do not believe I am anybody's protege, sir,' he said with icy formality, 'though I have rendered certain service to their Lordships of a rather unusual nature.'

Drinkwater was aware that he was bluffing but he saw Martin deflate slightly, as though he had found the justification for his dislike in Drinkwater's reply.

'And what nature did that service take, Mr Drinkwater?' Martin's tone was sarcastic.

'Special service, sir, I am not at liberty to discuss it.' Martin's eyes opened a little wider, though whether it was at Drinkwater's effrontery or whether he was impressed, was impossible to determine. At all events Drinkwater did not need to explain that the special service had been as mate of the cutter Kestrel dragging the occasional spy off a French beach and no more exciting than the nightly activities on a score of British beaches in connection with the 'free trade'.

'Special service? You mean secret service, Mr Drinkwater,' Martin paused as though making up his mind. 'For Lord Dungarth's department, perhaps?'

'Perhaps, sir,' temporised Drinkwater, aware that this might prove a timely raising of his lordship's name and be turned to some advantage in his plan for Edward.

Real anger was mounting into Martin's cheeks.

'I am quite well aware of his lordship's activities, Drinkwater, I am not so passed over that…' he broke off, aware that his own voice had risen and that he had revealed more of himself than he had intended. Martin looked round but the other officers were absorbed in their own chatter. He coughed with embarrassment. 'You are well acquainted with his lordship?' Martin asked almost conversationally.

'Aye sir,' replied Drinkwater, relieved that the squall seemed to have passed. 'We sailed together on the Cyclops, frigate, in the American War.' Drinkwater sensed the need to be conciliatory, particularly as the problem of Edward weighed heavily upon him. 'I beg your pardon for being evasive, sir. I was not aware that his lordship's activities were known to you.'

Martin nodded. 'You were not the only officer to serve in his clandestine operations, Mr Drinkwater.'

'Nor, perhaps,' Drinkwater said in a low voice, the sherry making him bold, 'the only one to be disappointed.' He watched Martin's eyes narrow as the commander digested the implication of Drinkwater's remark. Then Drinkwater added, 'You would not therefore blame me for mounting those mortars, sir?'

For a second Drinkwater was uncertain of the result of his importunity. Then he saw the ghost of a smile appear on Martin's face. 'And you are yet known to Lord Dungarth?'

Drinkwater nodded. The knowledge that the lieutenant still commanded interest with the peer was beginning to put him in a different light in Martin's disappointed eyes.

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater.' Martin turned away.

Drinkwater heaved a sigh of relief. The antagonism of Martin would have made any plan for Edward's future doubly hazardous. Now, perhaps, Martin was less hostile to him. He caught Tumilty's eye over the rim of the Irishman's glass. It winked shamelessly. Drinkwater mastered a desire to laugh, but it was not the mirth of pure amusement. It had the edge of hysteria about it. Elizabeth had been right: he was no dissembler and the strain of it was beginning to tell.

Drinkwater returned to Virago a little drunk. The dinner had been surprisingly good and during it Drinkwater learned that it had been provided largely by the generosity of the artillery officers who had had the good sense to humour their naval counterparts. It was only later, slumped in his carver and staring at his sword hanging on a hook, that the irrelevant thought crossed his mind that it had not been cleaned after the fight with the French luggers. He sent for Tregembo.

When the quartermaster returned twenty minutes later with the old French sword honed to a biting edge on Willerton's grindstone he seemed to want to talk.

'Beg pardon, zur, but have 'ee looked at they pistol flints?'

'No, Tregembo,' Drinkwater shook his head to clear it of the effects of the wine. 'Do so if you please. I fancy you can re-knap 'em without replacing 'em.'

'There are plenty of flints aboard here, zur,' said Tregembo reproachfully.

Drinkwater managed a laugh. 'Ah yes, I was forgettin' we're a floating arsenal. Do as you please then.'

Tregembo had brought two new flints with him and took out the pull-through. He began fiddling with the brace of flintlocks. 'Do 'ee think we'll sail soon, zur?'

'I hope so, Tregembo, I hope so.'

'They say no one knows where we're going, zur, though scuttlebutt is that we're going to fight the Russians.' He paused. 'It's kind of confusing, zur, but they were our allies off the Texel in '97.'

'Well they ain't our allies now, Tregembo. They locked British seamen up. As to sailing, I have received no orders. I imagine the government are still negotiating with the Baltic powers.'

Drinkwater sighed as Tregembo sniffed in disbelief.

'They say Lord Nelson's had no word of the fleet's intentions.'

'They say a great deal, much of it nonsense, Tregembo, you should know that.'

'Aye zur,' Tregembo said flatly in an acknowledgement that Drinkwater had spoken, not that he believed a word of what he had said. There followed a silence as Tregembo lowered the first pistol into the green baize-lined box.

'That volunteer, zur, the one you brought aboard t'other night. Have I seen him afore?'

Drinkwater's blood froze and his brain swam from its haze of wine and over-eating. He had not considered being discovered by Tregembo of all people. He looked at the man but he was nestling the second pistol in its recess. 'His face was kind of familiar, zur.'

Suddenly Drinkwater cursed himself for a fool. What was it Corneille had said about needing a good memory after lying? Tregembo had not left Petersfield when Edward called upon Elizabeth. It was quite likely that he had seen Edward, even that he had let him into the house. And it was almost certain that either he or his wife Susan would have learned that their mistress's visitor was the master's brother.

'Familiar, in what way?' he asked, buying time.

'I don't know, zur, but I seen him afore somewhere…' Drinkwater looked shrewdly at Tregembo. Edward's present appearance was drastically altered. Clothes and manners maketh the man and Edward had been shorn of his hair along with his self respect. He was also losing weight due to the paucity of the food and the unaccustomed labour. It was quite possible that Tregembo was disturbed by no more than curiosity. He might think he had seen Edward in a score of places, the frigate Cyclops, the cutter Kestrel, before he connected him with Petersfield. On the other hand he might remember exactly who Edward was and be mystified as to why the man had turned up before the mast aboard Drinkwater's own ship.

It struck Drinkwater that if the authorities got wind of what he had done he might only have Tregembo to rely on. Except Quilhampton, perhaps, and, with a pang, he recollected James Quilhampton was a party to the little mystery of Edward's note.

Drinkwater was sweating and aware that he had been staring at Tregembo for far too long not to make some sort of confession. He swallowed, deciding on a confidence in which truth might masquerade. 'You may have seen him before, Tregembo. Have you mentioned this to anyone else?'

Tregembo shook his head. 'No zur.'

'You recollect Major Brown and our duties aboard Kestrel?' Tregembo nodded. 'Well Waters is not unconnected with the same sort of business. I do not know any details.'

'But I saw him at Petersfield, zur. I remember now.'

'Ah, I see.' Drinkwater wondered again if Elizabeth had revealed Edward's relationship. 'His arrival doubtless perturbed my wife, eh? Well I don't doubt it, he was not expecting to find me absent.' Drinkwater paused; that much was true. 'Whatever you have heard about this man Tregembo I beg you to forget it. Do you understand?'

'Aye zur.'

'If you can avoid any reference to him I'd be obliged.' Then he added as an afterthought, 'So would Lord Dungarth.'

'And that's why he is turned forrard, eh zur?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Exactly.'

Tregembo smiled. 'Thank 'ee zur. You'll be a commander afore this business is over, zur, mark my words.'

Then he turned and left the cabin and Drinkwater was unaccountably moved.

Drinkwater turned in early. The effects of his dinner had returned and made him drowsy. He longed for the oblivion of sleep. A little after midnight he was aware of someone calling him from a great distance.

He woke slowly to find Quilhampton shining a lantern into his face.

'Sir! Sir! Bengal fires and three guns from the London, sir! Repeated by St George. The signal to weigh, sir, the signal to weigh…!'

'Eh, what's that?'

'Bengal fires and three guns…'

'I heard you, God damn it. What's the signal?'

'To weigh, sir.' Quilhampton's enthusiasm was wasted at this hour.

'Return on deck, Mr Q, and read the night orders again for God's sake.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' the crestfallen Quilhampton withdrew and Drinkwater rose to wash the foulness out of his mouth. It was not Quilhampton's fault. No-one in the fleet had had a chance to study the admiral's special signals and it boded ill for the general management of the expedition. Drinkwater spat disgustedly into the bowl set in the top of his sea chest. A respectful knock announced the return of the mate. 'Well?'

'The signal to unmoor, sir.'

'Made for…?'

'The line of battleships with two anchors down.'

'And how many anchors have we?'

'One sir.'

'One sir. The signal to weigh will be given at dawn. Call all hands an hour before. Have your watch rig the windlass bars, have the topsails loose in their buntlines ready for hoisting and the stops off the heads'ls.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater retired to sleep. There was an old saying in the service. He prayed God it was true: all debts were paid when the topsails were sheeted home.

He did not know that an Admiralty messenger had exhausted three horses to bring Parker St Vincent's direct command to sail, nor that Lady Parker would return to London earlier than expected.

Chapter Eleven Nadir

'What a God damn spectacle!' said Rogers happily as he watched the big ships weigh. The misfortunes of others always delighted him. It was one of his less likeable traits. Drinkwater shivered in his cloak, wondering whether his blood would ever thicken after his service in the Red Sea and how much longer they would have to wait. It was nine o'clock and the Viragos had been at their stations since daylight, awaiting their turn to weigh and proceed to sea through the St Nicholas Gat.

The signal to weigh had caused some confusion as no one was certain what the order of sailing was. Towards the northern end of the anchorage two battleships had run foul of each other, but already the handful of frigates and sloops had got away smartly, led out by the handsome Amazon, commanded by Edward Riou. Following them south east through the gatway and round the Scroby Sands, went the former East Indiaman Glatton, her single deck armed with the carronades which had so astonished a French squadron with their power, that she had defeated them all. Her odd appearance was belied by the supreme seamanship of the man who now commanded her. 'Bounty' Bligh turned her through the anchorage with an almost visible contempt for his reputation. Drinkwater had met Bligh and served with him at Camperdown. Another veteran of Camperdown, the old 50-gun Isis ran down in company with the incomparable Agamemnon, Nelson's old sixty-four. The order of sailing had gone by the board as the big ships made the best of their way to seaward of the sands. The 98-gun St George, with Nelson's blue vice-admiral's flag at the foremasthead was already setting her topgallants, her jacks swinging aloft like monkeys, a band playing on her poop. The strains of Rule Britannia floated over the water.

Despite himself Drinkwater felt an involuntary thrill run down his spine as Nelson passed, unable to resist the man's genius despite the cloud he was personally under. Even Rogers was silent while Quilhampton's eyes were shining like a girl's.

'Here the buggers come,' said Rogers as the other seventy-fours stood through the road; Ganges, Bellona, Polyphemus. Then came Monarch, Batter Pudding's father's flagship at Camperdown, and the rest, all setting their topgallants, their big courses in the bunt-lines ready to set when the intricacies of St Nicholas's Gat had been safely negotiated.

'Invincible's going north sir,' observed Easton pointing to the Caister end of the anchorage where the cutters and gun brigs were leaving by the Cockle Gat.

'I hope he has a pilot on board,' said Drinkwater thinking of the treacherous passage and driving Kestrel through it years ago.

'Some of the storeships goin' that way too,' offered Quilhampton, aping Drinkwater's clipped mannerism.

'Yes, Mr Q. Do you watch for Explosion's signal now.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Martin's still playing at bloody commodore,' said Rogers to Easton in a stage whisper. The master sniggered. 'Hey look, someone's lost a jib-boom…' They could not make out the ship as she was masked by another but almost last to leave was Parker's London.

'The old bastard had trouble getting his flukes out of the mud,' laughed Rogers making an onomatopoeic sucking plop that sent a burst of ribald laughter round Virago's poop.

'I hope, Mr Rogers, that is positively the last joke we hear about the subject of the admiral's nuptials,' said Drinkwater, remembering the plain-faced girl on whom he so relied. He might at least defend her honour on his own deck.

'In fact,' he added with sudden asperity, 'I forbid further levity on the subject now we are at sea under Sir Hyde's orders.'

Drinkwater put his glass to his eye and ignored Rogers who made an exaggerated face at Easton behind his back. Quilhampton laughed, thus missing the executive signal from Explosion.

Drinkwater had seen the bunting flutter down from the topgallant yardarm where the wind spread it for the bombs to see.

'Heave up, Mr Matchett. Hoist foretopmast stays'l!'

The anchor was already hove short and it was the work of only a few minutes to heave it underfoot and trip it. 'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

'Tops'l halliards, Mr Rogers! Lee braces, there!' He turned to Mr Quilhampton who had flushed at missing the signal from Explosion. 'See those weather braces run, Mr Q.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' the boy ran forward to vindicate himself.

'Starboard stays'l sheet there! Look lively, God damn it!'

'Anchor's sighted clear, sir.'

Aloft the topsail parrels creaked against the greased topmasts as the yards rose. The canvas flogged, then filled with great dull crumps, flogged and filled again as the yards were trimmed. Drinkwater looked with satisfaction at the replaced mainyard.

'Steady as you go.'

'Steady as you go, zur.' Virago gathered way and caught up on Zebra which had not yet tripped her anchor.

'Port your helm,' Drinkwater looked round to see the order was obeyed. The big tiller was pushed over to larboard and Virago began to turn to starboard her bowsprit no longer pointing at Zebra.

'Trim that foreyard, Graham, God rot you! Don't you know your business?' bawled Rogers as the petty officers directed the stamping, panting gangs of men. Matchett was leaning outboard fishing for the anchor with the cat tackle.

'Course south east a half south.' Drinkwater looked to starboard and raised his hat. Aboard the Anne Reed he saw Tumilty acknowledge his greeting.

'Course south east a half south, zur,' reported Tregembo.

'Course south east a half south, sir,' repeated Easton, the sailing master. Drinkwater suppressed a smile. He almost felt happy. It was good to be under way at last, and upon his own deck at that. He did not want to look astern at the roofs and church towers of Great Yarmouth with their reminders of the rule of Law, which he so much admired yet had so recently disregarded.

The reflection made him search for his brother as the hands secured the deck and adjusted the sails to Rogers's exacting direction. He found him at last, in duck trousers and a check shirt, hauling upon the anchor crown tackle, a labour for unskilled muscles, supervised by Mr Matchett in the starboard forechains. The heaving waisters brought the inboard fluke of the sheet anchor in against its bill board and able seamen leapt contemptuously outboard to pass the lashings.

'You had better cast the lead as we pass the Gatway, Mr Easton, the tide will set us on the Corton side else, and I've no wish to go aground today.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Snape! Get your arse into the main chains with a lead!'

'Give her the forecourse, Mr Rogers. And you may have Quilhampton set the spanker when we come on the wind off the Scroby Sands.'

Drinkwater looked at his watch. It was eleven o'clock. A ship was coming up from the south and Drinkwater checked her number against the private signals. She was the Edgar, Captain George Murray, joining the fleet. He remembered Murray as the frustrated captain of the sluggish frigate La Nymphe, unable to get into action during the fight of St George's Day off the Brittany coast. With a shock Drinkwater realised that had been seven years earlier. It had been his first action in charge of a ship, the cutter Kestrel whose commander, Lieutenant Madoc Griffiths, lay sweating out the effects of malaria in his cabin.

At noon Drinkwater checked Easton's entry on the slate and stood down the watch below. Despite the confusion in the fleet Martin's little squadron was keeping tolerably good station. It was clear Martin wanted a post-captaincy out of this expedition.

'What course for the passage, sir?' asked Easton formally.

Drinkwater smiled wanly. The fleet was tired of uncertainty. 'I have only orders to stand towards the Naze of Norway, Mr Easton, as I told you yesterday.'

'Mushrooms, Mr Easton,' said Rogers cheerfully, 'that is all we are, mushrooms…'

'Mushrooms, Mr Rogers?' said Easton, frowning.

'Aye, mushrooms, Mr Easton. Kept in the dark and fed with bullshit.'

'But I tell you I am right, Bones.' The smell of rum hung in the heavy air.

Mr Jex had drawn the surgeon into the stygian gloom of Virago's hold on the pretext of examining the quality of a barrel of sauerkraut. The familiar tone he used in addressing Lettsom only emphasised the purser's misjudgement of the surgeon's character. Listening to the exaggeratedly flippant remarks which Lettsom customarily used, Jex had assumed the surgeon might prove an ally. Part of Jex's desire to find a confidant was due to his isolation after the discovery of his conduct in the affair off the Sunk. Lettsom avowed an abhorrence of war and the machinations of Admiralty, a common attitude among the better sort of surgeon and a product of keeping educated men in a state of social limbo, mere warrant officers among compeers of far lesser intellect.

Jex had decided that since he could not escape the taint of cowardice he might as well assume a spurious conscientious objection. The rehabilitation of himself thus being complete in his own eyes, if in no-one else's, he now began to search for a means of furthering his own ends. But Jex's mind was expert in calculating, and the readiness and facility with which he did this was apt to blind him to his limitations in other fields. He was a man who considered himself clever when he was not. He was, therefore, a dangerous person to thwart, and Drinkwater had crossed him.

Mr Jex's stupidity now led him to believe that certain facts that had come his way were a providential sign that his new, Quakerish philosophy had divine approval, and that his deductive powers used in reaching his conclusion merely proved that he was a man of equal intellect with the surgeon, hence the familiar contraction of the old cognomen, 'Sawbones'.

It was unfortunate that a mind skilled in feathering its own nest and dividing the rations of unfortunate seamen to an eighth part (for himself) was a mind that delighted in nosing into the affairs of others. He had nursed a grievance against Lieutenant Drinkwater since he had been out-manoeuvred in the matter of his appointment. Drinkwater had intimidated him as well as humiliated him in his own eyes. Jex had not expected fate to be so kind as to put into his hands such weapons as he now possessed, but now that he had them it seemed that it was one more confirmation of his superior abilities.

It had started when he had been turned from his cot at one in the morning by an angry Mr Trussel. The gunner had brought a new recruit and Jex had let the dripping wretch know exactly what he thought of being roused to attend to the wants of waterborne scum. So vehement had he become that he had shoved his lantern in the face of the newcomer. Jex was incapable of analysing the precise nature of the expression he found there, but the man was not afraid as he should have been, only cold and shivering. Jex's suspicions were roused because the man did not quail before him.

Jex had seen the man immediately he came aboard, before his hair was cut and he had lost weight, while he was still dressed in a gentlemen's breeches. At that moment Jex did not recognise Edward, merely took note of him. And because Jex had taken note of him he continued to observe 'Waters'. Rogers had quartered Edward Drinkwater among the 'firemen', an action station for the most inept and inexperienced waisters whose duty was to pump water into the firehoses deployed by the purser.

There might have been no more to it had Jex not gone ashore for cabin stores at Yarmouth shortly before the order to sail. Being idly curious he had bought a newspaper, an extravagance he was well able to afford. Had he not purchased the paper he might never have made the connection between the new 'landsman volunteer' and the man he had seen in the Blue Fox, a man who had come into the taproom immediately Lieutenant Drinkwater had left the Inn.

The Yarmouth Courier reported: 'A foul double murder, which heinous crime had lately been perpetrated upon an emigrant French nobleman, the Marquis de la Roche-Jagu, and his pretty young mistress, Mlle Pascale Eugenie Vrignaud. The despicable act had been carried out in the marquis's lodgings at Newmarket. He had died from a sword cut in the right side of the neck which severed the trapezius muscle, the carotid artery and the jugular vein. Mlle Vrignaud had been despatched by a cut on the left temple which had rendered her instantly senseless and resulted in severe haemorrhage into the cranial cavity. Doctor Ezekiel Cotton of Newmarket was of the opinion that a single blow had killed both parties…'

Jex rightly concluded that the two lovers had been taken in the sexual act and that the murderer had struck a single impassioned blow. But it was the last paragraph that filled Mr Jex's heart with righteous indignation: 'A certain Edward Drinkwater had earlier been in the company of Mile Vrignaud and has since disappeared. He is described as a man of middle height and thick figure, having a florid complexion and wearing his own brown hair, unpow-dered.'

Mr Jex had embraced this news with interest, his curiosity and cunning were aroused and he remembered the man in the Blue Fox.

'I tell you I am right,' Jex repeated.

Lettsom looked up from the opened cask. 'There is nothing wrong with this sauerkraut, it always smells foul when new opened.'

Lettsom straightened up.

'To save 'em from scurvy

Our captain did shout,

You shall feed 'em fresh cabbage

And old sauerkraut.

'Make 'em eat it, Mr Jex, Mr Drinkwater's right…'

'No, no, Mr Lettsom. Damme but you haven't been listening. I mean this report in the paper here.' He thrust the Yarmouth Courier under Lettsom's nose. Lettsom took it impatiently and beckoned the lantern closer. When he had finished he looked up at the purser. Jex's porcine eyes glittered.

'You are linking our commander with the reported missing man?'

'Exactly. You see my point, then.'

'No, I do not. Do you think I am some kind of hierophant that I read men's minds.'

Jex was undeterred by the uncomprehended snub.

'Suppose that the murderer…'

'Even that scurrilous rag does not allege that the missing man actually carried out murder.' The legal nicety was lost on Jex.

'Well suppose that he was the murderer, and was related to the captain.'

'Good heavens Mr Jex, I had no idea you had such a lively imagination.' Lettsom made to leave but Jex held him.

'And suppose that the captain got him aboard here under cover of night…'

'What precisely do you mean?' Lettsom looked again at the sly features of the purser.

'Why else would Lieutenant Drinkwater turn his own brother forrard? Eh? I'm telling you that the man Edward Waters is the man wanted for this murder at Newmarket.' He slapped the paper with the back of his hand. Lettsom was silent for a while and Jex pressed his advantage. Lettsom did not know that Drinkwater's acquisition of Jex's funds had poisoned the purser against his commander. Jex had writhed under this extortion, ignoring the fact that his own perquisites were equally immoral.

'Well, will you help me, then?' asked Jex revealing to Lettsom the reason for this trip into the hold and the extent of Jex's stupid-ity.

'I? No sir, I will not.' Lettsom was indignant. He made again to leave the hold and again Jex restrained him.

'If I am right and you have refused to help me you would have obstructed the course of justice…'

'Jex, listen to me very carefully,' said Lettsom, 'if you plot against the captain of a ship of war you are guilty of mutiny for which you will surely hang.'

Lettsom retired to his cabin and pulled out his flute. He had not played it for many weeks and instantly regretted his lack of practice. His was not a great talent and he rarely played in any company other than that of his wife. He essayed a scale or two before launching into a low air of his own composition, during which his mind was able to concentrate upon its present preoccupation.

Mr Lettsom was a man of superficial frivolity and apparent indifference which he had adopted early in his naval life as a rampart against the cruelty in the service. He had found it kept people at a distance and, with the exceptions of his wife and three daughters, he liked it that way. The experience of living as a surgeon's mate through the American War had strangled any inherent feeling he had for the sufferings of humanity. In the main he had found his mess mates ignorant, bigotted and insufferably self-seeking; his superiors proud, haughty and incompetent and his inferiors bru-talised into similar sub-divisions according to their own internal hierarchy.

To his patients Lettsom had applied the dispassionate results of his growing experience. He was known as a good surgeon because he had an average success rate and did not drink to excess. His frivolous indifference did not encourage deep friendship and he was usually left to his own devices, although his versifying brought him popular acclaim at mess dinners. He had rarely made any friends, most of his professional relationships were of the kind he presently enjoyed with Rogers, a kind of mutual regard based on respect overlaying dislike.

But Mr Lettsom's true nature was something else. His deeper passions were known only to his family. His wife well understood his own despair at the total inadequacy of his abilities, his resentment at the inferiority of surgery to 'medicine', his fury at the quackery of socially superior physicians. A long observation of humanity's conceit had taught him of its real ignorance.

In a sense his was a simple mind. He believed that humanity was essentially good, that it was merely the institutions and divisions that man imposed upon man that corrupted the metal. It was his belief that mankind could be redeemed by a few wise men, that the dissenting tradition of his grandfather's day had paved the way for the unleashing of the irresistible forces of the French Revolution.

Drinkwater had been right, Lettsom was a Leveller and a lover of Tom Paine. He did not share Drinkwater's widely held belief that the aggression and excesses of the revolution put it beyond acceptance, holding that man's own nature made such things inevitable just as the Royal Navy's vaunted maintenance of the principles of law, order and liberty were at the expense of the lash, impressment and a thousand petty tyrannies imposed upon the individual. A few good men…

He stopped playing his flute, lost in thought. If Jex had discovered the truth, Lettsom feared for Drinkwater. Despite their political differences the surgeon admired the younger lieutenant, seeing him as a man with humanist qualities to whom command came as a responsibility rather than an opportunity. Jex's evidence, if it was accurate, appeared to Lettsom as a kind of quixotic heroism in defiance of the established law. Drinkwater had hazarded his whole future to assist his brother and Lettsom found it endearing, as though it revealed the lieutenant's secret sympathy with his own ideals. With the wisdom of age Lettsom conduded that Drinkwater's subconscious sympathies lay exposed to him and he felt his admiration for the younger man increase.

He took up the flute again and began to play as another thought struck him. If the new landsman-volunteer was indeed Drinkwater's brother then Lettsom would not interfere and to hell with Jex. He did not find it difficult to condone such a crime of passion, particularly when it disposed of a marquis, one of those arrogant parasites that had brought the wrath of the hungry upon themselves and destroyed the peace of the world.

'Flag's signalling, sir.'

'Very well.'

'Number 107, sir.' There was a pause while Quilhampton strove to read the signal book as the wind tore at the pages.

'Close round the admiral, as near as the state of the weather and other circumstances will permit.'

'Very well.' The circumstances would permit little more than a token obedience to Parker's order. Since the early hours of Monday, 16 March, a ferocious gale had been blowing from the west south west. It had been snowing since dawn and become very cold. The big ships had reduced to storm canvas and struck their topgallant masts. At about nine o'clock the fireship Alecto had reported a leak and been detached with the lugger Rover as an escort.

Drinkwater ordered an issue of the warm clothing he had prudently laid in at Chatham as Lettsom reported most of the men afflicted with coughs, colds or quinsies. His own anxiety was chiefly in not running foul of another ship in the snow squalls that frequently blinded them. The fleet began to fire minute guns.

'Do you wish to reduce sail, sir?' asked Easton anxiously, shouting into his ear.

Drinkwater shook his head. 'She stands up well, Mr Easton, the advantage of a heavy hull.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Virago was a fine sea-keeper, bluff and buoyant. Though she rolled deeply it was an easy motion and Drinkwater never entertained any apprehension for her spars. Although at every plunge of her bowsprit much of it immersed she hardly strained a ropeyarn.

'She bruises the grey sea in a most collier-like style, Mr Easton, how was she doing at the last streaming of the log?'

'Six and a half, sir.'

'Tolerably good.'

'Yes sir.'

Two hours later the wisdom of not reducing sail was borne out. In a gap in the snow showers the London was again visible flying Number 89.

'Ships astern, or in the rear of the fleet, make more sail!'

'Aye, very well. We've no need of that but I wonder if those in the rear can see it.' Half an hour later Parker gave up the struggle.

'Number 106, sir, "Wear, the sternmost and leewardmost first and come to the wind on the other tack".'

'Oh, my God,' said Rogers coming on deck to relieve Easton, 'that'll set the cat among the pigeons.'

'That'll do Mr Rogers,' said Drinkwater quickly. 'At least the admiral's had the foresight to do it at the change of watch when all hands should be on deck.'

And so the British fleet stood away from the Danish coast in the early darkness and the biting cold, uncertain of their precise whereabouts and still with no specific orders for the Baltic.

The cold weather continued into the next day while Parker fretted over his reckoning and hove-to for frequent soundings.

'I'll bet those damned pilots aboard London are all arguing like the devil as to where the hell we are,' laughed Rogers as he handed the deck over to Trussel who as senior warrant officer after the master kept a deck watch. It was eight in the morning and the gale showed little sign of abating, though the wind had veered a point. It was colder than the previous day and cracked skin and salt water boils were already appearing.

'Hullo, that's a new arrival ain't it Mr Rogers?' asked Drinkwater coming on deck. He indicated a seventy-four, looming out of the murk flying her private number and with a white flag at her mizen. Rogers had not noticed that the ship was not part of the fleet as they stood north east again under easy sail, the ships moving like wraiths through the showers.

'Er, ah… yes, sir,' he said flushing.

'Defiance, sir,' volunteered Quilhampton hurriedly, 'Rear Admiral Graves, sir, Captain Richard Retalick.'

'Thank you Mr Q.' Quilhampton avoided the glare Rogers threw at him and knew the first lieutenant would later demand an explanation why, if he was such a damned clever little wart, he had not informed the officer of the watch of the sighting.

The forenoon wore on, livened only by the piping of 'Up spirits', the miserable file of men huddled in their greygoes, their cracked lips, red-rimmed eyes and running noses proof that the conditions were abysmal. The only fire permitted aboard a vessel loaded with powder was the galley range and the heat that it dissipated about the ship was soon blown away by the draughts. The officers fared little better, their only real advantage being the ability to drink more heavily and thus fortify themselves against the cold. Mr Jex, whose duties rarely brought him on deck at all, took particular advantage of this privilege.

Edward Drinkwater had received an issue of the heavy-weather clothing that his brother had had the foresight to lay in against service in this northern climate. He had found it surprisingly easy to adapt to life below decks. A heavily built man who could afford to lose weight, his physique had stood up well in the few days he had been on board. His natural sociability and previous experience at living on his wits inclined him to make the best of his circumstances, while his connections with the turf and the stud had made him familiar with the lower orders of contemporary society as well as 'the fancy'. The guilt he felt for what he had done had not yet affected him and although he was periodically swept by grief for Pascale it was swiftly lost in that last image of her in life, her face ecstatic beneath her lover. He relived that second's reaction a hundred times a day, snatching up the sword and hacking it down in ungovernable fury in the turmoil of his imagination.

The rigorous demands of his duties combined with the need to be vigilant against exposing his brother, and hence himself, had left him little time to ponder upon moral issues. When turned below, his physical exhaustion swiftly overcame him and the fear of the law that had motivated his flight to Yarmouth evaporated on board the Virago. From his messmates he learned of the numbers of criminals sheltering in the navy, and that the service did not readily give up these living dead, could not afford to if it was to maintain its wooden ramparts against the pernicious influence of Republican France. Edward had relied upon his brother with the simple trust of the irresponsible and Nathaniel had not let him down. He did not know the extent to which Drinkwater had risked his career, his family, even his life. From what Edward had seen of the Royal Navy, the captain of a man of war was a law unto himself. He was fortunate in having a brother in such a position, and delivered his fate into Nathaniel's capable hands.

As to his altered circumstances, Edward was enough of a gambler to accept them as a temporary inconvenience. He was certain they would not last forever and from that sense of impermanence he was able to derive a certain satisfaction. His messmates took no notice of the quiet man amongst them, they lived cheek by jowl with greater eccentricities than his. But the gestures did not go unnoticed by Mr Jex.

'Come man, lively with that cask, damn it.' Mr Jex stood over the three toiling landsmen as they manoeuvred the cask clear of the stow, sweating with the effort of controlling it as the ship pitched and rolled. Mr Jex's rotund figure condescended to hold up a lantern for them as they finally succeeded in up-ending it.

'Open it up then, open it up,' he ordered impatiently, motioning one of the men to pick up the cold chisel lent by Mr Willerton. He watched Waters bend down to take the tool and dismissed the other two with a jerk of his head. Things were working out better than he had supposed. Waters grunted as he levered the inner hoop of the lid and Jex held the lantern closer to read the number branded into the top of the cask.

'Get the damn thing open then,' Jex was sweating himself now, suddenly worried at the notion of being alone in the hold with a murderer. He had to force himself to recover his fugitive mood of moral ascendancy. Circumstances again seemed to come to his aid. Waters staggered back appalled at the smell that rose from the cask of salt pork. Jex's familiarity with the stench ensured he reasserted himself.

'Not used to the stink eh? Too used to comfortable quarters,' Jex paused for emphasis, 'comfortable quarters like the Blue Fox, eh, Mister Drinkzvater?' Jex's tiny eyes glittered in the lamplight, searching Edward's face for the reaction of guilt brought on by his accusation.

But the purser was to be disappointed. That slight, emphatic pause had alerted Edward to be on his guard. The quick instinct that in him was a gambler's intuition, while in his brother showed as swift intelligence, caused him to look up in sharp surprise.

'You're mistaken, sir,' he said in the rural Middlesex accent of his youth, 'my name is Waters,' he grinned, 'I'm no relation to the cap'n, Mr Jex.' He shook his head as if in simple wonderment at the mistake and looked down at the mess inside the cask as though swiftly dismissing the matter from his mind.

Jex was non-plussed, suddenly unsure of himself, and yet…

Waters looked up. Jex was still staring at him. He shrugged. 'As for the Blue Fox, was that what you said? I don't know anything about such a place. Tavern is it? Strewth, if I could afford to live in a tavern I'd not be aboard here, sir.'

That much was true, thought Edward, as he strove to maintain a matter-of-fact tone in his voice though inwardly alarmed that he had been discovered.

But Jex was not satisfied. 'Landsman volunteer aren't you?'

'That's right, sir.'

'What did you volunteer for?'

'Woman trouble, Mr Jex, woman trouble.'

'I know,' began Jex, a sudden vicious desire spurring him to provoke this man to some act of insubordination that would have him at the gratings to be flogged by his own brother. But his intentions were disturbed by the arrival of Mr Quilhampton with a message that the purser was to report to Lieutenant Rogers without delay. He had lost his chance, and Edward was doubly vigilant to avoid the purser as much as possible, and even, if necessary, take matters into his own hands.

Drinkwater watched the brig beating up from the east with the alarm signal flying from her foremasthead. She reminded him of Hellebore and would pass close under Virago's stern as she made for London to speak with the admiral.

'The Cruizer, sir, eighteen-gun brig, same as our old Hellebore.'

'I was just thinking that, Mr Trussel.' The two men watched her approach, saw her captain jump into the main chains with a speaking trumpet. Drinkwater had met James Brisbane in Yarmouth and raised his hat in salutation.

'Afternoon Drinkwater!' Brisbane yelled as his ship surged past. 'We sighted land around Boubjerg. We must be twenty leagues south of our reckoning!' He waved, then jumped inboard as his brig covered the last two miles to the flagship.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater muttered. Sixty miles! A degree of latitude, but it was no wonder, since they had seen neither sun, moon nor stars since leaving Yarmouth. It was equally surprising that the bulk of the fleet was still together.

A little later the flagship signalled, firing guns to emphasise the importance of the order. The fleet tacked to the north west and once more clawed its way offshore.

The following day the battleship Elephant arrived with the news that the Invincible, which they had last seen leaving Yarmouth Roads by way of the Cockle Gat, had been wrecked on the Haisbro Sand with the loss of most of her crew. As this intelligence permeated the fleet Drinkwater was overwhelmed with a sense of impending doom, that the whole enterprise was imperilled by the omens. And his fears for Edward and himself only seemed to lend potency to these misgivings.

That evening the weather showed signs of moderating. Shortly after dark as he sat writing up his journal by the light of a swaying lantern Drinkwater was disturbed by a knock at his cabin door. 'Yes?'

Mr Jex entered. He was flushed and smelt of rum. He held what appeared to be a newspaper in his hand.

'Yes, Mr Jex? What is it?' Jex made no reply but held out the paper to Drinkwater. Unsatisfied with the replies of Waters, Jex sensed the landsman's cunning was more than a match for him. And the purser was nervous of a man he suspected of murder. To himself he disguised this fear in the argument that it was really Lieutenant Drinkwater who was the target for his desire to settle a score. The rum served to restore his resolve to act.

Drinkwater bent over the print. As he read he felt as though a cold hand was squeezing his guts. The colour drained from his face and the perspiration appeared upon his forehead. He tried in vain to dismiss the image the description called to mind.

From somewhere above him came Jex's voice, filled with the righteous zeal of an archangel. 'I know the man you brought aboard in Yarmouth is your brother. And that he is wanted for this murder.'

Chapter Twelve A Turbot Bright

The cabin filled with a silence only emphasised by the creak of Virago's fabric as she worked in the seaway. The rudder stock ground in the trunking that ran up the centre of the transom between the windows and stern chasers.

Drinkwater crossed his arms to conceal the shaking of his hands and leaned back in his chair, still staring down at the newspaper on the table. Its contents exposed the whole matter and Jex, of all people, knew everything. He looked up at Jex and was made suddenly angry by the smug look of satisfaction on the purser's pig-like features. His resentment at having been forced into such a false position by both Edward and this unpleasant little man before him combined with his weariness at trying to argue a way out of an untenable position. His anger boiled over, made worse by his awareness of the need to bluff.

'God damn it, sir, you are drunk! What the devil d'you think you are about, making such outrageous suggestions? Eh? Come, what are these allegations again?'

'The man Waters is your brother…'

'For God's sake, Mr Jex, what on earth makes you think that?'

'I saw you together in the Blue Fox, a house in which I have an interest.'

A piece of the jig-saw as to how Jex had discovered his deception was now revealed to Drinkwater. Even as he strove to think of some way out of the mess he continued to attack the purser's certainty. He barked a short, humourless and forced laugh.

'Hah! And d'you think I'd turn my brother forward, eh? To be started by Matchett and his mates?'

'If he had committed murder.' Jex nodded to the paper that lay between them.

Drinkwater leaned forward and put both hands on the Yarmouth Courier. 'Mr Jex,' he said with an air of apparent patience, 'there is no possible connection you can make between a man who claimed to be my brother whom you saw in a tavern in Chatham, the perpetrator of this murder and a pathetic landsman who volunteered at Yarmouth.'

'But the similarity of names…'

'A coincidence Mr Jex.' The eyes of the two men met as each searched for a weakness. Drinkwater saw doubt in the other man's face, saw it break through the alcohol-induced confidence. Jex was no longer on the offensive. Drinkwater pressed his advantage.

'I will be frank with you, Mr Jex, for your misconstruction is highly seditious and under the Articles of War,' he paused, seeing a dawning realisation cross Jex's mind. 'I see you understand. But I will be frank as far as I can be. There is a little mystery hereabouts,' he was deliberately vague and could see a frown on Jex's brow now. 'I do not have to tell you that the liberal Corresponding Societies of England, Mr Jex, those organisations that Mr Chauvelin tried to enlist in ninety-one to foment revolution here while he was French ambassador, are still very active. They are full of French spies and you can rest assured that a fleet as big as ours in Yarmouth has been observed by many eyes including some hostile eyes that have doubtless watched our movements with interest…'

Drinkwater smiled to himself. Jex was a false patriot, a Tory of the worst kind. A place-seeking jobber, jealous of privilege, anxious to maintain the status quo and feather his own nest, even as he aspired to social advancement. To men of Jex's odious type fear of revolution was greater than fear of the pox.

'I cannot say more, Mr Jex, but I have had some experience in these matters… you may verify the facts with the quartermaster Tregembo, if you cannot take the word of a gentleman,' he added.

Jex was silent, his mind hunting for any advantage he might have gained from the web of words that Drinkwater was spinning. He was not sure where the area of mystery lay; with the man in the Blue Fox, the landsman Waters or the murder with its strange, coincidental surname. The rum was confusing him and he could not quite grasp where the ascendancy he had felt a few minutes earlier had now gone. He had meant to press Drinkwater for a return of his money, or at least establish some hold over his captain that he might turn to his own advantage. He had been certain of his arguments as he had rehearsed them in the spirit room half an hour ago. Now he was dimly aware of a mystery he did not understand but which was vaguely dangerous to him, of Drinkwater's real authority and the awesome power of the Articles of War which even a pip-squeak lieutenant might invoke against him. Jex's intelligence had let him down. Only his cunning could extricate him.

'I am not…'

'Mr Jex,' said Drinkwater brusquely, suddenly sick of the whole charade, 'you are the worse for drink. I have already confided in you more than I should and I would caution you to be circumspect with what I have told you. I am unhappy about both your motive and your manner in drawing this whole matter to my attention.' He stood up, 'Good night Mr Jex.'

The purser turned away as Virago sat her stern heavily in a trough. Jex stumbled and grabbed for the edge of the table.

Drinkwater suddenly grinned. 'Take your time, Mr Jex, and be careful how you go. After all if Waters is a murderer you may find yourself eased overboard one dark night. I've known it happen.' Drinkwater, who knew nothing of the purser's cowardice, had touched the single raw nerve that Jex possessed. The possibility of being killed or maimed had never occurred to him when he had solicited the post of purser aboard the Virago. Indeed there seemed little likelihood of the ship ever putting to sea again. Now, since witnessing the horribly wounded Mason die in agony, he thought often of death as he lay in the lonely coffin-like box of his cot.

Drinkwater watched the purser lurch from the cabin. He felt like a fencer who had achieved a lucky parry, turned aside a blade that had seemed to have penetrated his guard, yet had allowed his opponent to recover.

He did not know if Jex had approached Edward, and could only hope that Tregembo's explanation, which he was sure Jex would seek in due course, would not betray him. But it was the only alibi he had. He found his hands were trembling again now that he was alone. From the forward bulkhead the portraits of Elizabeth and Charlotte Amelia watched impassively and brought the sweat to his brow at the enormity of what he had done. He wondered how successfully he had concealed the matter behind the smokescreen of duty. What was it Lettsom had said about concealing inadequacy that way? He shrugged off the recollection. Such philosophical niceties were irrelevant. There was no way to go but forwards and of one thing he was now sure. He had no alternative but to carry out his bluff. There was no time to wait for a reply to his letter to Lord Dungarth.

He would have to land Edward very soon.

The following morning dawned fine and clear. The wind had hauled north westerly and the fleet made sail to the eastward. The little gun-brigs were taken in tow by the battleships. Soon after dawn the whole vast mass of ships, making six or seven knots, observed to starboard the low line of the Danish coast. First blue-grey, it hardened to pale green with a fringe of white breakers. At nine o'clock on the morning of March 19th the fleet began to pass the lighthouse on The Skaw and turned south east, into the Kattegat. The Danes had extinguished the lighthouse by night, but in the pale morning sunshine it formed a conspicuous mark for the ships as each hauled her yards for the new course. At one o'clock Parker ordered the frigate Blanche to proceed ahead and gain news of the progress of Nicholas Vansittart. He had left Harwich a fortnight earlier in the Hamburg packet with a final offer to Count Bernstorff, the Danish Minister.

After the hardships of the last few days the sunshine felt warm and cheering. First lieutenants throughout the fleet ordered their men to wash clothes and hammocks. The nettings and lower rigging of the ships were soon bright with fluttering shirts and trousers. The sight of the enemy coast to starboard brought smiles and jokes to the raw faces of the men. Officers studied its monotonous line through their glasses as though they might discern their fates thereby.

The sense of corporate pride that could animate British seamen, hitherto absent from Parker's fleet, seemed not dead but merely dormant, called forth by the vernal quality of the day. This reanimation of spirit was best demonstrated by Nelson himself, ever a man attuned to the morale of his men. As the wind fell light in the late afternoon he called away his barge and an inquisitive fleet watched him pulled over to the mighty London. One of his seamen had caught a huge turbot and presented it as a gift to the little one-armed admiral.

In a characteristically impetuous gesture beneath which might be discerned an inflexible sense of purpose, Nelson personally conveyed the fish to his superior. It broke the ice between the two men. When the story got about the fleet by the mysterious telegraphy that transmitted such news, Lettsom composed his now expected verse:

'Nelson's prepared to grow thinner

And give Parker a turbot bright,

If Parker will only eat dinner,

And let Lord Nelson fight.'

But Mr Jex had not shared the general euphoria as they passed the Skaw. He had slept badly and woke with a rum-induced hangover that left his head throbbing painfully. He had lost track of the cogent arguments that had seemed to deliver Lieutenant Drinkwater into his hands the previous evening. His mind was aware only that he had been thwarted. To Jex it was like dishonour.

Soon after the change of watch at eight in the morning as the curious on deck were staring at the lighthouse on the Skaw, Jex waylaid Tregembo and offered him a quid of tobacco.

'Thank 'ee, zur,' he said, regarding the purser with suspicion.

'Tregembo isn't it?'

'Aye, zur.' Tregembo bit a lump off the quid and began to chew it.

'You have known Lieutenant Drinkwater a long time, eh, Tregembo?' The quartermaster nodded. 'How long?'

'I first met Mr Drinkwater when he were a midshipman, aboard the Cyclops, frigate, Cap'n Henry Hope… during the American War.'

'And you've known him since?'

'No zur, I next met him when I was drafted aboard the Kestrel cutter, zur, we was employed on special service.'

'Special service, eh?'

'Aye zur, very special… on the French coast afore the outbreak of the present war.' A sly look had entered the Cornishman's eyes. 'I'm in Mr Drinkwater's employ, zur…'

'Ah yes, of course, then perhaps you can tell me if Mr Drinkwater has a brother, eh?' Tregembo regarded the fat, peculating officer and remembered what Drinkwater had said about Waters and what he had learned at Petersfield. He rolled the quid over his tongue:

'Brother? No zur, the lieutenant has no brother, Mr Jex zur.'

'Are you sure?'

'I been with him constant these past nine years and I don't know that he ever had a brother.'

'And this special service…'

'Aye zur, we was employed on the Hellebore, brig, under Lord Nelson's orders.' Tregembo remembered what Drinkwater had said to him and now that he had seen what Jex was driving at he was less forthcoming.

'Under Lord Nelson, eh, well, well… so Mr Drinkwater's highly thought of in certain quarters then?'

'Aye zur, he's well acquainted with Lord Dungarth.' Tregembo was as proud of Drinkwater's connection with the peer as Jex was impressed.

'It is surprising then Tregembo, that he is no more than a lieutenant.'

'Beggin' your pardon but 'tis a fucking disgrace… It's a long story, zur, but Mr Drinkwater thrashed a bugger on the Cyclops and the bastard got even with him in the matter of a commission…' A smile crossed Tregembo's face. 'Leastaways he thought he'd bested him, but he ended in the hospital at the Cape, zur.' He leaned forward, his jaw rotating the quid as he spoke. 'Men don't cross the lieutenant too successfully, zur, leastaways not sensible men.'

'Bloody wind's still freshening, sir, and I don't like the look of it.' Rogers held his hat on, his tarpaulin flapping round him as he stared to windward. The white streaks of sleet blew across the deck, showing faintly in the binnacle lamplight. Both the officers staggered as Virago snubbed round to her anchor, sheering in the wind, jerking the hull and straining the cable.

'Rouse out another cable, Sam,' Drinkwater shouted in Rogers's ear, 'we'll veer away more scope.'

The good weather had not lasted the day. Hardly had the fleet come to an anchor in Vinga Bay than the treacherous wind had backed and strengthened. Now, at midnight, a full gale was blowing from the west south west, catching them on a lee shore and threatening to wreck them on the Swedish coast.

Drinkwater watched the grey and black shapes of the hands as they moved about the deck. He was glad he had been able to provide them with warm clothing. Tonight none of them would get much sleep and it was the least he could do for them. They were half-way through bringing up the second cable when they saw the first rocket. It reminded them that out in the howling blackness, beyond the circumscribed limit of their visible horizon, other men in other ships were toiling like themselves. The arc of sputtering sparks terminated in a baleful blue glare that hung in the sky and shone faintly, illuminating the lower masts and spars of the Virago before dying.

'Someone in distress,' shouted Easton.

'Mind it ain't us, Mr Easton, get a lead over the side to see if we are dragging!'

Suddenly from forward an anonymous voice screamed: 'Starb'd bow! 'Ware Starb'd bow!'

Drinkwater looked up to see a pyramid of masts and spars and the faint gleam of a half-set topsail above a black mass of darkness: the interposition of a huge hull between himself and the tumbling wavetops that had been visible there a moment earlier.

'Cut that cable!' he shouted with all the power in his lungs. Forward a quick-witted man took up an axe from under the fo'c's'le. Drinkwater waited only long enough to see the order understood before shouting again:

'Foretopmast stays'l halliards there! Cast loose and haul away! Sheet to starboard!' There was a second's suspense then the grinding crunch and trembling as the strange ship drove across their bow, carrying away the bowsprit. She was a huge ship and there was shouting and confusion upon her decks.

'Christ! It's the fucking London!' shouted Rogers who had caught a glimpse of a dark flag at her mainmasthead. All Drinkwater was aware of were the three pale stripes of her gun decks and the fact that in her passing she was pulling Virago round to larboard. There was more shouting including the unmistakably patrician accents of a flagship lieutenant demanding through his speaking trumpet what the devil they were doing there.

'Trying to remain at anchor, you stupid blockhead!' Rogers bawled back as a final rendering from forward told where Virago had torn her bowsprit free of London's main chains. The unknown axeman succeeded in cutting the final strands of her cable.

'We're under way, Easton, keep that God damn lead going.'

Easton had a lantern in the chains in a flash and Quilhampton ran aft reporting the foretopmast staysail aloft.

'Sheet's still a-weather, sir…'

'Cast it loose and haul aft the lee sheet.'

'Aye, aye…'

Virago's head had been cast off the wind, thanks to London. Now Drinkwater had to drive her to windward, clear of the shallows under their lee.

'Spanker, Rogers, get the bloody spanker on her otherwise her head'll pay off too much…' Rogers shouted for men and Drinkwater jumped down into the waist. He wished to God he had a cutter like the old Kestrel that could claw to windward like a knife's edge. Suddenly Virago's weatherly, sea-kindly bluff bows were a death trap.

'Mr Matchett! Will she take a jib or is the bowsprit too far gone?'

'Reckon I c'd set summat forrad…'

'See to it,' snapped Drinkwater. 'Hey! You men there, a hand with these staysails!' He attacked the rope stoppings on the mizen staysail and after two men had come to his aid he moved forward to the foot of the foremast where the main staysail was stowed. His hands felt effeminately soft but he grunted at the freezing knots until more men, seeing what he was about, came to his assistance.

'Halliards there lads! Hoist away… up she goes, lively there! Now we'll sail her out like a yacht!' He turned aft. 'Belay that main topsail, Graham, she'll point closer under this canvas…'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Cap'n, cap'n, zur.'

'Yes? Here Tregembo, I'm here!'

'Master says she's shoaling…'

'God's bones!' He hurried aft to where Easton was leaning outboard, gleaming wetly in the lamplight from where a wave had sluiced him and the leadsman. Drinkwater grabbed his shoulder and Easton looked up from the leadline. He shook his head. 'Shoaling, sir.'

'Shit!' he tried to think and peered over the side. The faint circle of light emitted by the lantern showed the sea at one second ten feet beneath them, next almost up to the chains. But the streaks of air bubbles streaming down-wind from the tumbling wave-caps were moving astern: Virago had headway. He recalled the chart, a shoaling of the bay towards its southward end. He patted Easton's shoulder. 'Keep it goin', Mr Easton.' Then he jumped inboard and made for the poop.

'Steer full and bye!'

Out to starboard another blue rocket soared into the air and he was aware that the sleet had stopped. He could see dark shapes of other ships, tossing and plunging with here and there the gleam of a sail as some fought their way to windward while others tried to hold onto their anchors. He remembered his advice to Quilhampton on the subject of anchors. He had lost one now, and although he had not lost the ship, neither had he yet saved her.

A moment later another sleet squall enveloped them. He looked up at the masthead pendant. Virago was heading at least a point higher without square sails and Matchett had succeeded in getting a jib up on what was left of the bowsprit. He wondered how much leeway they were making and tried looking astern at the wake but he could see nothing. He wondered what had become of the London and what old Parker was making of the night. Perhaps 'Batter Pudding' would be a widow before dawn. Parker would not be the first admiral to go down with his ship. He did not know whether Admiral Totty had survived the wreck of the Invincible, but Balchen had been lost with Victory on the Caskets fifty years earlier, and Shovell had died on the beach in the Scillies after the wreck of the Association. But poor Parker might end ignominiously, a prisoner of the Swedes.

'Quite a night, sir,' Rogers came up. He had lost his hat and his hair was plastered upon his head.

'Quite a night, Sam.'

'We've set all the fore and aft canvas we can, she seems to sail quite well.'

'She'll do,' said Drinkwater tersely, 'If she weathers the point, she'll do very well.'

'Old Willerton's been over the side on the end of the foretack.'

'What the devil for?'

'To see if his "leddy" is still there.'

'Well is it?' asked Drinkwater with sudden superstitious anxiety.

'Yes,' Rogers laughed and Drinkwater felt a sense of relief, then chid himself for a fool.

'Pipe "Up spirits", Sam, the poor devils deserve it.'

Virago did weather the point and dawn found her hands wet, cold and red-eyed, anxiously staring astern and out on either beam. Of the fifty-eight ships that had anchored in Vinga Bay only thirty-eight were now in company. They beat slowly to windward, occasionally running perilously close together as they tacked, grey shapes tossing in heavy grey seas on which was something new, something to add greater danger to their plight: ice floes.

Many of the absent ships were the smaller members of the fleet, particularly the gun-brigs, but most of the bombs were still in company and the Anne Reed made up under Virago's larboard quarter. Once they had an offing they bore away to the southward.

The wind shifted a little next day then, at one bell in the first watch, it backed south westerly and freshened again. Two hours later Virago followed the more weatherly ships into the anchorage of Skalderviken in the shelter of the Koll. Drinkwater collapsed across his cot only to be woken at four next morning. The wind had increased to storm force. Even in the lee of the land Virago pitched her bluffbow into the steep seas and flung the spray over her bow to be whipped aft, catching the unwary on the face and inducing the agonising wind-ache as it evaporated. Rain and sleet compounded the discomfort and Drinkwater succeeded in veering a second cable onto his one remaining anchor. At daylight, instead of rigging out a new bowsprit, the tired men were aloft striking the topgallant masts, lowering the heavy lower yards in their jeers and lashing them across the rails.

Then, having exhausted themselves in self-preservation, the wind eased. It continued to drop during the afternoon and just after midnight the night-signal to weigh was made from St George. Nelson, anxious to prosecute the war in spite of, or perhaps because of, the disappearance of Parker, was thwarted before the fleet could move. The wind again freshened and the laboriously hove in cables were veered away again.

Nelson repeated the signal to weigh at seven in the morning and this time the weather obliged. An hour and a half later the remnants of the British squadrons in the Baltic beat out of Skalderviken and then bore away towards the Sound and Copenhagen.

By noon the gale had eased. London rejoined, together with some of the other ships. The flagship had been ashore on an uncharted shoal off Varberg castle and the Russell had had a similar experience attempting to tow off the gun-brig Tickler. Both had escaped.

Less fortunate was the gun-brig Blazer which also ran ashore at Varberg and was captured by the Swedes.

The fleet was hove to when Parker rejoined to await the results of Vansittart's embassy. Just before dark the Blanche was sighted making up from the south. The news that she brought was eagerly awaited by men who had had a bellyful of shilly-shallying.

Chapter Thirteen Councils of Timidity

There are many levels at which a man can worry and Drinkwater was no exception. Over-riding every moment of his life, waking and sleeping, was concern for his ship and its performance within so large a fleet. Beneath this constant preoccupation lay a growing conviction that the expedition had been left too late. In the two days since Blanche rejoined the fleet a number of alarming rumours had circulated. It was learned that Vansittart's terms had been rejected by Count Bernstorff and the Danish government. Both Vansittart and Drummond, the accredited British envoy to the Danish court, had been given their passports and told to leave. Britons resident in Denmark had been advised to quit the country while the Swedish navy, already possessing its first British prize, the Blazer, was making belligerent preparations at Carlscrona. Worse still, the Russians were reported cutting through the ice at Revel.

But it was the inactivity of their own admiral that most worried the British. Every hour the Commander-in-Chief waited, robbed them of surprise, and every hour the fleet lay idle increased the gossip and rumour that spread from passing boat to gunroom to lower deck. Vansittart had given Parker formal instructions to commence hostilities in one breath and warned him of the formidable preparations made at Copenhagen in another. Drummond endorsed the determination of the Danes and promised the hesitant Parker a bloody nose. After the first conference aboard London, at which Nelson was present, Parker had excluded his second-in-command and Rear Admiral Graves from further consultation. Instead he interviewed the pilots from the Hull Trinity' House who were as apprehensive as the admiral and informed Parker that they were familiar with the navigation of The Sound alone, and could undertake no responsibility for the navigation of the Great Belt. Nelson, who saw the Russians as the greatest threat, thought that defeat of the Tsar would automatically destroy the Baltic Alliance, wished to take a detachment of the fleet by the Great Belt and strike directly at Revel. He had made his recommendations in writing and Dommett, the captain of the fleet, had emerged from Parker's cabin, his face a mask of agony, to reveal to the assembled officers on the London's quarterdeck that Parker had struck out every single suggestion made by Vice-Admiral Nelson.

It was a story that had gone round the fleet like wildfire and, together with the rumour circulated from Blanche about Danish preparations, added to the feeling that they were too late.

Lieutenant Drinkwater was a prey to all these and other worries as he stood upon Virago's poop on the freezing morning of March 26th. He was staring through his glass at a large boat flying the red flag of Denmark together with a white flag of truce, as it pulled through the fifty-two British ships anchored off Nakke Head at the entrance to The Sound.

Meanwhile in London's great cabin, a confident young aide-decamp with a message from Governor Strieker at Elsinore told Parker that if his guns were no better than his pen he had better return to England. There were two hundred heavy cannon at Cronbourg Castle, together with a garrison of three thousand men and Parker, used to the clear waters of the West Indies, was apprehensive of dark nights and fields of ice. Parker's hesitation was obvious to the young Danish officer and the worried countenances of London's officers, as they waited in the cold, led him to conclude they shared their admiral's apprehensions.

Drinkwater began to pace Virago's poop as the watch idled round the deck, needlessly coiling ropes and unenthusiastically chipping the scale off a box of shot set on the after mortar hatch. A low mumble came from them and exactly reflected the mood of the entire fleet.

Two days earlier, after conferring with Parker, Vansittart and Drummond had been sent home in the lugger Kite. Drinkwater had taken advantage of the departure of the lugger to send a letter to Lord Dungarth and the subject of that letter was the fundamental worry that underlay every thought of every waking hour. Since the interview with Jex, Drinkwater had striven to work out a solution to the problem of Edward. Sweating at the thought of his guilt, of the reception of his first letter to Dungarth sent by Lady Parker, and of Jex's knowledge, he had spent hours formulating a plan, considering every turn of events and of how each circumstance would be regarded by others. Now the constant delays denied him the opportunity to land Edward. The last few days had had a nightmare quality enhanced by the bad weather, the freezing cold and the continual nagging worries over the fleet itself.

For the first time in months he had a nightmare, the terrifying spectre of a white clad woman who reared over his supine body to the clanking of chains. With the illogical certainty of dreams she seemed to rise higher and higher above him, yet never diminished in size, while her Medusa head became the smiling face of someone he knew. He woke shivering yet soaked in sweat, his heart beating violently. Compelled by some subconscious urge he had risen in his night-shirt and struck a light to the cabin lantern and spread out the roll of canvas from the bottom of his sea-chest. Already the paint was cracking but, in the light of the lantern, it did not detract from the face that looked back at him: the face in his dream. The portrait was larger than the two now hanging on the forward bulkhead. It showed a young woman with auburn hair piled upon her head. Pearls were entwined in the coiffure that was at once negligent and contrived. Her creamy shoulders were bare and her breasts were just visible behind a wisp of gauze. The grey eyes looked directly out of the canvas and Drinkwater shivered, not from cold, but with the sensation of someone walking upon his grave. The lovely Hortense Montholon had been brought off a French beach in the last days of peace. For months she had masqueraded as an émigrée, sending information from England to her lover Edouard Santhonax in Paris. She had been returned to France by Lord Dungarth and married Santhonax on his escape following the battle of Camperdown.

Drinkwater had acquired the portrait by his capture of the French frigate Antigone in the Red Sea. She had been commanded by the same Santhonax and, though he had escaped yet again, Drinkwater had kept the canvas. It had lain in the bottom of his sea-chest, cut from its wooden stretcher and hidden from his wife, for it was unlikely that Elizabeth would understand its fascination. But to Drinkwater it symbolised something more than the likeness of a beautiful woman. The face of Hortense Santhonax was the face of the enemy, not the face of the tow-haired Danes but a manifestation of the force now consuming the whole continent of Europe.

He could not see it objectively yet, but the liberal allure of the French Revolution had long faded. Even those staunch republicans, the Americans, had disassociated themselves from the lawless disregard for order with which the French pursued their foreign policies or instructed their ragged, irresistible and rapacious armies. He remembered something Dungarth had said the night they landed Hortense upon the beach at Criel: 'Nine parts of humanity is motivated by a combination of self-interest and apathy. Only the tenth part hungers for power, and it is this which a prudent people guards itself against. In France the tenth part has the upper hand.' As he stood shivering in the dawn Drinkwater glimpsed the future in a flash. This rupture with Denmark, whatever its sinister motivations from the steppes, was a single symptom of a greater cancer, a cancer that fed upon a doctrinaire philosophy with a spurious validity. He was engaged in a mighty struggle between moderation and excess, and his spartan life had filled him with a horror of excess.

A wild knocking at his door caused him to roll the portrait up. 'What is it?'

'The admiral's made the signal to prepare to weigh, sir.' It was Quilhampton's voice. 'Wind is fresh westerly, sir, and it's eight bells in the middle watch.'

'Very well, call all hands, I'll be up directly.'

The day that followed had been a disaster. In a rising wind which caused problems to the smaller vessels in weighing their anchors, the fleet had got under way at daylight. Led by the 74-gun Edgar with her yellow topsides, they beat to the westward, along the north coast of the flat, featureless, coast of Zeeland. Edgar's captain, George Murray, had recently surveyed the Great Belt and it was by this passage that Sir Hyde Parker had finally decided to pass into the Baltic. The Commander-in-Chief did not hold his determination very long. In the wake of Edgar, slightly inshore of the main battle fleet, the smaller ships tacked wearily to windward. Ahead of Virago were the seven bombs, astern of her the other tenders. At eleven o'clock while Drinkwater consulted his chart, listened to the monotonous chant of the leadsman and occasionally referred to the old, worn notebook left him years earlier as part of Blackmore's bequest, the Zebra struck the Zeeland's Reef.

Alarmed by the lookout's shout, Drinkwater watched Zebra's fore topgallant go by the board and ordered Virago tacked at once. Soon after, Edgar had flown Virago's pennant with the order to assist Zebra and he had sent away his boats with two spare spars to lash across their gunwhales in order to carry out her anchor.

He had watched Rogers pull away over the choppy grey sea and been forced to kick his own heels in idleness until, just before dark, the combined efforts of the bomb ships' boats succeeded in getting Zebra off the reef.

While Drinkwater had spent the afternoon at anchor, Parker had been told an even more alarming piece of news. Someone in the flagship had informed the Commander-in-Chief that greater risks would have to be run by taking the fleet through the Great Belt. Alarmed by this and the accident to Zebra, Parker countermanded his orders and the fleet was ordered to return to its anchorage off Nakke Head. Virago, escorting the Zebra, had once again dropped her anchor at midnight, and now, in the chilly sunshine of the following morning, Drinkwater looked across to where Mr Quilhampton and a party from Virago were helping the Zebra's people get up a new fore topgallant mast.

On his own fo'c's'le Mr Matchett was putting the finishing touches to the gammoning of their own refitted bowsprit. Over the rest of Virago the mood of listless despair hung like a cloud.

At last Drinkwater saw the Danish boat leave London's side and though during the afternoon reports came down to him where he dozed in his cabin, that Murray, Nelson, Graves and other officers were all visiting the flagship, nothing else happened.

Drinkwater woke from his sleep at about four o'clock. He could not afterwards explain it, but his mind was resolved over the problem of Edward. He would brook no further delay. He passed word for Quilhampton and Rogers.

'Ah, Mr Rogers, I wish you to have the long boat made ready an hour before daylight with a barrel of biscuit in it, together with water barricoes, mast and sail. I want a crew told off tonight, say six men, with Tregembo as leading hand. Mr Quilhampton will command the boat and I shall accompany it. In the unlikely event of our being absent when the signal is made to weigh, you are to take charge. I will give you that order in writing when I leave.'

'Very good, sir, may I ask…?'

'No, you may not.'

Rogers looked offended and turned on his heel. Drinkwater called him back.

'I do not want any of your irreverent speculation on this matter, Sam. Be pleased to remember that.'

'Aye aye, sir.' Drinkwater raised his eyebrows and stared significantly at Quilhampton.

'The same goes for you, Mr Q.'

'Yes sir.'

'Very well. Now pass word for the volunteer Waters to come aft and do you, Mr Q, mount a guard on my cabin and see we are not disturbed.'

Rogers opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, and strode from the cabin. Drinkwater waited for Edward to appear, occupying the time by rummaging in a canvas bag he had had brought into the cabin by an inquisitive Mr Jex.

A knock at the door was followed by Mr Quilhampton's head. 'Waters is here now, sir.'

'Very well, show him in.'

Edward entered the cabin and stood awkwardly, looking around with a curious sheepishness. It suddenly struck Drinkwater that a month or two more might have made Edward into a seaman. Already he was lean and fit and had not been long enough on salt beef for it to have made much difference to him. But it was his attitude that most struck Drinkwater. Four months ago they had met as equals, now Edward had all the inherent awkwardness of one who felt socially inferior. The realisation embarrassed Drinkwater.

'How are you?' he asked too brusquely for Edward to perceive any change in their bizarre relationship.

'Well enough… sir.'

'How have you been treated?'

'The same as all your seamen,' Edward replied with a trace of bitterness, 'I have no complaints.'

Drinkwater bit off a tart rebuke and poured two glasses of blackstrap. He handed one to Edward then went to the door. 'Mr Q, I want a bowl of hot water from the galley upon the instant.'

'A bowl of hot water, sir?' He caught the gleam in Drinkwater's eye. 'Er, yes sir.'

'Sit down Ned, sit, down.' Drinkwater closed the door. 'Your circumstances are about to change. Whether 'tis for the better I cannot say, but listen carefully to what I tell you.' He paused to collect his thoughts.

'Jex, the purser, has tumbled you. He saw a cursed newspaper report about the murder and also saw you in the Blue Fox, at Chatham. You knew of this?'

Edward nodded. 'I did not know how he had found out, but he approached me…'

'You did not…?'

'Confess? Good God no! I merely acted dumb, as any seaman does in the presence of an officer.' The ghost of a smile crossed Edward's face. 'What did you do about Mr Jex?' The anxiety was now plain.

Drinkwater sighed. 'Bluffed, Ned, bluffed. Denied you were my brother, said the name of the suspected murderer was a coincidence then gave him to understand that there might be something of a mystery surrounding the whole-affair, but that it was not his concern… come in!'

A heavy silence hung in the cabin as Quilhampton ushered in the messman with the bowl of water. Both rating and mate could scarcely disguise their curiosity. It would be all over Virago in a matter of moments that Waters, the landsman volunteer, was taking wine with Virago's commander. But Nathaniel no longer cared. Perhaps some apparent unconcern would lend credibility to what he proposed. Edward did not seem to have noticed, but waited only for the intruders to leave before bursting out:

'What the hell d'you mean you told him there was something of a mystery…'

'God damn it, Ned, I've lied for you, risked my career, abused my position of command and maybe jeopardised my whole life for brotherly bloody affection! D'you not think a flat denial would only have increased Jex's inquisitiveness. Mr Jex is not to be counted among my most loyal officers, he is seeking to avenge a grudge. But he is not stupid enough to risk his suspicions against the Articles of War, nor bright enough not to be a little confused by what I have told him. Perhaps he will work it all through and conclude I have deceived him; if that is the case his malice will be thereby increased. But by that time you will be gone.'

Edward shook his head. 'I don't understand…'

'My shaving things are lying on the cabin chest there,' he indicated the cotton roll, 'do you shave while I talk… Now, I wrote from Yarmouth to Lord Dungarth. I was employed by him some years ago in secret operations on the French and Dutch coasts. He is a spy-master, a puppet-master he calls himself, and may be able to find you some employment…'

'What the devil did you say about me for God's sake?' asked Edward lathering himself.

'Only that a person known to me was anxious to be of service to his country, had asked for my protection and spoke fluent French. That this person might prove of some value for a patriotic service in a Baltic state. His lordship is intelligent enough to draw his own conclusions…'

'Especially if he reads the newspapers,' muttered Edward as the razor rasped down his tanned cheek. He swished the razor in water and turned to his brother.

'So I am to become a puppet, to dance to his lordship's string-pulling, eh?'

'You have scant reason for bitterness, Edward,' said Drinkwater sharply, 'I would have thought it preferable to dancing on the gallows.' Drinkwater mastered his anger at Edward's peculiar petulance and poured himself another glass of blackstrap.

'I am about to land you on the Danish coast. You should acquire a horse and make for Hamburg. The Harwich packet calls fortnightly and when the Kite left for England with the envoys she carried mails. Among them was a letter to Lord Dungarth stating that the person of whom I had written earlier would take his instructions from the packet master in the name of 'Waters'.'

'And d'you think the security of these letters will be breached?'

'I doubt it. The second is hardly incriminating, the first I sent by special delivery. To be precise the Commander-in-Chief's wife.'

'Good God!'

'It is the best I can do for you Ned, for I must land you.' He had thought to say 'disencumber myself of you', but refrained.

'Yes, of course. How long must I wait in Hamburg?'

'I should give it two months… meet the Harwich packet when she berths.'

'After which this Lord Dungarth will have abandoned me much as you now wish to.' The two brothers stared at each other.

'That is right, Ned,' Drinkwater said quietly, 'And damned sorry I am for it.'

Edward shrugged. 'I need money.'

Drinkwater nodded and reached into his chest. 'You can take the money I took from you at Yarmouth, plus twenty sovereigns of mine. I should like to think that one day you were in a position to redeem the debt… as for clothes these will have to suffice.' He upturned a canvas bag. Shirts, pantaloons, shoes and a creased blue broadcloth coat fell out.

'A dead man's?'

'Yes, named Mason.'

'It seems you have thought of everything…'

Drinkwater ignored the sarcastic tone. 'You had better take his sword and his pistol. I have renewed the flint and there is a cartouche box with a spare flint and powder and ball for half a dozen rounds.' He watched Edward put on one of the shirts and try the shoes. They were a tolerable fit. 'If you are careful you have sufficient funds to purchase a horse and lodgings for your journey. I suggest you speak only in French. Once in Hamburg you must trust to luck.'

'Luck,' repeated Edward ironically, pulling on Mason's coat, 'I shall need a deal of that… and if she fails me, as she has done before, then I may always blow my brains out, eh? Nathaniel?' He turned to find his brother gone and the cabin filling with the grey light of dawn.

Drinkwater looked astern once at the dark shape of Virago as the first of the daylight began to illuminate the anchorage. A freezing wind blew in their faces as the boat, her sheets trimmed hard in, butted her way to the south eastwards, through the anchored ships. The only advantage to be had from the multitude of delays they had been subjected to in the past weeks was that a boat working through the anchorage was unlikely to attract much attention. There had been too much coming and going between the ships for any suspicions to be aroused.

The boat's crew were muffled against the cold. Beside him in the stern sat Edward, staring at the approaching shore and ignoring the curious looks of his former messmates. He had one hand on the rail and the other round Mason's canvas bag, sword and cocked hat.

The two brothers sat in silence. There had been no formal leave taking, Drinkwater having re-entered the cabin merely to announce the readiness of the boat.

Edward's ingratitude hurt Nathaniel. He could not imagine the emotions that tore his brother, how the comparison of their situations had seemed heightened by the social gulf that had divided them during Edward's short sojourn before the mast. Nor could Edward, to whom precarious existence had become a way of life, fully realise the extent to which Drinkwater had risked his all. And a man used to gambling and living upon his wits with no-one to blame but himself for his misfortunes usually casts about for a scapegoat. But this was lost on Drinkwater who charitably assumed the bleak prospect looming before his brother accounted for Edward's attitude.

Quilhampton tacked the boat seaward again in the growing light. The low coast of Zeeland was now clearly visible to the south of them and after half an hour they went about again and stood inshore where the tree-lined horizon was broken by the harder edges of roofs and the spire of Gilleleje. Drinkwater nudged Quilhampton and pointed at the village. Quilhampton nodded.

Forty minutes later they lowered the sail and got out the oars, running the boat on the sand in a comparative lee.

Drinkwater walked up the beach alongside Edward. Neither man said a word. Behind them Quilhampton stilled a speculative murmur among the boat's crew.

The two brothers strode past fishing boats drawn up on the beach. From the village a cock crowed and rising smoke told of stirring life. They saw a man emerge from a wooden privy who looked up in astonishment.

'I think I will take my leave now,' Edward said, his voice devoid of any emotion.

'Very well,' replied Nathaniel, his voice flat and formally naval.

Edward paused then gripped the canvas bag flung over his shoulder with both fists, avoiding the necessity of shaking hands. He nodded to his brother then turned and strode away. Drinkwater stood and watched him go. The man from the privy had reappeared at the door of a neat wooden house. With him was a woman with yellow hair and a blue shawl wrapped about her shoulders. They stood staring at the approaching stranger. Edward made no attempt to conceal himself but walked up to them and raised his hat. The woman retreated behind her husband but after a few minutes, during which it was clear that Edward was making himself understood to the Dane, curiosity brought her forward again.

Though the two looked twice at Drinkwater, Edward did not turn and after a moment Nathaniel walked back to the boat.

The wind before which Virago's longboat returned was foul for the fleet to attempt The Sound. But the day proved more eventful than could have been expected as that dismal realisation permeated every wardroom and gun-room in the fleet. About ten in the morning the Commander-in-Chief began signalling various ships for boats. There followed hours during which, in a grey and choppy sea, the boats of the fleet pulled or sailed about, commanded by blue midshipmen with notes and orders, while the weary seamen toiled at the oars to invigorate their circulation.

The cold was bitter, following an unseasonal early spring, winter had reasserted itself. In England daffodils, new budded in the warmth of early March, now froze on the stem, an omen from the North that did not go unnoticed among the ignorant and neglected womenfolk who waited eagerly for news of the vaunted Baltic expedition.

But a new air gradually transformed the weary ships. The battleships hauled alongside the cumbersome flat-bottomed boats they had so laboriously towed or carried from England and lowered 24-pounder guns into them. Colonel Stewart's detachment of the 49th Foot improvised musket drill over the hammock nettings, while his riflemen were said to be ready to shoot the Tsar's right eye out. Even the bombs were part of this rejuvenation, the artillery detachments being ordered out of their tenders and on board the vessels they were to attend in action.

Mr Tumilty's rubicund, smiling face came over the side and the red haired Irishman pumped Drinkwater's hand enthusiastically.

'Why Mr Drinkwater, but I'd sure never like to see you naval boys try to do anything secret, 'tis for sure the whole population of Denmark has seen us cruising up and down the coast, by Jesus!' Drinkwater grinned, thinking of his own private secret expedition that had only been accomplished an hour or two earlier.

'I'm damned glad to see you, Mr Tumilty, but what's the cause of all this sudden activity?'

'Don't you know? Why, Admiral Parker has at last decided to let Lord Nelson have his way. The bombs are to join a squadron under his lordship's command. And for certain 'tis Revel or Copenhagen for us, m' dear fellow.'

'Are we to go with the bombs, then?'

'Aye, Nat'aniel. They say Nelson has been nagging the poor old admiral 'til he was only too glad to get rid of him.' Tumilty shivered and rubbed his hands. 'God, but it's cold. To be sure a man that'd go to sea for fortune would go to hell for pleasure…'

'Well, Mr Tumilty, do you go to see Mr Jex and give him my compliments and ask him to issue a greygoe to you, and sheepskins to your men. We should have enough.'

'That's mighty kind of you Nat'aniel, mighty kind. Sure an'it'll be hotter than the hobs of hell itself when we kindle those big black kettles you've got skulking beneath those hatches,' he added, rubbing his hands again, this time with enthusiasm.

'Beg pardon, sir, message from the admiral…' Drinkwater took the packet from Quilhampton and noted the boat pulling away from the ship's side. In his delight at welcoming Tumilty he had not seen it arrive.

He scanned the order: The ships noted in the margin are… Drinkwater looked down the list. There, at the bottom he found Virago… to form a squadron under my command ordered forward upon a special service… The ships and vessels placed under my directions are to get their sheet and spare anchors over the side, ready for letting go at the shortest notice… commanding officers are to take especial notice of the following signals… No 14 to anchor by the stern … It was signed in the admiral's curious, left-handed script: Nelson and Brontë.

'Mr Rogers!'

'Sir?'

'The vice-admiral is to shift his flag to Elephant this morning.'

'What the devil for?'

'She draws less than the St George, Mr Rogers. Do you direct the watch officers to pay particular attention to all signals from the Elephant. We are to form part of a detachment under Nelson…'

The sudden activity of the fleet and the disencumbering of Edward had coincided to throw off Drinkwater's depression. He suddenly felt ridiculously buoyant, a feeling shared by the impish Tumilty whose smile threatened to disappear into his ears.

''Twill be a fine music we'll be playing to these damned knaves, Mr Rogers, so it will, a fine basso profundo with the occasional crescendo to make 'em jump about like eejits.'

'Let's hope we're not too late, Mr Tumilty,' said Rogers who had not yet forgiven Drinkwater for his mysterious behaviour over Waters.

'Beg pardon, zur, but Mr Trussel sent me down with more orders just come, zur.'

'Thank you Tregembo.' Drinkwater took the packet and broke the wafer.

'Beg pardon, zur, but may I speak, zur?'

'What is it?'

'Tis well-known about the ship that the man we landed yesterday was a spy, zur.'

Drinkwater looked at the Cornishman. They both understood.

'Mr Jex approached me some days ago, zur. It cost him two plugs of tobacco to learn you ain't got no brother, zur.'

'Thank you.'

'Now, with your permission, zur, I'll see to your sword and pistols, zur.'

'They are all right, thank you Tregembo, I have not used them since last you attended to them.'

'I'll look at them, just the same.'

Drinkwater bent over the new orders. It was a general instruction to the bomb vessels to place themselves under the orders of Captain Murray of the Edgar. It was anticipated that they would be used against the fortress at Cronbourg. A note was included from Martin. The commander's crabbed script drew Drinkwater's attention to the fact that it was suspected that Zebra had suffered some damage on the Zeeland's Reef and he might yet be able to render Drinkwater a service. Drinkwater fancied he could read the unwritten thought that lay behind that fatuous phrase, that he, Nathaniel Drinkwater, was an intimate of Lord Dungarth. Drinkwater wondered what Martin would do if he knew that the lieutenant, with whom he was currently currying favour, had just assisted a murderer to escape the noose.

Late in the afternoon the brig Cruizer was ordered forward to send in a boat to make a final demand of Governor Strieker at Cronbourg as to his intentions if the British fleet attempted to pass The Sound. It revealed to all, including the Danish commander, that Parker was still vacillating.

The following morning, Saturday March 28th, the wind hauled westerly and the temperature rose. The sun shone and the fleet weighed, setting all sail to the royals in an attempt to enter and pass The Sound. But the wind fell light and the contrary current held up the lumbering battleships so that Parker, learning from Brisbane of the Cruizer that Strieker had laughed in his face, could not risk his ships drifting under the heavy guns of the fortress. Once again the fleet anchored and in Virago's cabin that night they debated how long it took to wear an anchor ring through the shank.