‘God damn my eyes, it’s a bloody lobster,’ said Rogers offensively and even though the man wore the blue uniform of the Royal Artillery his apoplectic countenance lent the welcome an amusing aptness.
‘Lieutenant Tumilty of the artillery, sir,’ said Mason filling the silence while the artillery officer stared aggressively round his new surroundings.
Drinkwater rose. ‘Good day, lieutenant, pray sit down. Mr Q, make way there. You are to join us then?’ He passed the decanter down the table and the messman produced a glass. The other occupants of the cabin eyed the stranger with ill-disguised curiosity.
Tumilty filled his glass, downed it and refilled it. Then he fixed Drinkwater with a tiny, fiery eye.
‘I’m after asking if you’re in command of the ship?’ The accent was pugnaciously Irish.
‘That is correct, Mr Tumilty.’
‘It’s true then! God save me but ’tis true, so it is.’ He swallowed again, heavily.
‘What exactly is true, Mr Tumilty?’ asked Drinkwater, beginning to feel exasperated by the artilleryman’s circumlocution.
‘Despite appearances to the contrary, and begging your pardon, but you being but a lieutenant, then this ain’t a bomb vessel, sir. Is that, or is that not the truth of the matter?’
Drinkwater flushed. Tumilty had touched a raw nerve. ‘Virago was built as a bomb vessel, but at present she is commissioned only as a tender . . .’
‘Though there’s nothing wrong with her structure,’ growled the hitherto silent Willerton.
‘Does that answer your question?’ added Drinkwater, ignoring the interruption.
Tumilty nodded. ‘Aye, God save me, so it does. And I’ll not pretend I like it lieutenant, not at all.’ He suddenly struck his hat violently upon the table.
‘Devil take ’em, do they not know the waste; that I’m the finest artilleryman to be employed upon the service?’ He seemed about to burst into tears, looking round the astonished faces for agreement. Drinkwater was inclined to forgive him his behaviour; clearly Mr Tumilty was acting as a consequence of some incident at Woolwich and cursing his superiors at the Royal Arsenal.
‘Gentlemen, pity me, I beg you. I’m condemned to hand powder like any of your barefoot powder-monkeys. A fetcher and carrier, me!’
‘It seems, Mr Tumilty, that, to coin a phrase, we are all here present in the same boat.’ A rumble of agreement followed Drinkwater’s soothing words.
‘But me, sir. For sure I’m the finest pyroballogist in the whole damned artillery!’
Chapter Six February 1801
Powder and Shot
‘Pyroballogy, Lieutenant Drinkwater, is the art of throwing fire. ’Tis both scientific and alchemical, and that is why officers in my profession cannot purchase their commissions like the rest of the army, so it is.’
Drinkwater and Tumilty stood at the break of the poop watching the labours of the hands as they manned the yardarm tackles, hoisting barrel after barrel of powder out of the hoy alongside. They had loaded their ordinary powder and shot, naval gunner’s stores for their carronades and long guns, from the powder hulk at Blackstakes. Now they loaded the ordnance stores, sent round from Woolwich on the Thames. From time to time Tumilty broke off his monologue to shout instructions at his sergeant and bombadier who, with Virago’s men, were toiling to get the stores aboard before the wind freshened further.
‘No sir, our commissions are all issued by the Master-General himself and a captain of artillery may have more experience than a field officer, to be sure. I’m not after asking if that’s a fair system, Mr Drinkwater, but I’m telling you that a man can be an expert at his work and still be no more than a lieutenant.’
Drinkwater smiled. ‘And I’d not be wanting to argue with you Mr Tumilty,’ he said drily.
‘ ’Tis an ancient art, this pyroballogy. Archimedes himself founded it at the seige of Syracuse and the Greeks had their own ballistic fireballs. Now tell me, Mr Drinkwater, would I be right in thinking you’d like to be doing a bit of the fire-throwing yourself?’
Drinkwater looked at the short Irishman alongside him. He was growing accustomed to his almost orientally roundabout way of saying something.
‘I think perhaps we both suffer from a sense of frustration, Mr Tumilty.’
‘And the carpenter assures me the ship’s timbers are sound enough.’ Drinkwater nodded and Tumilty added, ‘ ’Tis not to be underestimated, sir, a thirteen-inch mortar has a chamber with a capacity of thirty-two pounds. Yet a charge in excess of twenty will shake the timbers of a mortar bed to pieces in a very short time and may cause the mortar to explode.’
‘But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.’
‘True, true, but you’ve not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I’m asking myself, would that be?’
Drinkwater shrugged. ‘I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place . . .’
‘And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Well now that’s very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?’
Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.
‘I don’t think I quite understand.’
‘Well look,’ Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy’s hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of Virago. The hoy’s crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. ‘Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one ten-inch weighing forty-one hundredweights. Why don’t we ship them on the beds, eh?’
‘I take it they’re spares.’ Tumilty nodded. Drinkwater knew the other bomb vessels already had their own mortars fitted for he had examined those on the Explosion. There seemed no very good argument against fitting them in the beds even if they were supposed to be struck down into the hold. After all Virago had been fitted to carry them. He wondered what Martin would say if he knew, as doubtless he would in due course.
‘By damn, Mr Tumilty, it is getting dark. Let us have those beauties swung aboard as you suggest. We may carry ’em in their beds safer than rolling about in the hold.’
‘That’s the spirit, Mr Drinkwater, that’s the spirit to be sure.’
‘Mr Rogers! A word with you if you please.’ Rogers ascended the ladder.
‘Sir?’
‘We have two mortars to load, spares for the squadron. I intend to lower them on the beds. D’you understand Sam? If we’ve two mortars fitted we may yet get a chance to do more than fetch and carry . . .’
The gleam of enthusiasm kindled in Roger’s eye. ‘I like the idea, damned if I don’t.’ He shot a glance at Tumilty, still suspicious of the artilleryman who seemed to occupy a position of a questionable nature aboard a King’s ship. The Irishman was gazing abstractedly to windward.
‘Now, ’twill be ticklish with this wind increasing but it will likely drop after sunset. Brace the three lower yards and rig preventers on ’em, then rig three-fold purchases as yard and stay tackles over both beds. Get Willerton to open the hatches and oil the capsquares. Top all three yards well up and put two burtons on each and frap the whole lot together. That should serve.’
‘What weights, sir?’
‘Eighty-two hundred weights to come in on the after bed and . . .’
‘Forty-one on the forward . . .’
‘Forrard, Mr Tumilty.’
‘I’m sure I’m begging your pardon, Mr Rogers.’ Rogers hurried away shouting for Matchett and Willerton. ‘Why he’s a touchy one, Mr Drinkwater.’
‘We’re agreed on a number of things, Mr Tumilty, not least that we’d both like to add ‘Captain’ to our name, but I believe there was much bad blood between the artillery and the navy the last time an operation lik
e this took place.’
‘Sure, I’d not be knowing about that sir,’ replied Tumilty, all injured innocence again.
Virago creaked and leaned to starboard as the weight came on the tackles. The sun had already set and in the long twilight the hands laboured on. The black mass of the ten-inch mortar, a little under five feet in length, hung above the lightened hoy.
At the windlass Mr Matchett supervised the men on the bars. Yard and stay tackles had been rigged with their hauling parts wound on in contrary directions so that as the weight was eased on the yard arms it was taken up on the stay tackles. The doubled-up mainstay sagged under the weight and Rogers lowered the mortar as quickly as possible. Mr Willerton’s party with handspikes eased the huge iron gun into its housing and snapped over the capsquares. Virago was upright again, though trimming several inches by the head.
‘Throw off all turns, clear away the foretackles, rig the after tackles!’
It was as Drinkwater had said. The wind had died and the first mortar had come aboard without fuss. Mr Tumilty had left the pure seamanship to the navy and gone to closet himself with his sergeant and Mr Trussel, while they inspected the powder stowage and locked all the shell rooms, powder rooms, fuse rooms and filling rooms that Willerton had lined with the deal boards supplied by Chatham Dockyard.
The tackles suspended from the main and crossjack yards were overhauled and hooked onto the carefully fitted slings round the thirteen-inch mortar. Next the two centreline tackles were hooked on. To cope with the additional weight of the larger mortar Drinkwater had ordered these be rigged from the main and mizzen tops, arguing the mizzen forestay was insufficient for the task.
Again the hauling parts were led forward and the slack taken up. There were some ominous creakings but after half an hour the trunnions settled on the bed and Mr Willerton secured the second set of capsquares. The sliding section of the mortar hatches were pulled over and the tarpaulins battened down. The last of the daylight disappeared from the riot of cloud to the west and the hands, grumbling or chattering according to their inclination, were piped below.
For the first time since the days of disillusion that followed his joining the ship, Nathaniel Drinkwater felt he was again, at least in part, master of his own destiny.
‘Well, Mr Tumilty, perhaps you would itemise the ordnance stores on board.’
‘Sure, and I will. We have two hundred of the thirteen-inch shell carcases, two hundred ten-inch, one hundred and forty round, five-vented carcases for the thirteens, forty oblong carcases for the tens. Five thousand one pound round shot, the same as you have for your swivels . . .’
‘What do you want them for?’ asked Rogers.
‘Well now, Mr Rogers,’ said Tumilty tolerantly lowering his list, ‘if you choke up the chamber of a thirteen inch mortar with a couple of hundred of they little devils, they fall like iron rain on trenches, or open works without casemates, or beaches, or anywhere else you want to clear of an enemy. Now to continue, we have loaded two hundred barrels of powder, an assortment as you know of fine cylinder, restoved and mealed powder. I have three cases of flints, five of fuses, six rolls of worsted quick-match, a quantity of rosin, turpentine, sulphur, antimony, saltpetre, spirits of wine, isinglass and red orpiment for Bengal lights, blue fires and fire balls. To be sure, Mr Rogers, you’re sitting on a mortal large bang.’
‘And you’ve everything you want?’ Tumilty nodded. ‘Are you happy with things, Mr Trussel?’
‘Aye, sir, though I’d like Mr Willerton to make a new powder box. Ours is leaky and if you’re thinking that . . . well, maybe we might fire a mortar or two ourselves, then you’ll need one to carry powder up to the guns.’
‘Mr Trussel’s right, Mr Drinkwater. The slightest leak in a powder box lays a trail from the guns to the filling room in no time at all. If the train fires the explosion’ll be even quicker!’ They laughed at Tumilty’s diabolical humour; the siting of those ugly mortars had intoxicated them all a little.
‘Very well, gentlemen. We’ll look at her for trim in the morning and hope that Martin does not say anything.’
‘Let us hope Captain Martin’ll be looking after his own mortars and not overcharging them so that we haven’t to give up ours,’ said Tumilty, blowing his red nose. He went on:
‘And who had you in mind to be throwing the shells at, Mr Drinkwater?’
‘Well it’s no secret that the Baltic is the likely destination, gentlemen,’ he looked round at their faces, expectant in the gently swinging light from the lamp. From the notebooks he had inherited from old Blackmore, sailing master of the frigate Cyclops he had learned a great deal about the Baltic. Blackmore had commanded a snow engaged in the timber trade. ‘If the Tsar leagues the navies of the north, we’ll have the Danes and Swedes to deal with, as well as the Russians. If he doesn’t, we’ve still the Russians left. They’re based at Revel and Cronstadt; iced up now, but Revel unfreezes in April. As to the Swedes at Carlscrona, I confess I know little of them. Of the Danes at Copenhagen,’ he shrugged, ‘I do not think we want to leave ’em in our rear.’
‘It’s nearly the end of February now,’ said Trussel, ‘if we are to fight the Danes before the Russkies get out of the ice, we shall have to move soon.’
‘Aye, and with that dilatory old bastard Hyde Parker to command us, we may yet be too late,’ added Rogers.
‘Yes, I’m after thinking its the Russkies.’ Tumilty nodded, tugging at the hairs on his cheeks.
‘Well, they say Hyde Parker’s marrying some young doxy, so I still say we’ll be too late.’ Rogers scratched the side of his nose gloomily.
‘They say she’s young enough to be his daughter,’ grinned Trussel.
‘Dirty old devil.’
‘Lucky old sod.’
‘ ’Tis what comes of commanding in the West Indies and taking your admiral’s eighth from the richest station in the service,’ added the hitherto silent Easton.
‘Well well, gentlemen, ’tis of no importance to us whom Admiral Parker marries,’ said Drinkwater, ‘I understand it is likely that Nelson will second him and he will brook no delay.’
‘Perhaps, perhaps, sir, but I’d be willing to lay money on it,’ concluded Rogers standing up, taking his cue from Drinkwater and terminating the meeting.
‘Let us hope we have orders to proceed to the rendezvous at Yarmouth very soon, gentlemen. And now I wish you all a good night.’
Chapter Seven February 1801
Action off the Sunk
Lieutenant Drinkwater hunched himself lower into his boat cloak, shivering from the effects of the low fever that made his head and eyes ache intolerably. The westerly wind had thrown a lowering overcast across the sky and then whipped itself into a gale, driving rain squalls across the track of the squadron as it struggled out of the Thames Estuary into the North Sea.
Their visible horizon was circumscribed by one such squall which hissed across the wave-caps and made Virago lean further to leeward as she leapt forward under its impetus. A roil of water foamed along the lee scuppers, squirting inboard through the closed gunports and Drinkwater could hear the grunts of the helmsmen as they leaned against the cant of the deck and the kicking resistance of the big tiller. A clicking of blocks told where the quartermaster took up the slack on the relieving tackles. Drinkwater shivered again, marvelling at the chill in his spine which was at odds with the burning of his head.
He knew it could be typhus, the ship-fever, brought aboard by the lousy draft of pressed men, but he was fastidious in the matter of bodily cleanliness and had not recently discovered lice or fleas upon his person. He had already endured the symptoms for five days without the appearance of the dreaded ‘eruption’. Lettsom had fussed over him, forcing him to drink infusions of bark without committing himself to a diagnosis. The non-appearance of a sore had led Drinkwater to conclude he might have contracted the marsh-ague from the mists of the Medway. God knew he had exposed himself to chills and exhaustion as he had striven to prepare his ship
, and his cabin stove had been removed with Mrs Jex, prior to the loading of powder.
He thought of the admonition he had received from Martin and the recollection made him search ahead, under the curved foot of the fore-course to where Explosion led the bomb vessels and three tenders to the north eastward. What he saw only served to unsettle him further.
‘Mr Easton!’ he shouted with sudden asperity, ‘do you not see the commodore’s signalling?’ Martin, the epitome of prudence tending to timidity, was reducing sail, brailing up his courses and snugging down to double reefed topsails and a staysail forward. Drinkwater left Easton to similarly reduce Virago’s canvas and repeat the signal to the vessels astern. He fulminated silently to himself, having already decided that Martin was a cross they were all going to have to bear. As senior officer he had been most insistent upon being addressed as ‘commodore’ for the short passage from Sheerness to Yarmouth. Drinkwater found that sort of pedantry a cause for contempt and irritation. He was aware, too, that Martin was not simply a fussy senior officer. It was clear that whatever advancement Drinkwater expected to wring out of his present appointment was going to have to be despite Captain Martin, who seemed to wish to thwart the lieutenant. Drinkwater threw off his gloomy thoughts, the professional melancholy known as ‘the blue devils’, and watched a herring gull glide alongside Virago, riding the turbulent air disturbed by the passage of the ship. With an almost imperceptible closing of its wings it suddenly side-slipped and curved away into the low trough of a wave lifting on Virago’s larboard quarter.
‘Sail reduced sir.’
The Bomb Vessel Page 6