‘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 arm pits 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 10–11 March 1801
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 débâcle 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 supercession 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 regic
ide 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 . . .’ Tumily’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 messman 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 . . .’
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