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 Drinkwater?’ 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 19–23 March 1801
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.’
The Bomb Vessel Page 13