The Bomb Vessel

by Richard Woodman

  ‘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-Chiefs 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 an
d 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.’