'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".'
'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 surge
d 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.'
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