'Mr Rispin, you must clear that raffle away properly before starting the fid or you will lose gear.' He turned to the missionary, 'It is an article of faith to a seaman, Mr Singleton,' he grinned, 'but it is, I agree, both superstitious and preposterous. As for the wind I must disagree, if only to prepare you for what may yet come. It blows hard, but not exceedingly hard. This is what we term a whole gale. It is quite distinct from a storm. The wind-note in the rigging will rise another octave in a storm.'
'Mr Bourne sent below to the cockpit to turn the young gentlemen out to strike the topgallant masts,' Singleton said, the colour creeping back into his cheeks and checking the corpse-like blue of his jaw. 'I had supposed the term to apply to some form of capitulation to the elements.'
Drinkwater smiled and shook his head. 'Not at all. The ship will ride easier from a reduction in her top hamper. It will lower her centre of gravity and reduce windage, thus rendering her both more comfortable and more manageable.' He pointed to leeward. 'Besides we do not want to outrun our charges.' Singleton stared into the murk to starboard and caught the pale glimpse of sails above the harder solidity of wallowing hulls that first showed a dull gleam of copper and then seemed to disappear altogether.
'And this,' Singleton said, feeling better and aware that any distraction, even that of watching the sailors, was better than the eternal preoccupation with his guts, 'is what Rispin is presently engaged upon?'
'Aye, Mr Singleton, that was my intention,' the speaking trumpet came up again. 'Have a care there, sir! Watch the roll of the ship, God damn it!' The trumpet was lowered. 'Saving your cloth, Mr Singleton.'
'I begin to see a certain necessity for strong expressions, sir.'
Drinkwater grinned again. 'A harsh environment engenders a vocabulary to match, Mr Singleton. This ain't a drawing-room at Tunbridge nor, for that matter, rooms at… at, er at whatever college you were at.'
'Jesus.'
'I beg your pardon?'
'Jesus College, Oxford University.' There was a second's pause and both men laughed.
'Ah. I'm afraid I graduated from the cockpit of a man o'war.'
'Not an alma mater to be recommended, sir, if my own experiences…'
'A cesspit, sir,' said Drinkwater with sudden asperity,'but I do assure you that England has been saved by its products more than by all the professors in history…'
'I did not mean to…'
'No matter, no matter.' Drinkwater instantly regretted his intemperance. But the moment had passed and it was not what he had summoned Singleton for. Such levity ill became the captain of a man o'war. 'We were talking of the wind, Mr Singleton, and the noise made by a storm, beside which this present gale is nothing. I believe, Mr Singleton, that the wind in Greenland is commonly at storm force, that the particles of ice carried in it can wound the flesh like buckshot and that a man cannot exist for more than a few minutes in such conditions.'
'Sir, the eskimos manage…'
'Mr Singleton,' Drinkwater hurried on, 'what I am trying to say is that I need your services here. On this ship, God damn it. If the eskimos manage so well without you, Mr Singleton, cannot you leave them in their primitive state of savagery? What benefits can you confer…?'
'Captain Drinkwater! You amaze me! What are you saying? Surely you do not deny the unfortunate natives the benefits of Christianity?'
'There are those who consider your religion to be as superstitious in its tenets as the people's belief that you can raise a gale, Mr Singleton.'
'Only a Jacobin Frenchman, sir! Not a British naval captain!' Singleton's outrage was so fervent that Drinkwater could not resist laughing at him any more than he could resist baiting him.
'Sir, I, I protest…' Drinkwater mastered his amusement.
'Mr Singleton, you may rest easy. The solitude of command compels me to take the occasional advantage… But I am in desperate need of a surgeon. Macpherson has, as you know, been in a straitjacket for three days…'
'The balance of his mind is quite upset, sir, and the delirium tremens will take some time to subside. Peripheral neuritis, the symptom of chronic alcoholic poisoning…'
'I am aware that he is a rum-sodden wreck, devil-take it! That is why I need your knowledge as a physician.'
Melusine's motion eased as Rispin came across the deck and knuckled his hatbrim to report the topgallant masts struck. 'Very well, Mr Rispin. You may pipe the watch below.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
'And send Mr Quilhampton to me.' He dismissed Rispin and turned to Singleton. 'Very well, Mr Singleton. I admire your sense of vocation. It would be an unwarranted abuse of my powers to compel you to do anything.' He paused and fixed Singleton with his grey eyes. 'But I shall expect you to volunteer to stand in for Macpherson until such time as we land you upon the coast of Greenland. Ah, Mr Q, will you attend the quarterdeck with your quadrant and bring up my sextant. Have Frey bring up the chronometer…'
Singleton turned to windward as the captain left him. The wind and sea struck him full in the face and he gasped with the shock.
Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley nodded at the messman. The grubby cloth was drawn from the makeshift table and the messman placed the rosewood box in front of his lordship. Drawing a key from his pocket Lord Walmsley unlocked and lifted the lid. He took out the two glasses from their baize-lined sockets and placed one in front of himself and one in front of Mr Midshipman the Honourable Alexander Glencross whose hands shot out to preserve both glasses from rolling off the table.
'Cognac, Glencross?'
'If you please, my Lord.'
Walmsley filled both glasses to capacity, replaced the decanter and locking the box placed it for safety between his feet. He then took hold of his glass and raised it.
'The fork, Mr Dutfield.'
'Aye, aye, my Lord.' Dutfield picked up the remaining fork that lay on the table for the purpose and stuck it vigorously into the deck beam. The dim lighting of the cockpit struck dully off it and Walmsley and Glencross swigged their brandy.
'Damn fine brandy, Walmsley.'
'Ah,' said his lordship from the ascendancy of his position and his seventeen years, 'the advantages of peace, don't you know.' He frowned and stared at the two midshipmen at the forward end of the table then, catching Dutfield's eye raised his own to the fork above their heads. 'The fork, Mr Dutfield.'
Mr Frey looked hurriedly up from his book and then snapped it shut, hurrying away while Dutfield's face wrinkled with an expression of resentment and pleading. 'But mayn't I…?'
'You know damn well you mayn't. You are a youngster and when the fork is in the deck beam your business is to make yourself scarce. Now turn in!'
Mumbling, Dutfield turned away.
'What did you say?'
'Nothing.'
Walmsley grinned imperiously. 'Dutfield you have forgot your manners. I could have sworn he said "good night", couldn't you, Glencross?'
'Oh, indeed, yes.'
Dutfield began to unlash his hammock. 'Well, Dutfield, where are your manners? You know, just because The Great Democrat has forbidden any thrashing in the cockpit does not prevent me from having your hammock cut down in the middle watch. Now where are your manners?'
'Good night,' muttered Dutfield.
'Speak up damn you!'
'Good night! There, does that satisfy you?'
Walmsley shook his head. 'No, Dutfield,' said his lordship refilling his glass, 'it does not. Now what have I told you, Dutfield, about manners, eh? The hallmark of a gentleman, eh?'
'Good night, my Lord.'
'Ah…' His lordship leaned back with an air of satisfaction. 'You see, Glencross, he isn't such a guttersnipe as his pimples proclaim…'
'Are you bullying again?' Quilhampton entered the cockpit. 'Since when did you take over the mess, Walmsley?'
'Ah, the harmless Mr Q, together with his usual ineffable charm…' Walmsley rocked with his own wit and Glencross sniggered with him.
'Go to the devil, Walmsley. If you take my
advice you'd stop drinking that stuff at sea. Have you seen the state of the surgeon?'
'Macpherson couldn't hold his liquor like a gentleman…'
'God, Walmsley, what rubbish you do talk. Macpherson drinks from idleness or disappointment and has addled his brain. Rum has rotted him as surely as the lues, and the same will happen to you, you've the stamp of idleness about you.'
'How dare you…!'
'Pipe down, Walmsley. You would best address the evening to consulting Hamilton Moore. I am instructed by the captain that he wishes to see your journals together with an essay upon the "Solution of the longitude problem by the Chronometer".'
'Bloody hell!'
'Where's Mr Frey?'
'Crept away to his hammock like a good little child.'
'Good. Be so kind as to tell him to present his journal to the captain tomorrow. Good night.' Quilhampton swung round to return to the deck, bumping into Singleton who entered the cockpit with evident reluctance.
'Cheer up, sir!' he said looking back into the gloom, 'I believe the interior of an igloo to be similar but without some of the inconveniences…' Chuckling to himself Quilhampton ran up the ladder.
'Good evening, gentlemen.' Singleton's remark was made with great forbearance and he moved stealthily as Melusine continued to buck and swoop through the gale.
He managed to seat himself and open the book of sermons, ignoring the curious and hostile silence of Walmsley and Glencross who were already into their third glass of brandy. They began to tell each other exaggerated stories of sexual adventure which, Singleton knew, were intended to discomfit him.
'… and then, my dear Glencross, I took her like an animal. My, there was a bucking and a fucking the like of which would have made you envious. And to think that little witch had looked at me as coy as a virgin not an hour since. What a ride!'
'Ah, I had Susie like that. I told you of Susie, my mother's maid. She taught me all I know, including the French way…' Glencross rolled his eyes in recollection and was only prevented from resuming his reminiscence by Midshipman Wickham calling the first watch. The two half-drunk midshipmen staggered into their tarpaulins.
Singleton sighed with relief. He had long ago learned that to remonstrate with either Walmsley or Glencross only increased their insolence. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. But the vision of Susie's French loving would not go.
Eight bells rang and Walmsley and Glencross staggered out of the cockpit. As he passed Dutfield's hammock, his lordship nudged it with his shoulder.
'Stop that at once, Dutfield,' deplored Walmsley in a matriarchal voice, 'or you will go blind!'
Captain Drinkwater looked from one journal to another. Mr Frey's was a delight. The boy's hand was bold and it was illustrated by tiny sketches of the coastline of east Scotland and the Shetlands. There were some neat drawings of the instruments and weapons used in the whale-fishery and a fine watercolour of Melusine leading the whalers out of the Humber past the Spurn Head lighthouse. The others lacked any kind of redeeming feature. Wickham's did show a little promise from the literary point of view but that of Lord Walmsley was clearly a hurried crib of the master's log. Walmsley disappointed him. After the business of Leek, Drinkwater had thought some appeal had been made to the young man's better feelings. He was clearly intelligent and led Glencross about like a puppy. And now this disturbing story about the pair of them being drunk during the first watch. Drinkwater swore. If only Rispin had done something himself, or called for Drinkwater to witness the matter, but Drinkwater had not gone on deck until midnight, having some paperwork to attend to. One thing was certain and that was that unpunished and drunken midshipmen could quickly destroy discipline. Men under threat of the lash for the least sign of insobriety would not thank their captain for letting two boys get drunk on the pretext of high spirits. And, thought Drinkwater with increasing anger, it would be concluded that Walmsley and Glencross were allowed the liberty because of their social stations.
He was on the point of sending for the pair when he decided that, last night's episode having gone unpunished though not unpublicised, he must make an example as public as the offence. And it was damned chilly aloft in these latitudes, he reflected grimly.
'Mistah Singleton, sah!' The marine sentry announced.
'Come in! Ah, Mr Singleton, please take a seat. What can I do for you?'
'First a message from Mr Bourne, sir, he says to tell you, with his compliments, that he has sighted the Earl Percy about three leagues to leeward but there is still no sign of the Provident.'
'Thank you. I had thought we might have lost contact with more ships during the gale but these whaling fellows are superb seamen. Now, sir. What can I do for you? It was in my mind that you might like to address the men with a short sermon on Sunday. Nothing too prolix, you understand, but something appropriate to our present situation. Well, what d'you say?'
'With pleasure, sir. Er, the other matter which I came about, sir, was the matter of the surgeon.'
'Ahhh…'
'Sir, Macpherson is reduced to a state of anorexy. I do not pretend that there is very much that can be done to save him. Already his groans are disturbing the men and he is given to almost constant ramblings and the occasional ravings of a lunatic'
'You have been to see him?'
Singleton sighed. 'It seems you have carried the day, sir.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'Don't be down-hearted, Mr Singleton. I am sure that you would not wish to spend all your days aboard Melusine in idleness. If my gratitude is any consolation you have it in full measure.'
'Thank you, sir. After you have landed me you will find that the whalers each have a surgeon, should you require one. I shall endeavour to instruct the aptest of my two mates.'
'That is excellent. I shall make the adjustments necessary in the ship's books and transfer the emoluments due to Macpherson…'
'No, sir. I believe he has a daughter living. I shall have no need of money in Greenland and the daughter may as well have the benefit…'
'That's very handsome of you.'
'There is one thing that I would ask, Captain Drinkwater.'
'What is that?'
'That we transfer Macpherson to the hold and that I be permitted to use his cabin.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Of course, Mr Singleton, and I'm obliged to you.'
The gale increased again with nightfall and Drinkwater waited until two bells in the first watch. An advocate of Middleton's three watch system he liked to know who had the deck at any time during the twenty-four hours without the wearisome business of recollecting who had been the officer of the watch on his last visit to the quarterdeck. He wrapped his cloak about him and stepped out onto the berth deck. The marine sentry snapped to attention. Drinkwater ran up the ladder.
Melusine buried her lee rail and water rolled into the waist. The air was damp and cold, the clouds pressed down on the mastheads, obscuring the sky but not the persistent daylight of an Arctic summer. It was past nine in the evening, ship's time, and in these latitudes the sun would not set for some weeks.
Drinkwater made for the lee rail, took a look at the convoy, remarked the position of the Nimrod as sagging off to leeward.
'Mr Rispin, have the midshipmen of the watch make Nimrod's number and order that he closes the commodore.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater took himself across the deck to the weather rail where the vertical side of the ship deflected the approaching wind up and over his head, leaving its turbulence to irritate those less fortunate to leeward. He began to pace ruminatively up and down, feigning concentration upon some obtuse problem while he watched the two midshipmen carry out the simple order. After a little he called the lieutenant of the watch.
'Mr Rispin, I desired you that the midshipmen of the watch hoisted the signal. Send that yeoman forward. How else do you expect the young gentlemen to learn without the occasional advantage of practical experience?'
The wind was strong enough to r
equire a practised hand at the flag halliards.
Expecting a fouled line or even the loss of one end of the halliard Drinkwater was secretly delighted when he observed Number Five flag rise upside down from the deck.
'Mr Rispin!'
'Sir?'
'Have that yeoman called aft and instruct the young gentlemen in the correct manner to hoist numerals.' The exchange was publicly aired for the benefit of the watch on deck. There were a number of grins visible.
When the signal had been hoisted and Nimrod's attention been called to it by the firing of a gun, Drinkwater called the two midshipmen to him.
'Well, gentlemen. What is your explanation of this abysmal ignorance?'
'An error, sir,' said Walmsley. Drinkwater leaned forward.
'I detect, sir,' he said, 'that you have been drinking. What about you, Mr Glencross?'
'Beg pardon, sir.'
'We are not drunk, sir,' added Walmsley.
'Of course not, Mr Walmsley. A gentleman does not get drunk, does he now, eh?'
The midshipmen shook their contrite heads. Experience had taught them that submission would purchase them a quick release.
'The problem is that I am not greatly interested in your qualities as gentlemen. You will find gentlemen forward among the lord mayor's men, you will find gentlemen lolling at Bath or Tunbridge, you will find gentlemen aplenty in the messes of His Majesty's regiments of foot and horse. Those are places proper to gentlemen with no other abilities to support them beyond a capacity for brandy.
'You may, perhaps, also find gentlemen upon the quarterdeck of a British man-o'-war, but they have no right there unless they are first and foremost seamen and secondly officers, capable of setting a good example to their men.
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