He laid his pen down, closed his journal and slipped it into the table drawer.
‘Pass word for Mr Hill!’
He heard the marine sentry’s response passed along and rose, pulling out the decanter and two glasses from the locker where Cawkwell had secured them.
‘Come in,’ he called as Hill knocked and entered the cabin. ‘Ah, take a seat, Mr Hill, I am sure you will not refuse a glass on such a raw morning.’
‘Indeed not, sir . . . thank you.’
Drinkwater sipped the blackstrap and re-seated himself.
‘Mr Hill, we have known each other a long time and now that Germaney is dead I have a vacancy for a lieutenant . . . no, hear me out. I can think of no more deserving officer on this ship. I will give you an acting commission and believe I possess sufficient influence to have it ratified on our return. Now, what d’you say, eh?’
‘That’s considerate of you, sir, but no, I . . .’
‘Damn it, Bourne’s told me that without you he’d have been hard pushed to work the ship through the fog, he’s a good fellow and does you the credit you deserve. With a master’s warrant you’ll never get command and the advancement you should have. Recollect old James Bowen, Earl Howe’s Master of the Fleet, when asked what he would most desire for his services at the First of June, asked for a commission.’
‘Aye, sir, that’s true, but Bowen was made prize agent for the fleet, he’d no need to worry about the loss of pay. I’ve no private income and have a family to support. Besides, Bowen still had the earl’s patronage whilst I, with all due respect to yourself, sir, would likely remain a junior lieutenant for the rest of my service. At least now I receive ninety-one pounds per annum, which even less five guineas for the income tax, is more than a junior lieutenant’s pay. In addition, sir, with my warrant I’m a standing officer and even if the ship is laid up I still receive pay. Thank you all the same, sir.’
Drinkwater refilled Hill’s glass. It was no less than he expected Hill to say and he reflected upon the stupidity of a system which denied men of Hill’s ability proper recognition.
‘Very well then. Whom do you think I should promote? Gorton has his six years almost in and is the senior, Quilhampton is but a few months his junior but holds a certificate from the Trinity House as master’s mate. I am faced with a dilemma in that my natural inclination is to favour Quilhampton because he is known to me. I would welcome your advice.’
Hill sighed and crossed his legs. ‘I have seen neither of them in action, sir, but I would rate both equally.’
‘The decision is invidious, but you incline to neither . . .?’
‘Sir, if I may be frank . . .?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then I should favour Mr Gorton, sir. Mr Quilhampton is both junior and a mite younger, I believe. Your favouring him would seem like patronage and I think that his hand might prove a handicap.’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘Very well, Mr Hill. I do not approve of your pun but your reasoning is sound enough. Be so kind as to have a quiet word with Mr Q, that his disappointment is tempered by the reflection that he has not lost my confidence.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Hill rose.
‘One other thing . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Do not mention the matter of the hand as deciding one way or another. I do not really think it a great disadvantage. It is quite impervious to cold, d’you know.’
Singleton looked with distaste at what had once been the person of Mr Macpherson the surgeon. He lay stupefied under ten grains of laudanum, his face grey, the cheeks cadaverous and pallid with a sheen of sweat that gleamed like condensation on a lead pipe under the lantern light.
He could almost feel Skeete grinning in the shadows next to him. Singleton thought a very un-Christian thought, and was mortified by the ferocity of it. Why, why did Macpherson not die? Rum had long since destroyed his brain and now deprivation of it had turned him into a thrashing maniac. Yet his punished organs refused to capitulate to the inevitable, and he came out of his stupor to roll and rave in his own stink until Skeete cleaned him up and Singleton sedated him once more.
Singleton forbore to hate what Drinkwater had trapped him into accepting. He saw it as a God-given challenge that he must overcome his revolted instincts. This was a testing for the future and the squalor of life among the eskimos. He tried to thank God for the opportunity to harden himself for his coming ordeal. Attending Macpherson was as logical a piece of divine intervention as was the discovery of Meetuck, and Singleton knew he had been right, that men’s cleverness did indeed obscure the obvious. Was it not crystal clear that God himself had intervened in thus providing him with means of preparing himself for the future?
There was also the matter of Drinkwater’s survival in the gig. It appalled Singleton that the matter was taken so lightly on board. It struck Singleton as a kind of blasphemy. He was not used to the thousand tricks that fate may play a seaman in the course of a few days. He could not lie down and forget how close he had been to death a few hours ago, and worse, he could not forget how the ship had missed the steadying presence of her commander. There had been no doubt as to Hill’s competence, indeed it was enhanced by the lower deck opinions he had heard about the other officers, but Hill had been alone and his isolation emphasised the loss of Drinkwater.
From the rough, untutored tarpaulin of first impression, Singleton had come to like the sea-officer with the cock-headed figure and the lined face. The mane of brown hair pulled impatiently behind his head in a black-ribboned queue told of a still youthful man, a man in his prime, a man of implicit reliability. Singleton began to lose his unfortunate prejudice against the profession of arms, though his own principles remained admirably steadfast. They might appear impractical to the world of sophistry, the world in which Drinkwater was enmeshed, but Singleton was bound upon a mission inspired by the Son of God. Among the primitive peoples of the earth he would prove a theory practical, a theory more shattering in its simplicity than the prolix vapourings of the Revolutionary pedagogues that had apostrophised the French Revolution. He would prove practical the Gospel of Christ.
But although he was motivated by the spirit, Singleton was unable to ignore reality, and he had become aware that without Drinkwater he would be unlikely to find the kind of co-operation he required to land upon the coast of Greenland. He began to be obsessed with the preservation of Drinkwater’s health, particularly since the ordeal in the open boat, after which the captain had become thin and drawn. Looking down on the inert body of the ci-devant surgeon he decided there were more pressing things for him to attend to.
‘Try and get some portable soup into him,’ he said dismissively to Skeete, and turned in search of the companionway and the freezing freshness of the upper deck.
And there Singleton found further evidence of the beneficence of the Almighty in the person of Meetuck engaged, with two seamen as his assistants to supplement his broken arm, in completing the preparations of the bear and seal skins. Meetuck’s conversation had enabled Singleton to turn the theoretical knowledge he had acquired at Copenhagen into a practical instrument and already Meetuck had submitted himself to baptism.
But in his eagerness to converse colloquially, to perfect his knowledge of the eskimo tongue and to test his ability to spread the gospel of Christ, Singleton had paid little attention to those things he might have learned from the eskimo. Beyond the knowledge that Meetuck had lost touch with his companions in a fog, fallen and injured himself, losing his kayak in the process, Singleton learned only that he came from a place called Nagtoralik, and called his people the Ikermiut, the people of the Strait. Some prompting from a more curious, though preoccupied Drinkwater, elicited the information that this ‘strait’ was far to the westward, and thus, by deduction, on the coast of Greenland. In his heart Singleton believed that it was where he would establish his mission on behalf of the Church Missionary Society. Eager to convert Meetuck it never occurred to Singleton that a male of Meetuck�
��s maturity ought to have survived better on the ice, and the eskimo’s lack of intelligence never prompted him to volunteer information he was not specifically asked for. All Meetuck knew was that Singleton was a gavdlunaq, a white man, and that he seemed to be a good one. In his simple mind Meetuck strove to please the men that had rescued him and fed him so well.
Seeing Singleton, Meetuck looked up and smiled, his thin lips puckering the wind-burned cheeks and his mongol eyes became dark slits. He said something and indicated the skins, particularly that of the polar bear, which he gently smoothed.
‘It was a great bear,’ Singleton translated for the puzzled seamen, ‘and he who killed it was a mighty hunter . . .’ The two men seemed to think this a quaint turn of phrase and giggled, having been much amused by Meetuck’s antics and incomprehension at their inability to speak as did Singleton. Singleton was affronted by their attitude, his almost humourless disposition unable to see the amusement caused by the eskimo. ‘Like Nimrod . . .’ His voice trailed away and he turned aft to see the captain coming on deck, his boat cloak over the greygoe in the intense cold. It struck him that Drinkwater would benefit himself from warmer clothing and he turned below again in search of Mount.
The marine lieutenant was dicing with Rispin when he entered the gunroom.
‘Ho, there, Singleton, d’you come to taste the delights of damnation then?’ Mount grinned at the sober missionary whose disapproval extended to almost all the leisure activities of both officers and midshipmen, especially, as was now the case, it was accompanied by the drinking of alcohol. Singleton swallowed his disapproval and gave one of his rare, dry smiles.
‘Ah, Mount, I wish you to prove that you deceive my eyes and are not yet sunk to a depravity that is beyond redemption.’
Mount rolled his eyes at Rispin, ‘Lo, Rispin, I do believe I am being granted a little Christian forbearance. What is it you want?’
‘Your polar bear’s hide.’
‘Egad,’ Mount smote his breast in mock horror, ‘you press me sore, good sir. Why?’
‘I wish to have it for a good cause.’
‘Ah-ha! Now it becomes clear, Mr Singleton, you wish to deprive me of the spoils of my skill so that I shall freeze and you will be warm as an ember, eh?’
‘You misunderstand . . .’
Mount held up his hand, ‘Are you aware what trouble I went to to stop that whelp Quilhampton from claiming the damned animal was his. He had the nerve to claim that without his winging the brute I should not have struck him. There! What d’you think of that, eh?’
‘I think it most likely, certainly he did very well to hit a target with his wooden hand.’
‘Oh, I do not think you need worry about Mr Q’s abilities. He does not seem in any way handicapped. No, Mr Singleton, you want the bear’s pelt and so do I. Now what do you suggest we do with it, Rispin? How would you, old Solomon, decide between the two of us, eh?’ Mount’s eyes fell significantly upon the dice.
‘But, Mount, it is not for myself that I wish to have the skin, I have already purchased several of the seal-skins.’
‘What is it for then? Not that damned eskimo friend of yours?’
‘No. For the Captain, I fear he may have taken a chill and you know that in this weather a chill may become bronchitic or worse, induce a pulmonary inflammation.’
‘Why this is Christian charity . . . come, Singleton, let us ask Rispin to resolve the matter.’
‘Very well,’ said Singleton, refusing to rise to Mount’s bait. ‘Mr Rispin?’
‘Let the dice decide,’ Rispin said, incurring a furious glare from Singleton.
‘That is dishonourable, Mr Rispin, you know I do not approve . . .’
‘But it would be amusing, Singleton, come, let us see whether the Almighty will influence the dice . . .’
‘That’s blasphemy, Mr Mount! I do not mind you having your joke at my expense but I will not tolerate this.’ Singleton turned on his heel indignantly and smashed his forehead against a deck-beam. ‘God-damn!’ he swore, leaving the gunroom to the peals of laughter from the two officers.
Drinkwater lowered his glass and addressed Bourne. ‘Heave-to under his stern, Mr Bourne.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Raising the telescope again Drinkwater stared at Narwhal. It was the third time that forenoon she had lowered her boats after whales and the third time she had recovered them as the beasts eluded the hunt and swam steadily north-west. For two days the Narwhal, Faithful, Diana, Earl Percy and Provident and Truelove had worked their way north-west with Melusine accompanying them. Only Captain Renaudson of the Diana had hit a whale using his brass harpoon gun, and that had turned out to be a razorback.
As Melusine came up under Narwhal’s lee, Drinkwater hoisted himself onto the rail, holding onto the mizen rigging.
‘Narwhal, ahoy!’ He saw Jaybez Harvey’s pock-marked features similarly elevate themselves and he waved in a friendly fashion. ‘No success, Captain?’
Harvey shook his head. ‘No, there be sommat curious about the fish,’ he shouted. ‘ ’Tis unusual for them to swim north-west in such schools. Happen they know sommat, right whales is slow, but these devils aren’t wanting to fill the lamps of London Town, Captain, that I do know.’
Drinkwater jumped down on deck as Narwhal’s hands squared her yards and she moved forward again, bumping aside an ice floe upon which a seal looked up at her in sudden surprise.
‘If I hit him, may we lower, sir?’ asked Walmsley, eagerly lifting a musket. Drinkwater looked at the seal as it rolled over.
‘It’s hardly sport, Mr Walmsley, ah . . . too late . . .’ Drinkwater was saved the trouble of a decision as the seal, worried by the shadow of the Narwhal that passed over it, sought the familiarity of the sea.
Drinkwater saw the grin of pleasure that it had escaped cross Mr Frey’s face as he sorted the signalling flags with the yeoman. ‘Bad luck, Mr Walmsley, perhaps another time.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Walmsley grimaced at Frey who grinned back triumphantly. ‘God knows what you’ll do when you meet a Frenchman, Frey, ask him to sit for his bloody portrait I shouldn’t wonder . . .’
Drinkwater heard the jibe, but affected to ignore it. Walmsley’s concern was unnecessary, the likelihood of their meeting a Frenchman so remote a possibility that Drinkwater considered Mr Frey’s talents with pencil and watercolour box the only profitable part of the voyage.
They braced the yards round and Melusine reached east, across the sterns of the Narwhal, the Diana and the Faithful, tacking at noon in a sea that was scattered with loose floes. Only a dozen ice bergs were visible from the deck and the light north-easterly breeze had reestablished clear weather. It was still bitterly cold, but the wind was strong enough to keep the surface of the sea moving, otherwise Drinkwater suspected it might freeze over. Although this would be unseasonable it was a constant worry for him as he inspected the readings of the thermometer in the log book.
Another problem he had faced was that of employment in the ship. During the days since the abatement of the gale there had been less danger from the ice, and they had worked slowly north in the wake of the whalers under easy sail. The diversions they had used on the passage north from the Humber had been re-started, although the weather was too cold for fencing, making the foil blades brittle. But the cutter had been lowered to pursue seals, for Drinkwater wanted all hands to be better clad than Palgrave’s slops would allow, and hunting had ceased to be the prerogative of the officers. Marines and topmen trained in the use of small arms under Lieutenant Mount’s direction, made up the shooting parties and it was certain that Melusine was the best fed warship in the Royal Navy. This fresh meat was most welcome and thought to be an excellent anti-scorbutic.
Drinkwater devised what amusements he could, even to the extent of purchasing some of the baleen from the whalers, in order that the seamen might attempt to decorate it in the same manner as the men in the whale-ships. As he looked along the waist where Meetuck supervised the cleaning of a fre
sh batch of seal skins and the gunner checked the flints in the gun-locks, he felt that the ship’s services were somewhat wasted. They still went to quarters twice a day and exercised the guns with powder every third day; the unaccustomed presence of a marine sentry at his door and the pendant of a ‘private’ ship of war at the mainmasthead were constant reminders that Melusine was a King’s ship, a man-of-war.
But Drinkwater was aware of a feeling seeping through the ship that she had undergone some curious enchantment, that, for all the hazards they had and would encounter, these were natural phenomena. He could not throw off the growing feeling that they were on some elaborate, dangerous but nevertheless curiously pleasurable yachting excursion. Preoccupied with this consideration he was surprised at the little party of officers that suddenly confronted him.
‘Beg pardon, sir.’
‘Yes, Mr Mount, what is the matter?’ It seemed like some deputation and for a moment his heart missed a beat in alarm, for his thoughts had run from yachting to naval expeditions like Cook’s and, inevitably, Bligh’s. He looked at the officers. With Mount were Rispin and Hill, Gorton, Quilhampton.
Walmsley, Glencross, Dutfield and Wickham with an angry Obadiah Singleton apparently bringing up the rear with some reluctance. They seemed to be carrying a bundle.
‘We thought, sir, that you might consider accepting a gift from us all . . .’
‘A gift, Mr Mount . . .?’
‘Something to keep you warm, sir, as Mr Hill informs me we crossed the seventy-second parallel at noon.’
They offered him the magnificent pelt of the polar bear.
Greatly daring Mount said, ‘The Thirty-sixth Article of War is of little use in a boat sir.’ It was an impropriety, but an impropriety made in the spirit of the moment, in tune with the bitingly cold, clean air and the sunshine breaking through the clouds. It was all thoroughly unreal for the quarterdeck of a sloop of war.
The Corvette Page 15