Despite the vague recollections of a successful evening Drinkwater woke to the disturbing sensation that all was not well. He had a headache due to the quite unaccustomed quantity of wine he had consumed but it was more than that. He groped in his mind for some memory that would give him a clue to his disquiet. At first he thought he had committed some impropriety. His stomach contracted at the thought of an indiscretion in front of the admiral. But the approach of a figure traversing the darkened orlop brought the memory back.
It was Morris coming to call him at one bell to stand the morning anchor watch. Morris's face was lit demoniacally by the lantern. The rest of his body was invisible in the blackness of the cockpit. This apparition finding Drinkwater awake was a very mask of malice which spat out a torrent of invective in a sibilant whisper. Nathaniel was transfixed with horror, a feeling made worse by his prone position. Jealousy and hate burned within Morris, contesting with the fear of Drinkwater's knowledge of himself. The resulting conflict of powerful emotion burned within him in a terrible, bullying anger.
'Come on admiral's lickspittle, get out of your hammock and convey your greasy arse on deck, damn you for a crawling get!'
Drinkwater made no reply, vulnerably shrinking within his blanket. For a second Morris's face hung over him, the malevolence in his eyes an almost physical force. In a sudden, swift movement Morris had a knife out, the lantern catching the dull glint of its blade. It was a micro second of suspense wherein Drinkwater suddenly, inexplicably, found himself drained of all fear. He simply tensed and awaited the inevitable…
Morris slashed with the knife. The hammock lashing parted and with a jarring crash Drinkwater landed on the deck. Fighting out of his blanket he found himself alone in the creaking darkness.
On deck a squall of rain skittered across Spithead and the wind behind it was cutting. Drinkwater shivered and drew his cloak closer around him. Dawn was not yet visible and Morris's figure was barely discernible, huddled in the paltry shelter of the mizen rigging.
The figure detached itself and approached Drinkwater. Morris's face, dark now, came close. The older midshipman gripped the arm of the younger. Spittle flecked offensively on to Drinkwater's cheek.
'Now listen,' hissed Morris, 'just because you are a crawling little bastard don't get any God-damned ideas about anything. Threddle hasn't forgotten his flogging and neither of us have forgotten Humphries. So don't forget what I'm saying. I mean it.' Morris's vehemence was irresistible. Drinkwater shrunk from the voice, from the spittle and the vicious grip upon his arm. Morris's knee came up into his groin. He gasped with pain. 'D'ye understand, God-damn you?' queried Morris, an undetected doubt in his voice.
'Y… yes,' whispered Drinkwater doubling with agony and nausea, his head swimming. Another figure loomed out of the rainswept darkness. For a terrifying moment Drinkwater thought it was Threddle but the voice of Tregembo asked, 'Everything air right, Mr Drinkwater?' He felt Morris freeze then relax as he straightened up. Tears flowed down his cheeks but he managed to steady his nerve enough to mutter, 'Yes thank you.'
In a clipped tone Morris handed over the watch. 'The lieutenants are excused watches tonight. Call all hands at three bells.' A quartermaster approached, the half-hour glass in his hand. The lower half was almost full.
'Eight bells, Mr Morris.'
'Make it so then.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Four o'clock in the morning.
When Morris had gone below Drinkwater went to the weather side. The rain stung and wet his face. He felt it with relief. The pain in his groin eased and his head felt less thick. Then a wave of nausea swept over him. The pain, the wine and the self-disgust caused him to vomit into the inky, hissing waters of Spithead. After that he felt better. He still stared to windward, his hands gripping the rail. His self-disgust rankled. Why had he not hit Morris back? Just once. He had to face the fact that he was scared, forgetful of the bold resolutions he had formulated and continually put off, pending a more propitious opportunity. He had one now. Morris had assaulted him. Hitherto he had lain low in the hope that by effacing himself Morris would leave him alone. But Morris could not do that…
The thing that he knew about Morris he devoutly wished he did not know. It was so disgusting that the very image of it, so vivid in his impressionable mind, was abominable to him.
Drinkwater was terrified of what he had seen almost more than of those who had been doing it. In that terror was submerged the realisation of the power he had over Morris. In Morris's aggression all Drinkwater saw was brutality. He failed to perceive the brutality masked fear. He saw nothing of the source, only the source's manifestation.
He was suddenly aware of someone alongside of him.
'H-h'm.' A voice coughed apologetically.
Drinkwater nervously began to move away. 'Beg pardon, zur…'
'Yes?'
'I saw what 'appened, zur. I saw 'im 'it 'ee… if you'm be wantin' a witness, zur.'
'No, Tregembo, thank you,' Drinkwater paused. He remembered that conversation with Tregembo in the Mediterranean. A brief memory of Humphries flashed in his brain, of Sharples and Threddle, and of the flogging Tregembo had received. Drinkwater looked hard at Tregembo… the seaman expected Drinkwater to thrash Morris, Tregembo would otherwise see Drinkwater as a coward…
Drinkwater suddenly recalled the moment when fear had left him not an hour earlier. A bold feeling swept over him. He could no longer suffer Morris's tyranny and determined to challenge his senior. It was a desperate throw but in such circumstances resolves are easily made, though less easily carried out. He forced a grim note into his voice. 'No Tregembo, this is a cockpit matter, as you said. I'll thank you to hold your tongue…'
The man backed away disappointed. He had mistimed his assistance to the young gentleman. Having conceived a respect for the midshipman, Tregembo had assumed that he sought a legitimate means to encompass the destruction of Morris. Tregembo remembered the Twenty-Ninth Article of War, if ever one man held the other in the palm of his hand Drinkwater held sway over Morris. Tregembo was puzzled. He had 'taken' to the youth and could not understand why some attack had not been made on Morris as he had seen many of the youngsters carry out from time to time on various ships. Tregembo was too blunt to be aware of Drinkwater's sensibilities just as Drinkwater was unaware that Morris's bullying concealed a pusillanimous soul, a fact that was very plain to Tregembo.
In the first glimmer of dawn Drinkwater saw the topman's crestfallen retreat.
'Tregembo!'
'Zur?' The man hesitated.
'Quietly have a word with one of the carpenter's mates to get two ash single sticks made up. Each thirty inches long, d'you understand?'
'Aye zur. And thank'ee.'
Drinkwater had not the slightest idea why Tregembo had thanked him but suddenly the rain fell sweet upon his upturned face.
The news of Cyclops's prize and the promise of allowing visitors on board made her the happiest vessel in the anchorage. Before the morning watch was over the hands, uncommonly cheerful, had swabbed her decks and flaked and coiled all the ropes. When Devaux appeared the brasswork already gleamed in a watery sunshine that promised a fair day after the dawn's wet beginning.
The men were already staring across the leaden water to Fort Gilkicker and Portsmouth Harbour. For days past hired punts and galleys had brought out women and children. Many were full of whores but there had been some with wives of both the churched and common law variety. They had made a forlorn sight, lying just clear of the ship's sides, exchanging unhappy waves or little snatches of conversation with the sailors until the bosun's mates or the officers had driven the men back to their work. The boats too were driven off either by the abuse of the ship's officers and marine sentries, or by the efforts of the guard-boats provided by the units of fleet themselves. This was an especial joy to the seamen who manned them for, if you are denied the pursuit of pleasure yourself there is a certain gratification in denying it to others.
; Although Cyclops had commissioned at Chatham some of her company, volunteers mainly, had wives in the Portsmouth area. Occasionally a young wife would travel, at God knows what cost and on the chance that leave would be given to meet her man. But it was the other variety of female that most interested Cyclops's hands that pale morning. Today no guard-boat could interrupt them as they took their pleasure, a fact that was doubly appreciated by the messes as they broke their fast to the news that Meteor was rowing guard. It was a sweet revenge for their consort's debauch at Port Mahon.
In the gunroom Lieutenant Devaux presided over fresh coffee and toast in evident good humour. 'Well Appleby,' he said addressing the chubby surgeon, 'Why are you looking so damned glum?'
'The reason for my glumness is occasioned by my contemplation of the follies of mankind, Mr Devaux. Ah, yes, a cup of coffee would be most welcome, I thank you for your courtesy.' He sat in the chair indicated by the first lieutenant.
Devaux poured. 'The women, Mr Appleby?' enquired Devaux with a smile.
'The women, Mr Devaux,' replied the surgeon resignedly. 'And, of course — the men.'
Devaux laughed outright. 'Poor Appleby, we win or lose in action but you can never win, poor devil.'
'But you've plenty of mercury, I don't doubt, to cope with the inevitable problems?' interjected Lieutenant Price with a sense of nicety in which his sensibility fought a losing action with his curiosity.
Appleby drew a deep breath and Devaux knew he was about to deliver a lengthy peroration, for which he was notorious.
'Mr Price, the provision of mercury by My Lords Commissioners for the execution of the office of Lord High Admiral, I say the provision of mercury to ships of war is insufficient to combat the outbreak of a chronic dose of syphilis in all but the smallest vessels, since their Lordships have failed to take cognisance of the fact that vessels of the various rates have an increasing number in their complement in inverse proportion to the number of their rating.
'Now — by syphilis I mean that corrupting infection of the blood known colloquially as 'pox' (which euphemism scarcely moderates its effect upon the human body, but only serves to render its acquisition a little easier to the witless sailor who foolishly considers it no worse than the common cold, having been misapprehended by the employment of the common vernacular). Unfortunately he continues in this mind until, with unsteady tread and wandering mind, disfigured beyond his fellow's toleration, he is led raving to an asylum, to the inevitable shame of his family and the everlasting damnation of his immortal soul.' Devaux had heard it before.
'Furthermore,' Appleby continued as Devaux groaned. 'Furthermore, the administration of mercury, in my opinion, only serves to suppress the symptoms rendering the individual's life more agreeable, but enabling him to pass the contagion on to other partners undetected. In time, however, the bacilli attack essential organs and precipitate death by a stroke or other cessations of essential bodily functions.'
'Don't you consider the expression of lust an "essential bodily function"?' asked Devaux, winking at Price. The latter was exhibiting a distinct pallor.
'The Honourable John Devaux asks me a question to which a man of his erudition surely knows the answer.'
'The expression of lust is a natural manifestation of procreational urges which holy ordinances proclaim sanctified under the matrimonial coverlet. Nature did not intend its indiscriminate proliferation…'
'But it is, Bones,' interrupted Price again, rallying now the discussion was of a less medical nature.
'Aye, Mr Price, and so is the proliferation of the disease so lately under discussion. Surely a punishment from God.'
'Pah!' exploded Devaux at last exasperated by the doctor.
'Not "Pah!", sirrah,' droned on Appleby, undeterred. 'Consider the evidence. The appearance of Christ on this earth was followed by an expansion of the church under the divine felicity and a thousand years in which the Christian religion gained ground against paganism. Only when the Church of Rome reached a state of corruption offensive to God did the devil descend to tempt men's hearts with temporal arts, and produce what educated people are pleased to call the "renaissance". Off men went in search of "knowledge". And what did Columbus bring back from his fabulous Americas? Syphilis!'
'Bravo medico.' laughed Devaux sardonically. 'Such a simple deduction scarcely becomes a man of science whose profession descends from such self-same intellectual quest; who would be an indigent fellow without it and whose mind has such a high regard for its own opinions.'
'I cannot escape my time,' replied the good surgeon whose tragic tones were not ennobled by his pudgy frame.
'You sound like a God-damned Wesleyan, Appleby.'
'Maybe I have some sympathy with the man.'
'Hah! Then I'm damned if ye'll get any more coffee at my table. Yes, Drinkwater?' This last was addressed to the midshipman who had appeared at the gunroom door.
'Beg pardon, sir, but boats approaching.' The gleam in Devaux's eye was an eloquent endorsement of the accuracy of Appleby's forebodings.
'Thank you, Drinkwater.' The midshipman turned away. 'Oh, Drinkwater!'
'Sir?'
'Sit down, cully, and listen to some good advice,' said the first lieutenant indicating a vacant chair. Drinkwater sat and looked at the two lieutenants with a bewildered expression on his face. 'Mr Appleby has something to say to you, haven't you Appleby?'
Appleby nodded, marshalled his facts and began cannonading the midshipman.
'Now young man, the first lieutenant is alluding to a contagion which is best and successfully avoided by total abstinence…'
For a second Devaux watched the look of horror cross Drinkwater's face, then, clapping the tricorne on his head and waving Price out behind him, the two lieutenants quit the gunroom.
'… total… abstinence to which end I do earnestly implore you to bend and address your best endeavours…'
The arrival of the women brought all hands on deck. Men craned over the hammock nettings, leaned from gunports and ascended the lower rigging to leer at the wherries bobbing alongside.
The hands gave no thought to the fact that what was to follow was no substitute for proper shore leave, something they could not have for fear they might desert. The immediate preoccupation was a debauch.
Women and gin were aboard.
Whilst Wheeler and his marines made a token effort to maintain order the usage of the service permitted all classes of women to board and all offences of drunkenness and fornication to be ignored. It was inevitable therefore that the greater part of the women were whores and that the mess-deck deteriorated instantly into an inferno of desperate debauchery. The women were of various ages: tired, painted and blowsy doxies in worn and soiled dresses whose vernacular was as explicit as 'Jolly Jacks', and younger molls, their youth blown on the winds of experience, their eyes dull with the desperate business of survival.
Some few were bona fide wives. The older among them used to their sisters in trade, the two or three younger astonished and shocked at the dim squalor of the gun-deck. Where, perhaps, a poor counting-house clerk had been pressed into the service his wife, possessing some slender claim to gentility, found her husband living in the vilest conditions. Such women instantly became a butt for the others to vent their coarse wit upon, which was a double tragedy since their husbands had probably just managed to live down their genteel origins. Legitimate wives were quickly recognised by their demeanour at the entry port, for they waved chits and passes at the marine sentries.
These genuine spouses looked earnestly for their husbands and avoided the leering and grasping propositions of others. For several such wives their journey ended in battle royal. Not expecting their spouses, men were engaged in coupling with whores. One enormous creature, the churched wife of a yeoman of sheets, found her man thus occupied between two twelve pounders. She belaboured his heaving buttocks with the tattered remnants of a parasol. A stream of filthy invective poured from her and she was quickly surrounded by a mass of
cheering seamen and harlots who egged the trio on. The wife ceased her beating and took a long pull at a gin bottle someone held out to her. In the interval her husband finished his business and, to a cheer, the girl wriggled out from beneath him, hastily covering herself. She held out her hand for money but changed her mind when she saw the expression in the wife's eyes. She dodged under the barrel of the adjacent cannon as the offended lady screeched at her, 'Try and take the money that's mine ye painted trollop, why, ye don't know y're business well enough to axe fur it fust!'
At this remark the yeoman caught his wife's arm and slapped her across the mouth with 'And how in hell's name ud youm be knowin' that, my Polly?'
The crowd melted away for this was now a domestic matter and not the common property of the gun-deck.
All day the ebb and flow of liaisons took place. What little money the men had soon found its way into the pockets of the women. Mr Copping, the purser, in the manner of his race, set up a desk at which the eager men could sign a docket relinquishing a portion of their pay or prize money for an advance of cash. Many thus exceeded the dictates of prudence, the favours of a woman being a most urgent requirement. Thus were pursers a hated breed, though rarely a poor one.
Meteor rowed a dismal guard around Cyclops. Occasionally a bottle or a woman's drawers would be thrown out of an open gun-port to an accompaniment of cheers and shrieks. The cutter's crew visibly smouldered and at one point she ran in and hailed the quarterdeck. The master's mate in charge of the boat was livid.
'Sir,' he yelled at Lieutenant Keene. 'Yer men show no respect. There are three of them baring their arses at me from yer gun-ports…'
Appleby joined the chuckling lieutenant who disdained to reply.
'Sure you did not bare yours at Mahon, mister?' enquired the surgeon.
There was no reply. 'That found its mark, eh lieutenant?' said Appleby as the man looked sulkily away.
'If the ship offends ye, sirrah, row guard round the rest of the fleet. Ye'll get little pickings from this lot!'
An Eye of the Fleet nd-1 Page 7