Drinkwater glanced aloft to where Tregembo as captain of the maintop touched his forehead and a man named Kellet acknowledged his section alert in the foretop. He uncovered to Griffiths. ‘Main battery made ready, sir. I’ll check below.’
‘Very good.’
It was only a formality. Below her upper deck Hellebore’s accommodation, stores and hold consisted of ‘platforms’ set at various levels according to the breadth of the hull available at each given point. Her berth space, above the main hold, was no more than five feet deep. In the gloom of the hammock space he found the carpenter with his two mates, their tools and a bag of shot plugs. ‘All correct Mr Johnson?’ The man grinned. His creased features and his Liverpool accent reminded Drinkwater of Kestrel and the same Johnson hacking the anchor warp as they beat off the French coast one desperate night two years earlier. ‘All correct, Mr Drinkwater.’
He passed on, descending a further ladder to where, whistling quietly to himself Mr Appleby presided over his opened case of gruesome instruments, the lantern light gleaming dully on his crowbills, saws, daviers and demi-lunes. His two mates sat on the upturned tubs provided for the amputated limbs honing surgical knives. A casual air prevailed that annoyed Drinkwater when compared to the deck above. He raised an eyebrow at Appleby who nodded curtly back conveying all his professional hostility to the rival profession of arms that made his presence in the septic stink of the hold necessary. Drinkwater proceeded aft, beneath the officers’ quarters where, in less than four feet of headroom, lay the magazine. Trussel’s face peered at him through the slit in the felt curtain.
‘Ready Mr Trussel?’
‘Aye, sir, ready when you are.’ His ugly face was illuminated by fiercely gleaming yellow eyes that caught the light from the protected lanterns and Drinkwater was reminded of a remark of Appleby’s when he was dissecting the physiognomy of his messmates. ‘Yon’s arse spends so much time six inches from powdered eternity that it’s bound to have an effect on the features.’ The gunner’s bizarre head, disembodied by the felt, was reflected in the awesome apprehension of the quartet of powder monkeys, boys of eight or nine who crouched ready to bear the cartridges, hot-potato like, to the guns above.
Drinkwater returned to the hammock space, passing the cook and his assistant in the galley standing amid the steam generated by the extinguishing of the fire and the purser at his post by the washdeck pump. He blinked at the brightness of the daylight after the gloom of the brig’s nether regions.
‘Ship cleared for action, sir,’ he reported.
‘Very well. Mr Rogers, larboard broadside, run in and load. Three rounds rapid fire, single ball.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater watched Rogers draw his sword with a flourish, watched little Quilhampton run to the after grating and call for powder. In a small ship on such a long passage Griffiths refused to keep his guns loaded, considering the morning discharge practised on so many ships to rid the guns of damp powder as a quite unnecessary extravagance. The two powder monkeys serving the larboard battery emerged to scamper across to the nine six-pounders trundled inboard. The charges, wads and balls were rammed home and the gun captains inserted their priming quills as Rogers barked out the ordered steps. ‘Cock your locks!’ The crews moved back from the guns as the captains stretched their lanyards. Each raised his free hand.
‘Larboard battery made ready, sir!’ reported Rogers.
‘You may open fire,’ ordered Griffiths.
‘Fire!’
The rolling roar that erupted in a line of flame and smoke along the brig’s side was matched inboard by the recoil of the squealing trucks. Daily practice had made of the broadside a thing of near unanimity.
‘Fire as you will!’
For the next two minutes the larbowlines, watched critically by the idlers on the starboard side, sponged and rammed and hauled up their pieces in a frenzy of activity.
‘Numbers two and eight are good, sir,’ shouted Drinkwater above the din.
‘Let’s wait until we are becalmed and try them at a target Mr Drinkwater, then I’ll be looking for accuracy not speed.’
Number eight gun was already secured, its crew kneeling smartly rigid but for the panting of their bare torsos.
There was a scream from forward. In their haste not to be last, Number Four gun had been fired too early. The recoiling truck had run over the foot of the after train tackle man. He lay whimpering on the deck, blood running from his bitten tongue, his right foot a bloody mess. Drinkwater ran forward.
‘Mr Q, warn the surgeon to make ready, you there, Stokeley, bear a hand there.’ They dragged the injured man clear of the gun and Drinkwater whipped his headband off, twisting it swiftly round his ankle. He had fainted by the time the stretcher bearers came up.
‘Secure all guns! Secure there!’ Rogers was bawling, turning the men back to their task. As Drinkwater saw the casualty carried below, the guns were fully elevated and run up with their muzzles hard against the port lintels. The lids were shut and the breechings passed.
‘Both batteries secured, sir,’ reported Rogers, ‘bloody fool had his damned foot in the way . . .’
‘That will do, Mr Rogers,’ snapped Griffiths, colour mounting to his cheeks and his bushy white eyebrows coming together in imperious menace across the bridge of his big nose.
‘Secure from general quarters, Mr Drinkwater.’ The commander turned angrily below and Rogers looked ruefully at Drinkwater for consolation.
‘Stupid old bastard,’ he said.
Drinkwater regarded the young lieutenant and for the first time realised he did not like him. ‘Carry on Mr Rogers,’ he said coldly, ‘I have the deck.’ Drinkwater walked forward and Rogers turned aft to where Midshipman Dalziell was gathering up his signal book and slate. ‘I have the deck,’ mimicked Rogers and found Dalziell smiling conspiratorially at him.
The sun went down in a blaze of glory. As it set Drinkwater had the deck watch check the two boats that hung in the new-fangled davits on either quarter in case they were needed during the night. They also checked the lashings on the four long pine trunks that were secured outboard between the channels, as there was no stowage elsewhere. Briefly he recalled the depression he had suffered earlier and found its weight had lightened. He tried to divine the source of the relief. Guiltily he concluded that the injured man and Rogers’ lack of compassion had awoken him to his duty. He recalled the words of Earl St Vincent: ‘A married officer is frequently lost to the service . . .’
That must not be the case with himself. He had a duty to the ship, to Griffiths and the men, and especially to Elizabeth and the child growing within her. That duty would best be served by anticipation and diligence. They had a long way to go, and even further to come back.
At eight bells Drinkwater went below to where Appleby, fresh washed but still smelling of gore, ate his biscuit and sipped his wine.
‘How is the patient?’ asked Drinkwater hanging his coat and hat in his cabin and joining the surgeon in the gunroom. ‘It was Tyson, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. He’s well enough,’ spluttered Appleby, crumbs exploding from his lips, ‘as we were not in action I was able to take my time.’ He paused, emptied his glass and dabbed at his mouth with a stained napkin. ‘I saved the heel, if it does not rot he will walk on his own leg though he’ll limp and find balance a trouble.’
‘The devil you did! Well done, Harry, well done.’ Appleby looked pleased at his friend’s approval and his puffy cheeks flushed.
‘I must amend my books,’ said Drinkwater reaching to the shelf that contained the half-dozen manuscript ledgers without which the conduct of no King’s ship, irrespective of size, could be regulated.
He opened the appropriate volume and turned up his carefully worked muster list. ‘Damn it, the man’s a boarder . . . when will he be fit again?’
Appleby shrugged. ‘Given that he avoids gangrene, say a month, but the sooner he has something to occupy his mind the better.’
&n
bsp; ‘I wonder if he can write?’
‘I doubt it but I’ll ask.’
Mr Trussel came in for his glass of madeira. ‘I hear the captain is not stopping at the Canaries, is that so, sir?’
‘We stop only of necessity for water, Mr Trussel, otherwise Admiral Nelson’s orders were explicit,’ explained Drinkwater, ‘and we are to limit ourselves to one glass each of wine per evening to conserve stocks.’
Trussel made a face. ‘Did you not know that powder draws the moisture from a man, Mr Drinkwater?’
‘I don’t doubt it, Mr Trussel, but needs must when the devil drives, eh?’
‘I shall savour the single glass the more then,’ answered the old gunner wryly.
Drinkwater bent over his ledger and re-wrote the watch and quarter bills, pulling his chair sideways as Lestock joined them from the deck to stow his quadrant and books.
‘I can’t make it out, can’t make it out,’ he was muttering. Drinkwater snapped the inkwell closed. ‘What can’t you make out, Mr Lestock?’
‘Our longitude, Mr Drinkwater, it seems that if our departure from Espartel was truly three leagues west . . .’ Drinkwater listened to Lestock’s long exposition on the longitude problem. Hellebore carried no chronometer, did not need to for the coastal convoy work to which she had been assigned. Recent events however, revealed the need for them to know their longitude as they traversed the vast wastes of the Atlantic. Lestock had been dallying with lunar observations, a long and complicated matter involving several sets of near simultaneous sights and upon which the navigational abilities of many officers, including not a few sailing masters, foundered. The method was theoretically simple. But on the plunging deck of the brig, with the horizon frequently interrupted by a wave crest and the sky by rigging and sails, the matter assumed a complexity which was clearly beyond the abilities of Lestock.
As he listened Drinkwater appreciated the fussy man’s problems. He knew he could do little better but he kicked himself for not having thought of the problem in Syracuse. With a chronometer the matter would have been different and Nelson had offered them whatever they wanted from the fleet. He had had to. In the matter of charts alone Hellebore was deficient south of the Canaries. They had scraped together the bare minimum, but the chart of the Red Sea was so sparse of detail that its very appearance sent a shudder of apprehension down Lestock’s none too confident spine.
‘. . . And if the captain does not intend to stop we’ll have further difficulties,’ he concluded.
‘We will be able to observe the longitude of known capes and islands,’ said Drinkwater, ‘we should manage. Ah, and that reminds me, during the morning watch tomorrow I’ll have a jack-stay rigged over the waist and spread and furl a spare topsail on it to use as an awning and catchwater . . . keep two casks on deck during your watch, Mr Lestock, and fill ’em if you get the opportunity. Captain Griffiths intends only to stop if it becomes necessary, otherwise we’ll by-pass the Cape of Good Hope to avoid the Agulhas current and take wood and water somewhere on the Madagascan coast. In the meantime direct your attention to the catchwater if you please.’ Lestock returned to the deck, the worried look still on his face.
‘It would seem that an excess of salt spray also draws the moisture from a man,’ observed Appleby archly.
‘Aye, Mr Appleby, and over-early pickles the brain,’ retorted Trussel.
Day succeeded day as the trades blew and the internal life of the brig followed its routine as well as its daily variations. Daily, after quarters, the hands skylarked for an hour before the hammocks were piped down. The flying fish leapt from their track and fanned out on either bow. Breakfasts were often spiced by their flesh, fried trout-like and delicious. During the day dolphins played under the bowsprit defying efforts to catch them. The sea at night was phosphorescent and mysterious, the dolphins’ tracks sub-aqueous rocket trails of pale fire, the brig’s wake a magical bubbling of light. They reeled off the knots, hoisting royals and studding sails when the wind fell light. Even as they reached the latitude of the Cape Verdes and the trades left them, the fluky wind kept a chuckle of water under the forefoot.
It was utterly delightful. Drinkwater threw off the last of his depression and wallowed in the satisfying comfort of naval routine. There was always enough to occupy a sea-officer, yet there was time to read and write his journal, and the problems that came inevitably to a first lieutenant were all sweetly soluble. But he knew it could not last, it never did. The very fact of their passage through the trade-wind belt was an indication of that. At last the winds died away and the rain fell. They filled their water casks while Griffiths had the sweeps out for two hours a daylight watch and Hellebore was hauled manually across the ocean in search of wind.
‘Du, I cannot abide a calm hereabouts,’ Griffiths growled at Drinkwater staring eastward to where, unseen below the horizon, the Gambia coast lay.
‘I remember the smell, bach. Terrible, terrible.’ For a second Drinkwater could not understand, then he remembered Griffiths’s slaving past. ‘The Gambia, sir?’ he asked quietly.
‘Indeed yes . . . the rivers, green and slow, and the stockadoes full of them; the chiefs and half-breed traders and the Arabs . . . and us,’ he ended on a lower note. ‘Christ, but it was terrible . . .’ It was the first time he had ever disclosed more than the slightest detail of that time of his life. They had often discussed the technicalities of slaving ships, their speed and their distant loveliness, but though there was a growing revulsion to the trade in Britain neither he nor Griffiths had ever voiced the matter as a moral problem. He was tempted to wonder why Griffiths had remained to become chief mate of a slaver when the old man answered his unasked question.
‘And yet I stayed to become mate. You are asking yourself that now, aren’t you?’ He did not wait for a reply but plunged on, like a man in the confessional, too far to regret his repentance. ‘But I was young, du, I was young. There was money there, money and private trading and women, bach, such women the like of which you’d never dream of, coal black and lissom, pliant and young, opening like green leaves in spring,’ he sighed, ‘they would do anything to get out of that stinking ’tween deck . . . anything.’
Drinkwater left the old man to his silence and his memories. He was still at the rail when Lestock came on deck at eight bells.
In the morning a breeze had sprung up.
Chapter Four
Shadows of Clouds
September 1798
‘I want him flogged, Drinkwater!’
Drinkwater looked up from his breakfast of burgoo at the angry face of Lieutenant Rogers. ‘It is not for you to decide the punishment,’ he said coldly.
‘I know Tregembo’s your damned toady, Drinkwater, and that you and the captain are close, but damn it, I threatened him with a flogging and a flogging he shall have!’
‘I shall present the facts to the captain and . . .’
‘Oh, devil take the facts man, and devil take your sanctimonious cant . . .’
‘Have a care what you say, Mr Rogers.’ Drinkwater stressed the title and resisted the impulse to stand and swing his hand across Roger’s choleric face. The restraint was not appreciated.
‘Flog him, Drinkwater, or by Christ I’ll bring charges against you for failure to maintain good order . . .’
‘You’ll do no such damned thing, sir,’ snapped Drinkwater. ‘You will sit down and be silent while we examine precisely what happened. And, by God, you’ll address me as mister.’
‘You fail to intimidate me Mister Drinkwater. Your commission predates mine by two weeks. That ain’t seniority enough to cut much ice in the right quarters . . .’
Drinkwater sprang to his feet and leaned across the intervening table. ‘Another word, sir, and I’ll clap you in irons upon the instant, d’you hear? By God you’ve gone too far! Two weeks is sufficient to hang you!’
Their faces were inches apart and for a long moment they remained so; then Rogers subsided, answering Drinkwater’s questions in re
sentful monosyllables.
It appeared that during the middle watch Midshipman Dalziell, proceeding forward on routine rounds had stumbled over the feet of Tregembo. The Cornishman had been sleeping on deck. With the three watch system in operation and the brig in the tropics the berth space became intolerable and a number of men slept on deck. There had been an exchange between the midshipman and the able seaman which had resulted in Dalziell bringing Tregembo aft to Rogers. From what Drinkwater had seen of Dalziell he was not surprised at Tregembo’s reaction. Drinkwater did not entirely support Earl St Vincent’s contention that the men should be made to respect a midshipman’s coat. He qualified it by requiring that the midshipman within was at least partially deserving of that respect. He doubted that Mr Dalziell answered the case at all. Besides Drinkwater was damned if Tregembo, or anyone else for that matter, was going to have his back laid open for such a trivial matter.
‘Thank you, Mr Rogers.’
‘I want the whoreson flogged, d’you hear?’ Rogers flung over his shoulder as he withdrew to his cabin. Drinkwater sat in the gunroom alone, sunlight from the skylight sliding in six parallelograms back and forth across the table. He knew Griffiths would not hesitate to flog if necessary. Insolence was not to be tolerated. But had Tregembo been insolent? Drinkwater was by no means certain and he had seen the man flogged before. Griffiths, who had slung his hammock above the guns on the lower deck of a seventy-four understood the mentality of the men. There were always those who would challenge authority if they thought they could get away with it, and he knew many seamen who approved of flogging. Life below decks was foul enough without suffering the molestations of the petty thieves, the queers, the cheats and liars, never mind the drunks who could knock you from a yard in the middle of the night. No, swift retribution was welcomed by both sides.
A Brig of War Page 4