Ричард Вудмен - The flying squadron

Periodically there was an awful rumbling from below which Vansittart felt most through the soles of his feet, but it did not appear to affect the men on the upper deck. Quite mystified as to what was happening and ignored by all who might otherwise have enlightened him, Vansittart was compelled to wait foolishly for an explanation.

In the event he was saved the trouble, for after half an hour Metcalfe ran up from the waist, stared at his watch, referred to Porter's slate, muttered something to Drinkwater, and turned his attention to the quarterdeck guns.

Silence was called for and the 18-pounders that had been cleared away earlier were brought to a state of readiness. Metcalfe excitedly called out a stream of orders at which the gunners, with varying degrees of verisimilitude and enthusiasm for so dumb a show, leapt around their pieces. The cause of the rumbling was swiftly revealed as the 18-pounders were run out through their open ports. On the command 'Point!' the gun-captains kneeled beside the breeches of their brute black charges, squinted along the sights and ordered the carriages slewed, adjusting the elevation at the same time. Vansittart looked in vain for a mark, concluded correctly that it was a sham since no boat had put out from the ship, neither had she been manoeuvred, and watched with increasing fascination. Each gun-captain drew away from his gun, raised one hand in signal while the other grasped the lanyard of his fire-lock. When the row of hands had all gone up, Metcalfe yelled 'Fire!' and there was an anti-climactic click as flint sparked ineffectually against steel.

Having repeated this procedure with both quarterdeck batteries and then the half-dozen 42-pounder slide-mounted carronades on the forecastle, Metcalfe trotted back to Drinkwater.

'Very well,' Vansittart overheard the captain say, 'you may load powder.'

For the next few minutes Vansittart's ear-drums were assailed by the battering thunder of the guns. Clouds of acrid grey smoke swept over him and he was dimly aware, through the sudden, bright flashes that pierced the smoke, of dark objects hurled from the guns, first to starboard and then to larboard. At last they fell silent and Drinkwater turned towards him, the infuriatingly amused yet somehow attractive smile playing about his mouth.

'The noise disturbs you, Mr Vansittart?'

'A little, I confess,' Vansittart said, feeling more than a trifle foolish.

'They were only half-charges, don't you know, to conserve powder. I get no allowance from the Navy Board, damn them.'

'And you fired them at no mark?' Vansittart asked in an attempt to appear knowledgeable. 'I mean you did not intend the shot to hit anything?' He thought of the black dots he had seen in the centre of the discharges.

'No, no, no, we fired at no mark and shot off nothing more offensive then the wads

'But I saw ...'

'Oakum wadding, nothing more. The only ball you see, they say, is the one heading directly towards you, and I hope it won't come to that, eh?'

'Oh.' Vansittart's tone was crestfallen.

Drinkwater felt sorry for the diplomat.' 'Tis too lively to try at a target. If the wind falls light I will put out a boat, but the men are untried, a mixture, rough and uncoordinated as is usual at the beginning of a commission. At first it is essential, a moment please ...'

Drinkwater broke off his explanation to attend to Mr Belchambers. Vansittart could not hear what passed between them, but the midshipman's face was dark and Drinkwater's bore a look of disquiet when he turned back to resume.

'At first it is essential to ensure the gun-crews operate in a disciplined manner and serve their guns correctly. One cannot afford mistakes in the heat of battle. You have doubtless seen an excited sportsman loose off a ramrod at game birds, well the same thing may happen here. Perhaps worse. A new charge thrust hastily into an unsponged gun may result in a premature discharge in which the carriage recoils over a gun-captain engaged in clearing a vent.' He paused, then added, 'As it is, one man is suffering from crushed fingers.'

'Mr Belchambers ... ?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes, he brought me word of it. I ordered the powder largely to gratify the hands. Prolonged dumb show is useful, but nothing makes 'em concentrate like gunpowder. Now I'm doubting the wisdom of my own action.' A rueful expression crossed the captain's face and he smiled. 'A pity,' he concluded.

Drinkwater turned away. Metcalfe was hovering with his insufferable watch, demanding the captain's attention. Vansittart cast about him. Already the guns were resecured and the pipes twittered at the hatchways with their appalling raucous squealing. Suddenly, as the cry 'Up spirits!' went round the ship, Vansittart was aware of a strange buzz, as of a swarm of bees, and realized it was the ship's company, mustering for their daily issue of grog. For the first time since he had stepped on board, Mr Vansittart felt inexplicably easier about his situation.

He went below. Miraculously his cabin had reappeared. Copford was laying his toiletries on the chest of drawers. He looked white and drawn.

'Where the devil were you?' Vansittart asked.

'With the surgeon, sir. In what's called the cockpit. Full o' knives and saws it were, an' they brought some young cully down with his hand all bloody ...'

It was not with the intention of holding a post-mortem that Drinkwater invited his officers to dinner that afternoon. It occurred to him that the time was ripe, both on account of the weather and the fact that the gunnery exercise had been a corporate act different from the heaving and hauling, the pumping and sheer drudgery necessary to clear the chops of the Channel. Whatever its failings, it had been the first step in shaking his crew together as the ship's company of a man-o'-war.

Looking at his officers as they silently sipped their soup, nervously adjusting to the unaccustomed luxury of his cabin, Drinkwater wondered what they feared about him, for their lack of chatter was awesome. Frey might have lightened the mood with his familiarity, but Frey had the deck and Drinkwater had not invited any representatives from the gunroom. He would break his fast with the midshipmen tomorrow morning. For the nonce it was his officers with whom he wished to become better acquainted and their present quiescence was vaguely worrying. Did he intimidate them?

It had come upon him, on recent mornings as he shaved, that he was ageing. He had no idea why this sudden realization of the obvious had struck him so forcibly. Perhaps it was the return to the cares and concerns of command after months of indolence, perhaps no more than the half-light that threw his face into stark relief as he peered at his image in the mirror. Whatever the cause, he had had a glimpse of himself as others saw him. Did that grim visage with its scarred cheek and the powder burns tattooed into one eyelid intimidate?

In repose he wondered what expression he habitually wore. Elizabeth had told him that his face brightened when he smiled. Did he not smile enough? Did he wear a perpetual scowl upon the quarterdeck?

He looked down the twin lines of officers, bending over their soup, concentrating on their manners lest it slop into their white-breeched laps. At the far end of the table Metcalfe laid his soup-spoon in his plate and Mullender loomed up at his shoulder. Others followed suit, the chink of silver upon china the only sound in the cabin, if one set aside the wracking groans of the frigate's fabric, the low grind of the rudder and the surge and hiss of the sea beneath the windows.

The handsome Gordon and the thin-faced chaplain, Simpson, the ruddy Wyatt, the elegant Moncrieff, the purser and the surgeon remained disappointingly unanimated.

'Well, gentlemen,' Drinkwater said, laying down his own soup-spoon, 'what is your judgement of the temper of the men following our exercise at the guns this morning?'