Ричард Вудмен: The flying squadron

The knock at the door woke Lieutenant Frey with a start. His neglected book slid to the deck with a thud. The air in the wardroom was stiflingly soporific and he had dozed off, only to be woken moments later with a headache and a foul taste in his mouth.

'Yes?' Frey's tone was querulous; he was irritated by the indifference of his messmates, especially that of Mr Metcalfe.

'Beg pardon, sir.' Midshipman Belchambers peered into the candle-lit gloom and fixed his eyes on the copy of The Times behind which Mr Metcalfe, the first lieutenant, was presumed to be. He coughed to gain Mr Metcalfe's attention, but no flicker of life came from the newspaper, despite the two hands clearly holding it up before the senior officer's face.

Frey rubbed his eyes and sought vainly for a drop of wine in his glass to rinse his mouth.

'Sir ...', Belchambers persisted urgently, continuing to address the impassive presence of Mr Metcalfe.

'What the devil is it?' snapped Frey, running a finger round the inside of his stock.

Relieved, Belchambers shifted his attention to the third lieutenant. 'Cap'n's gig's approaching, sir.'

Glaring at the newspaper, Frey rose, his fingers settling his neck linen. He kicked back his chair so that it scraped the deck with an intrusive noise, though it failed to stir the indifference of his colleagues. Piqued, he reached for coat and hat.

'Very well,' he said, dismissing Belchambers, 'I'll be up directly.'

From the doorway, as he drew on his coat, Frey regarded his colleagues in their post-prandial disorder.

Despite the bull's eyes, the skylight shaft and the yellow glow of the table candelabra, the wardroom was as ill-lit as it was stuffy. At the head of the long table, leaning back against the rudder trunking, Mr Metcalfe remained inscrutable behind his newspaper. Mr Moncrieff, the marine officer, was slumped in his chair, his pomaded head thrown back, his mouth open and his eyes shut in an uncharacteristically inelegant posture.

Ignoring the midshipman's intrusion, the master, his clay pipe adding to the foul air, continued playing cards with the surgeon. He laid a card with a snap and scooped the trick.

'Trumps, by God,' grumbled Mr Pym, staring down at his own meagre hand.

Wyatt, the master, grinned diabolically through wreaths of puffed smoke.

Frey looked in vain for Mr Gordon, but the second lieutenant had retired to his cabin and only Wagstaff, the mess-servant, reacted to Frey's exasperated surveillance, pausing expectantly in his slovenly shuffling as though awaiting rebuke or instruction. Frey noticed that there was little to choose between his filthy apron and the stained drapery which adorned the table. With an expression of mild disgust Mr Frey abandoned this scene of genteel squalor with something like relief, and retreated to the deck, acknowledging the perfunctory salutes of the marine sentries en route.

Emerging into the fresh air he cast a quick look about him. His Britannic Majesty's frigate Patrician lay at anchor in Cawsand Bay. The high blue arch of the sky was gradually darkening in the east behind the jagged, listing outline of the Mewstone. The last rays of the setting sun fanned out over the high land behind Cawsand village. Already the stone houses and the fish-drying sheds were indistinct as the shadow of the land crept out across the water. The still depths of the bay turned a mysterious green, disturbed only by the occasional plop of a jumping mullet and a low swell which rolled round Penlee Point, forming an eddy about the Draystone.

In contrast to the stifling air below, the deck was already touched with the chill of the coming night and Frey paused a moment, drinking in the pure tranquillity of the evening.

'Boat 'hoy!'

The bellow of the quarterdeck sentry recalled him to his duty. He settled his hat on his head and walked to the ship's side.

'Patrician!'

The answering hail brought some measure of satisfaction to Mr Frey. The stark, shouted syllables of the ship's name meant the captain was aboard the gig and, in Frey's opinion, the captain's presence could not occur soon enough.

More marines, the side-boys and duty bosun's mates were running aft to take their stations. Tweaking the sennit-covered man-ropes so they hung handily down the frigate's ample tumble-home on either side of the steps, Belchambers raised two fingers to his hat-brim.

'Ship's side manned, sir; Cap'n coming aboard.'

'Very well, Mr Belchambers.'

Frey watched the distinctive blue and white paintwork of the gig; the oars rose and fell in perfect unison. As the oarsmen leaned back, the bow of the boat lifted a trifle and Frey caught sight of Captain Drinkwater alongside the coxswain. There was another figure too, a civilian by the look of his garb. Was this the mysterious passenger for whom, it had been intimated, they were waiting?

A second boat crabbed out in the gig's wake. She was larger, with an untidy clutter of gear in her waist and a consequently less synchronous movement of her oars. Midshipman Porter had a less sure hand upon the tiller of the overloaded launch as it visibly struggled towards them. Frey rightly concluded it had left Dock Town hard well in advance of the gig and had been overtaken.

He stood back in his place as the gig ran alongside and a moment later, as the shrilling of the pipes pierced the peaceful stillness, Frey touched the fore-cock of his hat and Captain Drinkwater hove himself to the deck.

For a moment, as the pipes completed their ritual shrieking, Drinkwater stood at the salute, his eyes swiftly taking in the details of the deck. At last the tremulous echoes waned and faded.

'Evenin', Mr Frey.'

'Evening, sir.'

Drinkwater stood aside and put out a hand.

'Come, sir,' he called back to the civilian in the boat who stared apprehensively upwards. 'Clasp the ropes and walk up the ship's side. 'Tis quite simple.'

Frey suppressed a smile as Drinkwater raised his left eyebrow a trifle. The side party waited patiently while the man-ropes jerked and a young man, elegantly dressed in grey, finally hauled himself breathlessly on to the deck. Frey regarded the stranger with interest and a little wonder. The cut of the coat was so obviously fashionable that it was difficult not to assume the newcomer was a fop. Aware of the curiosity aroused by the contrast between the somewhat grubby informality of Frey's undress uniform coat and the attire of his companion, Drinkwater gave his guest a moment to recover his wind and gape about. Turning to the third lieutenant, Drinkwater asked, 'First Lieutenant aboard, Mr Frey?'

'Here, sir.'

Metcalfe materialized by magic, as if he had been there all along but chose that precise moment to forsake invisibility.

'We'll get under weigh the moment the wind serves.'

Metcalfe cast his eyes aloft and turned nonchalantly on his heels, his whole demeanour indicating the fact that it was a flat calm. 'Aye, aye, sir ... when the wind serves.'

Frey, already irritated by the first lieutenant's idiosyncratic detachment, watched Captain Drinkwater's reaction to this piece of studied insolence with interest and anxiety.

'You take my meaning, Mr Metcalfe?' There was the hint of an edge to Drinkwater's voice.

Metcalfe completed his slow gyration and met the cool appraisal of his new commander with an inclination of his head.