Ричард Вудмен - The Corvette

The snap of a musket called his attention momentarily. The bottle swung intact, a green pinpoint at the extremity of the yard, catching the morning sun and twinkling defiantly.

A second musket spat and the bottle shattered. The marines were forbidden to cheer but there were congratulatory grins and one or two sullen faces. Mount was not under the same constraint.

'Ho! Good shooting, Polesworth. Next man, fire!' Mount's voice was bright with exhilaration and Germaney cursed him for his cheerfulness, seeing in the merriment of others a barometer of his own despair. Since the ship was witness to the remarkable medical talents of the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, Germaney had seen an opportunity to end his suffering. But fate had dealt him a mean trick, providing him with the means of a cure but entailing him in the awkward business of a confession before a gentleman of the cloth. Germaney writhed with indecision, an indecision made worse by the sudden popularity of Mr Singleton and the fact that he was seldom alone, was universally courted by all sections of the ship's company and encouraged in it by the captain, having seen the disgusting state of Melusine 's own surgeon.

The revival of Leek had also stimulated a sudden religious fervour, for the topman claimed he had died and seen God. While Singleton's attitude to his own medical abilities was purely professional, the theologian in him was intrigued. This circumstance seemed to make Germaney's distress the more acute.

A second bottle shattered and, a few minutes later, Mount dismissed his men. The Marine officer crossed the deck and removed his sword belt, sash, gorget and scarlet coat, laying them over the breech of the quarterdeck carronade next to Germaney. He doffed his hat and held it out.

'Be a good fellow, Germaney…' Germaney took the hat.

'What the deuce are you up to?'

Mount smiled and bent down to rummage in a canvas bag. He pulled a padded plastron over his shirt, produced a gauntlet, foil and mask and made mock obeisance.

'I go, fair one, to joust with the captain. Wilt thou not grant me a favour?'

'Good God.' Germaney was in no mood for Mount's humour but Mount was not to be so easily suppressed.

'See where he comes,' he whispered.

Commander Drinkwater had emerged on deck in his shirt sleeves and plastron. Germaney could see the extent of the rumoured wound. The right shoulder sagged appreciably and the reason for the cock of his head, that Germaney had dismissed as a peculiarity of the man, now became clear.

Drinkwater ignored the frank curiosity of the idlers amidships, whipped his foil experimentally, donned his mask and strode across the deck. He flicked a salute at his opponent.

'Best of seven, sir?' asked Mount, hooking the mask over his head.

'Very well, Mr Mount, best of seven.' Drinkwater lowered his mask and saluted.

Mount dropped his mask and came on guard. Both men called 'Ready' to Quilhampton, who was presiding, and the bout commenced.

The two men advanced and retreated cautiously, feeling their opponent by an occasional change of line, the click of the blades inaudible above the hiss of the sea and the thrum of the wind in the rigging.

There was a sudden movement. Mount's lunge was parried but the marine was too quick for Drinkwater, springing backwards then extending as the captain came forward to riposte.

Drinkwater conceded the hit. They came on guard again. Mount came forward, beat Drinkwater's blade and was about to extend and hit Drinkwater's plastron when the captain whirled his blade in a circular parry, stepped forward and his blade bowed against Mount's breast.

They came on guard again and circled each other. Mount dropped his left hand and threw himself to the deck, intending to extend under Drinkwater's guard but the captain pulled back his pelvis, then leaned forward, over Mount's sword and dropped his point onto the Marine officer's back.

'Oh very good, sir!' There was a brief round of applause from the knot of officers assembled about the contest.

Mount scored two more points in quick succession before a hiatus in which each contender circled warily, seeking an opening without exposing himself. The click of the blades could be heard now as they slammed together with greater fury. Mount's next attack scored and he became more confident, getting a fifth hit off the captain.

Mount came in to feint and lunge for the sixth point. Drinkwater realised the younger man was quicker than Quilhampton and he was himself running short of breath. But he was ready for it. He advanced boldly, bringing his forte down hard against Mount's blade and executing a croise, twisting his wrist and pulling his elbow back so that his sword point scratched against Mount's belly. He leaned forward and the blade curved. Mount straightened and stepped back to concede the point. The second he came on guard again Drinkwater lunged. It would have gratified M. Bescond. Mount had not moved and Drinkwater had another point to his credit.

The muscles in Drinkwater's shoulder were hurting now, but the two quick hits had sharpened him. He caught Mount's next extension in a bind and landed an equalising hit. The atmosphere on the quarterdeck was now electric and the quartermaster called the helmsmen to their duty.

Drinkwater whirled a molinello but Mount parried quinte. There was a gasp as the onlookers watched Mount drop his blade to attack Drinkwater's unguarded gut, stepping forward as he did so.

But Drinkwater executed a brilliant low parry. The two blades met an instant before they collided corps-à-corps . They separated and came on guard again.

'A guinea on Mount,' muttered Rispin.

'Done!' said Hill, remembering the slithering deck of the Draaken one dull October afternoon off Camperdown.

Drinkwater scored again as Mount slipped on the deck then lost a point to the marine with an ineffectual parry. They came on guard for the last time. There was a conversazione of blades then Mount's suddenly licked out as he lunged low. Drinkwater stepped back to cutover but Mount seemed to coil up his rear leg and thrust himself bodily forward. His blade curved triumphantly against the captain's breast.

The fencers removed their masks, smiling and panting. They shook their left hands.

'By God you pressed me damned hard, sir.'

'You were too fast for me, Mr Mount.' Drinkwater wiped the sweat from his brow.

'You owe me a guinea, Mr Hill.'

'I shall win it back again, Mr Rispin, without a doubt.'

Drinkwater returned below, nodding acknowledgement to the marine sentry's salute as he entered the cabin. Tregembo had the tub of salt water ready in the centre of the cabin and Drinkwater immersed himself in it.

'I've settled all your things now, zur, but we have too many chairs.'

'Strike Palgrave's down into the hold. Get the sailmaker to wrap some old canvas round them.'

'I hope the pictures are to your liking, zur.'

He looked at the portraits by Bruilhac and nodded. Sluicing the icy water over his head he rose and took the towel from Tregembo.

'Don't cluck like an old hen, Tregembo. Don't forget I'm short of good topmen.'

'Aye, zur, I doubt you'll take to Cap'n Palgrave's lackey,' replied Tregembo familiarly, brushing Drinkwater's undress coat, 'but I'll exchange willingly, zur, I'm not too old yet.'

'D'you think I could stand Susan's reproaches if I sent you aloft again?' Drinkwater stepped out of the bath-tub. 'Where's Germaney put Palgrave's man?'

'He is mincing about the gunroom, sir,' replied Tregembo with a touch of ire and added under his breath, 'and 'tis the best bloody place for 'im.'

The Cornishman picked up the tub and sluiced its contents down the quarter gallery privy.

Dressing, Drinkwater sent for Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley. Donning his coat he sat behind his desk and awaited the appearance of his lordship. A glance out of the stern window showed the tail of the convoy. The sea was a dazzling blue and the wind still steady from the north of west, blowing fluffy cumulus clouds to leeward. It was more reminiscent of the Mediterranean than the North Sea: too good to last.