Ричард Вудмен - The Bomb Vessel

'Clew up the courses as we square away in Saltpan Reach, Mr Rogers.' He levelled his glass ahead. Half a dozen squat hulled shapes were riding at anchor off Deadman's Island, a mile up stream from Sheerness. They were bomb vessels anchored close to the powder hulks at Blackstakes.

A chattering had broken out amidships. 'Silence there!' snapped Rogers. Drinkwater watched the line of bombs grow larger. 'Up courses if you please.'

Rogers bawled, Quilhampton piped and Matchett shouted. The heavy flog of resisting canvas rose above Drinkwater's head as he studied the bombs through his glass, selecting a place to bring Virago to her anchor.

They were abeam the upstream vessel, a knot of curious officers visible on her deck. There was a gap between the fourth and fifth bomb vessel, sufficient for Virago to swing. Drinkwater felt a thrill of pure excitement. He could go downstream and anchor in perfect safety at the seaward end of the line; but that gap beckoned.

'Stand by the braces, Mr Rogers! Down helm!'

'Down helm, zur!' Virago turned to starboard, her yards creaking round in their parrels, the forestaysail filling with a crack.

'Brace sharp up there, damn it!' he snapped, then to the helm, 'Full and bye!'

'Full an' bye, zur,' replied the impassive Tregembo.

Drinkwater sailed Virago as close to the wind as possible as the ebb pushed her remorselessly downstream. If he made a misjudgement he would crash on board the bomb vessel next astern. He could see a group of people forward on her, no doubt equally alerted to the possibility. He watched the relative bearing of the other vessel's foremast. It drew slowly astern: he could do it.

'Anchor's ready, sir,' muttered Rogers.

'Very well.' They were suddenly level with the bow of the other ship.

'Down helm!' Virago turned to starboard again, her sails about to shiver, then to flog. She carried her way, the water chuckling under her bow as she crept over the tide, leaving the anxious watchers astern and edging up on the ship next ahead.

Drinkwater watched the shore, saw its motion cease. 'All aback now! Let go!'

He felt the hull buck as the anchor fell from the cathead and watched the cable rumble along the deck, saw it catch an inexperienced landsman on the ankle and fling him down while the seamen laughed.

'Give her sixty fathoms, Mr Matchett, and bring her up to it.'

He nodded to Rogers. 'Clew up and stow.'

Mr Easton went below to plot their anchorage on the chart and when the vessel was reported brought to her cable Drinkwater joined him. Looking at the chart Drinkwater felt satisfied that neither ship nor crew had let him down.

His satisfaction was short-lived. An hour later he stood before Captain Martin, Master and Commander of His Majesty's bomb vessel Explosion , senior officer of the bomb ships assembled at Sheerness. Captain Martin was clearly intolerant of any of his subordinates who showed the least inclination to further their careers by acts of conspicuousness.

'Not only, lieutenant, was your manoeuvre one that endangered your own ship but it also endangered mine. It was, sir, an act of wanton irresponsibility. Such behaviour is not to be tolerated and speaks volumes on your character. I am surprised you have been entrusted with such a command, Mr Drinkwater. A man responsible for carrying quantities of powder upon a special service must needs be steady, constantly thoughtful, and never, ever hazard his ship.'

Drinkwater felt the blood mounting to his cheeks as Martin went on. 'Furthermore you have been most dilatory in the matter of commissioning your ship. I had reason to expect you to join the bombs under my command some days ago.'

Martin looked up at Drinkwater from a pair of watery blue eyes that stared out of a thin, parchment coloured face. Drinkwater fought down his sense of injustice and wounded pride. Feeling like a whipped midshipman he applied the resilience of the orlop, learned years ago.

'If my conduct displeased you I apologise, sir. I had no intention of causing you any concern. As to the manner of my commissioning I can only say that I exerted every effort to hasten the matter. I was prevented from so doing by the officials of the dockyard.'

'The dockyard officers have their own job to attend to, Mr Drinkwater, you cannot expect them to give priority to a bomb tender…' Aware that he had offended (Martin was probably related to some jobber in the dockyard), Drinkwater could not resist the opening.

'Precisely my point, sir,' he said drily. Martin's upper lip curled slightly, a mark of obvious displeasure, and Drinkwater added hastily, 'I mean no offence, sir.'

He stared down the commander who eventually said, 'Now, to your orders for the next week…'

'Your sport was most profitable, Mr Q,' said Drinkwater laying down his knife and fork upon an empty plate.

'Thank you sir. Did you favour the widgeon or the teal?'

'I fancy the teal had the edge. Mr Jex, would you convey my appreciation to the cook.'

Jex nodded, his mouth still full. Drinkwater looked round the table. It was a cramped gathering, sharing his small cabin with the officers were the two stern chasers and two 24-pound carronades in the aftermost side ports.

The cloth was drawn and the decanter of blackstrap placed in front of Drinkwater. They drank the loyal toast at their seats then scraped their chairs back. A cigar or two appeared, Trussel brought out a long churchwarden pipe and Willerton slipped a surreptitious quid of tobacco into his mouth. Lettsom took snuff and Drinkwater reflected that apart from himself and Rogers and Mr Quilhampton all those present, which excepted Mr Mason on deck, were well over forty-five, possibly over fifty. The preponderance of warrant officers carried by Virago ensured this, but it sometimes made Drinkwater feel old before his time, condemned to spend his life in the society of elderly men. He sighed, remembering the attitude of Captain Martin. Then he remembered something else, something he had been saving for this moment. 'By the way gentlemen, when I was aboard Explosion this morning I learned some news from London that will affect us all. Has anyone else learned of it?'

'We know that Admiral Ganteaume got out of Brest with seven of the line,' said Rogers.

'Aye, these damned easterlies, but I heard that Collingwood's gone in pursuit,' added Matchett. Drinkwater shook his head.

'You mean, sir, that it is intended to defend the Thames by dropping stone blocks into it?' asked Quilhampton ingenuously.

'No, young shaver, I do not.' He looked round. No one seemed to have any idea. 'I mean that Billy Pitt's resigned and that Mr Speaker Addington is to form a new government…' Exclamations of surprise and dismay met the news.

'Well, 'twill be of no account, Addington's Pitt's mouthpiece…'

'No wonder there are no orders for us…'

'So the King would not stomach emancipating the papists.'

'Damned good thing too…'

'Come Mr Rogers, you surely cannot truly think that?'

'Aye, Mr Lettsom, I most certainly do, God damn them…'

'Gentlemen please!' Drinkwater banged his hand on the table. The meal was intended to unite them. 'Perhaps you would like to know who is to head the Admiralty?' Their faces turned towards him. 'St Vincent, with Markham and Troubridge.'

'Who is to replace St Vincent in the Channel, sir?'

'Lord Cornwallis.'

'Ah, Billy Blue, well I think that is good news,' offered Lettsom, 'and I hear St Vincent will be at Sir Bloody Andrew Snape Hammond's throat. He has sworn reform and Hammond is an infernal jobber. Pray heaven they start at Chatham, eh?'

'I'll drink to that, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater smiling.

'What d'you say Jex?' said the surgeon turning to the purser, 'got your dirty work done just in time, eh?' There was a rumble of laughter round the table. Jex flushed.