Ричард Вудмен - The Bomb Vessel

'I protest… sir…'

'I rule that unfair, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater still smiling. 'Consider that Mr Jex paid for the sauerkraut.'

'The hands'll not thank you for that sir, however good an antiscorbutic it is.'

Drinkwater ignored Jex's look of startled horror. He did not see it subside into an expression of resentment. 'What about the other members of the cabinet?' asked Lettsom.

'I forget, Mr Lettsom. Only that that blade Vansittart is to be Joint Secretary to the Treasury or something. That is all I recollect…'

'Well the damned politicians forget us; why the hell should we remember them?' Rogers's flushed face expressed approval at his own jest.

'I have it!' said Lettsom suddenly, snapping his fingers as the laughter died away.

'Have what sir?' asked Quilhampton in precocious mock horror, 'The lues? The yaws?'

'An epigram, gentlemen, an epigram!' He cleared his throat while several banged the table for silence. Lettsom struck a pose:

'If blocks can from danger deliver,

Two places are safe from the French,

The first is the mouth of the river,

The second the Treasury Bench.'

'Bravo! Bravo!' They cheered, banged the table and were unaware of the strange face that appeared round the doorway. Drinkwater saw it first, together with that of Mason behind. He called for silence. 'What is it Mr Mason?'

The assembled officers turned to stare at the newcomer. He wore a royal blue tail coat turned back to reveal scarlet facings. His breeches were white and a cocked hat was tucked underneath his arm. His face was round and red, covered by peppery hair that grew out along his cheekbones, though his chin was shaved yet it had the appearance of being constantly rasped raw as if to keep down its beard. The man's head sat low upon his shoulders, like a 12-pound shot in the garlands.

'God damn my eyes, it's a bloody lobster,' said Rogers offensively and even though the man wore the blue uniform of the Royal Artillery his apoplectic countenance lent the welcome an amusing aptness.

'Lieutenant Tumilty of the artillery, sir,' said Mason filling the silence while the artillery officer stared aggressively round his new surroundings.

Drinkwater rose. 'Good day, lieutenant, pray sit down. Mr Tumility, make way there. You are to join us then?' He passed the decanter down the table and the messman produced a glass. The other occupants of the cabin eyed the stranger with ill-disguised curiosity.

Tumilty filled his glass, downed it and refilled it. Then he fixed Drinkwater with a tiny, fiery eye.

'I'm after asking if you're in command of the ship?' The accent was pugnaciously Irish.

'That is correct, Mr Tumilty.'

'It's true then! God save me but 'tis true, so it is.' He swallowed again, heavily.

'What exactly is true, Mr Tumilty?' asked Drinkwater, beginning to feel exasperated by the artilleryman's circumlocution.

'Despite appearances to the contrary, and begging your pardon, but you being but a lieutenant, then this ain't a bomb vessel, sir. Is that, or is that not the truth of the matter?'

Drinkwater flushed. Tumilty had touched a raw nerve. ' Virago was built as a bomb vessel, but at present she is commissioned only as a tender…'

'Though there's nothing wrong with her structure,' growled the hitherto silent Willerton.

'Does that answer your question?' added Drinkwater, ignoring the interruption.

Tumilty nodded. 'Aye, God save me, so it does. And I'll not pretend I like it lieutenant, not at all.' He suddenly struck his hat violently upon the table.

'Devil take 'em, do they not know the waste; that I'm the finest artilleryman to be employed upon the service?' He seemed about to burst into tears, looking round the astonished faces for agreement. Drinkwater was inclined to forgive him his behaviour; clearly Mr Tumilty was acting as a consequence of some incident at Woolwich and cursing his superiors at the Royal Arsenal.

'Gentlemen, pity me, I beg you. I'm condemned to hand powder like any of your barefoot powder-monkeys. A fetcher and carrier, me!'

'It seems, Mr Tumilty, that, to coin a phrase, we are all here present in the same boat.' A rumble of agreement followed Drinkwater's soothing words.

'But me, sir. For sure I'm the finest pyroballogist in the whole damned artillery!'

'Pyroballogy, Lieutenant Drinkwater, is the art of throwing fire. 'Tis both scientific and alchemical, and that is why officers in my profession cannot purchase their commissions like the rest of the army, so it is.'

Drinkwater and Tumilty stood at the break of the poop watching the labours of the hands as they manned the yardarm tackles, hoisting barrel after barrel of powder out of the hoy alongside. They had loaded their ordinary powder and shot, naval gunner's stores for their carronades and long guns, from the powder hulk at Blackstakes. Now they loaded the ordnance stores, sent round from Woolwich on the Thames. From time to time Tumilty broke off his monologue to shout instructions at his sergeant and bombadier who, with Virago 's men, were toiling to get the stores aboard before the wind freshened further.

'No sir, our commissions are all issued by the Master-General himself and a captain of artillery may have more experience than a field officer, to be sure. I'm not after asking if that's a fair system, Mr Drinkwater, but I'm telling you that a man can be an expert at his work and still be no more than a lieutenant.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'And I'd not be wanting to argue with you Mr Tumilty,' he said drily.

'Tis an ancient art, this pyroballogy. Archimedes himself founded it at the siege of Syracuse and the Greeks had their own ballistic fireballs. Now tell me, Mr Drinkwater, would I be right in thinking you'd like to be doing a bit of the fire-throwing yourself?'

Drinkwater looked at the short Irishman alongside him. He was growing accustomed to his almost orientally roundabout way of saying something.

'I think perhaps we both suffer from a sense of frustration, Mr Tumilty.'

'And the carpenter assures me the ship's timbers are sound enough.' Drinkwater nodded and Tumilty added, ''Tis not to be underestimated, sir, a thirteen-inch mortar has a chamber with a capacity of thirty-two pounds. Yet a charge in excess of twenty will shake the timbers of a mortar bed to pieces in a very short time and may cause the mortar to explode.'

'But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.'

'True, true, but you've not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I'm asking myself, would that be?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place…'

'And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?'

'That is correct.'

'Well now that's very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?'

Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.

'I don't think I quite understand.'

'Well look,' Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy's hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of Virago . The hoy's crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. 'Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one ten-inch weighing forty-one hundredweights. Why don't we ship them on the beds, eh?'

'I take it they're spares.' Tumilty nodded. Drinkwater knew the other bomb vessels already had their own mortars fitted for he had examined those on the Explosion . There seemed no very good argument against fitting them in the beds even if they were supposed to be struck down into the hold. After all Virago had been fitted to carry them. He wondered what Martin would say if he knew, as doubtless he would in due course.