Richard Woodman - A Brig of War

His uniform awry Morris came on deck, holding out his hand for a glass. Lestock beat Dalziell in the matter. The midshipman swung himself over the side. There were catcalls from the lower gunports and Rogers's voice snapped 'Silence there!' The boat's crew were tricked out in blue and white striped shirts and trousers of white jean. They wore glazed hats with ribbons of blue and white and their oars were picked out in the same colours. Such a display amused the Hellebores and led Drinkwater to the conclusion that her captain was a wealthy man. An officer with interest of the 'Parliamentary' kind, probably young and probably half his own age. He was almost right.

Quilhampton approached the quarterdeck, saw Morris and diverted his approach from Drinkwater to the commander. 'Mr Mole, sir.'

The midshipman bowed. His tall gangling fair haired appearance was in marked contrast with his name. His accent was rural Norfolk, though mannered.

'My respect, sir, Commander Morris, I believe.' Morris stiffened.

'Captain to you, you damned brat. Who commands your vessel, eh?'

The lad was not abashed. 'Captain White, sir, Captain Richard White, he desires me to offer whatever services you require, though I perceive,' he swept his hand aloft, 'that you have little need of them. My congratulations.'

Drinkwater smiled grimly. The young gentleman's affront could only be but admired, particularly as he appeared impervious to Morris's forbidding aspect.

Morris's mouth fell open. He closed it and turned contemptuously away, crossing the deck towards the companionway. 'Mr Drinkwater, I expect the nob who commands yonder will want us to obey his orders. Tell this dog's turd what we want, then kick his perfumed arse off my ship.' He disappeared below.

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater regarded the midshipman. 'Well, Mr Mole, are you commonly addressing senior officers in that vein?'

The boy blinked and Drinkwater went on, 'Your captain; is that Richard White from Norfolk, a small man with fair hair?'

'Captain White is of small stature, sir,' Mole said primly.

'Very well, Mr Mole, I desire you to inform Captain White that we are short of men but able to make the Cape. We carry dispatches from Admiral Blankett and are armed en flute . We are the prize of a brig and most damnably grateful for your arrival the other day.'

Mole smirked as though he had been personally responsible for the timely arrival of Telemachus .

'Oh, and Mr Mole, I desire that you inform him that the captain's name is Augustus Morris and my name is Drinkwater. I urge that you give him those particulars.'

Mole repeated the names. 'By the way, Mr Mole, what became of the Frenchman?'

'He slipped us in the night, sir.'

'Tut tut,' said Drinkwater catching Quilhampton's eye. 'That would never have happened to us, eh, Mr Q?'

'No, sir,' grinned Quilhampton.

'See what happened to Mr Quilhampton the last time we had an engagement…'

Quilhampton held up his stump. 'Mr Quilhampton stopped the enemy from running by taking hold of her bowsprit…' Laughter echoed round Antigone 's scarred quarterdeck and Mole, aware that the joke was on him, touched his forehead and fled.

'Boat ahoy!' Lestock hailed the returning boat.

' Telemachus !' That hail confirmed that she bore the frigate's captain.

'How d'you propose we man the side, Mr Drinkwater?' Lestock asked sarcastically. Drinkwater lowered his glass, having recognised the little figure in the stern.

'Oh, I'd say that you and Mr Dalziell will do for decoration, Mr Grey with his mates for sideboys. This ain't the time for punctiliousness. Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Inform the captain that Captain White is coming aboard.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater went forward to join the side party. Lestock was furious.

Grey's pipe twittered and Drinkwater swept his battered hat from his head.

'Strap me, but it is you!' Richard White, gold lace about his sleeve and upon his shoulder, held out his hand in informal greeting, 'Deuced glad to see you, Nat…' he looked round the deck expectantly. 'What's it that imp of Satan Mole said about…?' he paused and Drinkwater turned to see Morris emerging on deck.

'Well damn my eyes, if it isn't that bugger Morris!'

Captain Richard White had many years earlier suffered from the sadistic bullying of Morris when he and Drinkwater served on the frigate Cyclops as midshipmen. Since that time, when the frightened White had been protected by Drinkwater, service under the punctilious St Vincent followed by absolute command of his own ship had turned White into an irascible, forthright character. Beneath this exterior his friends might perceive the boyish charm and occasional uncertainty of a still young man, but the accustomed authority that he was now used to, combined with an irresistible urge to thus publicly humiliate his former tormentor.

There was for a moment a silence between the three men that was pregnant with suppressed emotions. Drinkwater, caught like a shuttlecock between two seniors, prudently waited, watching Morris's reaction, aware that White had committed a gross impropriety. Unaccountably Drinkwater felt a momentary sympathy for Morris. If the commander called for satisfaction at the Cape he would have been justified, whatever the naval regulations said about duelling. For his own part White was belligerently unrepentant, weeks of adolescent misery springing into his mind as he confronted his old tormentor.

Morris stood stock still, colour draining from his face as the insult on his own quarterdeck outraged him. Brought up in the old school of naval viciousness, protected by petticoat influence from the consequences of his vice, his brutal nature protected by the privileges of rank for so long, Morris now found himself confronted by a moral superiority undeterred by the baser motives of naval intrigue. White's impetuous candour had disarmed him.

Morris shot White a look of pure venom, but his new-found accession to command caused him to hold his tongue. He turned and made for the companionway below, half jostling Drinkwater as he did so, his mouth twisted with rage and humiliation.

White ignored Drinkwater's embarrassed glance after the retreating figure of Morris. 'Well, Nat, I'm darned sorry we lost the Frog, gave me the slip during the night. Blasted wind fell light under a threatening overcast. Black as the Earl of Hell's riding boots, by God. A damned shame.' He cast his eyes over Antigone 's spars and rigging. By comparison with when he had last seen them they had all the hallmarks of Drinkwater's diligence. 'You've been busy I perceive. But come, tell me what the deuce became of that brig I last saw you on, heard you'd been sent to the Red Sea. St Vincent was damned annoyed. I do believe if Nelson had not blown Brueys to hell at Aboukir he might have been called to account.' White grinned his boyish smile. 'I wrote to Elizabeth and told her. Didn't think you'd get word off until you reached the Cape…' Drinkwater tried to express his thanks but White rattled on, all the while pacing the deck and staring curiously about him. 'By the devil but you've a fine frigate here, and no mistake. Mole said you were en flute .'

'Aye, sir. Twelve eighteens on the main deck.'

'And you fought the Romaine with a broadside of six, eh?'

'Not quite. We had 'em all mounted to starboard.' White's eyebrows went up and then came down with comprehension. 'So your larboard battery was empty?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well stap me. You're becoming as unorthodox as Nelson. But we thought you'd struck.'