They both lurched to their feet as someone slid the shutter from a lantern, and they saw Midshipman Vincent staring at them, his mouth lifted in a faint smile. Behind him, his crossbelt white in the gloom, was the ship's corporal.
Vincent said coldly, 'Just as well I came to complete the rounds.' The officer-of-the-watch had sent him after seeing the purser's clerk appear on deck alone, but he made it sound as if it was his own idea. 'Scum like you, Fittock, never learn, do you?'
Duthy protested, 'We weren't doin' nothin', sir. We was standin' easy, so to speak! '
'Don't lie to me, you pig! ' Vincent thrust out his hand. 'Give me that bottle! I'll see your backbones for this! '
Anger, resentment, the scars on his back, and of course the cognac were part and parcel of what happened next.
Fittock retorted angrily, 'Think you can't do no wrong 'cause yer uncle's the viceadmiral, is that it? Why, you little shite, I've served with 'im afore, an' you're not fit to be in the same ship as 'im! '
Vincent stared at him glassily. It was all going wrong.
'Corporal, seize that man! Take him aft! ' He almost screamed. 'That's an order, man! '
The ship's corporal licked his lips and made as if to unsling his musket. 'Come on, Jim Fittock, you knows the rules. Let's not 'ave any trouble, eh?'
Feet scraped on the gratings between the casks and some white breeches moved into the lantern's glow.
Midshipman Roger Segrave said calmly, 'There'll be no trouble, Corporal.'
Vincent hissed, 'What the hell are you saying? They were drinking unlawfully, and when I discovered them-'
'They were 'insubordinate,' I suppose?' Segrave was astonished by his own easy tones. Like a total stranger's.
He said, 'Cut along, you two.' He turned to the corporal, who was staring at him, his sweating face full of gratitude. 'And you. I'll not be needing you.'
Vincent shouted wildly, 'What about the cognac?' But of course, like magic, it had vanished.
Fittock paused and looked him in the eyes, and said softly, 'I'll not forget.' Then he was gone.
'One more thing, Corporal.' The leggings and polished boots froze on the ladder. 'Close the hatch when you leave.'
Vincent was staring at him with disbelief. 'Are you mad?'
Segrave tossed his coat to the deck. 'I used to know someone very like you.' He began to roll up his sleeves. 'He was a bully too-a petty little tyrant who made my life a misery.'
Vincent forced a laugh. In the damp, cool hold it came back as a mocking echo.
'So it was all too much for you, was it?'
Surprisingly, Segrave found he could answer without emotion.
'Yes. It was. Until one day I met your uncle and a man with only half a face. After that I accepted fear-I can do so again.'
He heard the hatch thud into position. 'All this time I've watched you using your uncle's name so that you can torment those who can't answer back. I'm not surprised you were thrown out of the H.E.I.C.' It was only a guess but he saw it hit home. 'So now you'll know what it feels like! '
Vincent exclaimed, 'I'll call you out-'
The smash of Segrave's fist into his jaw flung him down onto the deck, blood spurting from a split lip.
Segrave winced from the pain of the blow; all those years of humiliation had been behind it.
'Call me out, sonny?' He punched him again in the face as he scrambled to his feet, and sent him sprawling. 'Duels are for men, not pigmies! '
Four decks above them Lieutenant Flemyng, who was the officer-of-the-watch, took a few paces this way and that before glancing again at the half-hour glass by the compass box.
He beckoned to a boatswain's mate and snapped, 'Go and find that damned snotty, will you, Gregg? Skylarking somewhere, I shouldn't wonder.'
The man knuckled his forehead and made to hurry away, but was stopped by the harsh voice of Cazalet, the first lieutenant.
'Not just yet, Mr Flemyng! ' He came from Tynemouth and had a voice which carried above the strongest gale.
Flemyng, who was the ship's third lieutenant, stared at him questioningly.
Cazalet smiled to himself and trained his glass on the old Sunderland. 'I think he should have a mite longer, don't you?'
Admiral the Lord Godschale flapped a silk handkerchief before his hawk-like nose and commented, 'The damn river is a bit vile this evening.'
He looked powerfully magnificent in his heavy dress coat and shining epaulettes, and as he stood watching the colourful throng of guests which overflowed the broad terrace of his Greenwich house he found time to reflect on his good fortune.
But it was extremely hot, and would remain so until night touched the Thames and brought some cool relief to the officers in their coats of blue and scarlet. Godschale watched the river winding its endless journey up and around the curve into Blackwall Reach, the ant-like movement of wherries and local craft. It was an imposing house and he was constantly grateful that the previous owner had sold so eagerly and reasonably. At the outbreak of war with France, as all the hideous news of the Terror had insinuated its way across the Channel, the former owner had taken his possessions and investments and had fled to America.
Godschale smiled grimly. So much for his faith in his country's defences at the time.
He saw the slight figure of Sir Charles Inskip threading his way through the laughing, jostling guests, bobbing here, smiling there-the true diplomat. Godschale felt the return of his uneasiness.
Inskip joined him and took a tall glass of wine from one of the many sweating servants.
'Quite a gathering, m'lord.'
Godschale frowned. He had planned the reception with great care. People who mattered in society evenly mixed with the military and those of his own service. Even the Prime Minister was coming. Grenville had only held office for a year and after Pitt, whatever people had said about him, he had been a disaster. Now they had a Tory again, the Duke of Portland no less, who would probably be even more out of touch with the war than Grenville had been.
He saw his wife deeply engaged in conversation with two of her closest friends. The latest gossip no doubt. It was hard to picture her as the lively girl he had first met when he had been a dashing frigate captain. Plain, and rather dull. He shook his head. Where had that girl gone?
He glanced at the other women nearest to him. The hot weather was a blessing as far as they were concerned. Bare shoulders, plunging dampened gowns which would never have been tolerated a few years ago in the capital.
Inskip saw his hungry expression and asked, 'Is it true that you have recalled Sir Richard Bolitho? If so, I think we should have been informed.'
Godschale ignored the careful criticism. 'Had to. I sent Tybalt for him. He anchored at the Nore two days ago.'
Inskip was unimpressed. 'I don't see how it will help.'
Godschale tore his eyes from a young woman whose breasts would have been bare if her gown were stitched half an inch lower.
He said in a deep whisper, 'You've heard the news? Napoleon has signed a treaty with Russia and has had the damned audacity to order, if you please, order Sweden and Denmark to close their ports against us and to sever all trade. In addition France has demanded their fleets to be put at their disposal! God damn it, man that would be close on two hundred ships! Why did nobody see the nearness of this sorry affair? Your people are supposed to have eyes and ears in Denmark! '
Inskip shrugged. 'What shall we do next, I wonder?'
Godschale tugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him. 'Do? I'd have thought it was obvious! '
Inskip recalled Bolitho's bitterness and contempt when Truculent had sighted the three Frenchmen.
He said, 'So that is why Bolitho will be here?'
