Staring out over the bright waters of Spithead she touched the life quickening within her. Her heart was full to bursting with her misery. The horrors of her week-long journey rose again before her at a time when she had thought to be burying them in happiness. Shame for her man and for herself, shame for the unborn child and for the depths of degradation to which one human could subject another welled up within her. Tears rolled down her cheeks.
Her eyes stared out unseeing at the ships lying to the tide. She was a small, broken piece of the price Britain paid for its naval puissance.
It was some time before old Blackmore noticed the lonely figure forward. He had relieved Keene of the deck and soon sent Drinkwater to turn the woman below again. Blackmore, trained in the merchant service, retained his civilian prejudice for refusing women leave to come on board. He sighed. In the merchant service a master gave his crew shore leave. If they wished to visit a brothel that was their affair, but they could be relied upon to return to their ship. The navy's fear of desertion prevented any liberty and resulted in the drunken orgy at present in progress between decks. If the old sailing master could do nothing to alter the crazy logic of Admiralty he was damned if he would have the upper deck marred by the presence of a whore.
Drinkwater approached the girl. In her preoccupation she did not hear him. He coughed and she turned, only to blench at his uniform. She drew back against the coils of hemp imagining Morris's threat of a flogging about to be carried out.
'Excuse me ma'am,' began Drinkwater, unsure of himself. The woman was obviously distressed. 'The Master's compliments and would you please to go below…'
She looked at him uncomprehending.
'Please ma'am,' the midshipman pleaded, 'None of you, er, ladies are permitted above decks.' She began to perceive his meaning and his embarrassment. Her courage rallied. Here was one she could answer back.
'D'you think I'm one of them 'arlots?' she asked indignantly. Drinkwater stepped back and the girl gained more spirit from his discomfiture.
'I'm a proper wife, Mrs Sharples to the likes o'you, and I journeyed a week to see my 'usband Tom…' she hesitated and Drinkwater tried to placate her.
'Then, please ma'am, will ye go to Sharples and bide with him.'
She rose in scorn. 'Aye willingly, Mister Officer, if ye'd return him to me but he's out there…' she waved over the side, 'off in a boat, an' me with child and a week on the road only to find 'im beat and, and…' here she could not bring herself to say more and her courage failed her. She stepped forward and fainted into the arms of a confused Drinkwater. Then in an intuitive flash he realised she knew of her husband's humiliation.
He called aft for Appleby and the surgeon puffed up along the gangway. A glance took in the lady's condition and her nervous state. Appleby chafed her wrists and sent Drinkwater off for sal volatile from his chest. A few minutes later the girl recovered consciousness. Blackmore had come up and demanded an explanation. Having made an enquiry on passing through the gun-deck en route to the surgeon's chest, Drinkwater was able to tell the master that Sharples had gone off in the launch with Morris. 'But the man's not in the launch crew.'
'I know, Mr Blackmore,' replied Drinkwater.
'Did Morris single him out?'
'It appears so, sir.' Drinkwater shrugged and bit his lip.
'D'ye have any idea why?' asked Blackmore, shrewdly noticing the midshipman's face shadowed by doubtful knowledge. Drinkwater hesitated. It was more eloquent than words.
'Come on now, young shaver, if ye know, let's have it out.'
The midshipman swallowed hard. He looked at the distressed girl, golden curls fell about a comely face and she looked like a damsel in distress. Drinkwater burnt his boats.
'Morris has been buggering her husband,' he said in a low voice.
'And Sharples?' enquired Blackmore.
'He was forced, sir…'
Blackmore gave Drinkwater another hard look. He did not have to ask more. Long experience had taught him what had occurred. Morris would have bullied Drinkwater, may even have offered him physical violence or worse. The old man was filled with a loathing for this navy that ran on brutality.
'Let the lady get some air,' said Blackmore abruptly and turned aft for the quarterdeck.
When the launch returned Sharples was reunited with his wife. He had endured three hours of abuse and ridicule from Morris and his boat's crew.
Having delivered the Admiral's orders Morris made his way to the cockpit.
Drinkwater had also been relieved and going below he met Tregembo. The Cornishman was grinning. He held in his hand two ash sticks, each three feet long, with a guard of rattan work obviously untwisted from one of the blacksmith's withy chisels. 'Here, zur,' said Tregembo. Drinkwater took the sticks.
Drinkwater looked at Tregembo. He had better let the man know what had happened on the upper deck before it became known below.
'The Master knows Morris has been buggering Sharples, Tregembo. You'd better watch Threddle…'
A cloud crossed the Cornishman's face and then he brightened again. The midshipman was not such a disappointment after all.
'Ye'll thrash him easy, zur. Good luck…' Drinkwater continued below. He had uttered words that could hang a man, words that he would never have dared to utter at home. And now he felt ice cold, apprehensive but determined…
In the cockpit Morris and the other midshipmen were eating, mugs of ale at their places. The messman produced a plate for Drinkwater. He waved it aside, went to his place and, standing, cleared his throat.
'H'hmm.' Nobody took any notice. The blood pounded in his throat and adrenaline poured into his blood stream. But still he was cool. 'Mr Morris!' he shouted. He had their attention now.
'Mr Morris. This morning you threatened me and struck me…' A master's mate put his head in through the canvas door. The tableau was lit by two lanterns even at 2 p.m. here in the orlop. The air crackled with tension. Two master's mates were now looking on.
Morris rose slowly to his feet. Drinkwater did not see the apprehension turning to fear in his eyes. He was too busy remaining cool.
'You struck me, sir,' he repeated. He threw a single stick on the table, it knocked over a mug of ale and in the ensuing pause the air was filled with the gurgle of beer running on to the deck.
'Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my dinner if you please…'
He sat down grateful that his own mug remained full. The meal was completed in total silence. The two master's mates disappeared.
It was afterwards agreed that Drinkwater had been extremely sporting in allowing notice of the forthcoming match to be circulated. It was quite a crowd that eagerly cleared a space for the protagonists while Drinkwater removed his coat and stock. Both combatants were in their shirt-sleeves and Drinkwater took up his stick and tested it for balance. He had chosen the weapon for its familiarity. In Barnet it had been a favourite with the lads, imitating the gentleman's short sword, it combined the finesse of that weapon with some of the blunt brutality of the quarterstaff. The carpenter's mate had done well.
Drinkwater watched Beale push the last sea-chest back against the ship's side.
'Mr Beale, will 'ee stand second to me?'
'With pleasure, Mr Drinkwater,' said the other youngster shooting a sidelong glance at Morris.
The latter looked desperately around him. At last one of the master's mates stood second to Morris rather than spoil the match.
As duelling was illegal on board ship Drinkwater's choice of weapons was fortuitously apt. Although he had been guided by his own proficiency with the weapon and chose the single stick in ignorance, any action by the lieutenants could be circumvented by an explanation that it was a sporting occasion. To this end the seconds conferred and decided to send the messman in search of Wheeler who, despite his commissioned status, could be relied upon for his vanity in presiding over such a match.
It was a tiny space in which they had to fight, about five feet four inches high and some fifteen feet by ten in area. The spectators backed up against the ship's side further restricted it. Someone offered odds and the babble of excited voices attracted more attention. Into this babel, calling for order strode the resplendent figure of Lieutenant
