A Brig of War

quill-pusher, and by the time it takes for the mills of Admiralty to grind, I wager you'll not hear another word about it.'

They went out into the blinding sunshine of the quarterdeck to bid Wrinch farewell.

'I doubt we will meet again, Nathaniel,' said Wrinch extending his hand which emerged from an over lavish profusion of cuff extending from a sober black sleeve. 'Now that the matter of the brig's loss is concluded Blankett will be anxious to have you on your way. I have done you a little service. I think by sunset you will have an epaulette.' Wrinch smiled while Drinkwater stammered his thanks. 'Do not mention it, my dear fellow. God go with you and do you mind that sot Morris, there's no love for him in the squadron and I think he'll accompany you home.'

They watched him descend into the admiral's barge and were on the point of calling their own boat when a midshipman approached Drinkwater.

'The admiral desires that you attend him in the cabin, sir.'

Drinkwater returned to the admiral's presence. The green baize covered table was swept clear of papers and a bottle and glass had replaced them. The admiral sat in his shirt-sleeves with his stock loosened.

'Ah, Mr er, Mr…'

'Drinkwater, sir.'

'Ah, yes, quite so. Prefer wine myself,' chuckled the admiral pouring himself a glass. He swallowed half of it and looked up. 'The matter of the Antigone. I have it in mind to promote you, subject of course to their lordships' ratification. You will receive your commission and your orders to proceed without delay to Spithead. You will also carry my dispatches. Have the goodness to send an officer an hour before sunset. I understand the frigate is adequately supplied?'

Drinkwater expressed his gratitude. 'As to provisions, sir, she was wanting only her guns when we took her. The French had salted a quantity of mutton looted from the Arabs and we were able to salvage much from the Hellebore.'

'Good, good. Now Mr, er, Mr Drinkwater, as to the conduct of the prize, I understand that Commander Griffiths had no prize money arrangement with Stuart or Ball, is that so?' Blankett's voice was suddenly confidential.

'I believe that to be the case, sir.'

'Good. Well you stand to profit from the venture if you bring her home in one piece.' The admiral fixed Drinkwater with a steely eye.

'I think your eighth will be safe, sir,' he volunteered, forming the shrewd and accurate suspicion that the rear-admiral had some designs on Griffiths's share of the head money on the action with La Torride as well as his portion of the condemned value of the Antigone. Blankett scratched his head beneath his wig.

'You will need an additional officer; best keep that fellow Morris with you. Ball don't want him aboard Daedalus. Damned fellow's got some petticoat influence but Ball says he's a sodomite. I'll send the bugger home before I have to hang him.'

Drinkwater's mouth fell open. It was clear Blankett would not want Morris left on his hands, even that he knew all about him to the point of remembering his name.

'That will do, Mr, er… yes that will do, now be damned sure you look after that frigate. Use caution in the Soundings, I don't want my prize money ending up as firewood in some poxy Cornish wrecker's hovel.'

Drinkwater withdrew, mixed feelings raging within him. He stopped outside the admiral's cabin to trim his hat. 'Commander Nathaniel Drinkwater,' he muttered experimentally beneath his breath. Then he flushed as the rigid marine sentry, bull-necked and bright red in the heat, coughed discreetly. He strode out on to Leopard's quarterdeck.

'Nothing serious I hope?' asked Rogers anxiously, still smarting over the censuring of the court. Drinkwater smiled.

'Depends on your point of view, Samuel.'

'I'm sorry, I don't follow.'

'That venal old reprobate,' Drinkwater checked his wild exuberance at having his step in rank at last, 'His Excellency Rear-Admiral John Blankett has had the goodness to promote me to commander.'

'Well I'm damned! I mean, damn it, congratulations, Mr Drinkwater.'

'That's very decent of you, Samuel. But don't let us count our chickens just yet. This news will poison Morris.'

'Isn't he to return to Daedalus… sir?'

'No, I regret he is not. By a wonderful irony he is to be my first lieutenant. I'm sorry it ain't you, Samuel, but there we are.'

They hailed their boat, resolving to remain silent upon the matter until Drinkwater had the commission in his hand and could read himself in.

He waited impatiently for the interminable afternoon to draw to a close. At two bells in the first dog watch he quietly desired Rogers to send a boat to Leopard for their orders. Rogers sent Mr Dalziell.

Drinkwater sat in his cabin and took out his journal and began to write. It was with great satisfaction that I attended the R.Ad this morning and was acquainted with the fact that I am to be made Master and Commander. This in my thirty-sixth year, after twenty years' sea service. This step in rank removes many apprehensions and vain imaginings from my mind. He paused then added: I thank God for it.

It was both pious and pompous but he felt his moment of vanity, though it might earn a rebuke from Elizabeth, could be allowed expression in the privacy of his journal. He fell into a brown study dreaming of home.

Aboard Leopard Mr Dalziell waited in the admiral's secretary's cabin while that worthy, a man named Wishart, inscribed with painful slowness upon a packet.

'There are your orders.' He carefully handed over a sealed bundle and being a proper man insisted Dalziell signed the receipt before receiving a second. 'And there are the admiral's dispatches. See that your commander puts them in a secure place.' Again they performed the ritual of signature and exchange. And now,' said Mr Wishart drawing a paper towards him, 'the admiral has a dreadful memory for names, what is the name of your senior lieutenant, eh?'

He dipped his pen and held it expectantly. 'Morris, sir, Mr Augustus Morris, related by marriage to the Earl of Dungarth not unknown to the Earl of Sandwich sir,' Dalziell wheedled ingratiatingly.

'Is that so? In that case,' said Mr Wishart, sprinkling sand over the recipient's name, 'he seems admirably fitted to sail so fine a frigate home. Here is Mr Morris's commission as Commander.'

Chapter Eighteen Morris

 October 1799

Drinkwater was not listening to the garbled words of divine service as Morris mumbled his way through them. Morris's voice had not the resonant conviction of Griffiths's splendid diction and Drinkwater's loathing of Morris's too-obvious feet of clay made parody of the Book of Common Prayer. Instead Drinkwater looked forward, beyond the semi-circle of commissioned and warrant officers in full uniform with their left hands upon their sword hilts and cocked hats beneath their elbows, at the hands massed in the waist. There were about eighty men left to take the big frigate home, not many to work her, not enough to fight her.

But it was not the quality of the number that concerned Drinkwater. His acute senses were tuned to their mood, and in the present calm as the Indian Ocean lay quiet waiting for the first breath of the north-east monsoon, there was an ugliness about it. It was as though the expectant oiliness of the sea exerted some influence upon the minds of the men like that of the moon upon the sea itself.

Drinkwater discarded the over-ripe metaphor, aware that his own chronic disappointment was souring him.