The Bomb Vessel

enough that the exigencies of the service demanded his constant presence on board until sailing, but that this good-for-nothing killbuck of a brother must turn up to prey on his better nature.

'How much do you want?'

'Five hundred would…'

'Five hundred! God's bones, Edward, where in the name of Almighty God d'you think I can lay my hands on five hundred pounds?'

'I heard you did well from prize money…'

'Prize money? God, Ned, but you've a damned nerve. D'you know how many scars I've got for that damned prize money, how many sleepless nights, hours of worry…? No, of course you don't. You've been cutting a dash, gaming and whoring like the rest of this country's so-called gentry while your sea-officers and seamen are rotting in their wooden coffins. God damn it, Ned, but I've a wife and family to be looked to first.' His temper began to ebb. Without looking up Edward muttered:

'I heard too, that you received a bequest.'

'Where the hell d'you learn that?' A low fury came into his voice.

'Oh, I learned it in Petersfield.' That would not be difficult. There were enough gossips in any town to know the business of others. It was true that he had received a sizeable bequest from the estate of his former captain, Madoc Griffiths. 'They say it was three thousand pounds.'

'They may say what the hell they like. It is no longer mine. Most is in trust for my children, the remainder made over to my wife.' He paused again and Edward looked up, disappointed yet irritatingly unrepentant.

It suddenly occurred to Drinkwater that the expenses incurred in the fitting out of a ship, even a minor one like Virago, were inconceivable to Edward. He began to repent of his unbrotherly temper; to hold himself mean, still reproved in his conscience for the trick he had played on Jex, no matter how many barrels of sauerkraut it had bought.

'Listen, Ned, I am more than two hundred pounds out of pocket in fitting out my ship. That is why we receive prize money, that and for the wounds we endure in an uncaring country's service. You talk of fencing lessons but you've never known what it is to cut a man down before he kills you. You regard my uniform as some talisman opening the salons of the ton to me when I am nothing but a dog of a sailor, lieutenant or not. Why, Ned, I am not fit to crawl beneath the bootsoles of a twelve-year-old ensign of horse whose commission costs him two thousand pounds.' All the bitterness of his profession rose to the surface, replacing his anger with the gall of experience.

Edward remained silent, pouring them both another drink. After several moments Nathaniel rose and went to a small table. From the tail pocket of his coat he drew a small tablet and a pencil. He began to write, calling for wax and a candle.

After sealing the letter he handed it to his brother. 'That is all I can, in all conscience, manage.'

Then he left, picking up his hat without another word, leaving Edward to wonder over the amount and without waiting for thanks.

He was too preoccupied to notice Mr Jex drinking in the taproom as he made his way through to the street.

Chapter Five The Pyroballogist

January-February 1801 

Drinkwater raised the speaking trumpet. 'A trifle more in on that foretack, if you please Mr Matchett.' He transferred his attention to the waist where the master attended the main braces. 'You may belay the main braces Mr Easton.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Virago slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. 'Full and bye.'

'Full an' bye, zur.' Tregembo answered from the. tiller. Drinkwater, short of men still, had rated the Cornishman quartermaster.

They cleared the end of the trot, slipping beneath the wooded hill at Upnor.

'Up helm!' Virago swung, turning slowly before the wind. Drinkwater nodded to Rogers. 'Square the yards.' Rogers bawled at the men at the braces as Virago brought the wind astern, speeding downstream with the ebb tide under her, her forecourse, three topsails and foretopmast staysail set. The latter flapped now, masked by the forecourse.

They swung south east out of Cockham Reach, the river widening, its north bank falling astern, displaced by the low line of Hoo Island. They passed the line of prison hulks, disfigured old ships, broken, black and sinister. The hands swung the yards as the ship made each turn in the channel, the officers attentive during this first passage of the elderly vessel. They rounded the fort on Darnetness.

'Give her the main course, Mr Rogers.'

'Aye, aye, sir. Main yard there! Let fall! Let fall! Mind tacks and sheets there, you blasted lubbers! Look lively there! Watch, God damn it, there's a kink in the starboard clew garnet! It'll snag in the lead block, Mr Quil-bloody- hampton!'

Virago gathered speed, the tide giving Drinkwater a brief illusion of commanding something other than a tub of a ship. He smiled to himself. Though slow, Virago was heavy enough to carry her way and would probably handle well enough in a seaway. She had a ponderous certainty about her that might become an endearing quality, Drinkwater thought. He swung her down Kethole Reach and Rogers braced the yards up again as the wind veered a point towards the north. To the west the sky was clearing and almost horizontal beams of sunlight began to slant through the overcast, shining ahead of them to where the fort at Garrison Point and the Sheerness Dockyard gleamed dully against the monotones of marsh and islands.

'Clew up the courses as we square away in Saltpan Reach, Mr Rogers.' He levelled his glass ahead. Half a dozen squat hulled shapes were riding at anchor off Deadman's Island, a mile up stream from Sheerness. They were bomb vessels anchored close to the powder hulks at Blackstakes.

A chattering had broken out amidships. 'Silence there!' snapped Rogers. Drinkwater watched the line of bombs grow larger. 'Up courses if you please.'

Rogers bawled, Quilhampton piped and Matchett shouted. The heavy flog of resisting canvas rose above Drinkwater's head as he studied the bombs through his glass, selecting a place to bring Virago to her anchor.

They were abeam the upstream vessel, a knot of curious officers visible on her deck. There was a gap between the fourth and fifth bomb vessel, sufficient for Virago to swing. Drinkwater felt a thrill of pure excitement. He could go downstream and anchor in perfect safety at the seaward end of the line; but that gap beckoned.

'Stand by the braces, Mr Rogers! Down helm!'

'Down helm, zur!' Virago turned to starboard, her yards creaking round in their parrels, the forestaysail filling with a crack.

'Brace sharp up there, damn it!' he snapped, then to the helm, 'Full and bye!'

'Full an' bye, zur,' replied the impassive Tregembo.

Drinkwater sailed Virago as close to the wind as possible as the ebb pushed her remorselessly downstream. If he made a misjudgement he would crash on board the bomb vessel next astern. He could see a group of people forward on her, no doubt equally alerted to the possibility. He watched the relative bearing of the other vessel's foremast. It drew slowly astern: he could do it.

'Anchor's ready, sir,' muttered Rogers.

'Very well.' They were suddenly level with the bow of the other ship.

'Down helm!' Virago turned to starboard again, her sails about to shiver, then to flog. She carried her way, the water chuckling under her bow as she crept over the tide, leaving the anxious watchers astern and edging up on the ship next ahead.