The Bomb Vessel

already endured the symptoms for five days without the appearance of the dreaded 'eruption'. Lettsom had fussed over him, forcing him to drink infusions of bark without committing himself to a diagnosis. The non-appearance of a sore had led Drinkwater to conclude he might have contracted the marsh-ague from the mists of the Medway. God knew he had exposed himself to chills and exhaustion as he had striven to prepare his ship, and his cabin stove had been removed with Mrs Jex, prior to the loading of powder.

He thought of the admonition he had received from Martin and the recollection made him search ahead, under the curved foot of the forecourse to where Explosion led the bomb vessels and three tenders to the north eastward. What he saw only served to unsettle him further.

'Mr Easton!' he shouted with sudden asperity, 'do you not see the commodore's signalling?' Martin, the epitome of prudence tending to timidity, was reducing sail, brailing up his courses and snugging down to double reefed topsails and a staysail forward. Drinkwater left Easton to similarly reduce Virago's canvas and repeat the signal to the vessels astern. He fulminated silently to himself, having already decided that Martin was a cross they were all going to have to bear. As senior officer he had been most insistent upon being addressed as 'commodore' for the short passage from Sheerness to Yarmouth. Drinkwater found that sort of pedantry a cause for contempt and irritation. He was aware, too, that Martin was not simply a fussy senior officer. It was clear that whatever advancement Drinkwater expected to wring out of his present appointment was going to have to be despite Captain Martin, who seemed to wish to thwart the lieutenant. Drinkwater threw off his gloomy thoughts, the professional melancholy known as 'the blue devils', and watched a herring gull glide alongside Virago, riding the turbulent air disturbed by the passage of the ship. With an almost imperceptible closing of its wings it suddenly sideslipped and curved away into the low trough of a wave lifting on Virago's larboard quarter.

'Sail reduced sir.'

'Very well, Mr Easton. Be so good as to keep a sharp watch on the commodore, particularly in this visibility.'

Easton bit his lip. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

'When will we be abeam the Gunfleet beacon?'

'Bout an hour, sir.'

'Thank you.'

Easton turned away and Drinkwater looked over the ship. His earlier premonition had been correct. She had an immensely solid feel about her, despite her lack of overall size. Her massive scantlings gave her this, but she was also positive to handle and gave him a feeling of confident satisfaction as his first true command.

He looked astern at the remainder of the squadron. Terror, Sulphur, Zebra and Hecla could just be made out. Discovery and the other two tenders, both Geordie colliers, were lost in the rain to the south westward. The remaining bomb, Volcano, was somewhere ahead of Explosion.

He saw one of the tenders emerge from the rain astern of Hecla. She was a barque rigged collier called the Anne Reed, requisitioned by the Ordnance Board and fitted up as an accommodation vessel for the Royal Artillery detachment, some eight officers and eighty men who, in addition to half a dozen ordnance carpenters from the Tower of London, would work the mortars when the time came. Lieutenant Tumilty was somewhere aboard her, no doubt engaged in furious and bucolic debate with his fellow 'pyroballogists' over the more abstruse aspects of fire-throwing.

Drinkwater smiled to himself, missing the man's company. Doubtless there would be time for that later, when they reached Yarmouth and again when they entered the Baltic.

A stronger gust of wind dashed the spray of a breaking wave and whipped it over Virago's quarter. A cold trickle wormed its way down Drinkwater's neck, reminding him that he need not stand on deck all day. Already the Swin had opened to become the King's Channel, now that too merged with the Barrow Deep. Easton lifted his glass and stared to the north. The rain would prevent them seeing the Naze and its tower. Drinkwater fumbled in his tail pocket and brought out his own glass. He scanned the same arc of the horizon, seeing it become indistinct, grey and blurred as yet another rain squall obscured it. He waited patiently for it to pass, then looked again. This time Easton beat him to it.

'A point forrard of the beam, sir.'

Drinkwater hesitated. Then he saw it, a pole surmounted by a wooden cage over which he could just make out a faint, horizontal blur. The blur was, he knew, a huge wooden fish.

'Very well, Mr Easton, a bearing if you please and note in your log.'

A quarter of an hour later the Gunfleet beacon was obliterated astern by more rain and as night came on the wind increased.

By midnight the gale was at its height and the squadron scattered. Drinkwater had brought Virago to an anchor, veering away two full cables secured end to end. For although they were clear of the longshoals that run into the mouth of the Thames they had yet to negotiate the Gabbards and the Galloper and the Shipwash banks, out in the howling blackness to leeward.

The fatigue and anxiety of the night seemed heightened by his fever and he seemed possessed of a remarkable energy that he knew he would pay dearly for later, but he hounded his officers and took frequent casts of the lead to see whether their anchor was dragging. At six bells in the middle watch the atmosphere cleared and they were rewarded by a glimpse of the lights of the floating alarm vessel[1] at the Sunk. With relief he went below, collapsing across his cot in his wet boat cloak, his feet stuck out behind him still in their shoes. Only his hat rolled off his head and into a damp corner beneath a carronade slide.

Lieutenant Rogers relieved Mr Trussel at four in the morning.

'Wind's abating, sir,' added Trussel after handing the deck over to the lieutenant.

'Yes.'

'And veering a touch. Captain said to call him if it veered, sir.'

'Very well.' Rogers wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and slipped the pewter mug that was now empty of coffee into the bottom shelf of the binnacle. He looked up at the dark streamer of the masthead pendant, then down at the oscillating compass. The wind was indeed veering.

'Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Pass word to the Captain that the wind's veering, north west a half west and easing a touch, I fancy.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

The cloud was clearing to windward and a few stars were visible. Rogers crossed the deck to look at the traverse board then hailed the masthead to see if anything was visible from there.

Drinkwater arrived on deck five minutes later. It had taken him a great effort to urge his aching and stiffened limbs to obey him.

'Morning sir.'

'Mornin',' Drinkwater grunted, 'any sign of the commodore or the Sunk alarm vessel?'

'No sign of the commodore but the Sunk's still in sight. She's held to her anchor.'

'Very well. Wind's easing ain't it?'

'Aye, 'tis dropping all the time.'

'Turn the hands up then, we'll prepare to weigh.'

Drinkwater walked aft and placed his hands on the caned taffrail, drawing gulps of fresh air into his lungs and seeking in vain some invigoration from the dawn. Around him the ship came to life. The flog of topsails being cast loose and sheeted home, the dull thud of windlass bars being shipped. There was no fiddler aboard Virago and the men set up a low chant as they began to heave the barrels round to a clunking of pawls. The cable came in very slowly.

They had anchored north east of the Sunk, under the partial shelter of the Shipwash Sand and Virago rolled as her head was pulled round to her anchor. Already a faint lightening of the sky was perceptible to the east. Drinkwater shook the last of the sleep from him and turned forward.

'Forrard there, how does she lead?'

'Two points to larboard, sir, and coming to it.' Matchett's voice came back to him from the fo'c's'le. Drinkwater drummed his fingers on the poop rail.

'Up and down, sir.'