The Bomb Vessel

'In range, sir,' said Easton beside him, 'they'll be good long nines, then.'

'Yes,' said Drinkwater shortly, aware that his tenure of command might be very short indeed, his investment in Virago a wasted one. An uncomfortable vision of the fortresses of Verdun and Bitche rose unbidden into his mind's eye. He swore again softly, cursing his luck, his fever and the waiting.

Beneath his feet he felt a faint rumble as Rogers had the chaser crews run the 6-pounders through the stern ports. He thought briefly of the two portraits hanging on the forward bulkhead and then forgot all about them as the roar of Virago's cannon rang in his ears.

He missed the fall of shot, and that of the second gun. At least Samuel Rogers would do his utmost, of that Drinkwater was certain.

At the fourth shot a hole appeared in the nearer lugger's mizen. Beside Drinkwater Easton ground his right fist into the palm of his left hand with satisfaction.

'Mind you attend to the con, Mr Easton,' Drinkwater said and caught the crest-fallen look as Easton turned to swear at the helmsmen.

The nearer lugger was overhauling them rapidly, her relative bearing opening out broader on the quarter with perceptible speed. 'Luff her a point Mr Easton!'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Virago's heel eased a little and Rogers's two guns fired in quick succession.

Drinkwater watched intently. He fancied he saw a shower of splinters somewhere amidships on the Frenchman then Mason was alongside him.

'Beg pardon sir, but I can get the aftermost larboard guns to bear on that fellow, sir.' The enemy opened fire at that very moment and a buzz filled the air together with a whooshing noise as double shotted ball and canister scoured Virago's deck. Drinkwater heard cries of agony and the bright gout of blood appeared as his eye sought out the damage to his ship.

'Very well, Mr Mason…' But Mason was gone, he lay on the deck silently kicking, his face contorted with pain.

'You there! Get Mr Mason below. Pass word to Mr Q to open fire with both batteries. Independent fire…'

His last words were lost in a crack from aloft and the roar of gunfire from the enemy. The mainyard had been shot through and was sprung, whipping like a broomstick.

'Mains'l Mr Easton! And get the tops'l off her at once…' Men were already starting the tacks and sheets. Matchett's rattan rose and fell as he shoved the waisters towards the clew and buntlines, pouring out a rich and expressive stream of abuse. Even as the car-ronades opened fire Virago slowed and suddenly the leeward lugger was upon them.

Lining her rail a hedge of pikes and sword blades appeared.

'Boarders!' Drinkwater roared as the two vessels ground together. A grapnel struck the rail and Drinkwater drew his hanger and sliced the line attached to it.

He saw the men carrying Mason drop him halfway down the poop ladder as they raced for cutlasses.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater screamed with sudden fury as the Frenchmen poured over the rail. His hanger slashed left and right and he seemed to have half a dozen enemies in his front. He pulled out a pistol and shot one through the forehead, then he was only aware of the swish of blades hacking perilously close to his face and the bite and jar in his mangled arm muscles as steel met steel.

The breath rasped in his throat and the fever fogged him with the first red madness of bloodlust longer than was usual. The cool fighting clarity that came out of some chilling primeval past revived him at last. The long fearful wait for action was over and the realisation that he was unscathed in those first dreadful seconds left him with a detachment that seemed divorced from the grim realities of hand to hand fighting. He was filled with an extraordinary nervous energy that could only have owed its origins to his fevered state. He seemed wonderfully possessed of demonic powers, the sword blade sang in his hand and he felt an overwhelming and savagely furious joy in his butchery.

He was not aware of Tregembo and Easton rallying on him. He was oblivious to James Quilhampton a deck below still pouring shot after shot into the French lugger's hull at point blank range with two 24-pounder carronades. Neither did he see Rogers emerge on deck with the starboard gun crews who had succeeded in dismasting the other lugger at a sufficient distance, nor that Quilhampton had so persistently hulled their closer adversary that her commander realised he had caught a Tartar and decided to withdraw.

He did not know that the Viragos were inspired by the sight of their hatless captain, one foot on the rail, hacking murderously at the privateersmen like a devil incarnate.

Drinkwater was only aware that it was over when there were no more Frenchmen to be killed and beneath him a widening gulf between the two hulls. He looked, panting, at his reeking hands; his right arm was blood- soaked to the elbow. He was sodden from the perspiration of fever and exertion. He watched their adversary drop astern, her sails flogging. She was low in the water, sinking fast. Several men swam round her, the last to leave Virago he presumed. Staggering as though drunk, he looked for the second lugger. Her foremast was gone and her crew were sweeping her up to the assistance of her foundering consort.

Drinkwater was aware of a cheer around him. Men were shouting and grinning, all bloody among the wounded and the dead. Rogers was coming towards him, his face cracked into a grin of pure delight. Then there was another cheer out to starboard and Virago surged past the anchored red bulk of the Sunk alarm vessel, her crew waving from the rail, her big Trinity House ensign at the dip.

'They bastards've bin 'anging round three days 'n' more,' he heard her master shout in the Essex dialect as they passed.

'I fancy we fooled the sods then, God damn 'em,' said Rogers as the cheers died away. Drinkwater's head cleared to the realisation that he was shivering violently. He managed a thin smile. Ship and company had passed their first test; they were blooded together but now there was a half-clewed main course to furl, a topsail to secure and a mainyard to fish.

'Do you wish to put about and secure a prize, sir?' asked the ever hopeful Rogers.

'No Sam, Captain Martin would never approve of such a foolhardy act. Do you put about for Yarmouth, we must take the Shipway now. Those luggers'll not harm the alarm vessel and have problems enough of their own. Mr Easton, a course to clear Orfordness if you please. See word is passed to Willerton to fish that bloody yard befofe it springs further, and for Christ's sake somebody get that poor fellow Mason below to the surgeon.'

Drinkwater was holding the poop rail to prevent himself keeling over. He was filled with an overwhelming desire to go below but there was one last thing to do.

'Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Do you bring me the butcher's bill in my cabin directly.'

PART TWO Sir Hyde Parker

'If you were here just to look at us! I had heard of manoeuvres off Ushant, but ours beat all ever seen. Would it were over, I am really sick of it!'

NELSON, March 1801

Chapter Eight An Unlawful Obligation

 February-March 1801