The Bomb Vessel

was another roar of laughter. At the end of the action off the Sunk Jex had been discovered hiding in the spare sails below decks.

'You are being uncharitable towards Mr Jex, Mr Rogers. I have it on good authority he was looking for his honour,' Lettsom said as Jex stormed from the cabin the colour of a beetroot.

'Come in. Yes Mr Q, what is it?' Drinkwater's voice was weary.

'Beg pardon, sir, but the vice-admiral's entering the anchorage.' Drinkwater looked up. There was a light in the young man's eyes. 'Lord Nelson, sir,' he added excitedly. Drinkwater could not resist Quilhampton's infectious enthusiasm.

'Thank you, Mr Q,' he said smiling. The hero of the Nile had a strange way of affecting the demeanour of his juniors. Drinkwater remembered their brief meeting at Syracuse and that same infectious enthusiasm that had seemed to imbue Nelson's entire fleet, despite their vain manoeuvrings in chase of Bonaparte. What a shame the same spirit was absent from the present assembly of ships. Drinkwater sighed. The subsequent scandal with Hamilton's wife and the vainglorious progress through Europe that followed the victory at Aboukir Bay, had curled the lip of many of Nelson's equals, but Drinkwater had no more appetite for his paper-work and he found himself pulling a muffler round his neck under his boat cloak to join the men at Virago's rail cheering the little admiral as the St George stood through the gatway into Yarmouth Roads.

The battleship with her three yellow strakes flew a blue flag at her foremasthead and came in with two other warships. Hardly had her sheet anchor dropped from her bow than her cannon boomed out in salute to Parker's flag, flying nominally at the main-masthead of the 64-gun Ardent until the arrival of Parker's proper flagship. The flag's owner was still accommodated at the Wrestler's Inn and this fact must have been early acquainted to Nelson for his barge was shortly afterwards seen making for the landing jetty. It was later rumoured that, although he received a cordial enough welcome from the commander-in-chief, Parker refused to discuss arrangements for the fleet on their first meeting.

Although a man who appeared to have lost both head and heart to Emma Hamilton, Nelson had never let love interfere with duty. It was soon common knowledge in the fleet that his criticisms of Parker were frank, scatological and scathing. Nelson's dissatisfaction spread like wildfire, and ribald jests were everywhere heard, particularly among the hands on the ships that waited in the chill winds and shivered in their draughty gun decks while Sir Hyde banked the bedroom fire in the Wrestler's Inn. In addition to Lettsom's doggerel there were other ribaldries, mostly puns upon the name of the hostelry where Parker lodged and all of them enjoyed with relish in gunrooms as on gun decks, in cockpits and in staterooms. Nelson had given a dinner the evening of his arrival and expressed his fears on the consequences of a delay. His impatience did not improve as day succeeded day.

The final preparations for the departure of the expedition were completed. Nearly eight hundred men of the 49th Foot with a company of rifles had been embarked under Colonel Stewart. Eleven masters of Baltic trading ships and all members of the Trinity House of Kingston-upon-Hull had joined for the purpose of piloting the fleet through the dangers of the Baltic Sea. On Monday 9th March Parker's flagship the London arrived and his flag was ceremoniously shifted aboard her at eight o'clock the next morning. The admiral remained ashore.

Later that day an Admiralty messenger arrived in Yarmouth with an order for Parker to sail, but still he prevaricated. His wife had arranged a ball for the coming Friday and, to indulge his Fanny, Parker postponed the fleet's departure until after the event.

That evening Lieutenant Drinkwater also received a message, scribbled on a piece of grubby paper:

Nathaniel

I beg you come ashore at eight of the clock tonight. I must see you on a matter of the utmost urgency.

I beg you not to ignore this plea and I will await you on the west side of the Yare ferry.

Ned

The word must was underlined heavily. Drinkwater looked up at the longshoreman who had brought the note and had refused to relinquish it to Mr Quilhampton who now stood protectively suspicious behind the ragged boatman.

'The man was insistent I give it to you personal, sir,' he said in the lilting Norfolk accent.

'What manner of man was it gave you this note?'

'Why, I'd say he were a serving man, sir. Not a gentleman like you sir, though he was gen'rous with his master's money…' The implication was plain enough without looking at the man's face. Drinkwater drew a coin from his pocket.

'Here,' he passed it to the boatman, frowning down at the note. He dismissed the man. 'Mr Q.'

'Sir?'

'A boat, please, in an hour's time.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And Mr Q, not a word of this to anyone if you please.' He fixed Quilhampton with a baleful glance. If Edward was reduced to penury in a matter of weeks he did not want the world to know of it.

A bitter easterly wind blew across the low land south of the town. The village of Gorleston exhibited a few lights on the opposite bank as he descended into the ferry. Darkness had come early and the fresh wind had led him to order his boat off until the following morning. To the half guinea the note had cost him it now looked as though he would have to add the charge of a night's lodging ashore. Brotherly love was becoming an expensive luxury which he could ill afford. And now, he mused as the ferryman held out a fist, there was an added penny for the damned ferry.

Clambering up the far bank he allowed the other passengers to pass ahead of him. He could see no one waiting, then a shadow detached itself from a large bush growing on the river bank.

'God damn it, Ned. Is that you?'

'Ssh, for the love of Christ…'

'What the devil are you playing at?'

'I must talk to you…' Edward loomed out of the shadows, standing up suddenly in front of Drinkwater. Beneath a dark cloak Drinkwater could see the pale gleam of a shirt. Edward's hair was undressed and loosely blowing round his face. Even in the gloom Drinkwater could see he was in a dishevelled state. He was the longshoreman's 'serving man'.

'What in God's name…?'

'Walk slowly, Nat, and for heaven's sake spare me further comment. I'm deep in trouble. Terrible trouble…' Edward shivered, though whether from cold or terror his brother could not be sure.

'Well come on, man, what's amiss? I have not got all night…' But of course he had. 'Is it about the money, Edward?'

He heard the faint chink of gold in a purse. 'No, I have the remains of that here. It is not a great deal… Nat, I am ruined…'

Drinkwater was appalled: 'D'you mean you have lost that two hundred and fifty…? My God, you'll have no more!'

'God, Nat, it isn't money that I want.'

'Well what the devil is it?'

'Can you take me on your ship? Hide me? Land me wherever you are going. I speak French. Like a German they say. For God's sake, Nat you are my only hope, I beg you.'

Drinkwater stopped and turned to his brother. 'What the hell is this all about, Ned?'

'I am a fugitive from the law. From the extremity of the law, Nat. If I am taken I…' he broke off. 'Nat, when I heard your ships were assembling at Yarmouth and arrived to find Virago anchored off the shore I… I hoped…'

'What are you guilty of?' asked Drinkwater, a cold certainty settling round his heart.

'Murder.'

There was a long silence between the brothers. At last Drinkwater said, 'Tell me what happened.'

'I told you of the girl? Pascale?'

'Aye, you did.'