The Bomb Vessel

nature to solicit interest, but surely there must be a cutter somewhere…'

Dungarth smiled. 'You wouldn't sail on a frigate or a line of battleship?'

Drinkwater grinned with relief. 'I'd sail in a bath-tub if it mounted a carronade, but I fear I lack the youth for a frigate or the polish for a battleship. An unrated vessel would at least give me an opportunity.'

Dungarth looked shrewdly at Drinkwater. It was a pity such a promising officer had not yet received a commander's commission. He recognised Drinkwater's desire for an unrated ship as a symptom of his dilemma. He wanted his own vessel, a lieutenant's command. It offered him his only real chance to distinguish himself. But passed-over lieutenants grew old in charge of transports, cutters and gun-brigs, involved in the tedious routines of convoy escort or murderous little skirmishes unknown to the public. Drinkwater seemed to have all the makings of such a man. There was a touch of grey at the temples of the mop of brown hair that was scraped back from the high forehead into a queue. His left eyelid bore powder burns like random ink-spots and the dead tissue of an old scar ran down his left cheek. It was the face of a man accustomed to hard duty and disappointment. Dungarth, occupied with the business of prosecuting an increasingly unpopular war, recognised its talents were wasted in Petersfield.

The rum arrived. 'You are a fish out of water, Nathaniel. What would you say to a gun-brig?' He watched for reaction in the grey eyes of the younger man. They kindled immediately, banishing the rigidity of the face and reminding Dungarth of the eager midshipman Drinkwater had once been.

'I'd say that I would be eternally in your debt, my lord.'

Dungarth swallowed his kill-devil and waved Drinkwater's gratitude aside.

'I make no promises, but you'll have heard of the Freya affair, eh? The Danes have had their ruffled feathers smoothed, but the Tsar has taken offence at the force of Lord Whitworth's embassy to Copenhagen to sort the matter out. He resented the entry of British men of war into the Baltic. I tell you this in confidence Nathaniel, recalling you to your assurances when you served aboard Kestrel…'

Drinkwater nodded, feeling his pulse quicken. 'I understand, my lord.'

'Vaubois had surrendered Malta to us. Pitt is of the opinion that Mahon is a sufficient base for the Mediterranean but many of us do not agree. We will hold Malta.' Dungarth raised a significant eyebrow. 'The Tsar covets the island, so too does Ferdinand of the Two Sicilies, but Tsar Paul is Grand Master of the Order of St John and his claim has a specious validity. At the present moment the Coalition against France threatens to burst like a rotten apple: Austria has not fired a shot since her defeat at Marengo in April. In short the Tsar has it in his power to break the whole alliance with ease. He is unstable enough to put his wounded pride before political sense.' He paused to toss off the rum. 'You will recollect at our last contre-temps with His Imperial Majesty, he offered to settle the differences between our two nations in single combat with the King!' Dungarth laughed. 'This time he has settled for merely confiscating all British property in Russia.'

Drinkwater's eyes widened in comprehension.

'I see you follow me,' went on Dungarth. 'For a change we are remarkably well informed of developments both at St Petersburg and at Copenhagen.' He smiled with an ironic touch of self-congratulation. 'Despite the massive subsidies being paid him the Tsar feigns solicitude for Denmark. A predatory concern, but that is the Danes' affair. To be specific, my dear fellow, the pertinent consequence of this lunatic's phobia is to revive the old Armed Neutrality of the Baltic States, moribund since the American War. The combination is already known to us and means the northern allies have an overwhelming force available for operations in concert with the French and Batavian fleets in the North Sea. I have no idea how to reconcile mad Paul with First Consul Bonaparte, but they are said to have a secret understanding. After your own experiences with the Dutch I have no need to conjure to your imagination the consequences of such a combined fleet upon our doorstep.'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'Indeed not.'

'So whatever the outcome…' A knock at the door was accompanied by an announcement that the fresh horses had been put-to. Dungarth picked up his hat. 'Whatever the outcome we must strike with pre-emptive swiftness.' He held out his hand. 'Good-bye, Nathaniel. You may rely on my finding something for you.'

'I am most grateful, my lord. And for the confidences.' He stood, lost in thought as the carriage clattered out of the yard. Less than half an hour had passed since the same coach had soiled his clothes. Already he felt a mounting excitement. The Baltic was comparatively shallow; a theatre for small ships; a war for lieutenants in gun-brigs. His mind raced. He thought of his wife with guilty disloyalty, then of Louise Quilhampton, abandoned in the dressshop with Elizabeth, whose son he had brought home from the Red Sea with an iron hook in place of his left hand.

Drinkwater's mind skipped to thoughts of James Quilhampton, Mr Q as he had been known to the officers of the brig Hellebore. He too was unemployed and eager for a new appointment.

He picked up his hat and swore under his breath. There was also Charlotte Amelia, now nearly two years of age. Drinkwater would miss her sorely if he returned to duty. He thought of her bouncing upon Susan Tregembo's knee as they had left the house an hour earlier. And there was Tregembo, too, silently fretful on his own account at his master's idleness.

The old disease gnawed at him, tugging him two ways: Elizabeth and the trusting brown eyes of his daughter, the comforts and ease of domestic life. And against it the hard fulfilment of a sea-officer's duty. Always the tug of one when the other was to hand.

Elizabeth found him emerging from the Red Lion, noting both his dirtied clothes and the carriage drawing steadily up Sheet Hill.

'Nathaniel?'

'Eh? Ah. Yes, my dear?' Guilt drove him to over-played solicitude. 'Did you satisfy your requirements, eh? Where is Louise?'

'Taken offence, I shouldn't wonder. Nathaniel, you are cozening me. That coach…?'

'Coach, my dear?'

'Coach, Nathaniel, emblazoned three ravens sable upon a field azure, among other quarterings. Lord Dungarth's arms if I mistake not.' She slipped an arm through his while he smiled lopsidedly down at her. She was as lovely as when he had first seen her in a vicarage garden in Falmouth years earlier. Her wide mouth mocked him gently.

'I smell gunpowder, Nathaniel.'

'You have disarmed me, madam.'

'It is not very difficult,' she squeezed his arm, 'you are a poor dissembler.'

He sighed. 'That was Dungarth. It seems likely that we will shortly be at war with the Northern Powers.'

'Russia?'

'You are very perceptive.' He warmed to her and the conversation ran on like a single train of thought.

'Oh, I am not as scatter-brained as some of my sex.'

'And infinitely more beautiful.'

'La, kind sir, I was not fishing for compliments, merely facts. But you should not judge Louise too harshly though she runs on so. She is a good soul and true friend, though I know you prefer the company of her son,' Elizabeth concluded with dry emphasis.

'Mr Q's conversation is merely more to my liking, certainly…'

'Pah!' interrupted Elizabeth, 'he talks of nothing but your confounded profession. Come, sir, I still smell gunpowder, Nathaniel,' and added warningly, 'do not tack ship.'

He took a deep breath and explained the gist of Dungarth's news without betraying the details.

'So it is to be Britannia contra mundum,' she said at last.

'Yes.'

Elizabeth was silent for a moment. 'The country is weary of war, Nathaniel.'

'Do not exempt me from that, but…' he bit his lip, annoyed that the last word had slipped out.

'But, Nathaniel, but? But while there is fighting to be done it cannot be brought to a satisfactory conclusion without my husband's indispensable presence, is that it?'

He looked sharply at her, aware that she had great reason for bitterness. But she hid it, as only she could, and resorted to a gentle mockery that veiled her inner feelings. 'And Lord Dungarth promised you a ship?'