The Bomb Vessel

of Parker by Nelson or an order to sail.

Drinkwater exchanged remarks with two white-haired lieutenants who were in command of the other tenders and normally employed by the Transport Board. They were both over sixty and he soon gravitated towards Tumilty and the other artillery officers who were more his own age. The merry-eyed Lieutenant English, attached to Explosion, sympathised with him over Martin's apparent animosity and cursed his own ill-luck in being appointed to the ship. Fitzmayer of the Terror and Jones of the Volcano seemed intent on insulting Admiral Parker and had embarked on a witty exchange of military double entendres designed to throw doubts on the admiral's ability to be a proper husband to his bride. The joke was becoming rather stale. From Captain-Lieutenant Peter Fyers of Sulphur he learned something of the defences of Copenhagen where Fyers had served the previous year in a bomb vessel sent as part of Lord Whitworth's embassy. Captain-Lieutenant Lawson, attached to Zebra, was expatiating on the more scandalous excesses and perverted pastimes of the late Empress Catherine and the even less attractive sadism of her son Tsar Paul, 'the author', as he put it, 'of our present misfortune, God-rot his Most Imperial Majesty.'

'There seems a deal of hostility to kings among these king's officers,' remarked Drinkwater to Tumilty, thinking of the regicide tendencies of his own surgeon.

'Ah,' explained Tumilty with inescapable Irish logic, 'but we're not exactly king's officers, my dear Nat'aniel, no we're not. As I told you our commissions are from the Master General of the Ordnance, d'you see. Professional men like yourself, so we are.' He paused to drink off his glass. 'We're pyroballogists that'll fire shot and shell into heaven itself if the devil's wearing a general's tail coat. Motivated by science we are, Nat'aniel, and damn the politics. Fighting men to be sure.'

Drinkwater was not sure if that was true of all the artillery officers mustered in Explosion's stuffy cabin, but it was certainly true of Lieutenant Thomas Tumilty whose desire to be throwing explosive shells at anyone unwise enough to provoke him, seemed to consume him with passion so that he sputtered like one of his own fuses.

'And I've some news for you personal like. Our friend Captain Martin has heard that our mortars are mounted. I'd not be surprised if he were to mention it to you…' Tumilty's eyes narrowed to slits and the hair on his cheeks bristled as he sucked in his cheeks in mock disapproval. He took another glass from the passing mess-man and turned away with an obvious wink as Captain Martin approached.

The commander's appearance as though on cue was uncanny, but Drinkwater dismissed the suspicion that Tumilty intended anything more than a warning.

'Well, Mr Drinkwater, itching to try your mortars at the enemy are you?'

'Given the opportunity I should wish to render you every possible assistance in my power, sir,' he said diplomatically.

'Were you not ordered to strike those mortars into your hold, Mr Drinkwater?' asked Martin, an expression of extreme dislike crossing his pale face.

'No sir,' replied Drinkwater with perfect candour, 'the existence of the mortar beds led me to suppose that the mortars might be shipped therein with perfect safety. The vessel would not become excessively stiff and they are readily available should they be required by any other ship. Struck into the hold they might have become overstowed by other…'

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater,' Martin snapped, 'you have made your point.' He seemed about to turn away, riled by Drinkwater's glib replies but recollected something and suddenly asked, 'How the devil did you get command of Virago?'

'I was appointed by the Admiralty, sir…'

'I mean, Mr Drinkwater,' said Martin with heavy emphasis, 'by whose influence was your application preferred?'

Drinkwater flushed with sudden anger. He appreciated Martin's own professional disappointments might be very great, but he himself hardly represented the meteoric rise of an admiral's eleve.

'I do not believe I am anybody's protege, sir,' he said with icy formality, 'though I have rendered certain service to their Lordships of a rather unusual nature.'

Drinkwater was aware that he was bluffing but he saw Martin deflate slightly, as though he had found the justification for his dislike in Drinkwater's reply.

'And what nature did that service take, Mr Drinkwater?' Martin's tone was sarcastic.

'Special service, sir, I am not at liberty to discuss it.' Martin's eyes opened a little wider, though whether it was at Drinkwater's effrontery or whether he was impressed, was impossible to determine. At all events Drinkwater did not need to explain that the special service had been as mate of the cutter Kestrel dragging the occasional spy off a French beach and no more exciting than the nightly activities on a score of British beaches in connection with the 'free trade'.

'Special service? You mean secret service, Mr Drinkwater,' Martin paused as though making up his mind. 'For Lord Dungarth's department, perhaps?'

'Perhaps, sir,' temporised Drinkwater, aware that this might prove a timely raising of his lordship's name and be turned to some advantage in his plan for Edward.

Real anger was mounting into Martin's cheeks.

'I am quite well aware of his lordship's activities, Drinkwater, I am not so passed over that…' he broke off, aware that his own voice had risen and that he had revealed more of himself than he had intended. Martin looked round but the other officers were absorbed in their own chatter. He coughed with embarrassment. 'You are well acquainted with his lordship?' Martin asked almost conversationally.

'Aye sir,' replied Drinkwater, relieved that the squall seemed to have passed. 'We sailed together on the Cyclops, frigate, in the American War.' Drinkwater sensed the need to be conciliatory, particularly as the problem of Edward weighed heavily upon him. 'I beg your pardon for being evasive, sir. I was not aware that his lordship's activities were known to you.'

Martin nodded. 'You were not the only officer to serve in his clandestine operations, Mr Drinkwater.'

'Nor, perhaps,' Drinkwater said in a low voice, the sherry making him bold, 'the only one to be disappointed.' He watched Martin's eyes narrow as the commander digested the implication of Drinkwater's remark. Then Drinkwater added, 'You would not therefore blame me for mounting those mortars, sir?'

For a second Drinkwater was uncertain of the result of his importunity. Then he saw the ghost of a smile appear on Martin's face. 'And you are yet known to Lord Dungarth?'

Drinkwater nodded. The knowledge that the lieutenant still commanded interest with the peer was beginning to put him in a different light in Martin's disappointed eyes.

'Very well, Mr Drinkwater.' Martin turned away.

Drinkwater heaved a sigh of relief. The antagonism of Martin would have made any plan for Edward's future doubly hazardous. Now, perhaps, Martin was less hostile to him. He caught Tumilty's eye over the rim of the Irishman's glass. It winked shamelessly. Drinkwater mastered a desire to laugh, but it was not the mirth of pure amusement. It had the edge of hysteria about it. Elizabeth had been right: he was no dissembler and the strain of it was beginning to tell.

Drinkwater returned to Virago a little drunk. The dinner had been surprisingly good and during it Drinkwater learned that it had been provided largely by the generosity of the artillery officers who had had the good sense to humour their naval counterparts. It was only later, slumped in his carver and staring at his sword hanging on a hook, that the irrelevant thought crossed his mind that it had not been cleaned after the fight with the French luggers. He sent for Tregembo.

When the quartermaster returned twenty minutes later with the old French sword honed to a biting edge on Willerton's grindstone he seemed to want to talk.

'Beg pardon, zur, but have 'ee looked at they pistol flints?'

'No, Tregembo,' Drinkwater shook his head to clear it of the effects of the wine. 'Do so if you please. I fancy you can re-knap 'em without replacing 'em.'

'There are plenty of flints aboard here, zur,' said Tregembo reproachfully.

Drinkwater managed a laugh. 'Ah yes, I was forgettin' we're a floating arsenal. Do as you please then.'

Tregembo had brought two new flints with him and took out the pull-through. He began fiddling with the brace of flintlocks. 'Do 'ee think we'll sail soon, zur?'