The Bomb Vessel

claimed to be my brother whom you saw in a tavern in Chatham, the perpetrator of this murder and a pathetic landsman who volunteered at Yarmouth.'

'But the similarity of names…'

'A coincidence Mr Jex.' The eyes of the two men met as each searched for a weakness. Drinkwater saw doubt in the other man's face, saw it break through the alcohol-induced confidence. Jex was no longer on the offensive. Drinkwater pressed his advantage.

'I will be frank with you, Mr Jex, for your misconstruction is highly seditious and under the Articles of War,' he paused, seeing a dawning realisation cross Jex's mind. 'I see you understand. But I will be frank as far as I can be. There is a little mystery hereabouts,' he was deliberately vague and could see a frown on Jex's brow now. 'I do not have to tell you that the liberal Corresponding Societies of England, Mr Jex, those organisations that Mr Chauvelin tried to enlist in ninety-one to foment revolution here while he was French ambassador, are still very active. They are full of French spies and you can rest assured that a fleet as big as ours in Yarmouth has been observed by many eyes including some hostile eyes that have doubtless watched our movements with interest…'

Drinkwater smiled to himself. Jex was a false patriot, a Tory of the worst kind. A place-seeking jobber, jealous of privilege, anxious to maintain the status quo and feather his own nest, even as he aspired to social advancement. To men of Jex's odious type fear of revolution was greater than fear of the pox.

'I cannot say more, Mr Jex, but I have had some experience in these matters… you may verify the facts with the quartermaster Tregembo, if you cannot take the word of a gentleman,' he added.

Jex was silent, his mind hunting for any advantage he might have gained from the web of words that Drinkwater was spinning. He was not sure where the area of mystery lay; with the man in the Blue Fox, the landsman Waters or the murder with its strange, coincidental surname. The rum was confusing him and he could not quite grasp where the ascendancy he had felt a few minutes earlier had now gone. He had meant to press Drinkwater for a return of his money, or at least establish some hold over his captain that he might turn to his own advantage. He had been certain of his arguments as he had rehearsed them in the spirit room half an hour ago. Now he was dimly aware of a mystery he did not understand but which was vaguely dangerous to him, of Drinkwater's real authority and the awesome power of the Articles of War which even a pip-squeak lieutenant might invoke against him. Jex's intelligence had let him down. Only his cunning could extricate him.

'I am not…'

'Mr Jex,' said Drinkwater brusquely, suddenly sick of the whole charade, 'you are the worse for drink. I have already confided in you more than I should and I would caution you to be circumspect with what I have told you. I am unhappy about both your motive and your manner in drawing this whole matter to my attention.' He stood up, 'Good night Mr Jex.'

The purser turned away as Virago sat her stern heavily in a trough. Jex stumbled and grabbed for the edge of the table.

Drinkwater suddenly grinned. 'Take your time, Mr Jex, and be careful how you go. After all if Waters is a murderer you may find yourself eased overboard one dark night. I've known it happen.' Drinkwater, who knew nothing of the purser's cowardice, had touched the single raw nerve that Jex possessed. The possibility of being killed or maimed had never occurred to him when he had solicited the post of purser aboard the Virago. Indeed there seemed little likelihood of the ship ever putting to sea again. Now, since witnessing the horribly wounded Mason die in agony, he thought often of death as he lay in the lonely coffin-like box of his cot.

Drinkwater watched the purser lurch from the cabin. He felt like a fencer who had achieved a lucky parry, turned aside a blade that had seemed to have penetrated his guard, yet had allowed his opponent to recover.

He did not know if Jex had approached Edward, and could only hope that Tregembo's explanation, which he was sure Jex would seek in due course, would not betray him. But it was the only alibi he had. He found his hands were trembling again now that he was alone. From the forward bulkhead the portraits of Elizabeth and Charlotte Amelia watched impassively and brought the sweat to his brow at the enormity of what he had done. He wondered how successfully he had concealed the matter behind the smokescreen of duty. What was it Lettsom had said about concealing inadequacy that way? He shrugged off the recollection. Such philosophical niceties were irrelevant. There was no way to go but forwards and of one thing he was now sure. He had no alternative but to carry out his bluff. There was no time to wait for a reply to his letter to Lord Dungarth.

He would have to land Edward very soon.

The following morning dawned fine and clear. The wind had hauled north westerly and the fleet made sail to the eastward. The little gun-brigs were taken in tow by the battleships. Soon after dawn the whole vast mass of ships, making six or seven knots, observed to starboard the low line of the Danish coast. First blue-grey, it hardened to pale green with a fringe of white breakers. At nine o'clock on the morning of March 19th the fleet began to pass the lighthouse on The Skaw and turned south east, into the Kattegat. The Danes had extinguished the lighthouse by night, but in the pale morning sunshine it formed a conspicuous mark for the ships as each hauled her yards for the new course. At one o'clock Parker ordered the frigate Blanche to proceed ahead and gain news of the progress of Nicholas Vansittart. He had left Harwich a fortnight earlier in the Hamburg packet with a final offer to Count Bernstorff, the Danish Minister.

After the hardships of the last few days the sunshine felt warm and cheering. First lieutenants throughout the fleet ordered their men to wash clothes and hammocks. The nettings and lower rigging of the ships were soon bright with fluttering shirts and trousers. The sight of the enemy coast to starboard brought smiles and jokes to the raw faces of the men. Officers studied its monotonous line through their glasses as though they might discern their fates thereby.

The sense of corporate pride that could animate British seamen, hitherto absent from Parker's fleet, seemed not dead but merely dormant, called forth by the vernal quality of the day. This reanimation of spirit was best demonstrated by Nelson himself, ever a man attuned to the morale of his men. As the wind fell light in the late afternoon he called away his barge and an inquisitive fleet watched him pulled over to the mighty London. One of his seamen had caught a huge turbot and presented it as a gift to the little one-armed admiral.

In a characteristically impetuous gesture beneath which might be discerned an inflexible sense of purpose, Nelson personally conveyed the fish to his superior. It broke the ice between the two men. When the story got about the fleet by the mysterious telegraphy that transmitted such news, Lettsom composed his now expected verse:

'Nelson's prepared to grow thinner

And give Parker a turbot bright,

If Parker will only eat dinner,

And let Lord Nelson fight.'

But Mr Jex had not shared the general euphoria as they passed the Skaw. He had slept badly and woke with a rum-induced hangover that left his head throbbing painfully. He had lost track of the cogent arguments that had seemed to deliver Lieutenant Drinkwater into his hands the previous evening. His mind was aware only that he had been thwarted. To Jex it was like dishonour.

Soon after the change of watch at eight in the morning as the curious on deck were staring at the lighthouse on the Skaw, Jex waylaid Tregembo and offered him a quid of tobacco.

'Thank 'ee, zur,' he said, regarding the purser with suspicion.

'Tregembo isn't it?'

'Aye, zur.' Tregembo bit a lump off the quid and began to chew it.

'You have known Lieutenant Drinkwater a long time, eh, Tregembo?' The quartermaster nodded. 'How long?'

'I first met Mr Drinkwater when he were a midshipman, aboard the Cyclops, frigate, Cap'n Henry Hope… during the American War.'

'And you've known him since?'

'No zur, I next met him when I was drafted aboard the Kestrel cutter, zur, we was employed on special service.'

'Special service, eh?'

'Aye zur, very special… on the French coast afore the outbreak of the present war.' A sly look had entered