The Bomb Vessel

Drinkwater, was now both servant and confidant. Also expected was Mr Midshipman Quilhampton. Out of consideration for Louise, Drinkwater had left her son at home when he himself went to London. Later he had written off instructions to the young man to recruit hands for Virago. Now Drinkwater waited impatiently for those extra men.

But it was not merely men that Drinkwater needed. As Christmas approached, the dockyard became increasingly supine. He wanted masts and spars, for without them Virago was as immobile as a log, condemned to await the dockyard's pleasure. And Drinkwater was by no means sure that Mr Jex was not having his revenge through the influence of his kinsman, the Commissioner. As the days passed in idleness Drinkwater became more splenetic, less tolerant of Mrs Jex, less affable to Rogers. He worried over the possibilities of desertion by his men and fretted over their absence every time a wooding party went to search the tideline for driftwood. Unable to leave his ship by Admiralty order he sat morosely in his cloak, staring gloomily out over the dull, frosty marshes.

His misgivings over his first lieutenant increased. Rogers's irascibility was irritating the warrant officers and Drinkwater's own doubts about selecting Rogers grew. They had already argued over the matter of a flogging, Drinkwater ruling the laxer discipline that customarily prevailed on warships in port mitigated the man's offence to mere impudence. The knock at the door brought him out of himself.

'Come in!'

'Reporting aboard, sir.'

'James! By God, I'm damned glad to see you. You've men? And news of my wife?'

James Quilhampton warmed himself over the smoking stove. He was a tall, spare youth, growing out of his uniform coat, with spindle-shanked legs and a slight stoop. Any who thought him a slightly ridiculous adolescent were swiftly silenced when they saw the heavy iron hook he wore in place of a left hand.

'Aye sir, I have fifteen men, a letter from your wife and a surgeon.' He stood aside, pulling a letter from his breast. Taking the letter Drinkwater looked up to see a second figure enter his cabin.

'Lettsom, sir, surgeon; my warrant and appointment.' Drinkwater glanced at the proffered papers. Mr Lettsom was elderly, small and fastidious looking, with a large nose and a pair of tolerant eyes. His uniform coat was clean, though shiny and with overlarge, bulging pockets.

'Ah, I see you served under Richard White, Mr Lettsom, he speaks highly of you.'

'You are acquainted with Captain White, Lieutenant Drinkwater?'

'I am indeed, we were midshipmen together in the Cyclops, I saw him last at the Cape when he commanded the Telemachus.'

'I served with him in the Roisterer, brig. He was soon after posted to Telemachus.'

'I have no doubt we shall get along, Mr Lettsom.' Drinkwater riffled through the papers on his table. 'I have some standing orders here for you. You will find the men in reasonable shape. I have had their clothes replaced and we may thus contain the ship-fever. As to diet I have obliged the purser to buy in a quantity of sauerkraut. Its stink is unpopular, but I am persuaded it is effective against the scurvy.' Lettsom nodded and glanced at the documents. 'You are a disciple of Lind, Mr Drinkwater, I congratulate you.'

'I am of the opinion that much of the suffering of seamen in general is unnecessary.'

Lettsom smiled wryly at the earnest Drinkwater. 'I'll do my best, sir, but mostly it depends upon the condition of the men:

When people's ill, they come to I,

I physics, bleeds and sweat's 'em;

Sometimes they live, sometimes they die,

What's that to I? I let's 'em.'

For a second Drinkwater was taken aback, then he perceived the pun and began to laugh.

'A verse my cousin uses as his own, sir,' Lettsom explained, 'he is a physician of some note among the fashionable, but of insufficient integrity not to claim the verse as his own. I regret that he plagiarised it from your humble servant.' Lettsom made a mock bow.

'Very well, Mr Lettsom, I think we shall get along… Now gentlemen, if you will excuse me… '

He slit open Elizabeth's letter impatiently and began to read, lost for a while to the cares of the ship.

My Dearest Husband,

It is with great sadness that I write to say I shall not see you at Christmastide. I am much troubled by sickness and anxious for the child whom, from the trouble he causes, I know to be a boy. Charlotte chatters incessantly…

There was a page of his daughter's exploits and a curl of her hair. He learned that the lateness of Tregembo's departure was caused by a delay in the preparation of his Christmas gift and that Louise Quilhampton was having her portrait painted by Gaston Bruilhac, a paroled French sous-officier, captured by Drinkwater in the Red Sea who had executed a much admired likeness of his captor during the homeward voyage. There was town gossip and Elizabeth's disapproval of Mr Quilhampton's recruiting methods. Then, saved in Elizabeth's reserved manner for a position of importance in the penultimate paragraph, an oddly disquieting sentence:

On Tuesday last I received an odd visitor, your brother Edward whom I have not seen these five or six years. He was in company with a lively and pretty French woman, some fugitive from the sans culottes. He spoke excellent French to her and was most anxious to see you on some private business. I explained your whereabouts but he would vouchsafe me no further confidences. I confess his manner made me uneasy…

Drinkwater looked up frowning only to find Quilhampton still in the cabin.

'You wish to see me, Mr Q?'

'Beg pardon, sir, but I am rather out of pocket. The expense of bringing the men, sir…'

Drinkwater sighed. 'Yes, yes, of course. How much?'

'Four pounds, seventeen shillings and four pence ha'penny, sir. I kept a strict account…'

The problem of the ship closed round him again, driving all thoughts of his brother from his mind.

Mr Easton, the sailing master, with a brand new certificate from the Trinity House and an equally new warrant from the Navy Board joined them on the last day of the old century. Six days later Drinkwater welcomed his final warrant officer aboard. They had served together before. Mr Trussel was wizened, stoop-shouldered and yellow-skinned. Lank hair fell to his shoulders from the sides and back of his head, though his crown was bald.

'Reporting for duty, Mr Drinkwater.' A smile split his face from ear to ear.

'God bless my soul, Mr Trussel, I had despaired of your arrival, but you are just in time. Pray help yourself to a glass of blackstrap.' He indicated the decanter that sat on its tray at the end of the table, remembering Trussel's legendary thirst which he attributed to a lifelong proximity to gunpowder.

'The roads were dreadful, sir,' said Trussel, helping himself to the cheap, dark wine. 'I gather we are a tender, sir, servicing bombs.'

'Exactly so, Mr Trussel, and as such most desperately in want of a gunner. I shall rely most heavily upon you. As soon as we are rigged we are ordered to Blackstakes to load ammunition and ordnance stores. You will of course have finished your preparations of the magazines by then. Willerton, the carpenter, has a quantity of tongued deals on board and has made a start on them. I've no need to impress upon your mind that not a nail's to be driven once we've a grain of powder on board.'

'I understand, sir.' He paused. 'I saw Mr Rogers on deck.' The statement of fact held just the faintest hint of surprise. Trussel had been gunner of the brig Hellebore when Rogers wrecked her in the Red Sea.

'Mr Rogers is proving a most efficient first lieutenant Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater paused, watching Trussel's face remain studiously wooden. 'Well, I'd be obliged if you would be about your business without delay; time is of the very essence.'

Trussel rose. 'One other thing, sir.'

'Yes, what is that?'

'Are we to embark a detachment of artillerymen?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'I have received notice to that effect. It is customary to do so when ordnance stores are loaded.'