The Corvette

seas with the same eagerness that the mail-guard consulted his watch and urged his charge through the night. He suppressed the feeling of radical zeal easily. The excitement of the night was making him foolish. He had a duty to do in protecting the Hull whale-fleet. The matter was simplicity itself.

Then a precarious sleep swallowed him, sleep that was interrupted by sudden jolts and the contraction of aching muscles, and accompanied by the memory of Elizabeth's sadness at his departure.

They broke a hurried fast at Grantham after the terrifying descent of Spitalgate Hill and by noon had crossed the Trent at Muskham. Drinkwater rode inside for a while but, assaulted again by Mrs MacEwan who seemed desirous of information regarding the 'gallant and charming Mr Quilhampton', he returned irritably to the box. He did not observe Mr Quilhampton's look of joy as he again exchanged seats and he was thoroughly worn out by the time the mail rolled into the yard of the Black Swan at York.

'And what, my dear, did you think of Mr Quilhampton?' asked Mrs MacEwan staring after the captain and the tall young officer beside him.

'I thought, Aunt,' said the young woman, removing her bonnet and shaking her red-gold hair about her shoulders, 'That he was a most personable gentleman.'

'Ahhh.' Mrs MacEwan sighed with satisfaction. 'See, my dear, he has turned…' She waved her gloved hand with frivolous affectation while Catriona simply smiled at James Quilhampton.

Drinkwater took to his bed before sunset, waiting only to instruct Quilhampton to mind the baggage and engage a conveyance to take them to Hull the following morning. Quilhampton was left to walk the streets of York alone, unable to throw off the image of Catriona MacEwan.

The good weather held. The following day being a Sunday they were obliged to hire a private chaise but the drive over the gentle hills was delightful. Drinkwater was much refreshed by his long sleep at York where, by a stroke of good fortune, he had enjoyed clean sheets. They ate at Beverly after hearing mattins in the beautiful Minster, reaching Kingston-upon-Hull at five in the afternoon.

First Lieutenant Francis Germaney stood in his cabin and passed water into the chamberpot. His eyes were screwed up tight against the pain and he cursed with quiet venom. He was certain now that 'the burns' had been contracted in a bawdy house in Kingston-upon-Hull and he wondered if Sir James Palgrave were similarly afflicted. It would serve the God-damned smell-smock right for he deserved it, that pistol ball in his guts notwithstanding.

'Oh Christ!' He saw the dark swirl of blood in the urine. And their blasted surgeon had not been sober since the morning of the duel. Not that he had been sober much before that, Germaney reflected bitterly, but there had been periods of near sobriety long enough to attend the occasional patient and maintain an appearance of duty. But now, God rot him, just when he was wanted…

Germaney resolved to swallow his pride and consult a physician without delay. Mr Surgeon Macpherson with his degree from Edinburgh could go to the devil. As he refastened his breeches his eyes fell on the letter from cousin Templeton. Commander Drinkwater's arrival was imminent and Templeton indicated that the First Lord himself was anxious to brook no further delay. Germaney reached for his coat and hat when a knock came at the door. 'What is it?'

The face of Midshipman the Lord Walmsley peered round the door.

'Mr Bourne's compliments, sir, but there's a shore-boat approaching answering the sentry's hail with 'Melusine'.'

'God damn!' Germaney knew well what that meant. The boat contained the new captain. 'Trying to catch us out,' he muttered.

'That's what Mr Bourne says.'

'Get out of my fucking way.'

Drinkwater folded his commission after reading it aloud and looked about him. Beneath a cloudless sky the corvette Melusine floated upon the broad, muddy Humber unruffled by any wind. Her paint and brass-work gleamed and her yards were perfectly squared. She lay among the tubby black and brown hulls of the whalers and the squat shapes of the other merchantmen and coasters at anchor off the port of Hull, a lady among drabs.

Not a rope was out of position beneath the lofty spars that rose to a ridiculous height. Named after a Breton sprite, Melusine showed all the lovely hallmarks of her French ancestry. Drinkwater's spirits soared and although he knew her for a showy thing, he could not deny her her beauty. He clamped the corners of his mouth tightly lest they betrayed his pleasure and frowned, nodding to the first lieutenant.

'Mr Germaney, I believe.'

'Your servant, sir. Welcome aboard.' Germaney removed his hat and bowed. 'May I present the officers, sir?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Mr Bourne and Mr Rispin, sir; second and third lieutenants.' Two young officers in immaculate uniforms bowed somewhat apprehensively.

'Mr Hill, the Master…'

'Hill! Why, 'tis a pleasure to see you again. When was the last time?'

'Ninety-seven, sir, after Camperdown…' Hill was beaming, his face ruddy with broken veins and little of his fine black hair left beyond a fringe above his nape. Drinkwater remembered he had been wounded when a master's mate in the cutter Kestrel.

'How is the arm?'

'An infallible barometer signalling westerly gales, sir.' They both laughed. 'I heard you was wounded off Boulogne, sir…'

'I am a trifle sagged amidships, Mr Hill, but otherwise sound. I have an excellent second for you. May I present Mr James Quilhampton, Master's Mate, lately qualified at the Trinity House of London and a veteran of Copenhagen.' He stepped aside allowing the little knot of officers to receive Quilhampton's bow. Drinkwater turned to Germaney who resumed the introductions.

'Mr Gorton, sir, whose six years are nearly up.'

'How many have you served at sea, Mr Gorton?'

'All of them, sir,' replied the midshipman, looking Drinkwater in the eye. 'I was two years a volunteer before that, sir.' Drinkwater nodded with satisfaction. Mr Gorton seemed to possess more potential than either of the two commissioned lieutenants. He turned to the next youth, perhaps a year or two younger than Gorton.

'Lord Walmsley, sir.'

Drinkwater caught his jaw in time and merely nodded and turned to the next. Another seventeen-year-old, the Honourable Alexander Glencross essayed a bow and was received with similar frigidity. Drinkwater had the impression that neither of these two young gentlemen took their profession very seriously and was relieved to see two fairly commonplace specimens at the end of the line.

'Messrs Wickham and Dutfield, sir and Mr Frey.'

Mr Frey emerged from behind Dutfield where, Drinkwater suspected, the latter young gentleman had been holding him. Palgrave, it appeared, let his midshipmen fool about and skylark. That was all very well but it led too often to bullying and Mr Frey was a child of no more than twelve years of age.

Germaney produced a purser named Pater, a bosun and a carpenter before drawing Drinkwater's attention to a disreputable figure half hidden behind the mizenmast.

'Mr Macpherson, our surgeon.'

'Macpherson of Edinburgh, Captain,' slurred the surgeon, his face wet with perspiration, his eyes watery with rheum, 'A votre service.' Drinkwater could smell the rum at a yard distant and noted the dirty coat and stained linen.

'Lieutenant Mount, sir,' Germaney ploughed on, distracting Drinkwater from the state of the surgeon. Macpherson's shortcomings would be the subject of some conversation between captain and first lieutenant, but later, and on Germaney's terms. 'Lieutenant Mount, sir, of His Majesty's Marines.'

'Royal Marines, Mr Germaney, you should not neglect the new title.' Drinkwater indicated the blue facings of a royal regiment. 'An improvement upon the old white, Mr Mount,' he said conversationally and paced along the line of scarlet and pipe-clayed soldiers drawn up for his inspection. Mr Mount glowed with pleasure. He had spotted the glitter of gold lace a good fifteen minutes before the midshipman of the watch and had turned his men out in time to create a good impression.

'Your men do you credit, Mr Mount. I would have them all proficient marksmen to a high degree and I should like you to take charge of all the small-arms training on the ship. I have a prejudice against the junior lieutenant