The Bomb Vessel

by Richard Woodman

  ‘Nathaniel! My dear fellow, my dear fellow, you are most kind to come.’

  ‘Edward. It has been a very long time.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Too long, too long . . . here I have some claret mulling, by heaven damned if it ain’t colder here than in London . . . there, a glass will warm you. Your ship is nearly ready then?’

  Nathaniel nodded as he sipped the hot wine.

  ‘Then it seems I am just in time, just in time.’

  ‘Forgive me, Edward but why all the mysterious urgency?’

  Edward ran a finger round his stock with evident embarrassment. He avoided his brother’s eyes and appeared to be choosing his words with difficulty. Several times he raised his head to speak, then thought better of it.

  ‘Damn it Ned,’ broke in Drinkwater impatiently,‘ ’tis a woman or ’tis money, confound it, no man could haver like this for ought else.’

  ‘Both Nat, both.’ Edward seized on the opportunity and the words began to tumble from him. ‘It is a long story, Nat, one that goes back ten or more years. You recollect after mother died and you married, I went off to Enfield to work for an India merchant, with his horses. I learned a deal about horses, father was good with ’em too. After a while I left the nabob’s employ and was offered work at Newmarket, still with horses. I was too big to race ’em but I backed ’em and over a long period made enough money to put by. I was lucky. Very lucky. I had a sizeable wager on one occasion and made enough in a single bet to live like a gentleman for a year, maybe two if I was careful.’ He sighed and passed a hand over his sweating face.

  ‘After the revolution in France, when the aristos started coming over there were pickings of all sorts. I ran with a set of blades. We took fencing lessons from an impoverished marquis, advanced an old dowager some money on her jewels, claimed the debt . . . well, in short, my luck held.

  ‘Then I met Pascale, she was of the minor nobility, but penniless. She became my mistress.’ He paused to drink and Drinkwater watching him thought what a different life from his own. There were common threads, perceptible if you knew how to identify them. Their boyhood had been dominated by their mother’s impecunious gentility, widowed after their drunken father had been flung from a horse. Nathaniel was careful of money, neither unwilling to loot a few gold coins from an American prize when a half-starved midshipman, nor to lean a little on the well-heeled Mr Jex. But where he had inherited his mother’s shrewdness Edward had been bequeathed his father’s improvidence as he now went on to relate.

  ‘Things went well for a while. I continued to gamble and, with modest lodgings and Pascale to keep me company, managed to cut a dash. Then my luck changed. For no apparent reason. I began to lose. It was uncanny. I lost confidence, friends, everything.

  ‘Nathaniel, I have twenty pounds between me and penury. Pascale threatens to leave me since she has received an offer to better herself . . .’ He fell silent.

  ‘As another man’s mistress?’

  Edward’s silence was eloquent.

  ‘I see.’ Drinkwater felt a low anger building up in him. It was not enough that he should have spent a great deal of money in fitting out His Britannic bloody Majesty’s bomb tender Virago. It was not enough that the exigencies of the service demanded his constant presence on board until sailing, but that this good-for-nothing killbuck of a brother must turn up to prey on his better nature.

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Five hundred would . . .’

  ‘Five hundred! God’s bones, Edward, where in the name of Almighty God d’you think I can lay my hands on five hundred pounds?’

  ‘I heard you did well from prize money . . .’

  ‘Prize money? God, Ned, but you’ve a damned nerve. D’you know how many scars I’ve got for that damned prize money, how many sleepless nights, hours of worry . . .? No, of course you don’t. You’ve been cutting a dash, gaming and whoring like the rest of this country’s so called gentry while your sea-officers and seamen are rotting in their wooden coffins. God damn it, Ned, but I’ve a wife and family to be looked to first.’ His temper began to ebb. Without looking up Edward muttered:

  ‘I heard too, that you received a bequest.’

  ‘Where the hell d’you learn that?’ A low fury came into his voice.

  ‘Oh, I learned it in Petersfield.’ That would not be difficult. There were enough gossips in any town to know the business of others. It was true that he had received a sizeable bequest from the estate of his former captain, Madoc Griffiths. ‘They say it was three thousand pounds.’

  ‘They may say what the hell they like. It is no longer mine. Most is in trust for my children, the remainder made over to my wife.’ He paused again and Edward looked up, disappointed yet irritatingly unrepentant.

  It suddenly occurred to Drinkwater that the expenses incurred in the fitting out of a ship, even a minor one like Virago, were inconceivable to Edward. He began to repent of his unbrotherly temper; to hold himself mean, still reproved in his conscience for the trick he had played on Jex, no matter how many barrels of sauerkraut it had bought.

  ‘Listen, Ned, I am more than two hundred pounds out of pocket in fitting out my ship. That is why we receive prize money, that and for the wounds we endure in an uncaring country’s service. You talk of fencing lessons but you’ve never known what it is to cut a man down before he kills you. You regard my uniform as some talisman opening the salons of the ton to me when I am nothing but a dog of a sailor, lieutenant or not. Why, Ned, I am not fit to crawl beneath the bootsoles of a twelve-year-old ensign of horse whose commission costs him two thousand pounds.’ All the bitterness of his profession rose to the surface, replacing his anger with the gall of experience.

  Edward remained silent, pouring them both another drink. After several moments Nathaniel rose and went to a small table. From the tail pocket of his coat he drew a small tablet and a pencil. He began to write, calling for wax and a candle.

  After sealing the letter he handed it to his brother. ‘That is all I can, in all conscience, manage.’

  Then he left, picking up his hat without another word, leaving Edward to wonder over the amount and without waiting for thanks.

  He was too preoccupied to notice Mr Jex drinking in the taproom as he made his way through to the street.

  Chapter Five January–February 1801

  The Pyroballogist

  Drinkwater raised the speaking trumpet. ‘A trifle more in on that foretack, if you please Mr Matchett.’ He transferred his attention to the waist where the master attended the main braces. ‘You may belay the main braces Mr Easton.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Virago slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. ‘Full and bye.’

  ‘Full an’ bye, zur.’ Tregembo answered from the tiller. Drinkwater, short of men still, had rated the Cornishman quartermaster.

  They cleared the end of the trot, slipping beneath the wooded hill at Upnor.

  ‘Up helm!’ Virago swung, turning slowly before the wind. Drinkwater nodded to Rogers. ‘Square the yards.’ Rogers bawled at the men at the braces as Virago brought the wind astern, speeding downstream with the ebb tide under her, her forecourse, three topsails and foretopmast staysail set. The latter flapped now, masked by the forecourse.

  They swung south east out of Cockham Reach, the river widening, its north bank falling astern, displaced by the low line of Hoo Island. They passed the line of prison hulks, disfigured old ships, broken, black and sinister. The hands swung the yards as the ship made each turn in the channel, the officers attentive during this first passage of the elderly vessel. They rounded the fort on Darnetness.

  ‘Give her the main course, Mr Rogers.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir. Main yard there! Let fall! Let fall! Mind tacks and sheets there, you blasted lubbers! Look lively there! Watch, God damn it, there’s a kink in the starboard clew garnet! It’ll snag in the lead block, Mr Quil-bloody-hampton!’

  Virag
o gathered speed, the tide giving Drinkwater a brief illusion of commanding something other than a tub of a ship. He smiled to himself. Though slow, Virago was heavy enough to carry her way and would probably handle well enough in a seaway. She had a ponderous certainty about her that might become an endearing quality, Drinkwater thought. He swung her down Kethole Reach and Rogers braced the yards up again as the wind veered a point towards the north. To the west the sky was clearing and almost horizontal beams of sunlight began to slant through the overcast, shining ahead of them to where the fort at Garrison Point and the Sheerness Dockyard gleamed dully against the monotones of marsh and islands.

  ‘Clew up the courses as we square away in Saltpan Reach, Mr Rogers.’ He levelled his glass ahead. Half a dozen squat hulled shapes were riding at anchor off Deadman’s Island, a mile up stream from Sheerness. They were bomb vessels anchored close to the powder hulks at Blackstakes.

  A chattering had broken out amidships. ‘Silence there!’ snapped Rogers. Drinkwater watched the line of bombs grow larger. ‘Up courses if you please.’

  Rogers bawled, Quilhampton piped and Matchett shouted. The heavy flog of resisting canvas rose above Drinkwater’s head as he studied the bombs through his glass, selecting a place to bring Virago to her anchor.

  They were abeam the upstream vessel, a knot of curious officers visible on her deck. There was a gap between the fourth and fifth bomb vessel, sufficient for Virago to swing. Drinkwater felt a thrill of pure excitement. He could go downstream and anchor in perfect safety at the seaward end of the line; but that gap beckoned.

  ‘Stand by the braces, Mr Rogers! Down helm!’

  ‘Down helm, zur!’ Virago turned to starboard, her yards creaking round in their parrels, the forestaysail filling with a crack.

  ‘Brace sharp up there, damn it!’ he snapped, then to the helm, ‘Full and bye!’

  ‘Full an’ bye, zur.’ replied the impassive Tregembo.

  Drinkwater sailed Virago as close to the wind as possible as the ebb pushed her remorselessly downstream. If he made a misjudgement he would crash on board the bomb vessel next astern. He could see a group of people forward on her, no doubt equally alerted to the possibility. He watched the relative bearing of the other vessel’s foremast. It drew slowly astern: he could do it.

  ‘Anchor’s ready, sir,’ muttered Rogers.

  ‘Very well.’ They were suddenly level with the bow of the other ship.

  ‘Down helm!’ Virago turned to starboard again, her sails about to shiver, then to flog. She carried her way, the water chuckling under her bow as she crept over the tide, leaving the anxious watchers astern and edging up on the ship next ahead.

  Drinkwater watched the shore, saw its motion cease. ‘All aback now! Let go!’

  He felt the hull buck as the anchor fell from the cathead and watched the cable rumble along the deck, saw it catch an inexperienced landsman on the ankle and fling him down while the seamen laughed.

  ‘Give her sixty fathoms, Mr Matchett, and bring her up to it.’

  He nodded to Rogers. ‘Clew up and stow.’

  Mr Easton went below to plot their anchorage on the chart and when the vessel was reported brought to her cable Drinkwater joined him. Looking at the chart Drinkwater felt satisifed that neither ship nor crew had let him down.

  His satisfaction was short-lived. An hour later he stood before Captain Martin, Master and Commander of His Majesty’s bomb vessel Explosion, senior officer of the bomb ships assembled at Sheerness. Captain Martin was clearly intolerant of any of his subordinates who showed the least inclination to further their careers by acts of conspicuousness.

  ‘Not only, lieutenant, was your manoeuvre one that endangered your own ship but it also endangered mine. It was, sir, an act of wanton irresponsibility. Such behaviour is not to be tolerated and speaks volumes on your character. I am surprised you have been entrusted with such a command, Mr Drinkwater. A man responsible for carrying quantities of powder upon a special service must needs be steady, constantly thoughtful, and never, ever hazard his ship.’

  Drinkwater felt the blood mounting to his cheeks as Martin went on. ‘Furthermore you have been most dilatory in the matter of commissioning your ship. I had reason to expect you to join the bombs under my command some days ago.’

  Martin looked up at Drinkwater from a pair of watery blue eyes that stared out of a thin, parchment coloured face. Drinkwater fought down his sense of injustice and wounded pride. Feeling like a whipped midshipman he applied the resilience of the orlop, learned years ago.

  ‘If my conduct displeased you I apologise, sir. I had no intention of causing you any concern. As to the manner of my commissioning I can only say that I exerted every effort to hasten the matter. I was prevented from so doing by the officials of the dockyard.’

  ‘The dockyard officers have their own job to attend to, Mr Drinkwater, you cannot expect them to give priority to a bomb tender . . .’ Aware that he had offended (Martin was probably related to some jobber in the dockyard), Drinkwater could not resist the opening.

  ‘Precisely my point, sir,’ he said drily. Martin’s upper lip curled slightly, a mark of obvious displeasure and Drinkwater added hastily, ‘I mean no offence, sir.’

  He stared down the commander who eventually said, ‘Now, to your orders for the next week . . .’

  ‘Your sport was most profitable, Mr Q,’ said Drinkwater laying down his knife and fork upon an empty plate.

  ‘Thank you sir. Did you favour the widgeon or the teal?’

  ‘I fancy the teal had the edge. Mr Jex, would you convey my appreciation to the cook.’

  Jex nodded, his mouth still full. Drinkwater looked round the table. It was a cramped gathering, sharing his small cabin with the officers were the two stern chasers and two 24-pound carronades in the aftermost side ports.

  The cloth was drawn and the decanter of blackstrap placed in front of Drinkwater. They drank the loyal toast at their seats then scraped their chairs back. A cigar or two appeared, Trussel brought out a long churchwarden pipe and Willerton slipped a surreptitious quid of tobacco into his mouth. Lettsom took snuff and Drinkwater reflected that apart from himself and Rogers and Mr Quilhampton all those present, which excepted Mr Mason on deck, were well over forty-five, possibly over fifty. The preponderance of warrant officers carried by Virago ensured this, but it sometimes made Drinkwater feel old before his time, condemned to spend his life in the society of elderly men. He sighed, remembering the attitude of Captain Martin. Then he remembered something else, something he had been saving for this moment. ‘By the way gentlemen, when I was aboard Explosion this morning I learned some news from London that will affect us all. Has anyone else learned of it?’

  ‘We know that Admiral Ganteaume got out of Brest with seven of the line,’ said Rogers.

  ‘Aye, these damned easterlies, but I heard that Collingwood’s gone in pursuit,’ added Matchett. Drinkwater shook his head.

  ‘You mean, sir, that it is intended to defend the Thames by dropping stone blocks into it?’ asked Quilhampton ingenuously.

  ‘No, young shaver, I do not.’ He looked round. No one seemed to have any idea. ‘I mean that Billy Pitt’s resigned and that Mr Speaker Addington is to form a new government . . .’ Exclamations of surprise and dismay met the news.

  ‘Well, ’twill be of no account, Addington’s Pitt’s mouthpiece . . .’

  ‘No wonder there are no orders for us . . .’

  ‘So the King would not stomach emancipating the papists.’

  ‘Damned good thing too . . .’

  ‘Come Mr Rogers, you surely cannot truly think that?’

  ‘Aye, Mr Lettsom, I most certainly do, God damn them . . .’

  ‘Gentlemen please!’ Drinkwater banged his hand on the table. The meal was intended to unite them. ‘Perhaps you would like to know who is to head the Admiralty?’ Their faces turned towards him. ‘St Vincent, with Markham and Troubridge.’

  ‘Who is to replace St Vincent in the
Channel, sir?’

  ‘Lord Cornwallis.’

  ‘Ah, Billy Blue, well I think that is good news,’ offered Lettsom, ‘and I hear St Vincent will be at Sir Bloody Andrew Snape Hammond’s throat. He has sworn reform and Hammond is an infernal jobber. Pray heaven they start at Chatham, eh?’

  ‘I’ll drink to that, Mr Lettsom,’ said Drinkwater smiling.

  ‘What d’you say Jex?’ said the surgeon turning to the purser, ‘got your dirty work done just in time, eh?’ There was a rumble of laughter round the table. Jex flushed.

  ‘I protest . . . sir . . .’

  ‘I rule that unfair, Mr Lettsom,’ said Drinkwater still smiling. ‘Consider that Mr Jex paid for the sauerkraut.’

  ‘The hands’ll not thank you for that sir, however good an anti-scorbutic it is.’

  Drinkwater ignored Jex’s look of startled horror. He did not see it subside into an expression of resentment. ‘What about the other members of the cabinet?’ asked Lettsom.

  ‘I forget, Mr Lettsom. Only that that blade Vansittart is to be Joint Secretary to the Treasury or something. That is all I recollect . . .’

  ‘Well the damned politicians forget us; why the hell should we remember them?’ Rogers’s flushed face expressed approval at his own jest.

  ‘I have it!’ said Lettsom suddenly, snapping his fingers as the laughter died away.

  ‘Have what sir?’ asked Quilhampton in precocious mock horror, ‘The lues? The yaws?’

  ‘An epigram, gentlemen, an epigram!’ He cleared his throat while several banged the table for silence. Lettsom struck a pose:

  ‘If blocks can from danger deliver,

  Two places are safe from the French,

  The first is the mouth of the river,

  The second the Treasury Bench.’

  ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ They cheered, banged the table and were unaware of the strange face that appeared round the doorway. Drinkwater saw it first, together with that of Mason behind. He called for silence. ‘What is it Mr Mason?’

  The assembled officers turned to stare at the newcomer. He wore a royal blue tail coat turned back to reveal scarlet facings. His breeches were white and a cocked hat was tucked underneath his arm. His face was round and red, covered by peppery hair that grew out along his cheekbones, though his chin was shaved yet it had the appearance of being constantly rasped raw as if to keep down its beard. The man’s head sat low upon his shoulders, like a 12-pound shot in the garlands.