'I beg your pardon, sir.' Meggs looked crestfallen.
'Be a good fellow and have something more suitable on when you muster.'
'Very well, sir ...' Meggs looked hard at his captain and Drinkwater suddenly looked down at his own appearance.
'Perhaps,' he said, recovering himself at last, 'that had better stand for both of us, eh? You may wait until four bells before turning up the ship.'
Fully awake and aware of the ludicrous appearance he would cut even in the predawn gloom, Drinkwater hurried below. As he turned for his cabin above the companionway, he was aware of a face staring up at him. For a second he stopped, his heart beating as though this was some impish visitation from his dream, and then it was gone, the young Chinese girl vanishing into the stygian darkness.
'Pass word for my steward,' he growled at the marine, and the whisper went around the ship that Captain Drinkwater was awake and something was afoot.
Sluicing his face after the harsh ministrations of the razor Drinkwater called for a clean shirt. It occurred to him that the few days of relatively relaxed routine might prove fatal to the delicate matter of morale. He was aware that he had left the refitting of the ship to Fraser and though he could find little to fault with the first lieutenant's arrangements, only time would prove their thoroughness.
Drinkwater was unhappily conscious that any loosening of the bonds of discipline was a risky matter, and that mumblings of discontent had accompanied Patrician from the moment the crew of Antigone had been turned wholesale into her, topped up with the scum of a hot press and sent round Cape Horn to absent them all from European waters.
The long-service volunteers had had their willingness to serve eroded by lack of shore leave and the association of landsmen, lubbers, thieves and petty felons; men whose proper habitat was a gaol, but whom the Admiralty saw fit to pour into men-of-war to fill their impossible complements. It was for prime seamen to tolerate them, but to be reduced to their level was something that proud men, jealous of their expertise, could not submit to.
Drinkwater's greatest enemy was desertion. Jack had a simple understanding of the world and to him the foreign shore of China offered escape from the endless round of grinding labour expected of him aboard a King's ship. Drinkwater knew and understood all this, and before Patrician had sailed for the Pacific he had had to hang a man at the fore-yardarm for desertion, pour encourager les autres.
He shook the awful image from his mind's eye and summoned more cogent reasons for his attitude. He could not afford to lose a single man. Ballantyne had told him the Indiamen were often short of hands on a China voyage, of how they embarked Chinese to make up their complements, and how their commanders would be keen to secure the services of a dozen active topmen, even to the extent of hiding them until they were out of sight of land. To this must be added the potent inducement of the high and guaranteed wages paid on Company ships.
In short, Drinkwater mused as he tied his stock and reached behind him for the coat that Mullender held out, he would not be at all surprised if he was short of men. The question was, how many?
Beyond the cabin door the pipes squealed as four bells struck. Drinkwater stood before his mirror, head a-cock, listening to the sounds of reaction, judging by the inevitable sluggishness, the little shrieks of the whores and the suppressed oaths, the temper of his men.
Midshipman Count Vasili Chirkov felt his hammock shake. 'Come on, Vasili, get out ... uniform ... muster ...'
Midshipman Dutfield was climbing into his breeches, rousing the indolent Russian between grunts of effort as he and his colleagues sought the neglected items of their uniform in the gloomy chaos of the gunroom.
'Non ... no ...'
The girl stirred in the crook of his arm and nestled comfortably up to him.
Dutfield shook the hammock violently and then Frey was standing close, holding up a glim so that it shone unequivocally over the exposed bodies.
'Come on, you lubber!' the acting lieutenant urged, 'Or the Captain will marry you to the gunner's daughter.'
'No ...' Chirkov peered over the edge of the hammock. 'I have girl first ...'
Dutfield and Frey exchanged glances. Frey winked and shrugged. He felt his new-found authority inadequate to the task. The midshipmen left the gunroom and joined the rush to the upper deck.
The ship was a babel of confusion. Everywhere along the berth-deck men were hurriedly drawing on clothes and unlashing and rolling hammocks. Small brown Tanka women, their usefulness now past and to whom the sudden shrill of the pipes and flurry of activity must have been beyond all comprehension, were being roughly shoved aside. In one place two men were busy thrusting their paramours through an open gun-port into a waiting sampan, in another one of these unfortunate creatures was crying like a child, her ankle badly sprained from too sudden a descent from a hammock.
'Clear lower deck! Out! Out! Out!' Bosun Comley was bawling, urging his mates to use their starters, and lashing about him with his cane.
'Get these whores over the side! This is a King's ship, not a kennel!'
'Bloody hypocrite!' remarked a Quotaman who had once entertained social expectations but had been found guilty of embezzlement.
'Clear lower deck!'
Lieutenant Mount appeared, buttoning his tunic and shouting.
'Ser'nt Blixoe! Pass word for Ser'nt Blixoe ...'
'Here, sir!'
'Give the Bosun a hand to get these trollops into their boats ... not too roughly, Ser'nt.'
Meanwhile, in the gunroom, Midshipman Count Vasili Ghirkov was reaching the climax of his urgent love-making.
His sword hitched and his hat ready in his hand, Drinkwater half sat on the edge of his table, one leg swinging, awaiting the summons to the deck. When it came at last he affected not to notice the inordinate delay, not to enquire from Mr Belchambers, who had been sent limping down to inform him the muster was complete, why he had heard noises below decks that indicated a party of marines sent twice through the ship. He knew already what that signified.
It was growing light as he climbed to the quarterdeck. The men were massed amidships, over the booms and along the gangways, in the lower rigging and, still distracted by the departing women, craning over the rails. Beyond the hammock nettings he could see the trucks of masts as three or four score sampans rocked away from their sides.
'Eyes in the ship there!' Fraser touched his hat. 'Ship's company mustered, sir.'
'Very well, Mr Fraser.'
There was something wrong. He could see instantly the lack of symmetry in the ranks of marines who rigidly lined the sides of the quarterdeck. He caught Fraser's eye and raised an eyebrow.
'Four men missing, sir,' hissed the first lieutenant in a low, tense voice.
'How many marines?'
'None, sir. Corporal Grice is still searching the ship.'
'Any boats missing?'
'No, sir. Too many sampans ...'
Drinkwater nodded a curt acceptance of what he had already guessed. Affecting to ignore the report he stepped forward.
'Well, my lads,' he began, staring at the bleary faces that were taking shape in the growing light, 'the Chinese consider us barbarians, I'm told, and looking at the present state of the ship's company, I'm not entirely surprised ...'
A collectively sheepish grin seemed to spread across the more tractable members of the crew.
'You have all enjoyed a little relaxation and the ship is almost ready to proceed ...'
'Where are we bound, Cap'n?'
The voice was unidentifiable, but it might have asked for all except the Russian prisoners, for the light of interest kindled in their washed-out faces.
'We are escorting a convoy to Prince of Wales Island and then ... then I think it time that we took ourselves home ...'
He was aware that few of them knew where Prince of Wales Island was, and fewer cared, but they all wanted to hear their final destination. He was cut short by a spontaneous burst of cheering, cheering that only died awa
y when Corporal Grice and his detail emerged from the after companionway half dragging, half shoving an able seaman named Ward, and escorting the protesting Chirkov and his half-naked flower-girl in to the ampitheatre of unoccupied deck before the captain.
Chirkov shrugged off the rough hands of the marines and turned as though to join his fellow prisoners, gathered about Prince Vladimir.
'Stand still, sir!' rapped Mount, pleased with his men.
'Make your report, Grice,' said Drinkwater quietly, nodding first at Ward.
'Caught him going out through a gun-port, sir. Into a sampan under number three gun, sir.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Anything to say, Ward?'
The unhappy man shook his head. 'Put him in the bilboes, Corporal.' Drinkwater had no intention of marring the present moment with a flogging. On the other hand ...
He turned to the sulking Russian. Not taking his eyes off the young nobleman, Drinkwater said, 'Captain Rakitin, this officer is under duty to you. He is responsible for a division of your men and has been publicly taken with this woman. Have you anything to say on his behalf?'
It gave Drinkwater a grim satisfaction to see the big Russian nonplussed, even if only for a moment.
'If it was one of my midshipmen he would be made to kiss the gunner's daughter!'
'No ... no, that would be most irregular ...'
'I shall punish him tomorrow, Captain,' Drinkwater said, 'when I deal with my own defaulters. Kindly be answerable for his behaviour until then.' He turned to Fraser. 'Pipe the men down, Mr Fraser, I want to be ready to weigh at first light tomorrow.'
'What about the deserters, sir? asked Fraser as the muster dispersed.
'No more sampans alongside, Mr Fraser, and a better guard boat tonight. Forget the deserters and let the men enjoy the anticipation of seeing Midshipman Chirkov's matrimony.'
Touching his hat, Drinkwater left the deck. Behind him Fraser and Mount exchanged glances.
'Forget the deserters,' muttered Fraser, 'that's no' wise ...'
'I think,' mused Mount quietly to the worried first lieutenant, 'that we are more concerned with morale at the moment.'
CHAPTER 6
The Concerns of a Convoy
December 1808
'Well, gentlemen, that concludes matters ...'
Drinkwater looked round at the faces of the dozen men gathered in his cabin. Most wore plain cloth coats, some sported brass buttons or a strip of gold leaf about their cuffs, but two wore the brass-bound uniform of the East India Company's livery.
'If there are no more questions I wish you all good-night and would be obliged if you would heave a-peak the instant you see my signal at daylight. We will make the best of our way beyond the Bogue and I will signal a boat from each of you before forming the order of sailing.' In this way Drinkwater could allow for any idiosyncrasies he noticed in the passage downstream.
There was a chorus of 'good-nights' and mutual exchanges between these masters of the convoy who all knew each other. An undercurrent of relief had permeated their gathering for Drinkwater's briefing: he knew that indecision had sent the Select Committee into a catalepsy and that these men, at least, were fortunate to have completed their cargoes and be homeward bound.
Drinkwater nodded dismissal to Ballantyne who, attired in the more-or-less regulation dress of a warrant officer, had cleared away the copies of Huddart's charts that had been his passport to Patrician’s wardroom. Fraser, too, was about to leave the cabin, but Drinkwater stepped forward and restrained him with his hand.
'Captain Callan,' Drinkwater called, and one of the East India commanders turned in the doorway. 'Might I have a word, sir?'
'Of course, Captain ...' Callan, a tall, slightly red-faced man with bushy eyebrows above deep-set eyes, was commander of the Indiaman Guilford, and senior of the two John Company men.
'I will be blunt with you, sir,' began Drinkwater, 'I am short of men.'
Callan nodded. 'I wondered when you would turn poacher.' He nodded at Fraser. 'We acceded to your first lieutenant's requests for spars from our stores in the bankshalls on Danes Island in the pious hope that we might assuage the Navy's rapacious appetite. It seems that, having plundered our stores, you now want our men.'
'It seems that you do not quite understand ...' replied Drinkwater coolly.
'Oh, I quite understand, Captain Drinkwater. In fact I understand very well and that is why we, the masters in the convoy, have agreed a confederation united to oppose you if you send any men on board our ships with the intention of removing our people. Just attempt it, sir, just attempt it, by God!'
Drinkwater raised an eyebrow. 'You know my rights in the matter, Captain Callan ...'
'Aye,' Callan retorted swiftly, 'such as they are this far from home and with the sworn affidavits of my colleagues to counter you. Besides, many of my men hold exemptions and it is a matter of record that we too are under-manned.'
'Captain, I do not submit to intimidation. Perhaps you need not threaten me if I assure you that I have no intention of pressing your men. I will give you my word of honour upon the point, if it pleases you.'
'Then, why ... ?'
'But', Drinkwater pressed on, 'might I ask you how you feel about the boot being on the other foot?'
Callan's mouth was still open and it was clear that Drinkwater's remark had caught him at a disadvantage.
'If I am not to poach from you, sir, you should not poach from me.'
'You heard?' frowned Callan.
'Three prime topmen. I guessed.'
A reluctantly appreciative smile hovered about the corners of Callan's mouth. Drinkwater wondered if Callan knew to what degree he had been bluffing. The commanders of Indiamen were no fools. A fortune of £20,000 was nothing to them, trading as they did on their own account. They were often part-owners of their ships, for the Honourable Company chartered rather than owned the great argosies, expecting them to make four or five voyages before they were worn out. The thought amused Drinkwater, making him smile in return. By Company standards Patrician was a hulk!
'I will return them in the morning, Captain Drinkwater.'
'No. Oblige me by holding them until I send for them. I do not want my own people disturbed by a flogging until we are out of soundings.'
'Very well.'
'A glass to warm the temperature of our meeting?'
'Obliged.'
'Pray sit down ... Fraser, will you join us?'
'Thank you, sir.'
'My first lieutenant has done wonders to repair the damage wrought by the typhoon, Captain Callan, the least we can offer him is a drink ...'
Fraser blushed and mumbled something as Drinkwater served from the decanter.
'I see you have taken on the younger Ballantyne, Captain Drinkwater,' remarked Callan conversationally.
'Yes. I lost my own master in action. You know him?'
Callan nodded. 'He's illegitimate, of course, Ballantyne has a wife in Lambeth. Rather a colourful fellow, the son ...'
'He seems competent enough. I do not know that a little colour hurt a man of its own accord.'
'I meant in terms of manner, rather than blood, Captain, though there are those who would dispute the matter.'
'Well, I am not versed in these contentions. Let him serve until he proves himself one way or another.'
'Or a ball carries off his head.'
'You think that likely?'
Callan shrugged. 'You heard the opinion aired here tonight that the protection of the trade is inadequate. Pellew has a few frigates on station, but these are too well-known now and the Dutch and French have both got formidable ships in these seas.'
'You havena mentioned pirates, sir,' prompted Fraser, relaxing with his glass.
'Don't be a doubting Thomas, Lieutenant. The Ladrones will not touch us, but the Sea-Dyaks of Borneo are a different matter. They have taken four Country ships this last quarter, and all were richly laden, almost as if they knew ... I tell you it's been a damned bad year for our trade,
without this farce between the Selectmen, the Viceroy and our dear friend Admiral Drury.'
You refer to the failure to extract the specie?' asked Drinkwater, refilling the glasses.
'Aye. The Chinese merchants of the Hong are a damnable tricky lot. The Viceroy wants the trade, the Hoppo of the Imperial Customs wants the trade and the European merchants want the trade, but if they can get it for nothing by hiding behind the Emperor's proscription they will, that's why we're so damned anxious to get our ships out of the river.'
'Captain Callan,' said Drinkwater, rising and walking round behind his writing-table to produce the mysterious letter he had received from Canton, 'what d'you make of this?'
He watched Callan frown over the thing, holding it to the candelabra to read it. He shook his head and looked up.
'I don't recognise the hand. Have you heard further from this Friend?'
'No ... I made it clear that we would sail at dawn on the second, but we have heard nothing since his messenger departed.'
Drinkwater thought briefly of the boy and the dream, but dismissed the silly obsession.
'Did you mention it to your admiral?'
Drinkwater shook his head. 'No, he had already rejoined the Russell beyond the outer bar. Besides, if the thing had happened I could have sent word that we had got the specie via the Phaeton; she is due to drop down river with us tomorrow.'
Callan shrugged and appeared to dismiss the matter. 'I heard you took a Russian seventy-four, Captain,' he said, rising and holding out his hand.
Drinkwater nodded. 'We've a few of her people to prove it.'
'Here's my hand, Captain. I confess your escort is providential. Before your arrival the best we could hope for was Pellew's whipper-snapper Fleetwood. Perhaps we can dine during the passage, Captain, and with you, Lieutenant ...'
Fraser saw Callan over the side and into his waiting boat. It was quite dark and Drinkwater stared out over the leaden surface of the great river. The mysterious letter seemed to signify nothing beyond some poor European thwarted in his efforts to get out of the beleaguered factories. Whatever its source it was beyond his power to do anything about it.
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