The set of Lettsom's jaw and the perspiration on his forehead were evidence of his concern.
Lettsom withdrew the probe, inserted thin forceps and drew out a sliver of wood with a sigh. He held it up to the light and studied it intently. Drinkwater saw him swallow and his eyes closed for a moment. He had been unsuccessful. He rubbed his hand over his mouth in a gesture of near despair, leaving a smear of blood across his face. Then his shoulders sagged in defeat.
'Put him in my cot,' said Drinkwater, realising that to move Mason further than was absolutely necessary would kill him. Lettsom caught his eye and the surgeon shook his head. The two men remained motionless while the surgeon's mates bound absorbent pledgets over the wound and eased Mason into the box-like swinging bed. Lettsom rinsed his hands and dropped his reeking apron on the tablecloth while his mates cleaned the table and cleared Drinkwater's cabin of the gruesome instrument chest. Drinkwater poured two glasses of rum and handed one to the surgeon who slumped in a chair and drained it at a swallow.
'The splinter broke,' Lettsom said at last. 'It had run in between the external iliac vein and artery. They were both intact. That gave me a chance to save him…' He paused, looked at Drinkwater, then lowered his eyes again. 'That was a small miracle, Mr Drinkwater, and I should have succeeded, but I bungled it. No don't contradict me, I beg you. I bungled it. The splinter broke with its end lodged in the obturator vein, the haemorrage was dark and veinous. When he turns in his sleep he will move it and puncture his bladder. Part of his breeches and under garments will have been carried into the body.'
'You did your utmost, Mr Lettsom. None of us can do more.'
Lettsom looked up. His eyes blazed with sudden anger. 'It was not enough, Mr Drinkwater. God damn it, it simply was not enough.'
Drinkwater thought of the flippant quatrain with which Lettsom had introduced himself. The poor man was drinking a cup of bitterness now. He leaned across and refilled Lettsom's glass. Drinkwater was a little drunk himself and felt the need of company.
'You did your duty…'
'Bah, duty! Poppycock, sir! We may all conceal our pathetic inadequacies behind our "duty". The fact of the matter is I bungled it. Perhaps I should still be probing in the poor fellow's guts until he dies under my hands.'
'You cannot achieve the impossible, Mr Lettsom.'
'No, perhaps not. But I wished that I might have done more. He will die anyway and might at least have the opportunity to regain his senses long enough to make his peace with the world.'
Drinkwater nodded, looking at the hump lying inert in his own bed. He felt a faint ringing in his ears. The fever did not trouble him tonight but he seemed to float an inch above his chair.
'I don't believe a man must shrive his soul with a canting priest, Mr Drinkwater,' Lettsom went on, helping himself to the bottle. 'I barely know whether there is an Omnipotent Being. A man is only guts sewn up in a hide bag. No anatomist has discovered the soul and the divine spark is barely perceptible in most.' He nodded at the gently swinging cot. 'See how easily it is extinguished. How much of the Almighty d'you think he contains to be snuffed like this?' he added with sudden vehemence.
'You were not responsible for Mason's wound, Mr Lettsom,' Drinkwater said with an effort, 'those luggers…'
'Those luggers, sir, were simply a symptom of the malignity of mankind. What the hell is this bloody war about, eh? The king of Denmark's mad, Gustav of Sweden's mad, Tsar Paul is a dangerous and criminal lunatic and each of these maniacs is setting his people against us. And what in God's name are we doing going off to punish Danes and Swedes and Russians for the crazy ambitions of their kings? Why, Mr Drinkwater, it is even rumoured that our very own beloved George is not all that he should be in the matter of knowing what's what.' Lettsom tapped his head significantly.
'We are swept up like chaff in the wind. Mason is hit by the flail and I bungle his excision like a student. That's all there is to it, Mr Drinkwater. One may philosophise over providence, or what you will, as long as you have a belly empty of splinters, but that is all there is to it…'
He fell silent and Drinkwater said nothing. His own belief in fate was a faith that drew its own strength from such misgivings as Lettsom expressed. But he could not himself accept the cold calculations of the scientific mind, could not agree with Lettsom's assumption of ultimate purposelessness.
They were both drunk, but at that brief and peculiarly lucid state of drunkenness that it is impossible to maintain and is gone as soon as attained. In this moment of clarity Drinkwater thought himself the greater coward.
'Perhaps,' said Lettsom at last, 'the French did themselves a service by executing King Louis, much as we did the first Charles. Pity of the matter is we replaced a republic by a monarchy and subjected ourselves voluntarily to the humbug of parliamentary politics…'
'You are an admirer of the American rebels, Mr Lettsom?'
The surgeon focussed a shrewd eye on his younger commander. 'Would you not welcome a world where ability elevated a man quicker than birth or influence, Mr Drinkwater?'
'Now you sound like a leveller. You know, you quacks stand in a unique position in relationship to the rest of us. Wielding the knife confers a huge moral advantage upon you. Like priests you are apt to resort to pontification…'
'Moral superiority is conferred on any man with a glass in his hand…'
'Aye, Mr Lettsom, and when we rise tomorrow morning the world will be as it is tonight. Imperfect in all its aspects, yet oddly beautiful and full of hidden wonders, cruel and harsh with battles to be fought and gales endured. There is more honesty at a cannon's mouth than may be found elsewhere. Kings and their ambition are but a manifestation of the world's turbulence. As a scientist I would have expected you to acknowledge Newton's third law. It governs the entire travail of humanity Mr Lettsom, and is not indicative of tranquil existence.'
Lettsom looked at Drinkwater with surprise. 'I had no idea I was commanded by such a philosopher, Mr Drinkwater.'
'I learnt the art from a surgeon, Mr Lettsom,' replied Drinkwater drily.
'Your journals, Mr Q.' Drinkwater held out his hand for the bound notebooks. He opened the first and turned over the pages. The handwriting was large and blotchy, the pages wrinkled from damp.
'They were rescued from the wreck of the Hellebore, sir,' offered the midshipman.
Drinkwater nodded without looking up, stifling the images that rose in his mind. He took up a later book. The calligraphy had matured, the entries were briefer, less lyrical and more professional.
A drawing appeared here and there: The arrangement of yards upon a vessel going into mourning. Drinkwater smiled approvingly, discovering a half-finished note about mortars.
'You did not complete this, Mr Q?'
'No sir. Mr Tumilty left us before I had finished catechising him.'
'I see. How would you stow barrels, Mr Q?'
'Bung up and bilge free, sir.'
'A ship is north of the equator. To find the latitude, given the sun's declination is south and the altitude on the meridian is reduced to give a correct zenith distance, how do you apply that zenith distance to the declination?'
'The declination is subtracted from the zenith distance, sir, to give the latitude.'
'A vessel is close hauled on the larboard tack, wind southwesterly and weather thick. You have the deck and notice the air clearing with blue sky to windward. Of what would you beware and what steps would you take?'
'That the ship might be thrown aback, the wind veering into the north west. I would order the quartermaster to keep the vessel's head off the wind a point more than was necessary by the wind.'
'Under what circumstances would you not do this?'
Quilhampton's face puckered into a frown and he caught his lip in his teeth.
'Well, Mr Q? You are almost aback, sir.'
'I… er.'
'Come now. Under what circumstances might you not be able to let the vessel's head pay off? Come, summon your imagination.'
'If you had a danger under the lee bow, sir,' said Quilhampton with sudden relief.
'Then what would you do?'
'Tack ship, sir.'
'You have left it too late, sir, the ship's head is in irons…' Drinkwater looked at the sheen of sweat on the midshipman's brow. There was enough evidence in the books beneath Drinkwater's hands of Quilhampton's imagination and he was even now beset by anxiety on his imaginary quarterdeck.
'Pass word for the captain, sir?' Quilhampton suggested hopefully.
'The captain is incapacitated and you are first lieutenant, Mr Q, you cannot expect to be extricated from this mess.'
'Make a stern board and hope to throw the ship upon the starboard tack, sir.'
'Anything else?' Drinkwater looked fixedly at the midshipman. 'What if you fail in the sternboard?'
'Anchor, sir.'
'At last! Never neglect the properties of anchors, Mr Q. You may lose an anchor and not submit your actions to a court-martial, but it is quite otherwise if you lose the ship. A prudent man, knowing he might be embayed, would have prepared to club-haul his ship with the larboard anchor. Do you know how to club-haul a ship?'
Quilhampton swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing round his grubby stock.
'Only in general principle, sir.'
'Make it your business to discover the matter in detail. Now, how is a topmast stuns'l set?'
'The boom is rigged out and the gear bent. Pull up the halliards and tack, keeping fast the end of the deck sheet. The stops are cut by a man on the lower yard. The tack is hauled out and the halliards hove. The short sheet is rove round the boom heel and secured in the top.'
Drinkwater smiled, recognising the words. 'Very well, Mr Q. Consequent upon the death of Mr Mason I am rating you acting master's mate. You will take over Mason's duties. Please take your journals with you.'
He waved aside Quilhampton's thanks. 'You will not thank me when the duty becomes arduous or I am dissatisfied with your conduct. Go and look up how to club-haul in that excellent primer of yours.'
Drinkwater picked up his pen and returned to the task he had deliberately interrupted by summoning Quilhampton.
Dear Sir, he began to write, It is with great regret that my painful duty compels me to inform you of the death of your son…
Explosion and the rest of the squadron came into Yarmouth Roads during the next two days to join the growing number of British men of war anchored there. Most of the other bomb vessels had been blown to leeward and Martin merely nodded when Drinkwater presented his report. The fleet was reduced to waiting while the officers eagerly seized on the newspapers to learn any-thing about the intentions of the government in respect of the Baltic crisis.
A number of British officers serving with the Russian navy returned to Britain. One in particular arrived in Yarmouth: a Captain Nicholas Tomlinson, who had been reduced to half-pay after the American War and served with the Russians at the same period as the American John Paul Jones. He volunteered his services to the commander-in-chief. Admiral Parker, comfortably ensconced at the Wrestler's Inn with his young bride, refused to see Tomlinson.
No orders emanated from either Parker or London. It was a matter that preoccupied the officers of Virago as they dined in their captain's absence.
'Lieutenant Drinkwater is endeavouring to discover some news of our intentions either from Martin or anyone else who knows,' explained Rogers as he took his place at the head of the cabin table and nodded to the messman.
'I hear the King caught a severe chill at the National Fast and Humiliation,' said Mr Jex in his fussy way, 'upon the thirteenth of last month.'
'National Farce,' corrected Rogers, sarcastically.
'I heard he caught a cold in the head,' put in the surgeon with heavy emphasis.
'At all events we must wait until either Addington's kissed hands or Parker has got out of his bed,' offered Easton.
'At Parker's age he'll be a deuced long time getting up with a young bride in his bed,' added Lettsom with a grin, sniping at the more accessible admiral in the absence of a king.
'At Parker's age he'll be a deuced long time getting it up, you mean Mr Lettsom,' grunted Rogers coarsely.
'Yes, I wonder who exhausts whom, for it is fearful unequal combat to pit eighteen years against sixty-four.'
'Experience against enthusiasm, eh?'
'More like impotence against ignorance, but wait, I have the muse upon me,' Lettsom paused. 'I am uncertain on whom to lay the greater blame for our woes.
'Why here is a thing to raise liberal hopes;
Government can't do as it pleases,
While the entire fleet 'waits the order to strike
Addington awaits the King's sneezes.'
A cheer greeted this doggerel but Lettsom shook his head with dissatisfaction.
'It don't scan to my liking. I think the admiral the better inspiration:
'Tis not for his slowness in firing his shot
That our admiral is known every night,
But his laxness in heaving his anchor aweigh
Must dub him a most tardy knight.'
There were more cheers for the surgeon and it was generally accepted that the second verse was much better than the first.
'But the lady's no fool, Mr Lettsom, and I'll not subscribe to her ignorance,' Rogers said as the laughter died away. 'Parker flew his flag in the West Indies. He's the richest admiral on the list. His fortune is supposed to be worth a hundred thousand and all she has to put up with is a few years of the old pig grunting about the sheets before the lot'll fall into her lap. Why 'tis a capital match and I'll drink to Lady Parker. There's many a man as would marry for the same reason, eh Mr Jex?' Rogers leered towards the purser.
Jex shot a venomous look at the first lieutenant. His conduct during the fight with the luggers had not been exactly valorous and he had dreaded this exposure as the butt of the officers' jests.
'Ah, Mr Jex has seen victory betwixt the sheets and is accustomed to seek it between the sails, eh?' There was another roar of laughter. At the end of the action off the Sunk Jex had been discovered hiding in the spare sails below decks.
'You are being uncharitable towards Mr Jex, Mr Rogers. I have it on good authority he was looking for his honour,' Lettsom said as Jex stormed from the cabin the colour of a beetroot.
'Come in. Yes Mr Q, what is it?' Drinkwater's voice was weary.
'Beg pardon, sir, but the vice-admiral's entering the anchorage.' Drinkwater looked up. There was a light in the young man's eyes. 'Lord Nelson, sir,' he added excitedly. Drinkwater could not resist Quilhampton's infectious enthusiasm.
'Thank you, Mr Q,' he said smiling. The hero of the Nile had a strange way of affecting the demeanour of his juniors. Drinkwater remembered their brief meeting at Syracuse and that same infectious enthusiasm that had seemed to imbue Nelson's entire fleet, despite their vain manoeuvrings in chase of Bonaparte. What a shame the same spirit was absent from the present assembly of ships. Drinkwater sighed. The subsequent scandal with Hamilton's wife and the vainglorious progress through Europe that followed the victory at Aboukir Bay, had curled the lip of many of Nelson's equals, but Drinkwater had no more appetite for his paper-work and he found himself pulling a muffler round his neck under his boat cloak to join the men at Virago's rail cheering the little admiral as the St George stood through the gatway into Yarmouth Roads.
The battleship with her three yellow strakes flew a blue flag at her foremasthead and came in with two other warships. Hardly had her sheet anchor dropped from her bow than her cannon boomed out in salute to Parker's flag, flying nominally at the main-masthead of the 64-gun Ardent until the arrival of Parker's proper flagship. The flag's owner was still accommodated at the Wrestler's Inn and this fact must have been early acquainted to Nelson for his barge was shortly afterwards seen making for the landing jetty. It was later rumoured that, although he received a cordial enough welcome from the commander-in-chief, Parker refused to discuss ar
rangements for the fleet on their first meeting.
Although a man who appeared to have lost both head and heart to Emma Hamilton, Nelson had never let love interfere with duty. It was soon common knowledge in the fleet that his criticisms of Parker were frank, scatological and scathing. Nelson's dissatisfaction spread like wildfire, and ribald jests were everywhere heard, particularly among the hands on the ships that waited in the chill winds and shivered in their draughty gun decks while Sir Hyde banked the bedroom fire in the Wrestler's Inn. In addition to Lettsom's doggerel there were other ribaldries, mostly puns upon the name of the hostelry where Parker lodged and all of them enjoyed with relish in gunrooms as on gun decks, in cockpits and in staterooms. Nelson had given a dinner the evening of his arrival and expressed his fears on the consequences of a delay. His impatience did not improve as day succeeded day.
The final preparations for the departure of the expedition were completed. Nearly eight hundred men of the 49th Foot with a company of rifles had been embarked under Colonel Stewart. Eleven masters of Baltic trading ships and all members of the Trinity House of Kingston-upon-Hull had joined for the purpose of piloting the fleet through the dangers of the Baltic Sea. On Monday 9th March Parker's flagship the London arrived and his flag was ceremoniously shifted aboard her at eight o'clock the next morning. The admiral remained ashore.
Later that day an Admiralty messenger arrived in Yarmouth with an order for Parker to sail, but still he prevaricated. His wife had arranged a ball for the coming Friday and, to indulge his Fanny, Parker postponed the fleet's departure until after the event.
That evening Lieutenant Drinkwater also received a message, scribbled on a piece of grubby paper:
Nathaniel
I beg you come ashore at eight of the clock tonight. I must see you on a matter of the utmost urgency.
I beg you not to ignore this plea and I will await you on the west side of the Yare ferry.
Ned
The word must was underlined heavily. Drinkwater looked up at the longshoreman who had brought the note and had refused to relinquish it to Mr Quilhampton who now stood protectively suspicious behind the ragged boatman.
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