The Corvette

by Richard Woodman

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mullack, sir.’

  ‘That was well done, Mullack, I’ll not forget it. Who was the victim?’

  ‘Jim Leek, sir, foretopman.’

  ‘A messmate of yours?’ Mullack nodded. ‘Did you see what happened?’ The seaman met Drinkwater’s eyes then studied the deck again. ‘No, sir.’ He was lying, Drinkwater knew, but that was nothing to hold against him in the circumstances.

  ‘Very well, Mullack, cut along now.’ Drinkwater watched for a second as Melusine paid off to steady on her course again.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ offered Lord Walmsley, stepping forward, ‘but the man was only skylarking, sir. Leek was dancing on the yardarm when he missed his footing.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Walmsley. He is in your division ain’t he?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Kindly inform the midshipmen that they will be put over a gun-breech every time they permit a man in their division to fool about aloft . . . and Mr Rispin! Set the main t’gallant again, we are three miles astern of our station.’

  The smell of tobacco smoke filled the dimly lit cockpit which housed the midshipmen. For a second Drinkwater was a ‘young gentleman’ again, transported back to an afternoon in Gibraltar Bay when he had caught a messmate in the throes of sodomy. As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust he took in the scene before him.

  Leek’s body was thrown over a chest, his buttocks bared while a loblolly boy held his abdomen face downwards. Behind him Surgeon Macpherson stood with a bellows inserted into Leek’s anus. The clack-hole was connected to a small box in which tobacco was burning and, in addition to the aroma of the plug and the stink of bilge, the smell of rum was heavy in the foetid air.

  ‘He’s ejecting water,’ said the loblolly boy. Drinkwater felt himself pushed aside in the darkness and looked round sharply as Singleton elbowed his way into the cockpit.

  ‘What diabolical nonsense is this?’ he snapped with uncommon force, opening a black bag. Macpherson looked up and his eyes narrowed, gleaming wetly in the flickering light of the two lanterns.

  ‘The Cullenian cure,’ he sneered, ‘by the acrimony of the tobacco the intestines will be stimulated and the action of the moving fibres thus restored . . .’

  ‘Get that thing out of his arse!’ Macpherson and the loblolly boys stared at Singleton in astonishment as the missionary completed his preparations and pushed the drunken surgeon to one side.

  Drinkwater had recovered from his shock. He was remembering something in Singleton’s letter of introduction; the two letters ‘M.D.’.

  ‘Do as he says, Macpherson!’ The voice of the captain cut through the gloom and Macpherson stepped back, his rum-sodden brain uncomprehending.

  ‘By my oath . . . here, on his back and quickly now or we’ll have lost him . . .’

  Singleton waved two onlookers, Midshipmen Glencross and Gorton, to assist. Leek was laid face up on the deck and Singleton knelt at his head and shoved a short brass tube into his mouth. Pinching Leek’s nose Singleton began to blow into the tube. After a while he looked at Gorton.

  ‘Sit astride him and push down hard on his chest when I take my mouth away.’

  They continued thus for some ten minutes, alternately blowing and punching down while the watchers waited in silence. About them Melusine creaked and groaned, her bilge slopping beneath them, but in the cockpit a diminishing hiatus of hope suspended them. Even Macpherson watched, befuddled and bewildered by what he was seeing.

  Suddenly there was a contraction in Leek’s throat. Singleton leapt up and pushed Gorton to one side, rolling Leek roughly over and slapping him hard between the shoulder blades. There was a massive eructation and Leek’s chest heaved and continued to heave of its own accord. A quantity of viscid fluid ran from his mouth.

  Singleton stood up and fixed Macpherson with a glare. ‘I suggest you forget about Cullen, sir. The Royal Humane Society has advocated resuscitation since seventy-four.’ He bumped into Drinkwater. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘That is quite all right, Mr Singleton. Thank you. Have that man conveyed to his hammock and excused watches until noon tomorrow, Mr Gorton.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Lieutenant Germaney leant on the rail and endeavoured to distract his preoccupied mind by concentrating upon the wine bottle at the yard arm. The pain was constant now and he thought his bowels were on fire and melting away.

  The snap of a musket called his attention momentarily. The bottle swung intact, a green pinpoint at the extremity of the yard, catching the morning sun and twinkling defiantly.

  A second musket spat and the bottle shattered. The marines were forbidden to cheer but there were congratulatory grins and one or two sullen faces. Mount was not under the same constraint.

  ‘Ho! Good shooting, Polesworth. Next man, fire!’ Mount’s voice was bright with exhilaration and Germaney cursed him for his cheerfulness, seeing in the merriment of others a barometer of his own despair. Since the ship was witness to the remarkable medical talents of the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, Germaney had seen an opportunity to end his suffering. But fate had dealt him a mean trick, providing him with the means of a cure but entailing him in the awkward business of a confession before a gentleman of the cloth. Germaney writhed with indecision, an indecision made worse by the sudden popularity of Mr Singleton and the fact that he was seldom alone, was universally courted by all sections of the ship’s company and encouraged in it by the captain, having seen the disgusting state of Melusine’s own surgeon.

  The revival of Leek had also stimulated a sudden religious fervour, for the topman claimed he had died and seen God. While Singleton’s attitude to his own medical abilities was purely professional, the theologian in him was intrigued. This circumstance seemed to make Germaney’s distress the more acute.

  A second bottle shattered and, a few minutes later, Mount dismissed his men. The Marine officer crossed the deck and removed his sword belt, sash, gorget and scarlet coat, laying them over the breech of the quarterdeck carronade next to Germaney. He doffed his hat and held it out.

  ‘Be a good fellow, Germaney . . .’ Germaney took the hat.

  ‘What the deuce are you up to?’

  Mount smiled and bent down to rummage in a canvas bag. He pulled a padded plastron over his shirt, produced a gauntlet, foil and mask and made mock obeisance.

  ‘I go, fair one, to joust with the captain. Wilt thou not grant me a favour?’

  ‘Good God.’ Germaney was in no mood for Mount’s humour but Mount was not to be so easily suppressed.

  ‘See where he comes,’ he whispered.

  Commander Drinkwater had emerged on deck in his shirt sleeves and plastron. Germaney could see the extent of the rumoured wound. The right shoulder sagged appreciably and the reason for the cock of his head, that Germaney had dismissed as a peculiarity of the man, now became clear.

  Drinkwater ignored the frank curiosity of the idlers amidships, whipped his foil experimentally, donned his mask and strode across the deck. He flicked a salute at his opponent.

  ‘Best of seven, sir?’ asked Mount, hooking the mask over his head.

  ‘Very well, Mr Mount, best of seven.’ Drinkwater lowered his mask and saluted.

  Mount dropped his mask and came on guard. Both men called ‘Ready’ to Quilhampton, who was presiding, and the bout commenced.

  The two men advanced and retreated cautiously, feeling their opponent by an occasional change of line, the click of the blades inaudible above the hiss of the sea and the thrum of the wind in the rigging.

  There was a sudden movement. Mount’s lunge was parried but the marine was too quick for Drinkwater, springing backwards then extending as the captain came forward to riposte.

  Drinkwater conceded the hit. They came on guard again. Mount came forward, beat Drinkwater’s blade and was about to extend and hit Drinkwater’s plastron when the captain whirled his blade in a circular parry, stepped forward and his blade bowe
d against Mount’s breast.

  They came on guard again and circled each other. Mount dropped his left hand and threw himself to the deck, intending to extend under Drinkwater’s guard but the captain pulled back his pelvis, then leaned forward, over Mount’s sword and dropped his point onto the Marine officer’s back.

  ‘Oh, very good, sir!’ There was a brief round of applause from the knot of officers assembled about the contest.

  Mount scored two more points in quick succession before a hiatus in which each contender circled warily, seeking an opening without exposing himself. The click of the blades could be heard now as they slammed together with greater fury. Mount’s next attack scored and he became more confident, getting a fifth hit off the captain.

  Mount came in to feint and lunge for the sixth point. Drinkwater realised the younger man was quicker than Quilhampton and he was himself running short of breath. But he was ready for it. He advanced boldly, bringing his forte down hard against Mount’s blade and executing a croisé, twisting his wrist and pulling his elbow back so that his sword point scratched against Mount’s belly. He leaned forward and the blade curved. Mount straightened and stepped back to concede the point. The second he came on guard again Drinkwater lunged. It would have gratified M. Bescond. Mount had not moved and Drinkwater had another point to his credit.

  The muscles in Drinkwater’s shoulder were hurting now, but the two quick hits had sharpened him. He caught Mount’s next extension in a bind and landed an equalising hit. The atmosphere on the quarterdeck was now electric and the quartermaster called the helmsmen to their duty.

  Drinkwater whirled a molinello but Mount parried quinte. There was a gasp as the onlookers watched Mount drop his blade to attack Drinkwater’s unguarded gut, stepping forward as he did so. But Drinkwater executed a brilliant low parry. The two blades met an instant before they collided corps-à-corps. They separated and came on guard again.

  ‘A guinea on Mount,’ muttered Rispin.

  ‘Done!’ said Hill, remembering the slithering deck of the Draaken one dull October afternoon off Camperdown.

  Drinkwater scored again as Mount slipped on the deck then lost a point to the marine with an ineffectual parry. They came on guard for the last time. There was a conversazione of blades then Mount’s suddenly licked out as he lunged low. Drinkwater stepped back to cut-over but Mount seemed to coil up his rear leg and thrust himself bodily forward. His blade curved triumphantly against the captain’s breast.

  The fencers removed their masks, smiling and panting. They shook their left hands.

  ‘By God you pressed me damned hard, sir.’

  ‘You were too fast for me, Mr Mount.’ Drinkwater wiped the sweat from his brow.

  ‘You owe me a guinea, Mr Hill.’

  ‘I shall win it back again, Mr Rispin, without a doubt.’

  Drinkwater returned below, nodding acknowledgement to the marine sentry’s salute as he entered the cabin. Tregembo had the tub of salt water ready in the centre of the cabin and Drinkwater immersed himself in it.

  ‘I’ve settled all your things now, zur, but we have too many chairs.’

  ‘Strike Palgrave’s down into the hold. Get the sailmaker to wrap some old canvas round them.’

  ‘I hope the pictures are to your liking, zur.’

  He looked at the portraits by Bruilhac and nodded. Sluicing the icy water over his head he rose and took the towel from Tregembo.

  ‘Don’t cluck like an old hen, Tregembo. Don’t forget I’m short of good topmen.’

  ‘Aye, zur, I doubt you’ll take to Cap’n Palgrave’s lackey,’ replied Tregembo familiarly, brushing Drinkwater’s undress coat, ‘but I’ll exchange willingly, zur, I’m not too old yet.’

  ‘D’you think I could stand Susan’s reproaches if I sent you aloft again?’ Drinkwater stepped out of the bath-tub. ‘Where’s Germaney put Palgrave’s man?’

  ‘He is mincing about the gunroom, sir,’ replied Tregembo with a touch of ire and added under his breath, ‘and ’tis the best bloody place for ’im.’

  The Cornishman picked up the tub and sluiced its contents down the quarter gallery privy.

  Dressing, Drinkwater sent for Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley. Donning his coat he sat behind his desk and awaited the appearance of his lordship. A glance out of the stern window showed the tail of the convoy. The sea was a dazzling blue and the wind still steady from the north of west, blowing fluffy cumulus clouds to leeward. It was more reminiscent of the Mediterranean than the North Sea: too good to last.

  ‘Come in!’ Lord Walmsley entered the cabin, his uniform immaculate, his hose silk. Drinkwater could imagine that he and his servant were popular in the confines of the cockpit.

  ‘You sent for me, sir.’

  ‘I did. The man Leek fell from the fore t’gallant yard yesterday, a consequence of skylarking didn’t you say.’

  Walmsley nodded. ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘Skylarking upon the yards is irresponsible when it leads to losing men . . .’

  ‘But sir, it was only high spirits, why Sir James . . .’

  ‘Damn Sir James, Mr Walmsley,’ Drinkwater said quietly. ‘I command here and I intend to flog Leek this morning.’ He paused. ‘I see that disturbs you. Do you have a weak stomach, or a feeling of solicitude for Leek? Eh?’ Drinkwater suppressed the smile that threatened to crack his face as he watched perplexity cross his lordship’s face. ‘Do you have any feeling for Leek?’

  ‘Why . . . I, er . . . yes, er . . .’

  ‘Is he a good seaman?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then I rely upon you to intercede for him. Do you understand? When I call for someone to speak for him. Now, kindly tell the first lieutenant to pipe all hands aft to witness punishment and to rig the gratings.’

  Drinkwater gave way to suppressed mirth as Walmsley retreated, his face a picture of confusion. The lesson would be better learned this way.

  Half a minute elapsed before the marine drummer began to beat the tattoo. Drinkwater heard the pipes at the hatchways and the thump of marines’ boots and the muffled slap of bare feet. He rose, hitched his sword and tucked his hat under his arm. He picked up the slim brown book that gave him the right to do what he was about to.

  Germaney’s head came round the door. ‘Ship’s company mustered to witness punishment, sir. Lord Walmsley tells me it’s Leek.’

  ‘That’s correct, Mr Germaney.’

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I conceive it my duty to inform you that Sir James encouraged . . .’

  ‘. . . Such rash bravado. I know. Walmsley has already informed me. But, Mr Germaney, I would have you know that I command here now and I would advise you to recollect that Sir James’s example is not to be followed too closely.’ He was unaware that his remark pierced Germaney to his vitals.

  Drinkwater stepped on deck into the sunshine. Half a mile to leeward the convoy foamed along. Mount’s marines glittered across the after end of the quarterdeck and the officers were gathered in uniform with their swords. Forward a sea of faces was mustered. ‘Off hats!’

  Drinkwater cleared his throat and read the Thirty-Sixth Article of War.

  ‘All other crimes not Capital, committed by any Person or Persons in the Fleet, which are not mentioned in this Act, or for which no Punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to Laws and Customs in such cases used at Sea.’

  It was colloquially known as the Captain’s Cloak, a grim pun which covered every eventuality likely to be encountered in a man-of-war not dealt with by the other thirty-five Articles.

  ‘Able-Seaman Leek step forward.’ The murmur from amidships as Leek stepped out in utter surprise was hostile. ‘Silence there! You stand condemned by the provisions of this Article, in that you did skylark in the rigging, causing risk to yourself and to others in your rescue, and that you did delay the passage of His Majesty’s sloop Melusine engaged in the urgent convoy of other ships. What have you to say?’

  L
eek hung his head and muttered inaudibly. He was bewildered at this unexpected ordeal. He had never been flogged, he was a volunteer, he began to tremble.

  Drinkwater’s eye was caught by a movement on his right. Singleton was pushing through the midshipmen. Drinkwater turned his head and fixed Singleton with a glare. ‘Stand fast there!’ Singleton paused.

  ‘I sentence you to one dozen lashes. Does anyone speak for this man?’ He sought out Lord Walmsley. The young man came forward.

  ‘Well, sir?’

  ‘I, er . . . I wish to speak for the man, sir. He is a topman of the first rate and I have previously entertained no apprehensions as to his good behaviour, sir. I should be prepared to stand guarantor against his good conduct.’

  Drinkwater bit his lip. Walmsley’s speech was nobly touching and he had played his part to perfection.

  ‘Very well. I shall overlook the matter on this occasion. But mark me, my lads, we are bound upon a service that will not tolerate the casual loss of good seamen. But for Mr Singleton, Seaman Mullack and Marine Polesworth, Leek, we would be gathered here this morning to send you over the standing part of the foresheet.* Do you reflect on that.’ He turned to Germaney. ‘Dismiss the men and pipe up spirits, Mr Germaney.’

  Drinkwater chuckled to himself. Talk at dinner over the mess kids would be about this morning’s theatricals. He hoped they would conclude that he would stand no nonsense, that although he might only be a ‘job captain’, temporarily commanding a post-captain’s ship, he was not prepared to tolerate anything but the strictest adherence to duty.

  * A dead marine – naval slang for an empty bottle.

  * Naval slang for death or burial. Bodies were usually slid overside where the foresheet was belayed.

  Chapter Five

  June 1803

  Bressay Sound

  The wind held fair and they raised Sumburgh Head at daylight after a passage of three days from the Spurn Head. By previous agreement the Hudson Bay ships, usually escorted to longitude twenty west, left them off the Fair Isle. Due to the mild weather the convoy had kept together and by the afternoon all the ships had worked into the anchorage in Bressay Sound and lay within sight of the grey town of Lerwick.