‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Quilhampton shouted forward and the bosun’s mate of the watch began to pipe at the hatchways, then he turned back to the captain who had crossed the heeling deck to glance at the compass in the binnacle. ‘I’ve had Walmsley aloft this past hour and there’s no passage as yet . . .’
Drinkwater moved to the rail, grasped a stay and stared to leeward as Antigone lay down under the sudden furious onslaught of a squall. Through his hand he could feel the vibration of the wind in the frigate’s rigging, feel the slackness in the rope as it bowed to leeward. He wiped his eyes and stared across the white-streaked water that heaved and boiled in the short, savage seas that were the result of comparatively shallow water and a quickly risen gale. The rim of the sea terminated, not at the skyline, but in a line of ice.
‘Damned unseasonable,’ Drinkwater muttered – unconsciously rubbing his shoulder which ached from damp and the chill proximity of the ice – while he considered the effect of the gale on the sea. It occurred to him that it might bring warmer air to melt the ice, and the thought cheered him a little, for it was clear that until the ice retreated further northwards any hope of reaching Revel was out of the question.
Drinkwater left Quilhampton to tack the ship. The frigate came round like a jibbed horse, her backed fore-yards spinning her high-stabbing bowsprit against the last shreds of daylight in the west.
‘Mains’l haul!’ The blocks clicked and rattled and the men hauled furiously, running the lee braces aft as the main- and mizen-yards spun round on their parrels.
‘Pull together there, damn you!’ Comley roared, his rattan active on the hapless backs of a gaggle of men who stumbled along the larboard gangway.
‘That’s well with the main-braces! Belay! Belay there!’
‘Fore-braces! Leggo and haul!’ The fore-yards swung and Antigone gathered headway on the starboard tack.
‘A trifle more on that weather foretack there! That’s well! Belay!’
Hill stepped up to the binnacle then looked at the shivering edge of the main-topsail. ‘Full and bye now, lads,’ he said quietly to the four men at the frigate’s double wheel, and the overseeing quartermaster acknowledged the order.
‘She’s full an’ bye now, so she is.’
‘Very well.’ He turned to Drinkwater. ‘She’s holding sou’ by east a quarter east, sir.’
‘Very well. Mr Q! Do you shorten down for the night. We’ll keep her under easy sail until daylight.’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’
Drinkwater watched patiently from his place by the weather hance, one foot on the little brass carronade slide that he had brought from the Melusine. The big fore-course, already reefed down, was now hauled up in its buntlines and secured, forty men laying out along the great yard to secure the heavy, resistant canvas. When they came down it was almost dark. They were waiting for the order to pipe down.
‘Mr Quilhampton!’
‘Sir?’
‘Pass word for Mr Comley to lay aft.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ The lieutenant turned to Walmsley. ‘Mr Walmsley, cut along and pass word for the bosun to lay aft and report to the Captain.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Lord Walmsley made his way along the lee gangway to the fo’c’s’le where Mr Comley stood, the senior and most respected seaman in the ship, at his post of honour on the knightheads.
‘Mr Comley!’
‘Mr Walmsley, what can I do for you?’
‘The Captain desires that you attend him on the quarterdeck.’
‘Eh?’ Comley looked aft at the figure of Drinkwater, shadowy in the gathering gloom. ‘What the devil does he want me on the King’s parade for?’ he muttered, then nodding to Walmsley he walked aft.
‘You sent for me, sir?’
Drinkwater stared at Comley. Hitherto he had never had the slightest doubt that Comley’s devotion to duty was absolute. ‘Have you anything to report, Mr Comley?’
‘To report, sir? Why . . . no, sir.’
‘The four men at the lee main-brace, Mr Comley – Kissel, Hacking, Benson and Myers, if I ain’t mistaken – are they drunk?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Damn it, man, you’d do well not to try and hide it from me.’
Comley looked at the captain, his expression anxious. ‘I, er, I wouldn’t say they was drunk, sir. Happen they slipped . . .’
‘Mr Comley, I can have them here in an instant. They are all prime seamen. They didn’t slip, sir. Now, I will ask you again, are they drunk?’
Comley sighed and nodded. ‘It’s possible, sir. I . . . I didn’t know until . . . well when they slipped and I got close to ’em. I could smell they might be in liquor, sir.’
‘Very well, Mr Comley.’ Drinkwater changed his tone of voice. ‘Would you answer two questions without fear. Why are they drunk and why did you not report it?’
Even in the twilight Drinkwater could see the dismay on Comley’s face. ‘Come, sir,’ he said, ‘you may answer without fear. And be quick about it, the watch below are waiting for you to pipe ’em down.’
‘Well, sir, beggin’ your pardon, sir, but the men ain’t too happy, sir . . . It’s nothing much, sir, we ain’t asking no favours, but we . . . that is the old Melusines, we was volunteers, sir, back in the year three. Now we’re all shipped with pressed men an’ quota-men, men that ain’t prime seamen, no, nor don’t take no shame from that fact, sir; and the length of the commission and there bein’ no pay last time at the Nore, sir, and the men beginning to run . . .’ His voice faded miserably.
‘Personal discontent is not a crime, Mr Comley. I too should like to go home, but we have not yet destroyed our enemies . . . Be that as it may, you have not answered my question. Why did you not report it?’
Drinkwater could see a gathering of pale and expectant faces staring aft, waiting to be dismissed from the tasks they had been called on deck to carry out. All hands were witness to Mr Comley’s talk with the captain.
‘I don’t want no trouble, sir . . . that’s all . . .’
‘I understand that, Mr Comley . . .’ Drinkwater saw Comley’s eyes slide across to the figure of the first lieutenant whom, he realised with a sharp feeling of guilt, he had not noticed on deck until that moment. Comley’s predicament was obvious. He was supposed to report all misdemeanours direct to Rogers, but Rogers had not been on deck. No doubt Comley, if he really had intended to report the four men, would have let the matter blow over, since the first lieutenant had failed to answer the call for all hands. Rogers’s strictness was well known and in that game of each trying to catch out the other, first lieutenant and crew had developed a subtlety of play that Drinkwater was only just beginning to grasp. Even now Comley’s stuttering excuses, although they might be understood as the genuine, if ill-expressed, discontent of the best and oldest hands on board, were evidence of a game that became increasingly deadly with every round.
Drinkwater thrust his own culpability out of his mind for a moment or two. Although Rogers’s absence had compromised Comley in the strict line of his duty, it had given a round to the hands. That much was obvious to all of them as they stood there in the twilight watching. And now Rogers was compromising Drinkwater, for it was clear that the first lieutenant was the worse for drink. In a second Drinkwater would be compelled to take very public notice of Rogers’s condition; and at the moment he wanted to avoid that. He affected not to have noticed Rogers.
‘Mr Comley,’ he said with every appearance of ferocity, ‘I’ll not have the ship go to the devil for any reason. D’you clearly understand me?’
His tone diverted Comley’s eyes from the person of Rogers to himself.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘I hold you personally responsible. It’s your duty to report such things, and if you can’t I’ll turn you forrard and find someone who can!’ He paused, just long enough to let the words sink in. ‘Now have those four men confined in the bilboes overnight and pipe down the watches below.’
‘Aye, a
ye, sir.’
Drinkwater left the deck as Comley put the silver call to his mouth. The captain was raging inwardly, furious with Rogers and himself, himself most of all for his self-delusion that all was well on board. The marine sentry held himself upright at what passed for attention on the heeling deck as Drinkwater stalked past him.
‘Pass word for the first lieutenant and the marine officer!’ he snapped, banging the door behind him.
Mullender was fussing about in the cabin. ‘Why aren’t you on deck, Mullender? Eh? Ain’t the call at every hatchway enough for you? Don’t you hear properly, damn it? The call was for all hands, Mullender!’
‘But, sir, the first lieut . . .’
‘Get out!’ It was no good Drinkwater making Mullender the surrogate for his anger. The unfortunate steward fled, scuttling out through the pantry. Drinkwater flung off his cloak, massaged his shoulder and groaned aloud. The damp was searching out the old wound given him long ago by the French agent Santhonax in an alley at Sheerness and made worse by a shell-wound off Boulogne. It reminded him that his cross was already heavy enough, without the added burden of Rogers and the fomentation of an exhausted crew. The pain, resentment and momentary self-pity only fuelled his anger further and when Mount and Rogers came into the cabin they found him sitting in the darkness, staring out through the stern windows where the heaving grey sea hissed and bubbled up from the creaking rudder and as suddenly dropped away again.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said after a pause and without turning round, ‘the men are in an evil mood. The grievances are the usual ones and most are justified. Mr Mount, your own men must be aware of the situation, but I want them to be on their guard. Any reports of meeting, combinations . . . the usual thing, Mr Mount. Make sure the sentinels are well checked by your sergeant, and change their postings. I know they’ve enough to do watching the specie but I’ll not have a mutiny, by God I’ll not!’
He turned on them, unwilling to let them see the extent of his anger. A light wavered in the pantry door and Mullender stood uncertainly with the cabin lamps he had obviously been preparing when Drinkwater threw him out. ‘Yes, yes, bring them in and ship ’em in the sconces for God’s sake, man!’ He looked at Mount, ‘You understand, don’t you, Mr Mount?’
‘Yessir!’
‘Very good. Carry on!’
‘Sir.’
Mullender and Mount both left the cabin and Drinkwater was alone with Rogers who remained standing, one arm round the stanchion that rose immediately forward of the table.
‘Well, sir,’ said Drinkwater, looking upwards at Rogers, ‘it was ever your dictum to flog a man for every misdemeanour. I have apprehended four men drunk at their stations tonight. Had you been on deck you might have attended to the matter yourself, as you are in duty bound. Had you brought those men to the gratings tomorrow I would have had to flog ’em. But now your conduct has ensured that if I am to flog them I must, in all justice, flog you, sir! Yes, you, sir! And hold your tongue! Not only are you in liquor but you prevented my steward from mustering on deck as he should have done. Why that was I’ll forbear enquiring, but if it was to obtain the key to the spirit-room, by God I’ll have you broke by a court martial!’
Drinkwater paused. There was a limit in the value of remonstrance with a drunken man. Either rage or self-pity would emerge and neither was conducive to constructive dialogue. Rogers showed sudden and pathetic signs, not of the former, as Drinkwater had expected, but of the latter. Drinkwater had had more than enough for one day and dismissed Rogers as swiftly as possible.
‘Get to bed, Mr Rogers, and when you are sober in the morning, be pleased to take notice of what I have said.’
Rogers stepped forward as though to speak, but the ship’s movement, exaggerated here at the stern, checked him and the lamps threw a cautionary glint into Drinkwater’s grey eyes. In a sudden access of movement Rogers turned and fled.
Samuel Rogers woke in the night, his head thick and his mouth dry. He lay staring into the creaking darkness as the ship rose and fell, riding out the last of the gale under her reefed topsails and awaiting the morning.
The events of the previous evening came back to him slowly. The pounding of his headache served to remind him of his folly and, once again, he swore he would never touch another drop. He recalled the interview with Drinkwater and felt his resolve weaken, countered by his deep-seated resentment towards the captain. They were of an age; once a few days had differentiated them in their seniority as lieutenants. Now there was a world of difference between them! Drinkwater a post-captain, two steps ahead of Rogers and across the magic threshold that guaranteed him a flag if he lived long enough to survive his seniors on the captains’ list.
It was convenient for Rogers, in the depths of his misery, to forget that it was Drinkwater himself who had rescued him from the gutter. Samuel Rogers was no different from hundreds of other officers in the navy. He had no influence, no fortune, no family. Fate had never put him into a position in which he could distinguish himself and he lacked that spark of originality by which a man might, by some instinctive alchemy of personality, ability and opportunity, make his own luck. To some extent Rogers’s very sense of obligation fired his steady dissolution; his jealousy of Drinkwater’s success robbed him of any of his own. In his more honest moments he knew he had only two choices. Either he went to the devil on the fastest horse, or he pulled himself together and hoped for a change of luck. In the meantime he should do his duty as Drinkwater had advised and the consideration that he was on a crack frigate under an able officer seemed to offer some consolation. But after that one drink that was all he needed to settle himself, the axis of his rationality tilted. After the inevitable second drink it lost its equilibrium, leaving him ugly with ill-temper, inconsiderate and tyrannical towards the gunroom, cockpit and lower deck.
As he lay in the darkness, while above him the bells rang the middle watch through the night, he knew that some form of turning-point had been reached. Up until that moment his drunkenness had not come to Drinkwater’s attention. Until that had happened, Drinkwater was simply the captain, a man of influence and advantage, one of the lucky ones in life’s eternal lottery seen from the perspective of one of its losers. Now, however, the captain assumed a new role. His power, absolute and unfettered, could confront Rogers and demolish his alcoholic arrogance with fear.
For although the service had disappointed him, Rogers had nothing beyond the navy. If he was broken by a court martial as remorse said he deserved to be, he would have only himself to blame. The penury of half-pay in some stinking kennel of lodgings alongside the whores and usurers of Portsmouth Point was all that disgrace and dismissal would leave him with.
He lay in his night-shirt, sweat sticking it to his body, staring into the darkness of his tiny cabin. Loneliness possessed him in its chill and unconsoling embrace as he knew that, come the morning, he would be unable to resist the drinks that even now he swore he would never touch again.
Drinkwater was on deck at dawn. He, too, had slept badly and woke ill-at-ease. He had not liked humiliating Rogers any more than discovering four men turned-up drunk from their watch below. It was manifestly unfair to expect men who had more than a liberal amount of alcohol poured into them by official decree to offset the deficiencies of their diet, to remain as sober as Quakers, particularly in their watch below. But, Drinkwater reasoned, four drunkards probably indicated that a hardened group had illicit access to liquor. In addition to these men, Rogers was obviously abusing his own powers to gain access to the spirit-room. The addictive qualities ofnaval rum were well known and many a man, officer and rating alike, had died raving from its effects upon the brain. Furthermore it was possible that whoever was aiding and abetting the first lieutenant was probably taking advantage of the opportunity to plunder an equal quantity for the hardened soaks among the crew.
The thought tormented Drinkwater as he lay awake, shivering slightly as a faint lightening of the sky began to illumine the cabin. He abando
ned his efforts to sleep, swung his legs out of the cot and began to dress. Ten minutes later he was on deck. The wind had eased during the night and the approaching daylight showed it to be backing. They would have to tack again soon, and stand more to the west-north-westward. Hill had the morning watch and, having passed instructions to tack at the change of watch, Drinkwater fell to pacing the quarterdeck.
His mind was in a turmoil. He loathed using the cat o’ nine tails except for serious crimes. For most minor punishments, public humiliations and loss of privilege served to make a man regret his folly. Besides, it was Drinkwater’s firm belief that a strong discipline, strictly enforced, prevented most men from overstepping the mark. At home he tired of debates with Elizabeth upon the subject. She considered his rule illiberal, but failed to understand the cauldron of suppression that a man o’ war on a long commission became: some ten score of men whose only reason for existence was to pull and haul, to hand, reef and steer, to load and ram and fetch and carry and fight when called upon to do so, in the name of a half-witted old king and a country that cared more about the nags and fillies of Newmarket than their seamen.
Drinkwater’s anger grew as he paced up and down. It was Rogers’s business to manage this motley mixture of seamen, this polyglot collection of the ‘jolly-jack tars’ of popular imagination, who were everywhere shunned once they got ashore among the gentry of the shires. It was a simple enough matter, if attended to sensibly. The might of the Articles of War stopped the poor devils from being men and turned them into pack-animals deserving of a little attention. God knew they asked little enough! Damn Rogers! He had no business behaving like this, no business prejudicing the whole commission because he could not leave the bottle alone!
Little Midshipman Frey skidded across the deck on some errand for the master.
‘Mr Frey!’ he called, and the lad turned expectantly. ‘Mr Frey, give my compliments to the surgeon and ask him to step on deck as soon as he can.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater stared grimly after the retreating figure. It was not yet time for Mr Lallo to be called. He was one of the ship’s idlers, men whose work occupied them during daylight hours and absolved them from night duty except in dire emergencies. From his eventual appearance it was obvious Drinkwater’s summons had called him from the deepest slumber. Drinkwater was suddenly touched by envy of the man, that he could so sleep without the intereference of troublesome thoughts.
Baltic Mission Page 6
