A stillness fell on the gunroom. The midshipmen swayed amid the creaks and groans of the ship's fabric as it worked easily in the quartering sea. They watched Frey's reaction.
'Duelling is forbidden on board ship, sir, but I shall be pleased to meet you ashore upon our arrival at Prince of Wales Island.'
'Pistols,' snarled Chirkov, and stumbled unhappily from the circle of onlookers.
Captain Drinkwater looked about him. He knew he ought to be contented. The convoy was closed up in good order, spread over some five square miles of the China Sea, not in columns, but a loose formation centred on Guilford and Ligonier, the big
Indiamen, both of which had lanterns in their mizen tops that glowed weakly in the failing daylight. Clouds covered the sky, outriders of the northerly monsoon that drove them southwards with a fair wind for the Malacca Strait. In accordance with his Standing Orders the ships were taking in their topgallants for the night, snugging down to avoid the separation that might make one of them a vulnerable hen for any marauding French reynard cruising on the horizon. Drinkwater looked at the main crosstrees from which Midshipman Dutfield was just then descending. When the midshipman reached the deck he made his report.
'Two junks in the north-east quarter, sir, otherwise nothing in sight beyond the convoy.'
Acknowledging the intelligence, Drinkwater was peeved that the news brought him no satisfaction. He nodded and turned to Frey.
'You may fire the chaser, Mr Frey, and make Phaeton's number ...'
Drinkwater looked astern. Fleetwood Pellew's crack frigate dipped her ensign in farewell, hauled her yards and, on a taut bowline, stood to windward, returning to the coast of China. Patrician was in sole charge now and Drinkwater could go below.
But he lingered. There was no solace in the cabin, divided as it was and with Morris inert and inscrutable behind the canvas screen. So far Drinkwater had avoided all contact with his enemy, unwilling to stir any memory or allow Morris the slightest grounds for reawakening old enmities. Drinkwater did not know how Morris had got word of his presence in the Pearl River, though it was not hard to imagine in the circumscribed circle of gossip attached to the trading fraternity at Canton, but he was convinced Morris had some ulterior motive for selecting Patrician as his means of reaching India. And it went beyond the customary carriage of specie in His Majesty's ships, as witness the chests put aboard Guilford.
No, Morris had personal reasons for seeking passage with Nathaniel Drinkwater, and the quondam naval officer had once sworn he would professionally ruin the man who had displaced him on a quarterdeck.
Coxswain Tregembo lay in his hammock and stared at the dimly visible deck beam a few inches above his nose. During the night the sea had risen and Patrician was scending before the quartering waves. On either side of him the hammocks of other men pressed against his own in the fourteen inches allowed each man. Tregembo was part of a suspended island of humanity that moved almost independently of the ship, adding its own creaks and rasps and rub of rope and ring and canvas to the aching groans of the working timbers of the frigate.
To a less inured nose than Tregembo's, the stench would have been overpowering, for all Lieutenant Fraser's sedulous swabbing with vinegar, airing and burning of loose powder. Ineffectually washed bodies, the exhalations of men on an indifferent diet that whistled through badly maintained teeth and the night-loosening of wind combined with the effluvia of the bilge that rose from below. Rat droppings and the residual essences of the myriad stores concealed in the storerooms and hold added to the decomposing mud and weed drawn inboard on the cables so lately laid on the bed of the Pearl River. Flakes of green and noxious matter gave off gases as they broke down into dust, to be carried into the limbers of the ship by the trickling rivulets of leaks that found their inexorable way below.
Scarcely noticing this mephitic miasma that cast yellow haloes round the guarded lanterns by the companionways and dully illuminated the dozing sentries, Tregembo lay unsleeping. He too considered the presence of Morris in their midst.
Unlike his captain, Tregembo's intellect did not flirt with notions of providence or fate. Considerations of coincidence in Morris's resurrection aboard Patrician were quite absent from his thoughts. To Tregembo the world was not a vast, wondrous mystery in which his life held some fraction of universal implication; but a confined, tangible microcosm of discomfort, tolerable if one occupied the office of captain's coxswain under a man of Drinkwater's stamp. It was not that Tregembo lacked the intelligence to cast his mind beyond the compressing tumblehome of Patrician's planking, nor that he was incapable of regarding the star-strewn sky with awe. It was just that his firmament was limited by the deck beam above him and that such considerations as Drinkwater could indulge in, for Tregembo bordered on the effete and were beyond the sensible limits of practical men. That Morris had turned up in China was, to Tregembo, not to be wondered at. He had been left half-way there, at the Cape of Good Hope some years ago, and it did not surprise the old Cornishman that he had made a new life for himself beyond the Indian Seas.
Listening to the noises of the night around him, to the soft, abrasive whisper of a hundred swinging hammocks and the labouring of the ship, the audible hiss of the sea beyond the double planking of the hull, the thrum of wind in the rigging far above him and the mumbles and grunts of dreaming men, Tregembo thought back to a gale-lashed night nearly thirty years earlier when he and another had sprung a man from a foot-rope when reefing a sail, flinging him into the sea, to disappear into the blackness astern of the hard-pressed frigate Cyclops.
It had been a judicial murder, secretly sanctioned by the tacit approval of most of the members of the lower deck, and it had put an end to the bullying and the tyranny of a certain Midshipman Morris and his sodomitically inclined cronies. Tregembo smiled to himself. He recalled the young Drinkwater seeking guidance when the same Morris turned upon his messmates for amusement. The eventual confrontation had matured the promising young midshipman, and had been the beginning of Tregembo's service to Drinkwater.
What worried Tregembo now, and kept him from sleeping, was the certainty that Morris would seek in some way to discredit the captain. When the young Drinkwater had sought out Tregembo for a confidant, the Cornishman had advised him that he had nothing to lose by opposing the cockpit bully.
Now things were different; Captain Drinkwater had everything to lose, and the thought made Tregembo uneasy.
Morris too was awake, listening to the breathing of Drinkwater beyond the canvas screen. The captain was asleep now, Morris knew, though it had been a long time before he had dropped off. Morris had heard also the revealing tinkle of glass and bottle after Drinkwater had come below.
Never, in his most extreme fantasies, had Morris imagined that Drinkwater would ever be delivered up to him so perfectly. In the days when, after his ousting from the Cyclops, he had smarted over his rival's luck, he had continued his pursuit of a naval career. He had been helped by petticoat influence, of course, but there was nothing unusual in that. Then had come the time when he had been appointed to the brig Hellebore and, delectably, had Drinkwater as his first lieutenant.
Only the onset of chronic illness had prevented him from fully exploiting that opportunity, and in his long convalescence at the Cape Drinkwater had slipped from his grasp. News had come to Morris there of the death of his sister by whose influence he had formerly gained employment, and a letter refusing to ratify his promotion to Master and Commander had left him high and dry at the tip of Africa. He could have gone home, but a welter of debts and creditors decided him against it. Besides, the frequent passage of Indiamen and the consequent society of one or two men of oriental taste induced him to try his luck in India.
Morris smiled to himself. He felt immensely benign, as good and calm as when the opium fumes took his soul and wafted it through paradise. Even in the gloom he could see the pale face of the sleeping boy. He had not paid much for the tongue-tied child, more for the services of the surgeon of t
he European infantry battalion in Madras whose fourchette had not simply sliced the frenum, but had excavated the child's mouth to make an apolaustic orifice for his master.
There was no abatement of the wind at dawn. Cloud obscured the sky and a touch of mist hazed the horizon. The convoy remained in tolerably good order but Drinkwater, early on deck from an unsatisfactory night's rest, was frustrated in his plans to lower a boat and recover his deserters.
Tregembo had more success, entering the captain's cabin soon after Drinkwater had gone on deck and before either Mullender or Derrick was about. Slipping round the canvas screen he woke the corpulent mass of Morris by hauling his catamite off him. It was the first time Morris had knowingly laid eyes on the old Cornishman for ten years.
'What the ... ?'
'Remember me, do ye?'
'You ...' Morris's face creased with fear and the struggle to recall a name. The old man had been in Drinkwater's cabin when he had first entered it. Now he shook Morris with a horrid violence.
'Tregembo, Cap'n's cox'n. I remember you, an' I want words to tell 'ee that I'll see 'ee in hell before ye'll touch the Cap'n!'
Morris, still supine in the tossing cot, quailed under the venom of Tregembo's words. The boy had shrunk into a crouch, whimpering against the carriage of a gun.
'Tregembo ...' muttered Morris, his eyes fixed on the glowering, over-zealous old man, recalling memories of Tregembo's past and how, like Drinkwater's, they lay like the strands of a rope, woven with his own. It was clear that Tregembo had come to threaten, not to murder. This realisation emboldened Morris. He eased his bulk on to an elbow.
'Ah, yes, Tregembo ... yes, I recall you now. You are Captain Drinkwater's lickspittle, his tale-bearer. Yes, I recall you well, and your part in certain doings aboard Cyclops ...'
'Aye. And you'd do well to keep your memories in your mind Mister Morris, for I'm not afeared of you and know what you'd do if ye had the chance. Just you recollect that old Tregembo will be watching you, and your dandy-prat there.' Tregembo gestured at the boy.
'Is that a threat, Tregembo?'
But the Cornishman had said his piece and retired beyond the canvas screen. The boy whimpered fearfully and, as Patrician dipped suddenly into the trough of a wave, vomited over the deck. The sharp stink assailed Morris's nostrils and from pique he clouted the frightened and abject creature.
Tregembo felt satisfied with his mission of intimidation. He had hoped for an ally in Mr Quilhampton and had been disappointed. There was, however, one further thing to be done to complete the execution of the plan he had made during the night.
He found Drinkwater at the weather hance, wrapped in his boat-cloak.
'Beg pardon, zur ...'
'What is it, Tregembo? ...'
'That Morris, zur.' Tregembo's eyes met the Captain's.
'Well?'
"E knows me, zur ... I spoke to him this morning.'
'You announced your presence, you mean ... advised him to mind his manners, is that it?'
'Something o' the sort, zur.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'Be careful of him, Tregembo. Unfortunately we must bear with him ...'
'You be careful o' him, zur,' Tregembo broke in, 'he's not forgotten nothing, zur ... be assured o' that.'
'Thank you for your advice.'
Tregembo bridled at the faintly patronising air of Drinkwater's reply. 'He weren't never a gennelman, zur; he'm no longer quality.'
'No, you're right ...'
'You shouldn't leave your pistols in your cabin, zur, I don't know that he's got any himself, but ...'
'I've been thinking about that. I've decided to take over poor Hill's cabin and put Prince Vladimir in to share with Morris.'
Tregembo considered the proposition and a twinkle in his eyes caught an answering glimmer in Drinkwater's.
'I'll see to it, zur.'
'If you please.'
'Beg pardon, sir.' Lieutenant Quilhampton touched the fore-cock of his hat.
'Yes? What is it?'
'Weather's tending to thicken, sir.'
Drinkwater cast a look about the frigate, quickly counting his scattered charges. Two of the Country ships, small, round bilged brigs, were wallowing, dropping astern and fading into the encroaching mist that had dissolved the horizon, reducing the visible circle of sea on which the ships of the convoy drove southwards.
'Very well. Make the signal to shorten sail.'
Quilhampton acknowledged the order and the hitched bundles of coloured bunting soared aloft to break out at the main masthead. From forward an unshotted gun boomed to leeward, drawing attention to the signal. While the Patrician's men leapt into the shrouds and lay aloft, Drinkwater watched the evolutions of the merchant ships. He knew the Indiamen were reluctant to crack on apace, believing in a leisurely progress as least wearing on cargo, company and passengers. If the convoy were being shadowed, now would prove an opportune occasion for an attack. But the convoy behaved itself. The Indiamen shortened down and the cluster of Country ships followed suit, the rearward sluggards sensibly holding on until they had come up with the majority.
'Bring the ship close to the starboard quarter of the rearmost brig, Mr Q.'
'On the wind'd quarter of the Courier, aye, aye, sir.'
If they were to be attacked, Drinkwater wanted Patrician to windward and able to crack on sail to support any part of his little fleet. He watched as the helm was put down and the men manned the braces, swinging the yards a point or two, easing the sheets and leading the weather tacks forward. The convoy drew out on Patrician's larboard bow and then, yards swung again, she came back before the wind, reined in upon the quarter of the inappropriately named brig Courier, slowest vessel in the convoy.
Aware of someone beside him, Drinkwater turned, expecting
Quilhampton to report the adjustment to the frigate's station, but it was Rakitin.
'I have had a report, Captain Drinkwater, from one of my officers, that you have ordered him to be beaten. Count Chirkov is most ...' Rakitin sought the right word for the humiliation of his subordinate with no success. 'Count Chirkov has ... I protest most strongly.'
Drinkwater fixed the Russian with a glare and tried with difficulty to keep his temper. Morris, the Russians, such petty matters; relatively trivial when compared to the importance of the convoy and the dangers inherent in the latent disaffection of his crew. He knew that in the circumscribed limits of a ship such trifling irritations assumed an importance scarcely to be conceived by those on land, an importance that the rigid enforcement of naval discipline defused, but which grew and festered among those not held in such thrall with, moreover, the time and opportunity to dwell upon them. He rounded on the Russian.
'Captain Rakitin, if you did me the courtesy of maintaining order among your officers, a situation requiring punishment would not have arisen. As it was I ordered your officer punished according to the usage of the British service in which he is now a prisoner. He was not publicly humiliated in front of the ship's company and should not, therefore, complain. However,' Drinkwater continued, a mischievous idea occurring to him, 'I have made arrangements for you to transfer into my own cabin, vacating the one you presently occupy. I also deliver Midshipman Count Chirkov into your especial charge. He is to live and mess with you and not to contaminate my own young men any more. Good-day to you!'
Drinkwater strode purposefully across the deck, bent over the binnacle to check the course and took station with Lieutenant Quilhampton.
'For God's sake, James, talk some sense to me before I am constrained to do something I shall regret.'
Quilhampton turned, cast a glance beyond Drinkwater's shoulder and muttered, 'He's in pursuit, sir ...'
'God's bones,' said Drinkwater through clenched teeth.
'Captain Drinkwater,' began Rakitin who had taken a moment to digest the import of Drinkwater's remarks, 'Captain Drinkwater, it is not ...'
'Deck there!' came the lookout's shrill cry. 'Ship to loo'ard bearing up! Gunfire to
the s'uth'ard!'
The dull boom of a gun rolled over the water and the sharp point of fire from a second discharge caught their eyes as the ships of the convoy began to swing to starboard across the bows of those behind them. Strict order seemed about to dissolve into chaos.
'Hands to the braces! Starboard your helm, Mister! Don't run aboard that damned brig! Call all hands!'
Drinkwater dodged Rakitin, hauled himself up into the mizen rigging and strove to make out what was happening ahead. He hesitated only a second as another stab of yellow gunfire flashed through the mist.
'Beat to quarters!'
CHAPTER 9
Infirmities of Character
December 1808
'Hold your course!'
Drinkwater moved beside the binnacle, steadying the helmsmen and countering a sudden and distressing nervousness on the part of Ballantyne, the new sailing master. Guilford loomed past a pistol-shot distant, her yards triced hard-up to avoid plunging into Ligonier under her lee. The latter, foul of the Hormuzeer, had broached and a brief glance showed men running out along her jib-boom, hacking at the mess of broken spars, torn canvas and tangled ropes where it had jammed in the Country ship's main rigging.
As Patrician's stern lifted, Drinkwater could see ahead. Only two more ships lay to leeward, and both were clearing from larboard, their heads laid on the starboard tack. Raising his glass he swept it across the misty horizon expecting to see the pale squares of enemy topsails taking substance above the low hull of a French frigate.
'Ship cleared for action, sir,' Fraser reported, and Drinkwater nodded. He had been so occupied with conning Patrician through the convoy that he had scarcely noticed the rattle of the marine drummer's snare, or the rushing preparations round the deck. Mount's marines lined the hammock nettings and the quarterdeck and fo'c's'le gunners knelt expectantly by their pieces. Midshipmen stood at their stations, little Belchambers, his ankle near normal, in the main-top. Drinkwater thought of Morris, suddenly exposed to the vulgar gaze of the people as the cabin bulkheads were removed and the eighteen-pounder beneath his cot was manned by a dozen barefoot seamen. Drinkwater wondered if he was still fondling his pathic.
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