Edward Drinkwater rose to meet him. He was of similar height to Nathaniel, with a heavier build and higher colour. His clothes were fashionably cut, and though not foppish, tended to the extremes of colour and decoration then de rigeur.
'Nathaniel! My dear fellow, my dear fellow, you are most kind to come.'
'Edward. It has been a very long time.' They shook hands.
'Too long, too long… here I have some claret mulling, by heaven damned if it ain't colder here than in London… there, a glass will warm you. Your ship is nearly ready then?'
Nathaniel nodded as he sipped the hot wine.
'Then it seems I am just in time, just in time.'
'Forgive me, Edward, but why all the mysterious urgency?'
Edward ran a finger round his stock with evident embarrassment. He avoided his brother's eyes and appeared to be choosing his words with difficulty. Several times he raised his head to speak, then thought better of it.
'Damn it Ned,' broke in Drinkwater impatiently, ''tis a woman or 'tis money, confound it, no man could haver like this for ought else.'
'Both Nat, both.' Edward seized on the opportunity and the words began to tumble from him. 'It is a long story, Nat, one that goes back ten or more years. You recollect after mother died and you married, I went off to Enfield to work for an India merchant, with his horses. I learned a deal about horses, father was good with 'em too. After a while I left the nabob's employ and was offered work at Newmarket, still with horses. I was too big to race 'em but I backed 'em and over a long period made enough money to put by. I was lucky. Very lucky. I had a sizeable wager on one occasion and made enough in a single bet to live like a gentleman for a year, maybe two if I was careful.' He sighed and passed a hand over his sweating face.
'After the revolution in France, when the aristos started coming over there were pickings of all sorts. I ran with a set of blades. We took fencing lessons from an impoverished marquis, advanced an old dowager some money on her jewels, claimed the debt… well, in short, my luck held.
'Then I met Pascale, she was of the minor nobility, but penniless. She became my mistress.' He paused to drink and Drinkwater watching him thought what a different life from his own. There were common threads, perceptible if you knew how to identify them. Their boyhood had been dominated by their mother's impecunious gentility, widowed after their drunken father had been flung from a horse. Nathaniel was careful of money, neither unwilling to loot a few gold coins from an American prize when a half-starved midshipman, nor to lean a little on the well-heeled Mr Jex. But where he had inherited his mother's shrewdness Edward had been bequeathed his father's improvidence as he now went on to relate.
'Things went well for a while. I continued to gamble and, with modest lodgings and Pascale to keep me company, managed to cut a dash. Then my luck changed. For no apparent reason. I began to lose. It was uncanny. I lost confidence, friends, everything.
'Nathaniel, I have twenty pounds between me and penury. Pascale threatens to leave me since she has received an offer to better herself…' He fell silent.
'As another man's mistress?'
Edward's silence was eloquent.
'I see.' Drinkwater felt a low anger building up in him. It was not enough that he should have spent a great deal of money in fitting out His Britannic bloody Majesty's bomb tender Virago. It was not enough that the exigencies of the service demanded his constant presence on board until sailing, but that this good-for-nothing killbuck of a brother must turn up to prey on his better nature.
'How much do you want?'
'Five hundred would…'
'Five hundred! God's bones, Edward, where in the name of Almighty God d'you think I can lay my hands on five hundred pounds?'
'I heard you did well from prize money…'
'Prize money? God, Ned, but you've a damned nerve. D'you know how many scars I've got for that damned prize money, how many sleepless nights, hours of worry…? No, of course you don't. You've been cutting a dash, gaming and whoring like the rest of this country's so-called gentry while your sea-officers and seamen are rotting in their wooden coffins. God damn it, Ned, but I've a wife and family to be looked to first.' His temper began to ebb. Without looking up Edward muttered:
'I heard too, that you received a bequest.'
'Where the hell d'you learn that?' A low fury came into his voice.
'Oh, I learned it in Petersfield.' That would not be difficult. There were enough gossips in any town to know the business of others. It was true that he had received a sizeable bequest from the estate of his former captain, Madoc Griffiths. 'They say it was three thousand pounds.'
'They may say what the hell they like. It is no longer mine. Most is in trust for my children, the remainder made over to my wife.' He paused again and Edward looked up, disappointed yet irritatingly unrepentant.
It suddenly occurred to Drinkwater that the expenses incurred in the fitting out of a ship, even a minor one like Virago, were inconceivable to Edward. He began to repent of his unbrotherly temper; to hold himself mean, still reproved in his conscience for the trick he had played on Jex, no matter how many barrels of sauerkraut it had bought.
'Listen, Ned, I am more than two hundred pounds out of pocket in fitting out my ship. That is why we receive prize money, that and for the wounds we endure in an uncaring country's service. You talk of fencing lessons but you've never known what it is to cut a man down before he kills you. You regard my uniform as some talisman opening the salons of the ton to me when I am nothing but a dog of a sailor, lieutenant or not. Why, Ned, I am not fit to crawl beneath the bootsoles of a twelve-year-old ensign of horse whose commission costs him two thousand pounds.' All the bitterness of his profession rose to the surface, replacing his anger with the gall of experience.
Edward remained silent, pouring them both another drink. After several moments Nathaniel rose and went to a small table. From the tail pocket of his coat he drew a small tablet and a pencil. He began to write, calling for wax and a candle.
After sealing the letter he handed it to his brother. 'That is all I can, in all conscience, manage.'
Then he left, picking up his hat without another word, leaving Edward to wonder over the amount and without waiting for thanks.
He was too preoccupied to notice Mr Jex drinking in the taproom as he made his way through to the street.
Chapter Five
The Pyroballogist
Drinkwater raised the speaking trumpet. 'A trifle more in on that foretack, if you please Mr Matchett.' He transferred his attention to the waist where the master attended the main braces. 'You may belay the main braces Mr Easton.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Virago slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. 'Full and bye.'
'Full an' bye, zur.' Tregembo answered from the. tiller. Drinkwater, short of men still, had rated the Cornishman quartermaster.
They cleared the end of the trot, slipping beneath the wooded hill at Upnor.
'Up helm!' Virago swung, turning slowly before the wind. Drinkwater nodded to Rogers. 'Square the yards.' Rogers bawled at the men at the braces as Virago brought the wind astern, speeding downstream with the ebb tide under her, her forecourse, three topsails and foretopmast staysail set. The latter flapped now, masked by the forecourse.