The Bomb Vessel

'But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.'

'True, true, but you've not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I'm asking myself, would that be?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place…'

'And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?'

'That is correct.'

'Well now that's very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?'

Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.

'I don't think I quite understand.'

'Well look,' Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy's hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of Virago. The hoy's crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. 'Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one ten-inch weighing forty-one hundredweights. Why don't we ship them on the beds, eh?'

'I take it they're spares.' Tumilty nodded. Drinkwater knew the other bomb vessels already had their own mortars fitted for he had examined those on the Explosion. There seemed no very good argument against fitting them in the beds even if they were supposed to be struck down into the hold. After all Virago had been fitted to carry them. He wondered what Martin would say if he knew, as doubtless he would in due course.

'By damn, Mr Tumilty, it is getting dark. Let us have those beauties swung aboard as you suggest. We may carry 'em in their beds safer than rolling about in the hold.'

'That's the spirit, Mr Drinkwater, that's the spirit to be sure.'

'Mr Rogers! A word with you if you please.' Rogers ascended the ladder.

'Sir?'

'We have two mortars to load, spares for the squadron. I intend to lower them on the beds. D'you understand Sam? If we've two mortars fitted we may yet get a chance to do more than fetch and carry…'

The gleam of enthusiasm kindled in Rogers's eye. 'I like the idea, damned if I don't.' He shot a glance at Tumilty, still suspicious of the artilleryman who seemed to occupy a position of a questionable nature aboard a King's ship. The Irishman was gazing abstractedly to windward.

'Now, 'twill be ticklish with this wind increasing but it will likely drop after sunset. Brace the three lower yards and rig preventers on 'em, then rig three-fold purchases as yard and stay tackles over both beds. Get Willerton to open the hatches and oil the capsquares. Top all three yards well up and put two burtons on each and frap the whole lot together. That should serve.'

'What weights, sir?'

'Eighty-two hundred weights to come in on the after bed and…'

'Forty-one on the forward…'

'Forrard, Mr Tumilty.'

'I'm sure I'm begging your pardon, Mr Rogers.' Rogers hurried away shouting for Matchett and Willerton. 'Why he's a touchy one, Mr Drinkwater.'

'We're agreed on a number of things, Mr Tumilty, not least that we'd both like to add 'Captain' to our name, but I believe there was much bad blood between the artillery and the navy the last time an operation like this took place.'

'Sure, I'd not be knowing about that sir,' replied Tumilty, all injured innocence again.

Virago creaked and leaned to starboard as the weight came on the tackles. The sun had already set and in the long twilight the hands laboured on. The black mass of the ten-inch mortar, a little under five feet in length, hung above the lightened hoy.

At the windlass Mr Matchett supervised the men on the bars. Yard and stay tackles had been rigged with their hauling parts wound on in contrary directions so that as the weight was eased on the yard arms it was taken up on the stay tackles. The doubled-up mainstay sagged under the weight and Rogers lowered the mortar as quickly as possible. Mr Willerton's party with handspikes eased the huge iron gun into its housing and snapped over the cap-squares. Virago was upright again, though trimming several inches by the head.

'Throw off all turns, clear away the foretackles, rig the after tackles!'

It was as Drinkwater had said. The wind had died and the first mortar had come aboard without fuss. Mr Tumilty had left the pure seamanship to the navy and gone to closet himself with his sergeant and Mr Trussel, while they inspected the powder stowage and locked all the shell rooms, powder rooms, fuse rooms and filling rooms that Willerton had lined with the deal boards supplied by Chatham Dockyard.

The tackles suspended from the main and crossjack yards were overhauled and hooked onto the carefully fitted slings round the thirteen-inch mortar. Next the two centreline tackles were hooked on. To cope with the additional weight of the larger mortar Drinkwater had ordered these be rigged from the main and mizzen tops, arguing the mizzen forestay was insufficient for the task.

Again the hauling parts were led forward and the slack taken up. There were some ominous creakings but after half an hour the trunnions settled on the bed and Mr Willerton secured the second set of capsquares. The sliding section of the mortar hatches were pulled over and the tarpaulins battened down. The last of the daylight disappeared from the riot of cloud to the west and the hands, grumbling or chattering according to their inclination, were piped below.

For the first time since the days of disillusion that followed his joining the ship, Nathaniel Drinkwater felt he was again, at least in part, master of his own destiny.

'Well, Mr Tumilty, perhaps you would itemise the ordnance stores on board.'

'Sure, and I will. We have two hundred of the thirteen-inch shell carcases, two hundred ten-inch, one hundred and forty round, five-vented carcases for the thirteens, forty oblong carcases for the tens. Five thousand one pound round shot, the same as you have for your swivels…'

'What do you want them for?' asked Rogers.

'Well now, Mr Rogers,' said Tumilty, tolerantly lowering his list, 'if you choke up the chamber of a thirteen inch mortar with a couple of hundred of they little devils, they fall like iron rain on trenches, or open works without casemates, or beaches, or anywhere else you want to clear of an enemy. Now to continue, we have loaded two hundred barrels of powder, an assortment as you know of fine cylinder, restoved and mealed powder. I have three cases of flints, five of fuses, six rolls of worsted quick-match, a quantity of rosin, turpentine, sulphur, antimony, saltpetre, spirits of wine, isinglass and red orpiment for Bengal lights, blue fires and fire balls. To be sure, Mr Rogers, you're sitting on a mortal large bang.'

'And you've everything you want?' Tumilty nodded. 'Are you happy with things, Mr Trussel?'

'Aye, sir, though I'd like Mr Willerton to make a new powder box. Ours is leaky and if you're thinking that… well, maybe we might fire a mortar or two ourselves, then you'll need one to carry powder up to the guns.'

'Mr Trussel's right, Mr Drinkwater. The slightest leak in a powder box lays a trail from the guns to the filling room in no time at all. If the train fires the explosion'll be even quicker!' They laughed at Tumilty's diabolical humour; the siting of those ugly mortars had intoxicated them all a little.

'Very well, gentlemen. We'll look at her for trim in the morning and hope that Martin does not say anything.'

'Let us hope Captain Martin'll be looking after his own mortars and not overcharging them so that we haven't to give up ours,' said Tumilty, blowing his red nose. He went on: 'And who had you in mind to be throwing the shells at, Mr Drinkwater?'