The Bomb Vessel

Drinkwater nodded, looking at the hump lying inert in his own bed. He felt a faint ringing in his ears. The fever did not trouble him tonight but he seemed to float an inch above his chair.

'I don't believe a man must shrive his soul with a canting priest, Mr Drinkwater,' Lettsom went on, helping himself to the bottle. 'I barely know whether there is an Omnipotent Being. A man is only guts sewn up in a hide bag. No anatomist has discovered the soul and the divine spark is barely perceptible in most.' He nodded at the gently swinging cot. 'See how easily it is extinguished. How much of the Almighty d'you think he contains to be snuffed like this?' he added with sudden vehemence.

'You were not responsible for Mason's wound, Mr Lettsom,' Drinkwater said with an effort, 'those luggers…'

'Those luggers, sir, were simply a symptom of the malignity of mankind. What the hell is this bloody war about, eh? The king of Denmark's mad, Gustav of Sweden's mad, Tsar Paul is a dangerous and criminal lunatic and each of these maniacs is setting his people against us. And what in God's name are we doing going off to punish Danes and Swedes and Russians for the crazy ambitions of their kings? Why, Mr Drinkwater, it is even rumoured that our very own beloved George is not all that he should be in the matter of knowing what's what.' Lettsom tapped his head significantly.

'We are swept up like chaff in the wind. Mason is hit by the flail and I bungle his excision like a student. That's all there is to it, Mr Drinkwater. One may philosophise over providence, or what you will, as long as you have a belly empty of splinters, but that is all there is to it…'

He fell silent and Drinkwater said nothing. His own belief in fate was a faith that drew its own strength from such misgivings as Lettsom expressed. But he could not himself accept the cold calculations of the scientific mind, could not agree with Lettsom's assumption of ultimate purposelessness.

They were both drunk, but at that brief and peculiarly lucid state of drunkenness that it is impossible to maintain and is gone as soon as attained. In this moment of clarity Drinkwater thought himself the greater coward.

'Perhaps,' said Lettsom at last, 'the French did themselves a service by executing King Louis, much as we did the first Charles. Pity of the matter is we replaced a republic by a monarchy and subjected ourselves voluntarily to the humbug of parliamentary politics…'

'You are an admirer of the American rebels, Mr Lettsom?'

The surgeon focussed a shrewd eye on his younger commander. 'Would you not welcome a world where ability elevated a man quicker than birth or influence, Mr Drinkwater?'

'Now you sound like a leveller. You know, you quacks stand in a unique position in relationship to the rest of us. Wielding the knife confers a huge moral advantage upon you. Like priests you are apt to resort to pontification…'

'Moral superiority is conferred on any man with a glass in his hand…'

'Aye, Mr Lettsom, and when we rise tomorrow morning the world will be as it is tonight. Imperfect in all its aspects, yet oddly beautiful and full of hidden wonders, cruel and harsh with battles to be fought and gales endured. There is more honesty at a cannon's mouth than may be found elsewhere. Kings and their ambition are but a manifestation of the world's turbulence. As a scientist I would have expected you to acknowledge Newton's third law. It governs the entire travail of humanity Mr Lettsom, and is not indicative of tranquil existence.'

Lettsom looked at Drinkwater with surprise. 'I had no idea I was commanded by such a philosopher, Mr Drinkwater.'

'I learnt the art from a surgeon, Mr Lettsom,' replied Drinkwater drily.

'Your journals, Mr Q.' Drinkwater held out his hand for the bound notebooks. He opened the first and turned over the pages. The handwriting was large and blotchy, the pages wrinkled from damp.

'They were rescued from the wreck of the Hellebore, sir,' offered the midshipman.

Drinkwater nodded without looking up, stifling the images that rose in his mind. He took up a later book. The calligraphy had matured, the entries were briefer, less lyrical and more professional.

A drawing appeared here and there: The arrangement of yards upon a vessel going into mourning. Drinkwater smiled approvingly, discovering a half-finished note about mortars.

'You did not complete this, Mr Q?'

'No sir. Mr Tumilty left us before I had finished catechising him.'

'I see. How would you stow barrels, Mr Q?'

'Bung up and bilge free, sir.'

'A ship is north of the equator. To find the latitude, given the sun's declination is south and the altitude on the meridian is reduced to give a correct zenith distance, how do you apply that zenith distance to the declination?'

'The declination is subtracted from the zenith distance, sir, to give the latitude.'

'A vessel is close hauled on the larboard tack, wind southwesterly and weather thick. You have the deck and notice the air clearing with blue sky to windward. Of what would you beware and what steps would you take?'

'That the ship might be thrown aback, the wind veering into the north west. I would order the quartermaster to keep the vessel's head off the wind a point more than was necessary by the wind.'

'Under what circumstances would you not do this?'

Quilhampton's face puckered into a frown and he caught his lip in his teeth.

'Well, Mr Q? You are almost aback, sir.'

'I… er.'

'Come now. Under what circumstances might you not be able to let the vessel's head pay off? Come, summon your imagination.'

'If you had a danger under the lee bow, sir,' said Quilhampton with sudden relief.

'Then what would you do?'

'Tack ship, sir.'

'You have left it too late, sir, the ship's head is in irons…' Drinkwater looked at the sheen of sweat on the midshipman's brow. There was enough evidence in the books beneath Drinkwater's hands of Quilhampton's imagination and he was even now beset by anxiety on his imaginary quarterdeck.

'Pass word for the captain, sir?' Quilhampton suggested hopefully.

'The captain is incapacitated and you are first lieutenant, Mr Q, you cannot expect to be extricated from this mess.'

'Make a stern board and hope to throw the ship upon the starboard tack, sir.'

'Anything else?' Drinkwater looked fixedly at the midshipman. 'What if you fail in the sternboard?'

'Anchor, sir.'

'At last! Never neglect the properties of anchors, Mr Q. You may lose an anchor and not submit your actions to a court-martial, but it is quite otherwise if you lose the ship. A prudent man, knowing he might be embayed, would have prepared to club-haul his ship with the larboard anchor. Do you know how to club-haul a ship?'

Quilhampton swallowed, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing round his grubby stock.

'Only in general principle, sir.'

'Make it your business to discover the matter in detail. Now, how is a topmast stuns'l set?'

'The boom is rigged out and the gear bent. Pull up the halliards and tack, keeping fast the end of the deck sheet. The stops are cut by a man on the lower yard. The tack is hauled out and the halliards hove. The short sheet is rove round the boom heel and secured in the top.'

Drinkwater smiled, recognising the words. 'Very well, Mr Q. Consequent upon the death of Mr Mason I am rating you acting master's mate. You will take over Mason's duties. Please take your journals with you.'

He waved aside Quilhampton's thanks. 'You will not thank me when the duty becomes arduous or I am dissatisfied with your conduct. Go and look up how to club-haul in that excellent primer of yours.'

Drinkwater picked up his pen and returned to the task he had deliberately interrupted by summoning Quilhampton.