'If you want your dance, Sir Hyde, and your wife wants her amusements, then the fleet and I'll go hang. But I tell you time, time is everything; five minutes makes the difference between a victory and a defeat.'
Chapter Ten
Truth in Masquerade
Drinkwater began Tuesday afternoon pacing his poop as the sky clouded over and the wind worked round to the west. The encounter with Lord Nelson had made him resentful and angry. He paced off his fury at being taken by his lordship for one of Lady Parker's amusements. The sight of the little admiral, his sleeve pinned across his gold-laced coat, his oddly mobile mouth in its pale, prematurely worn face, with the light of contempt in his one good eye had had an effect on Lieutenant Drinkwater that he was still trying to analyse. It had, he concluded, been like receiving raking fire, so devastating was Nelson's disapproval. The second and more powerful emotion which succeeded in driving from his mind all thoughts of his brother, was the despair he felt at having earned Nelson's poor opinion.
He found Sir Hyde Parker's assurance of 'taking notice of the Lieutenant's conduct to please my wife', which ordinarily ought to have been a matter for self-congratulation, brought him no comfort at all. Nelson had cut him as they both left the Wrestler's Inn and Drinkwater felt the slight almost as intensely as a physical wound.
Drinkwater began to realise the nature of Nelson's magic. He had glimpsed it two years earlier at Syracuse animating a weary fleet that had been beaten by bad luck, bad weather and compounded the break-out of the French through their blockade of Toulon by an over-zealous pursuit that had made them overtake the enemy without knowing it. Yet Nelson had led them back east to smash Brueys in Aboukir Bay in the victory that was now known as The Nile. Now Drinkwater stood condemned as the epitome of all that Nelson despised in Parker and Parker's type.
And because it was unjust he burned with a fury to correct Nelson's misconception.
As he paced up and down he realised the hopelessness of his case. He began to regret asking Dungarth for his own command. What hope had he of distinguishing himself in the old tub that Virago really was? Those two mortars that Tumilty had so slyly placed in their beds were no more than a charade. There would be no 'opportunity' in this expedition, only drudgery, probable mismanagement and a glorious debacle to amuse Europe. No fleet orders had been issued to the ships, no order of sailing. All was confusion with a few of Nelson's intimates forming a cabal within the hierarchy of the fleet which threatened to overset the whole enterprise.
Added to the demoralisation of the officers were the chills, fevers, agues and rheumatism being experienced by many of the seamen. The much publicised Baltic Fleet had the constitution of an organism in an advanced state of rot. Drinkwater's own condition was merely a symptom of that decay.
Only that morning on his return from the shore Rogers had brought a man aft for spitting on the deck. Although Drinkwater suspected the fellow had fallen into an uncontrollable fit of violent coughing he had ordered the grating rigged and the man given a dozen lashes. It was only hours later that he felt ashamed, unconsoled by the reflection that many captains would have ordered three dozen, and only recognising the unpleasant fact that events of the last few days had brutalised him. He had watched Edward's face as Cottrell had been flogged. Only once had his brother looked up. Nathaniel realised now that he had flogged Cottrell as an example to Edward, and he cursed the rottenness of a world that penned men in such traps.
But Lieutenant Drinkwater's wallow in the mire of self-pity did not last long. It was an unavoidable concomitant of the isolation of command and the antidote, when it came in the person of a midshipman from Explosion, was most welcome. He was invited to dine on the bomb vessel within the hour. The thought of company among equals, even equals as bilious-eyed as Martin, was preferable to his own morbid society.
It proved to be a surprisingly jolly affair. After a sherry or two he relaxed enough to cast off the 'blue-devils'. If they were going to war he might as well enjoy himself. In a month he might be dead. If they ever did sail of course, and it was this subject that formed the conversation as the officers of the bomb vessels gossiped. The fleet was buzzing with a rumour that delighted both the naval and the artillery officers crowded into Martin's after cabin. Lord Nelson, it was said, had written direct to Earl St Vincent, the First Lord. Lady Parker's ball and the delay it was causing was believed to be the subject of his lordship's letter. Among the assembly an atmosphere of almost school-boy glee prevailed. They waited eagerly for the outcome, arguing on whether it would be the super-cession of Parker by Nelson or an order to sail.
Drinkwater exchanged remarks with two white-haired lieutenants who were in command of the other tenders and normally employed by the Transport Board. They were both over sixty and he soon gravitated towards Tumilty and the other artillery officers who were more his own age. The merry-eyed Lieutenant English, attached to Explosion, sympathised with him over Martin's apparent animosity and cursed his own ill-luck in being appointed to the ship. Fitzmayer of the Terror and Jones of the Volcano seemed intent on insulting Admiral Parker and had embarked on a witty exchange of military double entendres designed to throw doubts on the admiral's ability to be a proper husband to his bride. The joke was becoming rather stale. From Captain-Lieutenant Peter Fyers of Sulphur he learned something of the defences of Copenhagen where Fyers had served the previous year in a bomb vessel sent as part of Lord Whitworth's embassy. Captain-Lieutenant Lawson, attached to Zebra, was expatiating on the more scandalous excesses and perverted pastimes of the late Empress Catherine and the even less attractive sadism of her son Tsar Paul, 'the author', as he put it, 'of our present misfortune, God-rot his Most Imperial Majesty.'
'There seems a deal of hostility to kings among these king's officers,' remarked Drinkwater to Tumilty, thinking of the regicide tendencies of his own surgeon.
'Ah,' explained Tumilty with inescapable Irish logic, 'but we're not exactly king's officers, my dear Nat'aniel, no we're not. As I told you our commissions are from the Master General of the Ordnance, d'you see. Professional men like yourself, so we are.' He paused to drink off his glass. 'We're pyroballogists that'll fire shot and shell into heaven itself if the devil's wearing a general's tail coat. Motivated by science we are, Nat'aniel, and damn the politics. Fighting men to be sure.'
Drinkwater was not sure if that was true of all the artillery officers mustered in Explosion's stuffy cabin, but it was certainly true of Lieutenant Thomas Tumilty whose desire to be throwing explosive shells at anyone unwise enough to provoke him, seemed to consume him with passion so that he sputtered like one of his own fuses.
'And I've some news for you personal like. Our friend Captain Martin has heard that our mortars are mounted. I'd not be surprised if he were to mention it to you…' Tumilty's eyes narrowed to slits and the hair on his cheeks bristled as he sucked in his cheeks in mock disapproval. He took another glass from the passing mess-man and turned away with an obvious wink as Captain Martin approached.