Drinkwater looked up frowning only to find Quilhampton still in the cabin.
'You wish to see me, Mr Q?'
'Beg pardon, sir, but I am rather out of pocket. The expense of bringing the men, sir…'
Drinkwater sighed. 'Yes, yes, of course. How much?'
'Four pounds, seventeen shillings and four pence ha'penny, sir. I kept a strict account…'
The problem of the ship closed round him again, driving all thoughts of his brother from his mind.
Mr Easton, the sailing master, with a brand new certificate from the Trinity House and an equally new warrant from the Navy Board joined them on the last day of the old century. Six days later Drinkwater welcomed his final warrant officer aboard. They had served together before. Mr Trussel was wizened, stoop-shouldered and yellow-skinned. Lank hair fell to his shoulders from the sides and back of his head, though his crown was bald.
'Reporting for duty, Mr Drinkwater.' A smile split his face from ear to ear.
'God bless my soul, Mr Trussel, I had despaired of your arrival, but you are just in time. Pray help yourself to a glass of blackstrap.' He indicated the decanter that sat on its tray at the end of the table, remembering Trussel's legendary thirst which he attributed to a lifelong proximity to gunpowder.
'The roads were dreadful, sir,' said Trussel, helping himself to the cheap, dark wine. 'I gather we are a tender, sir, servicing bombs.'
'Exactly so, Mr Trussel, and as such most desperately in want of a gunner. I shall rely most heavily upon you. As soon as we are rigged we are ordered to Blackstakes to load ammunition and ordnance stores. You will of course have finished your preparations of the magazines by then. Willerton, the carpenter, has a quantity of tongued deals on board and has made a start on them. I've no need to impress upon your mind that not a nail's to be driven once we've a grain of powder on board.'
'I understand, sir.' He paused. 'I saw Mr Rogers on deck.' The statement of fact held just the faintest hint of surprise. Trussel had been gunner of the brig Hellebore when Rogers wrecked her in the Red Sea.
'Mr Rogers is proving a most efficient first lieutenant Mr Trussel.' Drinkwater paused, watching Trussel's face remain studiously wooden. 'Well, I'd be obliged if you would be about your business without delay; time is of the very essence.'
Trussel rose. 'One other thing, sir.'
'Yes, what is that?'
'Are we to embark a detachment of artillerymen?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'I have received notice to that effect. It is customary to do so when ordnance stores are loaded.'
'Then we are for the Baltic, sir?'
Drinkwater smiled. 'You may conjecture as you see fit. I have no orders beyond those to load powder at Blackstakes.' Trussel grinned comprehendingly back.
'I hear Lord Nelson is to be employed upon a secret expedition. The papers had it as I came through London.' He smiled again, aware that the news had come as a surprise to the lieutenant.
'Lord Nelson…' mused Drinkwater, and it was some moments before he bent again to his work.
'I congratulate you, Mr Willerton.' Drinkwater regarded the brilliantly painted figurehead that perched on Virago's tiny fo'c's'le. The product of Willerton's skill with mallet and gouge was the usual mixture of crude suggestion and mild obscenity. The half bust showed a ferociously staring woman with her head thrown back. A far too beautiful mouth gaped violently revealing a protruding scarlet tongue, like the tongue of flame that must once have issued from Virago's mortars.
To the face of this harpy Mr Willerton's artistry had added the pert, up-tilted breasts of a virgin, too large for nature but erotic enough to satisfy the prurience of his shipmates. But it was the right arm that attested to Mr Willerton's true genius. While the left trailed astern the right crooked under an exaggerated breast, its nagging forefinger erect in the universally recognisable position of the scold. The 'leddy' was both termagant wanton and nagging wife, a spitfire virago eminently suitable to a bomb vessel. It was a pity, thought Drinkwater as he nodded his approval, that they were not so commissioned.
The handful of men detailed by Lieutenant Rogers to assist Willerton in fitting the figurehead grinned appreciatively, while Willerton sucked his teeth with a peculiar whistling noise.
'Worthy of a first rate, Mr Willerton. A true virago. I am glad you heeded my advice,' he added in a lower voice.
Willerton grinned, showing a blackened row of caried teeth. 'The right hand, sir, mind the right hand.' His blue eyes twinkled wickedly.
Drinkwater regarded the nagging finger. Perhaps there was some suggestion of Mrs Jex there, but it was not readily recognisable to him. He gave Willerton formal permission to fit the figurehead and turned aft.
A keen easterly wind canted Virago's tub-like hull across the river as she lay to her anchor clear of the sheer hulk. The three lower masts had been stepped and their rigging, already made up ashore and 'lumped' for hoisting aboard, had been fitted over the caps and hove tight to the channels by deadeyes and lanyards. The double hemp lines of fore, main and mizzen stays had been swigged forward and tightened. Rogers and Matchett were at that moment hoisting up the maintopmast, its heel-rope leading down to the barrel windlass at the break of the fo'c's'le, the pawls clicking satisfactorily as the topmast inched aloft.
Drinkwater began to walk aft, past the sweating gangs of sea and landsmen being bullied and sworn at by the bosun's mates, round the heaps and casks being counted by Mr Jex, and ascended the three steps to the low poop. He cast a glance across the river where Mr Quilhampton brought the cutter out from the dockyard, towing the mainyard from the mast pond. Over the poop with its huge tiller, a mark of Virago's age, fluttered the ensign. In its upper hoist canton it bore the new Union flag with St Patrick's saltire added after the recent Act of Union with Ireland. For a second he regarded it curiously, seeing a fundamental change in something he had come to regard as almost holy, something to fight and perhaps to die under. Of the Act and its implication he thought little, though it seemed to make sense to his ordered mind as did Pitt's attempt to emancipate the Roman Catholics of that unfortunate island.
He descended the companionway into his cabin. Mrs Jex had been evicted. On 27th January the Admiralty had ordered a squadron of bombs and their tenders to assemble at Sheerness. The dockyard had woken to its responsibilities. All was now of the utmost urgency before their Lordships started asking questions of the Commissioner.
Tregembo was hanging Elizabeth's gift, the cause of his delay in joining. Drinkwater watched, oddly moved. Bruilhac's skill as a portraitist showed Elizabeth cool and smiling with Charlotte Amelia chubby and serious. He was suddenly filled with an immense pride and tenderness. From his position at the table his two loved ones looked down at him, illuminated by the light that entered the cabin from the stern windows behind him, the moving light that, even on a dull day, did not enter his cabin without reflecting from the sea.
Mr Quilhampton interrupted his reverie. 'Mainyard's alongside, sir, and I've a letter left for you at the main gate.' He handed the paper over and Drinkwater slit the wafer.
My Dear Nathaniel,
I'd be obliged if you would meet meat the sign of the Blue Fox this evening.
Your brother, Edward
He looked up. 'Mr Q. Be so good as to ask the first lieutenant to have a boat for me at four bells.'
The Blue Fox was in a back street, well off the Dock Road and in an alley probably better known for its brothels than its reputable inns. But the place seemed clean enough and the landlord civil, evincing no surprise when Drinkwater asked for his brother. The man ushered Drinkwater to a private room on the upper floor.