The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Read Free Book Online

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    ‘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