The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Read Free Book Online Page A

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.
    Edward Drinkwater rose to meet him. He was of similar height to Nathaniel, with a heavier build and higher colour. His clothes were fashionably cut, and though not foppish, tended to the extremes of colour and decoration then de rigeur.
    ‘Nathaniel! My dear fellow, my dear fellow, you are most kind to come.’
    ‘Edward. It has been a very long time.’ They shook hands.
    ‘Too long, too long
    here I have some claret mulling, by heaven damned if it ain’t colder here than in London
    there, a glass will warm you. Your ship is nearly ready then?’
    Nathaniel nodded as he sipped the hot wine.
    ‘Then it seems I am just in time, just in time.’
    ‘Forgive me, Edward, but why all the mysterious urgency?’
    Edward ran a finger round his stock with evident embarrassment. He avoided his brother’s eyes and appeared to be choosing his words with