'Ser'nt Blixoe! Pass word for Ser'nt Blixoe ...'
'Here, sir!'
'Give the Bosun a hand to get these trollops into their boats ... not too roughly, Ser'nt.'
Meanwhile, in the gunroom, Midshipman Count Vasili Ghirkov was reaching the climax of his urgent love-making.
His sword hitched and his hat ready in his hand, Drinkwater half sat on the edge of his table, one leg swinging, awaiting the summons to the deck. When it came at last he affected not to notice the inordinate delay, not to enquire from Mr Belchambers, who had been sent limping down to inform him the muster was complete, why he had heard noises below decks that indicated a party of marines sent twice through the ship. He knew already what that signified.
It was growing light as he climbed to the quarterdeck. The men were massed amidships, over the booms and along the gangways, in the lower rigging and, still distracted by the departing women, craning over the rails. Beyond the hammock nettings he could see the trucks of masts as three or four score sampans rocked away from their sides.
'Eyes in the ship there!' Fraser touched his hat. 'Ship's company mustered, sir.'
'Very well, Mr Fraser.'
There was something wrong. He could see instantly the lack of symmetry in the ranks of marines who rigidly lined the sides of the quarterdeck. He caught Fraser's eye and raised an eyebrow.
'Four men missing, sir,' hissed the first lieutenant in a low, tense voice.
'How many marines?'
'None, sir. Corporal Grice is still searching the ship.'
'Any boats missing?'
'No, sir. Too many sampans ...'
Drinkwater nodded a curt acceptance of what he had already guessed. Affecting to ignore the report he stepped forward.
'Well, my lads,' he began, staring at the bleary faces that were taking shape in the growing light, 'the Chinese consider us barbarians, I'm told, and looking at the present state of the ship's company, I'm not entirely surprised ...'
A collectively sheepish grin seemed to spread across the more tractable members of the crew.
'You have all enjoyed a little relaxation and the ship is almost ready to proceed ...'
'Where are we bound, Cap'n?'
The voice was unidentifiable, but it might have asked for all except the Russian prisoners, for the light of interest kindled in their washed-out faces.
'We are escorting a convoy to Prince of Wales Island and then ... then I think it time that we took ourselves home ...'
He was aware that few of them knew where Prince of Wales Island was, and fewer cared, but they all wanted to hear their final destination. He was cut short by a spontaneous burst of cheering, cheering that only died away when Corporal Grice and his detail emerged from the after companionway half dragging, half shoving an able seaman named Ward, and escorting the protesting Chirkov and his half-naked flower-girl in to the ampitheatre of unoccupied deck before the captain.
Chirkov shrugged off the rough hands of the marines and turned as though to join his fellow prisoners, gathered about Prince Vladimir.
'Stand still, sir!' rapped Mount, pleased with his men.
'Make your report, Grice,' said Drinkwater quietly, nodding first at Ward.
'Caught him going out through a gun-port, sir. Into a sampan under number three gun, sir.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Anything to say, Ward?'
The unhappy man shook his head. 'Put him in the bilboes, Corporal.' Drinkwater had no intention of marring the present moment with a flogging. On the other hand ...
He turned to the sulking Russian. Not taking his eyes off the young nobleman, Drinkwater said, 'Captain Rakitin, this officer is under duty to you. He is responsible for a division of your men and has been publicly taken with this woman. Have you anything to say on his behalf?'
It gave Drinkwater a grim satisfaction to see the big Russian nonplussed, even if only for a moment.
'If it was one of my midshipmen he would be made to kiss the gunner's daughter!'
'No ... no, that would be most irregular ...'
'I shall punish him tomorrow, Captain,' Drinkwater said, 'when I deal with my own defaulters. Kindly be answerable for his behaviour until then.' He turned to Fraser. 'Pipe the men down, Mr Fraser, I want to be ready to weigh at first light tomorrow.'
'What about the deserters, sir? asked Fraser as the muster dispersed.
'No more sampans alongside, Mr Fraser, and a better guard boat tonight. Forget the deserters and let the men enjoy the anticipation of seeing Midshipman Chirkov's matrimony.'
Touching his hat, Drinkwater left the deck. Behind him Fraser and Mount exchanged glances.
'Forget the deserters,' muttered Fraser, 'that's no' wise ...'
'I think,' mused Mount quietly to the worried first lieutenant, 'that we are more concerned with morale at the moment.'
CHAPTER 6
The Concerns of a Convoy
'Well, gentlemen, that concludes matters ...'
Drinkwater looked round at the faces of the dozen men gathered in his cabin. Most wore plain cloth coats, some sported brass buttons or a strip of gold leaf about their cuffs, but two wore the brass-bound uniform of the East India Company's livery.
'If there are no more questions I wish you all good-night and would be obliged if you would heave a-peak the instant you see my signal at daylight. We will make the best of our way beyond the Bogue and I will signal a boat from each of you before forming the order of sailing.' In this way Drinkwater could allow for any idiosyncrasies he noticed in the passage downstream.
There was a chorus of 'good-nights' and mutual exchanges between these masters of the convoy who all knew each other. An undercurrent of relief had permeated their gathering for Drinkwater's briefing: he knew that indecision had sent the Select Committee into a catalepsy and that these men, at least, were fortunate to have completed their cargoes and be homeward bound.
Drinkwater nodded dismissal to Ballantyne who, attired in the more-or-less regulation dress of a warrant officer, had cleared away the copies of Huddart's charts that had been his passport to Patrician’s wardroom. Fraser, too, was about to leave the cabin, but Drinkwater stepped forward and restrained him with his hand.
'Captain Callan,' Drinkwater called, and one of the East India commanders turned in the doorway. 'Might I have a word, sir?'
'Of course, Captain ...' Callan, a tall, slightly red-faced man with bushy eyebrows above deep-set eyes, was commander of the Indiaman Guilford, and senior of the two John Company men.
'I will be blunt with you, sir,' began Drinkwater, 'I am short of men.'
Callan nodded. 'I wondered when you would turn poacher.' He nodded at Fraser. 'We acceded to your first lieutenant's requests for spars from our stores in the bankshalls on Danes Island in the pious hope that we might assuage the Navy's rapacious appetite. It seems that, having plundered our stores, you now want our men.'
'It seems that you do not quite understand ...' replied Drinkwater coolly.
'Oh, I quite understand, Captain Drinkwater. In fact I understand very well and that is why we, the masters in the convoy, have agreed a confederation united to oppose you if you send any men on board our ships with the intention of removing our people. Just attempt it, sir, just attempt it, by God!'
Drinkwater raised an eyebrow. 'You know my rights in the matter, Captain Callan ...'
'Aye,' Callan retorted swiftly, 'such as they are this far from home and with the sworn affidavits of my colleagues to counter you. Besides, many of my men hold exemptions and it is a matter of record that we too are under-manned.'