'Are you the gentleman from Canton?' asked Drinkwater, giving the newcomer his full attention now. 'D'you have that specie ready to heave aboard?'
The Indian boy stood beside his master, contrasting his bulk.
'I am he, Captain Drinkwater, and the specie wants only a tackle to secure it.'
It was the voice, the voice and the malignant and venomous inflection of hatred laid upon his own name that awoke Drinkwater to the stranger's identity. Suddenly the nightmare's premonition came to him.
And recognition slid beneath Drinkwater's rib-cage with the white-hot agony of a sword-thrust.
CHAPTER 7
Morris
It was clear from the self-possession of Morris's smile that he was not surprised at the presence of Nathaniel Drinkwater in the Pearl River. The solicitations of the unknown 'friend' suddenly assumed a sinister aspect and the infallibility of the nightmare was proved once again, for here, at last, Drinkwater knew, was the cacodemon presaged by his dream. This realisation steadied him and he met again the eyes of his enemy.
Morris's gross figure was largely hidden under the yellow silk robe but his hooded eyes seemed to complete his strange oriental transformation.
'Captain Drinkwater, what a pleasure!' Morris bowed, the smile wider as he sensed Drinkwater's uncertainty. 'Please be so kind as to have my traps, and in particular the two bronze-bound chests, hoisted aboard.'
'Mr Q!' Quilhampton, casting a suspicious eye in Morris's direction, crossed the deck. 'Have the goodness to escort this gentleman and his ... his servant to my cabin.' Drinkwater paused, then added, 'and look lively with those chests.'
'Mr Quilhampton, I do recall you too ... still with Captain Drinkwater, eh?' Something offensive in Morris's tone lingered after he had left the deck and the boom of the signal gun made Drinkwater start, even though he had absently nodded his permission for its discharge, for he had been watching the heavy chests swing aboard. He disguised his exposure with a barked order: 'Lively with those halliards now!'
The topsail yards rose on freshly slushed masts. The braces were manned and trimmed so that, as the anchor tripped from the mud of the river-bed, Patrician's head fell off downstream in a languid turn that carried her perilously close to the Guilford, before her long raking jib-boom pointed at the forts of the Bogue and the open sea beyond.
Drinkwater left the management of his ship to his officers and levelled his glass at the big Indiaman's quarterdeck. He could see Callan, arm outstretched as he got his own ship under weigh. A junk still lay alongside her and was being cast off as Patrician drew clear of Guilford's quarter.
'Leggo and haul!'
The foretopsail swung on its parrel, flogged, then bellied out to the favourable air that, with the current, swept them southwards. Astern other ships were blossoming canvas, including Fleetwood Pellew's Phaeton, and beyond the convoy the remaining ships lay idle, awaiting the outcome of the negotiations with the Chinese. Among them Drinkwater could just make out the half-repaired masts of Musquito.
Beside the binnacle, his dark face working with anxiety, the younger Ballantyne ordered the helm eased a spoke or two, while Fraser, speaking-trumpet in hand, supervised the setting of more sail.
As Guilford fell astern, Callan raised his hat and bellowed something across the widening gap of water. Drinkwater was not sure of what he said, though his gesture indicated something of success.
'Pleased to be going, sir,' remarked Quilhampton, who had returned to the deck, nodding at the Guilford.
'So it would seem,' acknowledged Drinkwater, fixing Quilhampton with a stare. 'You have secured our guest, have you?'
'Aye, sir ... he is Commander Morris, isn't he? I mean I didn't expect to see him here ...'
'Neither did I, Mr Q, believe me, neither did I, and I doubt he still holds naval rank.' And then another thought struck him. 'Is Tregembo aware of his identity?'
'Yes, sir ... leastways I think so, for he looked shocked when I entered the cabin ...'
"Tregembo was in my cabin?'
'Aye, sir; with Derrick and your steward ...'
'God's bones!'
Tregembo was a factor in the complex train of thought that assailed him with renewed force. It was clear that he could no longer avoid giving the matter of Morris his full attention. He looked about him. The convoy stretched astern of Patrician, each ship setting more canvas and with a red ensign at the peak, for Drinkwater had insisted they show a unity of national colours and that the East Indiamen forsake the gridiron ensign the Company flew east of St Helena.
It seemed his orders were being followed to the letter and he grunted his satisfaction. Ballantyne and Fraser had the conduct of the ship well in hand and he anticipated no trouble when they passed the Bogue; he could absent himself from the quarterdeck for a while.
'Mr Fraser! Do you call me if you need me.'
Drinkwater went below. Enveloped by the gloom of the gun-deck he paused, rubbing his eyes as a worm of apprehension writhed in his gut. Should he send for Quilhampton as a witness, or keep this stinking matter to himself?
The rousing click of the marine sentry's musket against his webbing buckles stirred him. He must show none of the weakness he felt. Morris was the lowest kind of creature that crawled upon the face of the earth. God rot him.
Drinkwater nodded perfunctorily at the marine and passed into his cabin.
Morris was sitting at the table. The boy knelt beside him bare-headed and the pair were almost in silhouette, backed by the expanse of the stern windows. The bright picture of the following convoy, the teeming river and the green hills of China lent a mesmeric effect to the confrontation. There was no sign of Drinkwater's staff and the door to the pantry was closed. Morris's hand stroked the boy's head, his fingers playing with a pixie ear as though it belonged to a spaniel. The concupiscent gesture uninterrupted by Drinkwater's arrival appalled him. It was Morris, in perfect possession of his wits, who broke the silence.
'Necessity makes strange bedfellows, Nathaniel.'
The double entendre, the use of his Christian name, even the sound of Morris's voice seemed to strangle any reply from Drinkwater and, for a gasping moment, he felt the sensation of drowning revive from the memory of his dream.
'So ... they gave you a frigate, eh? I always marked you for a coming man, did I not? In New York, I recall ... and later ... oh, I remember everything Nathaniel, everything ... the humiliations I suffered at your hands, the termination of my career, my illness and abandonment at the Cape ...'
There was no whining in this catalogue of grievance, but the sincere belief in a corrupt truth. Morris's tone brought Drinkwater to himself and swept aside the spectral remnants of his own fears.
'Hold your tongue, damn you! You cut no ice here, sir! I shall have you put aboard an Indiaman directly we ...'
'No! No, you will not do that, Nathaniel, consider the matter of the specie ...'
'D'you think I care a fiddler's damn for one per cent of anything that you've had a hand in?'
'Tch, tch, Nathaniel...'
'God damn you, sir, but desist from using my name!'
'We are excessively prejudiced, I fear, eh?' Morris was almost purring, his bloated face expanded laterally by a smile, his hand ever fondling the head and ears and nape of the boy. 'Come, come, then Captain, shed your tired old hypocrisy; make known what arrangements you have provided for my accommodation. You will not transfer me to an Indiaman, no, nor to one of those pestilential Country ships. For a start they will likely refuse me, for a second reason, if you need further persuasion, the specie, whether you wish to claim your percentage or not, will be at greater risk aboard another ship ... the pirates are dangerously active in these seas, my dear fellow ... Come, reconsider and do not be intemperate, you always were the very devil for duty, even as a tight-arsed little midshipman.'