He found Drinkwater at the weather hance, wrapped in his boat-cloak.
'Beg pardon, zur ...'
'What is it, Tregembo? ...'
'That Morris, zur.' Tregembo's eyes met the Captain's.
'Well?'
"E knows me, zur ... I spoke to him this morning.'
'You announced your presence, you mean ... advised him to mind his manners, is that it?'
'Something o' the sort, zur.'
Drinkwater smiled. 'Be careful of him, Tregembo. Unfortunately we must bear with him ...'
'You be careful o' him, zur,' Tregembo broke in, 'he's not forgotten nothing, zur ... be assured o' that.'
'Thank you for your advice.'
Tregembo bridled at the faintly patronising air of Drinkwater's reply. 'He weren't never a gennelman, zur; he'm no longer quality.'
'No, you're right ...'
'You shouldn't leave your pistols in your cabin, zur, I don't know that he's got any himself, but ...'
'I've been thinking about that. I've decided to take over poor Hill's cabin and put Prince Vladimir in to share with Morris.'
Tregembo considered the proposition and a twinkle in his eyes caught an answering glimmer in Drinkwater's.
'I'll see to it, zur.'
'If you please.'
'Beg pardon, sir.' Lieutenant Quilhampton touched the fore-cock of his hat.
'Yes? What is it?'
'Weather's tending to thicken, sir.'
Drinkwater cast a look about the frigate, quickly counting his scattered charges. Two of the Country ships, small, round bilged brigs, were wallowing, dropping astern and fading into the encroaching mist that had dissolved the horizon, reducing the visible circle of sea on which the ships of the convoy drove southwards.
'Very well. Make the signal to shorten sail.'
Quilhampton acknowledged the order and the hitched bundles of coloured bunting soared aloft to break out at the main masthead. From forward an unshotted gun boomed to leeward, drawing attention to the signal. While the Patrician's men leapt into the shrouds and lay aloft, Drinkwater watched the evolutions of the merchant ships. He knew the Indiamen were reluctant to crack on apace, believing in a leisurely progress as least wearing on cargo, company and passengers. If the convoy were being shadowed, now would prove an opportune occasion for an attack. But the convoy behaved itself. The Indiamen shortened down and the cluster of Country ships followed suit, the rearward sluggards sensibly holding on until they had come up with the majority.
'Bring the ship close to the starboard quarter of the rearmost brig, Mr Q.'
'On the wind'd quarter of the Courier, aye, aye, sir.'
If they were to be attacked, Drinkwater wanted Patrician to windward and able to crack on sail to support any part of his little fleet. He watched as the helm was put down and the men manned the braces, swinging the yards a point or two, easing the sheets and leading the weather tacks forward. The convoy drew out on Patrician's larboard bow and then, yards swung again, she came back before the wind, reined in upon the quarter of the inappropriately named brig Courier, slowest vessel in the convoy.
Aware of someone beside him, Drinkwater turned, expecting
Quilhampton to report the adjustment to the frigate's station, but it was Rakitin.
'I have had a report, Captain Drinkwater, from one of my officers, that you have ordered him to be beaten. Count Chirkov is most ...' Rakitin sought the right word for the humiliation of his subordinate with no success. 'Count Chirkov has ... I protest most strongly.'
Drinkwater fixed the Russian with a glare and tried with difficulty to keep his temper. Morris, the Russians, such petty matters; relatively trivial when compared to the importance of the convoy and the dangers inherent in the latent disaffection of his crew. He knew that in the circumscribed limits of a ship such trifling irritations assumed an importance scarcely to be conceived by those on land, an importance that the rigid enforcement of naval discipline defused, but which grew and festered among those not held in such thrall with, moreover, the time and opportunity to dwell upon them. He rounded on the Russian.
'Captain Rakitin, if you did me the courtesy of maintaining order among your officers, a situation requiring punishment would not have arisen. As it was I ordered your officer punished according to the usage of the British service in which he is now a prisoner. He was not publicly humiliated in front of the ship's company and should not, therefore, complain. However,' Drinkwater continued, a mischievous idea occurring to him, 'I have made arrangements for you to transfer into my own cabin, vacating the one you presently occupy. I also deliver Midshipman Count Chirkov into your especial charge. He is to live and mess with you and not to contaminate my own young men any more. Good-day to you!'
Drinkwater strode purposefully across the deck, bent over the binnacle to check the course and took station with Lieutenant Quilhampton.
'For God's sake, James, talk some sense to me before I am constrained to do something I shall regret.'
Quilhampton turned, cast a glance beyond Drinkwater's shoulder and muttered, 'He's in pursuit, sir ...'
'God's bones,' said Drinkwater through clenched teeth.
'Captain Drinkwater,' began Rakitin who had taken a moment to digest the import of Drinkwater's remarks, 'Captain Drinkwater, it is not ...'
'Deck there!' came the lookout's shrill cry. 'Ship to loo'ard bearing up! Gunfire to the s'uth'ard!'
The dull boom of a gun rolled over the water and the sharp point of fire from a second discharge caught their eyes as the ships of the convoy began to swing to starboard across the bows of those behind them. Strict order seemed about to dissolve into chaos.
'Hands to the braces! Starboard your helm, Mister! Don't run aboard that damned brig! Call all hands!'
Drinkwater dodged Rakitin, hauled himself up into the mizen rigging and strove to make out what was happening ahead. He hesitated only a second as another stab of yellow gunfire flashed through the mist.
'Beat to quarters!'
CHAPTER 9
Infirmities of Character
'Hold your course!'
Drinkwater moved beside the binnacle, steadying the helmsmen and countering a sudden and distressing nervousness on the part of Ballantyne, the new sailing master. Guilford loomed past a pistol-shot distant, her yards triced hard-up to avoid plunging into Ligonier under her lee. The latter, foul of the Hormuzeer, had broached and a brief glance showed men running out along her jib-boom, hacking at the mess of broken spars, torn canvas and tangled ropes where it had jammed in the Country ship's main rigging.
As Patrician's stern lifted, Drinkwater could see ahead. Only two more ships lay to leeward, and both were clearing from larboard, their heads laid on the starboard tack. Raising his glass he swept it across the misty horizon expecting to see the pale squares of enemy topsails taking substance above the low hull of a French frigate.
'Ship cleared for action, sir,' Fraser reported, and Drinkwater nodded. He had been so occupied with conning Patrician through the convoy that he had scarcely noticed the rattle of the marine drummer's snare, or the rushing preparations round the deck. Mount's marines lined the hammock nettings and the quarterdeck and fo'c's'le gunners knelt expectantly by their pieces. Midshipmen stood at their stations, little Belchambers, his ankle near normal, in the main-top. Drinkwater thought of Morris, suddenly exposed to the vulgar gaze of the people as the cabin bulkheads were removed and the eighteen-pounder beneath his cot was manned by a dozen barefoot seamen. Drinkwater wondered if he was still fondling his pathic.