Drinkwater felt the occult force of loathing hit him with near physical impact. The midshipman was certain that he was in some strange way connected with the animosity that existed between these two men that had broken out in persistent and disruptive fighting. It was only with difficulty that Drinkwater prevented himself from fainting. One seaman did. It was the handsome young topman who had been Morris's pathic.
Later in the day Drinkwater passed close to Tregembo as the man worked painfully at a splice.
'I am sorry you were flogged, Tregembo,' he said quietly.
The man looked up. Beads of sweat stood out on his brow, evidence of the agony of working with a back lashed to a bloody ruin.
'You don' have to worry, zur,' he replied. Then he added as an afterthought, 'It shouldn't have to come to that…' Drinkwater passed on, musing on the man's last, incomprehensible remark.
Later that night the wind freshened. At 4 a.m. Drinkwater was called to go on watch. Stumbling forward to the companionway he was aware that once more Cyclops was pitching and tossing. 'They'll shorten sail soon,' he muttered to himself struggling into his tarpaulin as he emerged on deck. The night was black and chilly. A patter of spray came aboard, stinging his face. He relieved Beale who gave him a friendly grin.
At a quarter after four the order came to double reef the topsails. Drinkwater went aloft. He thought little of it now, nimbly working his way out to the place of honour at the yardarm. After ten minutes the huge sail was reduced and the men were making their way to the backstays, disappearing into the darkness as they returned to the deck. As he came in from the yardarm and transferred his weight to a backstay a hand gripped his wrist.
'What the hell…?' He nearly fell. Then a face appeared out of the windtorn blackness. It was the good-looking topman from the main top and there was a wild appeal in his eyes.
'Sir! For Christ's sake help me!' Drinkwater, swaying a hundred feet above Cyclops's heaving deck, yet felt revulsion at the man's touch. But even in the gloom he saw the tears in the other's eyes. He tried to withdraw his hand but his precarious situation prevented it.
'I'm not one of them, sir, honest. They make me do it… they force me into it, sir. If I don't they… kick me, sir…'
Drinkwater felt the nausea subside. 'Kick you? What d'ye mean?' he could hardly hear the man now as the wind whipped the shouted confidences away to leeward.
'The bollocks, sir…' he sobbed, 'For Christ's sake help me…'
The grip relaxed. Drinkwater tore himself away and descended to the deck. For the remainder of the watch as dawn lit the east and daylight spread over the sea he pondered the problem. He could see no solution. If he told an officer about Morris would he be believed? And it was a serious allegation. Had he not heard Captain Hope read the 29th Article of War? For the crime of sodomy the punishment was death… it was a serious, a terrible allegation to make against a man and Drinkwater quailed from the possibility of being instrumental in having a man hanged… and Morris was evil, of that he was certain, evil beyond his own perversion, for Morris was allied to the huge physical bulk of Able-Seaman Threddle and what would Threddle not stop at?
Drinkwater remained in an agony of fear for himself and helplessness at his inability to aid the topman. He felt he was failing his first test as an officer… Who could he turn to?
Then he remembered Tregembo's remark. What was it he had said? He dredged the sentence out of the recesses of his memory: 'It shouldn't have to come to that.' To what? What had Tregembo said before his final remark…
'You don't have to worry.' That was it.
Meaning that he, Drinkwater, did not have to worry. But another doubt seized him. He had only expressed regret that the seaman had been flogged for fighting. Then he realised the truth. Tregembo had been flogged for fighting Threddle and had said the midshipman did not have to worry. Tregembo must therefore know something of what had gone on. 'It' should not have to come to Drinkwater himself worrying? Would the lower deck carry out its own rough justice? Had it already passed sentence on and executed Humphries?
Then Drinkwater realised that he had known all along. Threddle's eyes had blamed his flogging on Nathaniel and subconsciously Drinkwater had acknowledged his responsibility for Tregembo's pain.
He resolved that he would consult Tregembo…
It was the second dog watch before he got Tregembo to one side on the pretext of overhauling the log for Mr Blackmore.
'Tregembo,' he began cautiously, 'why did you fight Threddle?' Tregembo was silent for a while. Then he sighed and said, 'Now why would you'm be axing that, zur?'
Drinkwater took a deep breath. 'Because if it was over what I believe it to have been then it touches the midshipmen as well as the lower deck…' He watched Tregembo's puzzled frown smooth out in comprehension.
'I know, zur,' he said quietly and, looking directly at Drinkwater, added 'I saw what they'm did to you in Gib, zur…' It was Tregembo's turn to be embarrassed.
'I kind of took to 'ee, zur,' he flushed, then resumed with a candid simplicity, 'that's why I did fur 'Umphries.'
Drinkwater was shocked. 'You murdered Humphries?'
'E slipped and I 'elped 'im a bit.' Tregembo shrugged. 'Off'n the jibboom, zur. 'E ent the fust,' he said to alleviate Drinkwater's obvious horror. The midshipman absorbed the knowledge slowly. The burden he had borne was doubled, not halved as he had hoped. The respect for the law engendered by his upbringing was suffering a further assault. Tregembo's lawless, smuggling, devil-may-care attitude was a phenomenon new to him. His face betrayed his concern.
'Doan ye worry yerself, Mr Drinkwater. We're used to buggers and their ways. Most ships 'ave 'em but we doan like it when they doan keep it to 'emselves…' He indicated the handsome seaman coiling a rope amidships. He looked up at them. There was appeal and desperation in his eyes, as though he knew the substance of a conversation taking place sixty feet away.
'Yon Sharples is a good topm'n but 'e's scared of 'em, see. I doan wonder if ye'd seen what they done to 'im…' Tregembo reached into a pocket and slipped a quid of tobacco into his mouth.
'E won't 'ave owerlong to wait,' he concluded ruminatively.
Drinkwater stared sharply at Tregembo. 'The lower deck'll look after its own, zur, but Mr Morris 'as a cockpit problem. Cockpits usually 'ave their own justice, zur.' Tregembo paused sensing Drinkwater's sense of physical inadequacy.
'You'd easy outnumber 'im, zur, wouldn't 'e?'
The log line was neatly coiled in its basket and Tregembo rose. He walked forward knuckling his forehead to the first lieutenant as he passed. Drinkwater remained aft at the taffrail staring astern unseeing. He felt no shame at the suggestion that he was alone unable to thrash Morris… yet it saddened him to think that Morris could terrorise not just him and his fellow midshipmen but the less fortunate Sharples… There was so much in the world that he did not comprehend, that was at variance with what the picture books and learning had given to his mind's eye… perhaps… but no it was not possible…
He turned to walk forward. The whole of Cyclops lay before him. Devaux and Blackmore were at the foot of the mizen mast. The boom and spanker overhead. She was a thing of great beauty, this ship, this product of man's ingenuity and resolve to conquer. For mankind went onwards, following an undirected destiny at no matter what cost to himself. And in the echo of that resolve, exemplified by the frigate, he cast about for the will to do what he thought was right.
Chapter Six
Prize Money
His Britannic Majesty's frigates Meteor and Cyclops saw their charges into Spithead in the last week of May 1780. News had just come in from the West Indies that Admiral Rodney had fought a fleet action with De Guichen off Martinique on 17th April. But the battle had not been decisive and there were disturbing rumours that Rodney was courtmartialling his captains for disobedience.