Drinkwater was barely aware of what was required of him, but he was suddenly aware of Morris staring at him from the far side of the table with an evil grin upon his face. The face seemed to grow larger, terrifying in its size, oppressive with malice. Conversation died as all turned to stare at him. He was confused. He remembered a succession of his seniors standing in turn and he rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment or two he stood there swaying slightly. The bored expression of the flag lieutenant changed to one of sudden interest at the prospect of a neat gaffe with which to entertain his fashionable friends.
Drinkwater stared out through the stern windows to where the last shreds of daylight flared above the horizon. Morris's face faded and that of his mother swam before him. He remembered her preparing his sea-kit, sewing a table cloth for her son to use at sea. It lay hidden and unused at the bottom of his chest. It bore a motto. That motto sprang into his midshipman's mind now and he uttered it in a loud, commanding voice:
'Confusion to the king's enemies!' He said it all in one breath and without a slur. He sat down abruptly as a roar of assent went round the table. The flag lieutenant resumed his bored expression.
He vaguely heard Kempenfelt's approbatory comment: 'Damme Captain, a real fire eater!'
Chapter Seven
The Duel
On awakening next morning Drinkwater had only the haziest notions of turning in the previous night. He was not sure at what hour the Admiral had left for after his toast the evening had become a blur. The blue and white uniforms, the gold braid and pink faces seemed shrouded in more than tobacco smoke. Wheeler's scarlet coat and glittering gorget had glowed like a surrogate sun in the candlelight as they joked and laughed and became serious again. The conversation had turned on a variety of topics; had been general, then particular; bawdy then technical as the portions of the table concentrated, divided then joined again in a verbal tide.
The event had been a triumph for Henry Hope. As a crowning to the evening Blackmore had suggested a little music and word was passed for O'Malley. The diminutive Irish cook entered, stealing sidelong glances at the ruins of the meal and the empty bottles. He produced some sweet and melancholic airs after the fashion of the time which brought an appreciative silence to the table. He concluded to loud applause with a frantic jig from his native land which, drawn from the wild turbulence of his people, seemed to Drinkwater to summarise the exhilaration of that Moonlight Battle in which these genial fellows had taken such a part.
Little O'Malley had gone forward two guineas better off with a farewell whose obsequiousness was not that of sobriety but suggested that, in the course of roasting the very capons whose ruins he had so enviously regarded, he had partaken of 'pusser's dips'.
Despite the vague recollections of a successful evening Drinkwater woke to the disturbing sensation that all was not well. He had a headache due to the quite unaccustomed quantity of wine he had consumed but it was more than that. He groped in his mind for some memory that would give him a clue to his disquiet. At first he thought he had committed some impropriety. His stomach contracted at the thought of an indiscretion in front of the admiral. But the approach of a figure traversing the darkened orlop brought the memory back.
It was Morris coming to call him at one bell to stand the morning anchor watch. Morris's face was lit demoniacally by the lantern. The rest of his body was invisible in the blackness of the cockpit. This apparition finding Drinkwater awake was a very mask of malice which spat out a torrent of invective in a sibilant whisper. Nathaniel was transfixed with horror, a feeling made worse by his prone position. Jealousy and hate burned within Morris, contesting with the fear of Drinkwater's knowledge of himself. The resulting conflict of powerful emotion burned within him in a terrible, bullying anger.
'Come on admiral's lickspittle, get out of your hammock and convey your greasy arse on deck, damn you for a crawling get!'
Drinkwater made no reply, vulnerably shrinking within his blanket. For a second Morris's face hung over him, the malevolence in his eyes an almost physical force. In a sudden, swift movement Morris had a knife out, the lantern catching the dull glint of its blade. It was a micro second of suspense wherein Drinkwater suddenly, inexplicably, found himself drained of all fear. He simply tensed and awaited the inevitable…
Morris slashed with the knife. The hammock lashing parted and with a jarring crash Drinkwater landed on the deck. Fighting out of his blanket he found himself alone in the creaking darkness.
On deck a squall of rain skittered across Spithead and the wind behind it was cutting. Drinkwater shivered and drew his cloak closer around him. Dawn was not yet visible and Morris's figure was barely discernible, huddled in the paltry shelter of the mizen rigging.
The figure detached itself and approached Drinkwater. Morris's face, dark now, came close. The older midshipman gripped the arm of the younger. Spittle flecked offensively on to Drinkwater's cheek.
'Now listen,' hissed Morris, 'just because you are a crawling little bastard don't get any God-damned ideas about anything. Threddle hasn't forgotten his flogging and neither of us have forgotten Humphries. So don't forget what I'm saying. I mean it.' Morris's vehemence was irresistible. Drinkwater shrunk from the voice, from the spittle and the vicious grip upon his arm. Morris's knee came up into his groin. He gasped with pain. 'D'ye understand, God-damn you?' queried Morris, an undetected doubt in his voice.
'Y… yes,' whispered Drinkwater doubling with agony and nausea, his head swimming. Another figure loomed out of the rainswept darkness. For a terrifying moment Drinkwater thought it was Threddle but the voice of Tregembo asked, 'Everything air right, Mr Drinkwater?' He felt Morris freeze then relax as he straightened up. Tears flowed down his cheeks but he managed to steady his nerve enough to mutter, 'Yes thank you.'
In a clipped tone Morris handed over the watch. 'The lieutenants are excused watches tonight. Call all hands at three bells.' A quartermaster approached, the half-hour glass in his hand. The lower half was almost full.
'Eight bells, Mr Morris.'
'Make it so then.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Four o'clock in the morning.
When Morris had gone below Drinkwater went to the weather side. The rain stung and wet his face. He felt it with relief. The pain in his groin eased and his head felt less thick. Then a wave of nausea swept over him. The pain, the wine and the self-disgust caused him to vomit into the inky, hissing waters of Spithead. After that he felt better. He still stared to windward, his hands gripping the rail. His self-disgust rankled. Why had he not hit Morris back? Just once. He had to face the fact that he was scared, forgetful of the bold resolutions he had formulated and continually put off, pending a more propitious opportunity. He had one now. Morris had assaulted him. Hitherto he had lain low in the hope that by effacing himself Morris would leave him alone. But Morris could not do that…
The thing that he knew about Morris he devoutly wished he did not know. It was so disgusting that the very image of it, so vivid in his impressionable mind, was abominable to him.
Drinkwater was terrified of what he had seen almost more than of those who had been doing it. In that terror was submerged the realisation of the power he had over Morris. In Morris's aggression all Drinkwater saw was brutality. He failed to perceive the brutality masked fear. He saw nothing of the source, only the source's manifestation.