A Brig of War by Richard Woodman

case without consultation. ‘I am sure you agree with me, gentlemen, that Tregembo’s initial remarks were made by mistake under the false assumption that another hand had tripped over him. The manner of Mr Dalziell’s subsequent ordering of him below was of such a nature as to disqualify him from receiving the manner of address expected from an able seaman to a midshipman.’ There was a sharp indrawn breath from Rogers but Drinkwater was undeterred. ‘The midshipmen aboard any ship of which I am first lieutenant will be obliged to behave properly. I will not tolerate the apeing of bloods out whoring which seems the current fashion. It would not be in the interests of the ship to flog Tregembo.’
    ‘Damn you, Drinkwater, damn you to hell.’ Rogers leapt from the chair.
    ‘Be silent, sir!’ stormed Drinkwater, suddenly furious at Rogers. Then, in a quieter tone he turned to the master and surgeon. ‘Well gentlemen, d’you agree?’
    ‘Of course, Nathaniel, damned stupid business if you ask me.’ Appleby eyed Rogers disapprovingly.
    ‘Is my character to be disputed by an apology for a pox-doctor
    ?’ he got no further. Emerging from his cabin Commander Griffiths appeared. The five men in the gunroom rose to their feet. He had clearly heard every word through the flimsy bulkhead.
    ‘I approve of your decision, Mr Drinkwater, just as I disapprove of your conduct, Mr Rogers.’ Griffiths spoke slowly then paused turning his lugubrious face on Dalziell. His bushy white eyebrows drew together. ‘As for you, sir, I can think of only one place where your presence will not infect us all. Proceed to the fore t’gallant masthead.’
    The commander passed between Rogers and the scarlet midshipman with ponderous contempt and made for the upper deck.
     
    They had rolled Polaris and the constellations of the far north below the horizon without ceremony. To the south blazed Canopus, Rigel Kentaurus and the Southern Cross, whilst Orion wheeled overhead, astride the equinoctial. They had picked up the south-east Trades in five degrees south latitude and romped southwards. The matter of Dalziell faded from Drinkwater’s mind almost as soon as the boy had descended from the mastheading. Ruling all their lives, burying their petty quarrels with its stern and soothing rhythm, the routine of a King’s ship proceeded remorselessly. They had avoided all ships in case any were French cruisers. It was unlikely, but only a single mischance could disrupt the delicate strategy of empire. Even a ship of equal force might jeopardise their mission and it was likely that a French cruiser in the South Atlantic would be one of their fast, well-found frigates.
    On a morning of alternating sunshine and shadow as an endless stream of fair-weather cumulus scudded before the fresh wind and the large dark petrels and bizarre red-footed boobies swooped about the ship, the matter of Dalziell was revived.
    Appearing to take his meridian altitude Mr Quilhampton was found to possess a black eye.
    ‘Where the deuce did you get that from, young shaver?’ asked Drinkwater who had of late made a practice of joining Lestock on the tiny poop to help determine the brig’s latitude.
    ‘Oh, I banged into my cabin door, sir.’ The boy was nearly sobbing and the excuse was clearly fabricated. He failed to catch the sun successfully and it was Dalziell’s smirking ‘I made my altitude seventy degrees fifty-four minutes, Mr Lestock,’ that formed the suspicion in Drinkwater’s mind that he might be the cause of Mr Quilhampton’s misery. It seemed confirmed by the muffled grunt from the young midshipman as the first lieutenant agreed his own altitude within a minute of Dalziell’s. Lestock pursed his lips in disapproval when Quilhampton announced his failure.
    ‘Mr Q has a contused eye, Mr Lestock. Cut along to the surgeon, cully, and get him to look at it.’ He watched the boy move away and turned to Mr Dalziell. ‘Now what d’you make our