A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page A

latitude?’ He knew he was displacing Lestock but noted that Dalziell was suddenly less confident. The sun was chasing them south, would cross the equator in a day or so and the calculation was elementary. A mere matter of addition and subtraction but Dalziell baulked at it. Drinkwater suspected he cribbed frequently from the younger boy who showed a certain aptitude for the mysteries of astronomical navigation.
    ‘Er, sixteen degrees, er
    about sixteen degrees south, sir, er
    ‘ he frowned over his slate while Lestock tut-tutted and nodded agreement at Drinkwater’s figures.
    ‘Perhaps you would do better studying Robinson, Mr Dalziell, than thrashing your messmate.’
    Dalziell’s open-mouthed stare as he descended the ladder made him chuckle inwardly. He remembered wondering as a midshipman how the first lieutenant always seemed so omniscient. Experience was a wonderful teacher and there was little new under the sun. The reference to the late object of their observations further amused him and he was in a high good humour as he returned his quadrant to its carefully lashed mahogany box. It was only on straightening up from the task that his eye was caught by the little watercolour of the American privateer Algonquin, wearing British over Yankee colours. She had been his first command. It was a trifle stained by damp now and had been done for him by Elizabeth before they were married. The thought of Elizabeth scudded like one of those cumulus clouds over his good humour. In the oddly circuitous way the mind works it made him think of Quilhampton and the misery that could be a midshipman’s lot. He called the messman. ‘Pass word for Mr Quilhampton, Merrick.’
    When the boy came he had clearly been crying. He was fortunate, Drinkwater thought. The brig had no cockpit and the two midshipmen each had a tiny cabin, mere hutches set on the ship’s plans as accommodation for stewards. At least they did not have to live in the festering stink of the orlop as he had had to aboard Cyclops. But the atmosphere of Quilhampton’s environment was a relative thing. It might be easier than Drinkwater’s had been, but it was no less unpleasant for the boy.
    ‘Come now, Mr Q, dry those eyes and tell me what happened.’
    ‘Nothing, sir.’
    ‘Come, sir, do not make honour a sticking point, what happened?’
    ‘N
    nothing, sir.’
    Drinkwater sighed. ‘Mr Q. If I were to instruct you to lead a party of boarders on to the deck of a French frigate, would you obey?’
    ‘Of course, sir!’ A spark of indignant spirit was rekindled in the boy.
    ‘Then come, Mr Q. Do not, I beg you, disobey me now.’
    The muscles along Quilhampton’s jaw hardened. ‘Mr Dalziell, sir, struck me, sir. It was in a fair fight, sir,’ he added hurriedly.
    ‘Fights are seldom fair, Mr Q. What was this over?’
    ‘Nothing, sir.’
    ‘Mr Quilhampton,’ Drinkwater said sharply, ‘I shall not remind you again that you are in the King’s service, not the schoolroom.’
    ‘Well, sir, he was insulting you, sir
    said something about you and the captain, sir
    something not proper, sir.’
    Drinkwater frowned. ‘Go on.’
    ‘I er, I thought it unjust, sir, and I er, demurred, sir
    ‘ The boy’s powers of self-expression had improved immeasurably but the thought of what the boy was implying sickened Drinkwater.
    ‘Did he suggest that the captain and I enjoyed a certain intimacy, Mr Q?’ he asked softly. Relief was written large on the boy’s face.
    ‘Yes sir.’
    ‘Very well, Mr Q. Thank you. Now then, for fighting and for not obeying my order promptly I require from you a dissertation on the origin of the brig-sloop, written during your watch below this afternoon and brought to me when you report on deck at eight bells.’
    The boy left the cabin happier in spite of his task. But for Drinkwater a cloud had come permanently over the day and a dark suspicion was forming in his mind.
     
    He spoke to Dalziell when he relieved Rogers at the