A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page B

conclusion of the afternoon watch. Quilhampton had delivered into his hand an ink-spattered paper which he folded carefully and held behind his back.
    ‘For fighting, Mr Dalziell, I require an essay on the brig-sloop. I desire that you submit it to me when I am relieved this evening.’
    Dalziell muttered his acknowledgement and turned away. Drinkwater recalled him.
    ‘Tell me, Mr Dalziell, what is the nature of your acquaintanceship with Lord Dungarth?’ Dalziell’s face relaxed into a half-concealed smirk. Drinkwater hoped the midshipman thought him a trifle scared of too flagrantly punishing an earl’s eleve. That feline look seemed to indicate that he was right.
    ‘I am related to his late wife
    sir.’
    ‘I see. What was the nature of your kinship?’
    ‘I was second cousin to the countess.’ He preened himself, as if being second cousin to a dead countess absolved him from the formalities of naval courtesy. Drinkwater did not labour the point; Mr Dalziell did not need to know that Lord Dungarth had been the director of the clandestine operations of the cutter Kestrel. ‘You are most fortunate in your connections, Mr Dalziell,’ he said as the boy smirked again.
    He was about to turn away and give his attention to the ship when Dalziell volunteered, ‘I have a cousin on my mother’s side who knows you, Mr Drinkwater.’
    ‘Really?’ said Drinkwater without interest, aware that Rogers had neglected to overhaul the topgallant buntlines which were taut and probably chafing. ‘And who might that be?’
    ‘Lieutenant Morris.’
    Drinkwater froze. Slowly he turned and fixed Dalziell with a frigid stare.
    ‘And what of that, Mr Dalziell?’
    Suddenly it occurred to Dalziell that he might be mistaken in securing an advantage over the first lieutenant so soon after the tribunal. He realised Mr Drinkwater would not cringe from mere innuendo, nor could he employ the crudities that had upset Quilhampton. ‘Oh, n
    nothing sir.’
    ‘Then get below and compose your essay.’ Drinkwater turned away and fell to pacing the deck, forgetting about the topgallant buntlines. He hated the precocity of Dalziell and his ilk. The day was ruined for him, the whole voyage of the Hellebore poisoned by Dalziell, a living reminder of the horrors of the frigate Cyclops and Morris, the sodomite tyrant of the midshipman’s mess. Many years before, during the American war, Drinkwater had been instrumental in having Morris turned out of the frigate. Morris was lucky to have escaped with his life: an Article of War punished his crime with the noose. Now a drunken threat, uttered by Morris before he left the frigate, was recalled to mind. It seemed Morris had kept in touch with his career, might have been behind Dungarth’s request that Dalziell be found a place, though it was certain the earl knew nothing of it. Something about Dalziell’s demeanour seemed to confirm this suspicion. For half an hour Drinkwater paced furiously from the poop ladder to the mainmast and back. His mind was filled with dark and irrational fears, fears for Elizabeth and her unborn child far behind in England, for long ago Morris had discovered his love for her and had threatened her. Gradually he calmed himself, forced his mind into a more logical track. Despite the influence he once appeared to wield at the Admiralty through the carnal talents of his sister, he had risen no further than lieutenant and many years had passed since that encounter in New York. Perhaps, whatever Dalziell knew of the events aboard Cyclops, it would be no more than that he and Morris were enemies. Surely Morris would have concealed the reason for their enmity. Strange that he had planted in the midshipman’s mind the notion that Drinkwater indulged in the practices that had come close to breaking Morris himself. Or perhaps it was not so strange. Evil was rightly represented as a serpent and the twists of the human mind to justify its most outrageous conduct were, when viewed