A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page A

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 mast-heading. 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 myaltitude 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.
    â€˜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 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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 mess-man. ‘Pass word