A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page B

for Mr Quilhampton, Meyrick.’
    When the boy came he had clearly been crying. He was fortunate, Drinkwater thought. The brig had no cockpit and the twomidshipmen 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.
    â€˜Come now, Mr Q, dry those eyes and tell me what happened.’
    â€˜Nothing, sir.’
    â€˜Come, sir, do not make honour a sticking point, what happened?’
    â€˜N . . . nothing, sir.’
    Drinkwater sighed. ‘Mr Q. If I were to instruct you to lead a party of boarders onto the deck of a French frigate, would you obey?’
    â€˜Of course, sir!’ A spark of indignant spirit was rekindled in the boy.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Fights are seldom fair, Mr Q. What was this over?’
    â€˜Nothing, sir.’
    â€˜Mr Quilhampton,’ Drinkwater said sharply, ‘I shall not remind you again that you are in the King’s service, not the schoolroom.’
    â€˜Well, sir, he was insulting you, sir . . . said something about you and the captain, sir . . . something not proper, sir.’
    Drinkwater frowned. ‘Go on.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Yes sir.’
    â€˜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 conclusion of the afternoon watch. Quilhampton had delivered into his hand an ink-spattered paper which he folded carefully and held behind his back.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 élève. That feline look seemed to indicate that he was right.
    â€˜I am related to his late wife . . . sir.’
    â€˜I see. What was the nature of your kinship?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Really?’ said Drinkwater without