An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman

Drinkwater’s loathing of Morris that he would return to the deck rather than remain in his company below. There was something, something indefinable, about him that Nathaniel found distasteful without knowing what it was.
    Between decks
Cyclops
was dim and almost silent. The creaking of her fabric went unnoticed by Drinkwater. A few men sat at the mess tables slung between the guns, lounging and talking. Some swung in hammocks and several watched Drinkwater with idle curiosity. Then one, a fox-faced man named Humphries, nudged his neighbour. A large topman turned round. Drinkwater scarcely noticed the malice that appeared in Threddle’s eyes.
    He descended to the orlop and turned aft to where, screened off with canvas, the frigate’s ‘young gentlemen’ lived. Drinkwater was happily oblivious of the menace in the air. The foetid atmosphere of the orlop was dark; a darkness punctured by swinging lanterns suspended at intervals from the low deckhead which glowed dimly in the poor air. Drinkwater approached the canvas flap which answered the midshipmen for a door.
    He was stopped in his tracks.
    At first he was completely uncomprehending. Then the memory of similar, half-glimpsed, actions, and a pang of instinctive recognition in his own loins brought the realisation slamming home to him.
    He felt sick.
    Morris was naked from the waist down. The handsome young seaman from the main top was bent over a midshipman’s chest. There was little doubt what was happening.
    For a few seconds Drinkwater was rooted to the spot, helplessly watching Morris’s breathless exertions. Then Drinkwater noticed the initials on the chest: ‘N.D.’ He turned and ran, stumbling along the orlop, desperate for the cool freshness of the upper deck.
    He ran full-tilt into Threddle who hurled him back. Drinkwater staggered and, before he could recover, Threddle and Humphries were lugging him aft. Drinkwater struggled in pure terror at re-entering his dismal quarters.
    Threddle threw him forward and he fell on his back. For a minute he closed his eyes then a kick in the kidneys forced them open. A fully dressed Morris stood looking down at him. Threddle and Humphries were behind the midshipman. The handsome seaman had shrunk into a corner. He was crying.
    â€˜What are we goin’ to do wiv ‘im, Mr Morris?’ asked Humphries his eyes glittering with possibilities. Morris looked at Drinkwater his own eyes veiled. He licked his lips considering the physical possibilities himself. Perhaps he read something in Drinkwater’s expression, perhaps his lusts were temporarily slaked or perhaps he feared the consequences of discovery. At last he came to his decision and bent over Nathaniel.
    â€˜If,’ Morris laboured the word, ‘if you mention a word of this to anyone we will kill you. It will be easy—an accident. Do you understand that? Or perhaps you’d like friend Threddle here . . .’ the seaman shuffled forward eagerly, a hand passing to his belt, ‘. . . to show you what a buggering is?’
    Drinkwater’s mouth was quite dry. He swallowed with difficulty.
    â€˜I . . . I understand.’
    â€˜Then get on deck where you belong, lickspittle.’
    Drinkwater fled. The normality of the scene on deck shocked him profoundly. As he arrived in the waist Tregembo came up and gave him an odd look, but the midshipman was too terrified to notice.
    â€˜Mr Blackmore wants you, sir,’ called Tregembo as he rushed past. Drinkwater went aft his heart thumping, doing his bestto master his shaking limbs.
    A week later Gibraltar was once more closely invested by the besieging Spanish. Rodney had sent the transports on to Minorca and the units of the Channel fleet back to home waters under Rear Admiral Digby. The empty transports had gone with them. His task fulfilled the Admiral sailed for the West Indies with reinforcements for that station.
    It is 500 miles