The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman

was three thousand pounds.’
    ‘They may say what the hell they like. It is no longer mine. Most is in trust for my children, the remainder made over to my wife.’ He paused again and Edward looked up, disappointed yet irritatingly unrepentant.
    It suddenly occurred to Drinkwater that the expenses incurred in the fitting out of a ship, even a minor one like Virago, were inconceivable to Edward. He began to repent of his unbrotherly temper; to hold himself mean, still reproved in his conscience for the trick he had played on Jex, no matter how many barrels of sauerkraut it had bought.
    ‘Listen, Ned, I am more than two hundred pounds out of pocket in fitting out my ship. That is why we receive prize money, that and for the wounds we endure in an uncaring country’s service. You talk of fencing lessons but you’ve never known what it is to cut a man down before he kills you. You regard my uniform as some talisman opening the salons of the ton to me when I am nothing but a dog of a sailor, lieutenant or not. Why, Ned, I am not fit to crawl beneath the bootsoles of a twelve-year-old ensign of horse whose commission costs him two thousand pounds.’ All the bitterness of his profession rose to the surface, replacing his anger with the gall of experience.
    Edward remained silent, pouring them both another drink. After several moments Nathaniel rose and went to a small table. From the tail pocket of his coat he drew a small tablet and a pencil. He began to write, calling for wax and a candle.
    After sealing the letter he handed it to his brother. ‘That is all I can, in all conscience, manage.’
    Then he left, picking up his hat without another word, leaving Edward to wonder over the amount and without waiting for thanks.
    He was too preoccupied to notice Mr Jex drinking in the taproom as he made his way through to the street.

Chapter Five January-February 1801
The Pyroballogist
    Drinkwater raised the speaking trumpet. ‘A trifle more in on that foretack, if you please Mr Matchett.’ He transferred his attention to the waist where the master attended the main braces. ‘You may belay the main braces Mr Easton.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
    Virago slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. ‘Full and bye.’
    ‘Full an’ bye, zur.’ Tregembo answered from the. tiller. Drinkwater, short of men still, had rated the Cornishman quartermaster.
    They cleared the end of the trot, slipping beneath the wooded hill at Upnor.
    ‘Up helm!’ Virago swung, turning slowly before the wind. Drinkwater nodded to Rogers. ‘Square the yards.’ Rogers bawled at the men at the braces as Virago brought the wind astern, speeding downstream with the ebb tide under her, her forecourse, three topsails and foretopmast staysail set. The latter flapped now, masked by the forecourse.
    They swung south east out of Cockham Reach, the river widening, its north bank falling astern, displaced by the low line of Hoo Island. They passed the line of prison hulks, disfigured old ships, broken, black and sinister. The hands swung the yards as the ship made each turn in the channel, the officers attentive during this first passage of the elderly vessel. They rounded the fort on Darnetness.
    ‘Give her the main course, Mr Rogers.’
    ‘Aye, aye, sir. Main yard there! Let fall! Let fall! Mind tacks and sheets there, you blasted lubbers! Look lively there! Watch, God damn it, there’s a kink in the starboard clew garnet! It’ll snag in the lead block, Mr Quil-bloody-hampton!’
    Virago gathered speed, the tide giving Drinkwater a brief illusion of commanding something other than a tub of a ship. He smiled to himself. Though slow, Virago was heavy enough to carry her way and would probably handle well enough in a seaway. She had a ponderous certainty about her that might become an endearing quality, Drinkwater thought. He swung her down Kethole Reach and Rogers braced the yards up again as the wind veered a