The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Page A

point towards the north. To the west the sky was clearing and almost horizontal beams of sunlight began to slant through the overcast, shining ahead of them to where the fort at Garrison Point and the Sheerness Dockyard gleamed dully against the monotones of marsh and islands.
    ‘Clew up the courses as we square away in Saltpan Reach, Mr Rogers.’ He levelled his glass ahead. Half a dozen squat hulled shapes were riding at anchor off Deadman’s Island, a mile up stream from Sheerness. They were bomb vessels anchored close to the powder hulks at Blackstakes.
    A chattering had broken out amidships. ‘Silence there!’ snapped Rogers. Drinkwater watched the line of bombs grow larger. ‘Up courses if you please.’
    Rogers bawled, Quilhampton piped and Matchett shouted. The heavy flog of resisting canvas rose above Drinkwater’s head as he studied the bombs through his glass, selecting a place to bring Virago to her anchor.
    They were abeam the upstream vessel, a knot of curious officers visible on her deck. There was a gap between the fourth and fifth bomb vessel, sufficient for Virago to swing. Drinkwater felt a thrill of pure excitement. He could go downstream and anchor in perfect safety at the seaward end of the line; but that gap beckoned.
    ‘Stand by the braces, Mr Rogers! Down helm!’
    ‘Down helm, zur!’ Virago turned to starboard, her yards creaking round in their parrels, the forestaysail filling with a crack.
    ‘Brace sharp up there, damn it!’ he snapped, then to the helm, ‘Full and bye!’
    ‘Full an’ bye, zur,’ replied the impassive Tregembo.
    Drinkwater sailed Virago as close to the wind as possible as the ebb pushed her remorselessly downstream. If he made a misjudgement he would crash on board the bomb vessel next astern. He could see a group of people forward on her, no doubt equally alerted to the possibility. He watched the relative bearing of the other vessel’s foremast. It drew slowly astern: he could do it.
    ‘Anchor’s ready, sir,’ muttered Rogers.
    ‘Very well.’ They were suddenly level with the bow of the other ship.
    ‘Down helm!’ Virago turned to starboard again, her sails about to shiver, then to flog. She carried her way, the water chuckling under her bow as she crept over the tide, leaving the anxious watchers astern and edging up on the ship next ahead.
    Drinkwater watched the shore, saw its motion cease. ‘All aback now! Let go!’
    He felt the hull buck as the anchor fell from the cathead and watched the cable rumble along the deck, saw it catch an inexperienced landsman on the ankle and fling him down while the seamen laughed.
    ‘Give her sixty fathoms, Mr Matchett, and bring her up to it.’
    He nodded to Rogers. ‘Clew up and stow.’
    Mr Easton went below to plot their anchorage on the chart and when the vessel was reported brought to her cable Drinkwater joined him. Looking at the chart Drinkwater felt satisfied that neither ship nor crew had let him down.
     
    His satisfaction was short-lived. An hour later he stood before Captain Martin, Master and Commander of His Majesty’s bomb vessel Explosion, senior officer of the bomb ships assembled at Sheerness. Captain Martin was clearly intolerant of any of his subordinates who showed the least inclination to further their careers by acts of conspicuousness.
    ‘Not only, lieutenant, was your manoeuvre one that endangered your own ship but it also endangered mine. It was, sir, an act of wanton irresponsibility. Such behaviour is not to be tolerated and speaks volumes on your character. I am surprised you have been entrusted with such a command, Mr Drinkwater. A man responsible for carrying quantities of powder upon a special service must needs be steady, constantly thoughtful, and never, ever hazard his ship.’
    Drinkwater felt the blood mounting to his cheeks as Martin went on. ‘Furthermore you have been most dilatory in the matter of commissioning your ship. I had reason to expect you to join the bombs