The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Page A

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.’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir.’
    Virago
slid downstream leaving the dockyard to starboard and the ships laid up in ordinary to larboard. ‘Full and bye.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Give her the main course, Mr Rogers.’
    â€˜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 anendearing quality, Drinkwater thought. He swung her down Kethole Reach and Rogers braced the yards up again as the wind veered 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.
    â€˜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