The Corvette by Richard Woodman Page B

you good day, sir. My credentials.’ He handed Drinkwater a packet sealed with the fouled anchor wafer of the Admiralty. It contained a second letter and simply instructed Captain Drinkwater to afford every facility to the bearer consistent with the service he was presently engaged upon, as was set out in the bearer’s letter of introduction.
    Drinkwater opened the enclosed letter. It was dated from London three days earlier.
    Honourable Sir,
    Having been lately acquainted with Their Lordships’ Intention of despatching a ship into Arctic Regions, the Governors of this body conceived it their Christian Duty to carry the word of Christ to the peoples Domiciled upon the Coasts of Greenland. It is with this purpose in mind that you are asked to convey thither the bearer of this letter, the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, D.D., M.D.
    Your landing him at a Settlement of the Esquimaux, or causing him to be landed at some such Settlement, will assure you the Warmest Approbation from this Society for your furtherance in the Spread of the Christian Gospel.
    The signature was illegible but was accredited to the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society.
    Drinkwater put down the letter and looked up. He was beginning to feel the burden of command too great for him and the decanter beckoned seductively.
    ‘Mr Singleton, pray take a seat. Will you take a glass of wine?’ He rose.
    ‘I do not drink intoxicating liquors, sir.’ Drinkwater sat again, aware that the splendid isolation, the power and the purpose of command was, in reality, a myth. Only men like Palgrave sustained the illusion.
    ‘Mr Singleton, are you aware of the extreme climate of the Arctic regions? Do you mean to winter there among the Eskimos?’
    ‘I do, sir.’
    ‘Entirely alone?’
    ‘With God, sir,’ Singleton answered with devastating simplicity. Drinkwater rose, a sense of helpless exasperation filling him. Almost defiantly he helped himself from the decanter, ignoring the disapproval in Singleton’s eyes. Well damn Singleton! There would be much that Singleton did not approve of aboard a King’s ship.
    ‘But like me, Mr Singleton,’ he said sipping the wine, ‘you are flesh and blood.’
    ‘Imbued with the Holy Spirit, sir, and the faith that can move mountains.’
    ‘Let us hope,’ remarked Drinkwater, ‘that your faith sustains you.’
    ‘Amen to that, sir.’
    Drinkwater looked at the missionary, searching for some gleam of humour evident in the man. There was none. He was an alien amongst them, uncomprehending of their jack-ass humour, unable to understand the bawdy small talk, the rigid divisions that made a man-of-war. Singleton was an academic, a product of universities where the distilled wisdom of a thousand generations might be assimilated within the confines of a library. Drinkwater sighed and drained his glass. Singleton’s insufferable self-righteousness would doubtless combine with an assumed right to criticise. That augured ill for the future and Drinkwater could see squalls ahead.
    ‘Where have you been berthed, Mr Singleton? There is little room in the gunroom.’
    ‘I do not think a gunroom a fit place for a missionary, sir. No, Lieutenant Germaney has permitted me to use the cockpit.’
    Drinkwater could well imagine it! The harassed lieutenant would not want the intrusion of a priggish irrelevance challenging his position in the gunroom.
    ‘I doubt you will find it to your liking, but this is a small ship and there is no alternative.’
    ‘It is true the air is mephitic, sir, but it will be a fit preparation for my ministry. The darkness alone will condition me to the Arctic winter.’
    ‘It was not the darkness I had in mind, Mr Singleton, but no matter. You will see soon enough.’ He ignored Singleton’s puzzlement and went on: ‘There is one thing you should know and that is that while you remain aboard this ship you are answerable for your conduct under the Articles of War as surely as if you were truly a