The Flying Squadron by Richard Woodman Page B

felt a strong compulsion to probe further into the matter. In the end he waited for Belchambers to make his report at six bells. As the bells struck and the lookouts and sentries called ‘All’s well’ from forecastle, quarter and gun deck, the midshipman of the watch came aft, found Frey in the darkness and touched the brim of his hat.
    â€˜All’s well, sir, and six bells struck.’
    â€˜Very well. Tell me,’ he added quickly before Belchambers turned away, ‘this business of gaming in the cabletier. Are all the midshipmen involved?’
    â€˜Well, more or less, sir,’ Belchambers replied unhappily.
    â€˜That ain’t exactly your kettle o’ fish, is it, Mr Belchambers?’
    â€˜Not strictly speaking, sir, no . . .’
    Frey waited in vain for any further amplification. ‘Is it Porter or the First Lieutenant?’
    â€˜First Lieutenant’s pretty keen, sir,’ Belchambers began, as though glad of the chance to speak of the matter, then halted, trying to study Frey’s expression in the gloom, failing and adding hurriedly, ‘though Porter’s the devil if he’s crossed, sir, and . . .’ He trailed off miserably.
    â€˜Have there been many of these bouts?’
    â€˜Three, sir, since we left Plymouth. There were several before we commissioned properly . . . dockyard entertainments they called them. I think one or two of the hands took the idea . . .’
    â€˜Are they always the same men who wrestle?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜Who was it yesterday?’
    â€˜Newlyn and Thurston, sir.’ The names meant nothing to Frey; neither man was in his division.
    â€˜And there are no other officers present?’
    â€˜Not present, no, sir.’
    â€˜Then other officers place bets?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    â€˜Who are they, Mr Belchambers?’ Frey’s voice hardened in its expression and he wondered he had heard nothing of it in the wardroom.
    â€˜Mr Wyatt, sir.’
    â€˜Interesting,’ remarked Frey almost casually. ‘Now, there’s something I want you to do for me, Mr Belchambers . . .’
    â€˜Sir?’
    â€˜Be a good fellow and let me know when there is next to be a bout, even if I’m on watch, d’you understand?’
    â€˜Yes, sir.’
    There was a note of relief in Belchambers’ voice, as though he felt happier for Frey’s discovery and offer of alliance. Mr Belchambers trusted Frey.
    â€˜And don’t say a word to a soul, d’you hear me?’
    â€˜No, sir, of course not.’
    The morning after he had his officers to dinner, Captain Drinkwater invited the midshipmen to breakfast. They seemed a sound enough group of young men. The two master’s mates, Davies and Johnson, were a little older, midshipmen waiting for promotion, and not likely to get it, Drinkwater thought, with
Patrician
bound on her run back and forth across the Atlantic and a spell tendering to the Western Squadron at the end of it.
    After breakfast he sobered them just as they had begun to unwind with the news that he would inspect their journals within the week. Belchambers, used to Drinkwater’s methods, brightened perceptibly. He was clearly the only member of the gunroom who had been keeping his journal up to date. The boy’s expression puzzled Drinkwater, and it was not until after they had all gone with their formal and insincere expressions of gratitude that he realized Belchambers had been subdued throughout the meal. He had always been a quiet, sensitive fellow – Drinkwater recalled him fainting at the awful spectre of a deserter being hanged at
Patrician
’s fore-yardarm – but he was usually of a cheerful disposition. Had some of the wardroom malaise spilled over into the gunroom?
    Drinkwater took his cloak and hat from the hook beside the door and went on deck. Moncrieff was ordering his marines up and the