Gun-brig
August-September 1809
'Pray mind your head, sir. Take a seat ... perhaps a glass?'
Bent double under the deck beams in the cramped cabin, Drinkwater eased himself into a rickety chair. Opposite him, across the table, Lieutenant James Quilhampton seated his tall, spare frame on to a second chair, splayed his legs and propelled himself dextrously across the cabin to a side shelf where a trio of glasses and a chipped decanter nestled in fiddles.
The small, one-hundred-ton vessel lifted easily to a low swell rolling down from the northward. With just sufficient wind to give them steerage, James Quilhampton's twelve-gun command in company with the Galliwasp , stemmed the flood tide sweeping south round Orfordness.
'Welcome to His Britannic Majesty's gun-brig Tracker , sir,' Quilhampton said as he poured two glasses of blackstrap with his sound hand. 'My predecessor was a tall fellow. He had this chair fitted with castors.' He swivelled round and propelled himself back towards the table whose once-polished top bore the stains of ancient wine rings, assorted blemishes and idly carved notches in its rim. 'A becket allows me half a fathom traverse centrical upon the ring bolt below.'
Quilhampton leaned forward with a full glass held in his wooden fist. Drinkwater disengaged it from the painted fingers, conscious that the young man's awkwardness was due to more than his old disability.
Drinkwater raised the glass of what looked like a villainous concoction. 'Your good health, my dear James, and to that of your wife.' Drinkwater sipped and suppressed the strong instinct to wince at the acidulous wine. 'I am sorry to be the cause of you having to part so soon.'
Drinkwater saw the flush of embarrassment mount to Quilhampton's face.
'I am ... that is to say, I am not ...' Quilhampton spluttered, 'damn it, sir, she is not my wife. In short, I'm not married!'
Drinkwater frowned, staring at his friend with unconcealed concern. 'Is it the odious aunt?'
Quilhampton shook his head vigorously.
'She refused you?'
'No, damn it, she did not refuse me.' Quilhampton tossed off his glass, suddenly shot sideways with a rumble of castors, refilled it and trundled back to the table. He took a mouthful of the second glass and slammed it, slopping, down on the table. A blood-red drop of spilled wine reflected the light from the skylight above them.
'I put it off, sir, delayed the thing ... it didn't seem fair ...'
Quilhampton stared at the spilled wine, his expression one of extreme anguish. He dabbed at the escaped droplet with his forefinger, dragged it so that its form became elongated round his fingertip and formed the shape used in the tangent tables to express infinity; then it broke and Quilhampton raised his finger and looked up. Two separate droplets of wine now gleamed on the neglected polish of the table top.
'It was better, sir ...'
'But you regret it now, eh?'
Their eyes met. 'Of course I do.'
'Is the situation irreversible?'
'I expect so, by now.'
'Damn it James, the poor young woman has waited six years! What has she done to be spurned?' Drinkwater bit his lip. He wanted James Quilhampton's mind uncluttered by such preoccupations, and was aware that he was increasing the young man's misery. 'I'm sorry James, 'tis none of my affair. I assume she was otherwise attached?'
'I wish she had been,' interrupted Quilhampton hastily. 'It is my fault, my fault entirely. The fact is I came up all standing and jibbed it.' The swiftly swallowed wine began to unlock Quilhampton's tongue. 'I've no money, sir ... oh, I'm deeply grateful for your influence in securing this command, but I've little in the way of expectations and my mother ...'
'But you do still feel something in the way of affection for Mistress MacEwan?' Drinkwater asked sharply, a trifle exasperated and anxious to get on to the reason for his visit.
'More than ever.'
'And she for you?' Quilhampton's dejected nod revealed the true state of affairs.
'For God's
August-September 1809
'Pray mind your head, sir. Take a seat ... perhaps a glass?'
Bent double under the deck beams in the cramped cabin, Drinkwater eased himself into a rickety chair. Opposite him, across the table, Lieutenant James Quilhampton seated his tall, spare frame on to a second chair, splayed his legs and propelled himself dextrously across the cabin to a side shelf where a trio of glasses and a chipped decanter nestled in fiddles.
The small, one-hundred-ton vessel lifted easily to a low swell rolling down from the northward. With just sufficient wind to give them steerage, James Quilhampton's twelve-gun command in company with the Galliwasp , stemmed the flood tide sweeping south round Orfordness.
'Welcome to His Britannic Majesty's gun-brig Tracker , sir,' Quilhampton said as he poured two glasses of blackstrap with his sound hand. 'My predecessor was a tall fellow. He had this chair fitted with castors.' He swivelled round and propelled himself back towards the table whose once-polished top bore the stains of ancient wine rings, assorted blemishes and idly carved notches in its rim. 'A becket allows me half a fathom traverse centrical upon the ring bolt below.'
Quilhampton leaned forward with a full glass held in his wooden fist. Drinkwater disengaged it from the painted fingers, conscious that the young man's awkwardness was due to more than his old disability.
Drinkwater raised the glass of what looked like a villainous concoction. 'Your good health, my dear James, and to that of your wife.' Drinkwater sipped and suppressed the strong instinct to wince at the acidulous wine. 'I am sorry to be the cause of you having to part so soon.'
Drinkwater saw the flush of embarrassment mount to Quilhampton's face.
'I am ... that is to say, I am not ...' Quilhampton spluttered, 'damn it, sir, she is not my wife. In short, I'm not married!'
Drinkwater frowned, staring at his friend with unconcealed concern. 'Is it the odious aunt?'
Quilhampton shook his head vigorously.
'She refused you?'
'No, damn it, she did not refuse me.' Quilhampton tossed off his glass, suddenly shot sideways with a rumble of castors, refilled it and trundled back to the table. He took a mouthful of the second glass and slammed it, slopping, down on the table. A blood-red drop of spilled wine reflected the light from the skylight above them.
'I put it off, sir, delayed the thing ... it didn't seem fair ...'
Quilhampton stared at the spilled wine, his expression one of extreme anguish. He dabbed at the escaped droplet with his forefinger, dragged it so that its form became elongated round his fingertip and formed the shape used in the tangent tables to express infinity; then it broke and Quilhampton raised his finger and looked up. Two separate droplets of wine now gleamed on the neglected polish of the table top.
'It was better, sir ...'
'But you regret it now, eh?'
Their eyes met. 'Of course I do.'
'Is the situation irreversible?'
'I expect so, by now.'
'Damn it James, the poor young woman has waited six years! What has she done to be spurned?' Drinkwater bit his lip. He wanted James Quilhampton's mind uncluttered by such preoccupations, and was aware that he was increasing the young man's misery. 'I'm sorry James, 'tis none of my affair. I assume she was otherwise attached?'
'I wish she had been,' interrupted Quilhampton hastily. 'It is my fault, my fault entirely. The fact is I came up all standing and jibbed it.' The swiftly swallowed wine began to unlock Quilhampton's tongue. 'I've no money, sir ... oh, I'm deeply grateful for your influence in securing this command, but I've little in the way of expectations and my mother ...'
'But you do still feel something in the way of affection for Mistress MacEwan?' Drinkwater asked sharply, a trifle exasperated and anxious to get on to the reason for his visit.
'More than ever.'
'And she for you?' Quilhampton's dejected nod revealed the true state of affairs.
'For God's
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