Free The Flying Squadron by Richard Woodman Page A

his megrims in sleep.
    And yet he lingered on, his shoulder braced against the black hemp shrouds that rose to the mizen top, feeling the faint vibration of their tension as
Patrician
harnessed the power of the wind and drove her twelve hundred tons into its teeth.
    What an odd thing a ship was, he thought, curious in its component parts: fifteen hundred oaks, several score of pine and spruce trees, tons of iron and copper, miles of hemp and coir, tar, flax and cotton. Full of water and stores to support its living muscles and brains which now in part huddled about the deck and in part slung their hammocks in the corporate misery of the berth deck. Men dreaming of homes, of wives, lovers, children; young men dreaming of prize money, old men dreaming of death. Men troubled by lust or infirmities, men scheming or men hating. Men confined by the power confided by Almighty God in the Sovereign Prince King George III, mad by reputation, puissant by the force of the twin batteries of cannon
Patrician
and a thousand ships like her bore on every ocean of the globe.
    And he, Nathaniel Drinkwater, post-captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Royal Navy, directed this arm of policy, and took Henry St John Vansittart to
pow-wow
in the lodges of the Yankees in the vain hope of averting a war! Would His Majesty’s ministers concede the real point of American objection and lift the ordinances against American trade? Or would the greater preoccupations, the maintaining of a naval blockade of Europe and the supply of a British, a Portuguese
and
a Spanish army in the Iberian peninsula, blind them to the dangers inherent in failing to appease the Americans. And if they did comply with Washington’s demands, would the Americans be content to the extent of suppressing their desire for Canada?
    Two bells struck; the passing of time surprised him, the watch had been changed an hour earlier. It was quite dark now, the horizon reduced to the white rearing crest of thenext wave ahead as it surged out of the gloom. Drinkwater was stiff and cramped, his muscles cracked as he straightened up.
    The truth was, he wanted to go home. ‘Ah, well,’ he muttered, ‘I have that in common with most of the fellows aboard.’
    His left leg had gone to sleep and he almost fell as he tried to walk. ‘Damn,’ he swore under his breath, hobbling to peer into the binnacle and check the course. The pain of returning circulation made him wince.
    â€˜Course sou’west by west . . .’ began the quartermaster.
    â€˜Yes, yes, I can see that,’ Drinkwater said testily. Frey loomed up alongside. Drinkwater was in no mood for pleasantries. ‘Good-night, Mr Frey,’ he said, then called dutifully from the head of the companionway, ‘don’t hesitate to call me if this wind freshens further.’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir,’ the young officer responded confidently. All’s right with the world, Drinkwater thought, heartened by Frey’s cheerful tone. Mentally cursing the megrims, he descended to the gun deck and the stiffening marine outside his cabin door.
    He had no idea afterwards why he paused there. He thought it might have been a lurch of the ship which prevented him momentarily from passing into the sanctuary of his cabin; on the other hand, the marine, a punctilious private named Todd, made a smart showing of his salute and Drinkwater threw back his cloak to free his hand to acknowledge this and open the door. Whatever the cause he was certain it was no more than some practical delay, not premonition or extra-sensory perception.
    Yet in that moment of hiatus he knew something was wrong. Quite what, it took him a moment to discover, but the watchful, expectant look in Todd’s eyes rang an alarm in Captain Drinkwater’s consciousness. He passed into his cabin and stood, his back against the door, listening.
    The ship was unusually quiet.
    One became accustomed to its myriad creakings and