Free The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Page A

Tumilty nodded, tugging at the hairs on his cheeks.
    ‘Well, they say Hyde Parker’s marrying some young doxy, so I still say we’ll be too late.’ Rogers scratched the side of his nose gloomily.
    ‘They say she’s young enough to be his daughter,’ grinned Trussel.
    ‘Dirty old devil.’
    ‘Lucky old sod.’
    ‘Tis what comes of commanding in the West Indies and taking your admiral’s eighth from the richest station in the service,’ added the hitherto silent Easton.
    ‘Well well, gentlemen, ‘tis of no importance to us whom Admiral Parker marries,’ said Drinkwater, ‘I understand it is likely that Nelson will second him and he will brook no delay.’
    ‘Perhaps, perhaps, sir, but I’d be willing to lay money on it,’ concluded Rogers standing up, taking his cue from Drinkwater and terminating the meeting.
    ‘Let us hope we have orders to proceed to the rendezvous at Yarmouth very soon, gentlemen. And now I wish you all a good night.’

Chapter Seven February 1801
Action off the Sunk
    Lieutenant Drinkwater hunched himself lower into his boat cloak, shivering from the effects of the low fever that made his head and eyes ache intolerably. The westerly wind had thrown a lowering overcast across the sky and then whipped itself into a gale, driving rain squalls across the track of the squadron as it struggled out of the Thames Estuary into the North Sea.
    Their visible horizon was circumscribed by one such squall which hissed across the wave-caps and made Virago lean further to leeward as she leapt forward under its impetus. A roil of water foamed along the lee scuppers, squirting inboard through the closed gunports and Drinkwater could hear the grunts of the helmsmen as they leaned against the cant of the deck and the kicking resistance of the big tiller. A clicking of blocks told where the quartermaster took up the slack on the relieving tackles. Drinkwater shivered again, marvelling at the chill in his spine which was at odds with the burning of his head.
    He knew it could be typhus, the ship-fever, brought aboard by the lousy draft of pressed men, but he was fastidious in the matter of bodily cleanliness and had not recently discovered lice or fleas upon his person. He had already endured the symptoms for five days without the appearance of the dreaded ‘eruption’. Lettsom had fussed over him, forcing him to drink infusions of bark without committing himself to a diagnosis. The non-appearance of a sore had led Drinkwater to conclude he might have contracted the marsh-ague from the mists of the Medway. God knew he had exposed himself to chills and exhaustion as he had striven to prepare his ship, and his cabin stove had been removed with Mrs Jex, prior to the loading of powder.
    He thought of the admonition he had received from Martin and the recollection made him search ahead, under the curved foot of the forecourse to where Explosion led the bomb vessels and three tenders to the north eastward. What he saw only served to unsettle him further.
    ‘Mr Easton!’ he shouted with sudden asperity, ‘do you not see the commodore’s signalling?’ Martin, the epitome of prudence tending to timidity, was reducing sail, brailing up his courses and snugging down to double reefed topsails and a staysail forward. Drinkwater left Easton to similarly reduce Virago’s canvas and repeat the signal to the vessels astern. He fulminated silently to himself, having already decided that Martin was a cross they were all going to have to bear. As senior officer he had been most insistent upon being addressed as ‘commodore’ for the short passage from Sheerness to Yarmouth. Drinkwater found that sort of pedantry a cause for contempt and irritation. He was aware, too, that Martin was not simply a fussy senior officer. It was clear that whatever advancement Drinkwater expected to wring out of his present appointment was going to have to be despite Captain Martin, who seemed to wish to thwart the lieutenant. Drinkwater