The Bomb Vessel (8 page)

‘Well, 'twill be of no account, Addington's Pitt's mouthpiece . . .'

‘No wonder there are no orders for us . . .'

‘So the King would not stomach emancipating the papists.'

‘Damned good thing too . . .'

‘Come Mr Rogers, you surely cannot truly think that?'

‘Aye, Mr Lettsom, I most certainly do, God damn them . . .'

‘Gentlemen please!' Drinkwater banged his hand on the table. The meal was intended to unite them. ‘Perhaps you would like to know who is to head the Admiralty?' Their faces turned towards him. ‘St Vincent, with Markham and Troubridge.'

‘Who is to replace St Vincent in the Channel, sir?'

‘Lord Cornwallis.'

‘Ah, Billy Blue, well I think that is good news,' offered Lettsom, ‘and I hear St Vincent will be at Sir Bloody Andrew Snape Hammond's throat. He has sworn reform and Hammond is an infernal jobber. Pray heaven they start at Chatham, eh?'

‘I'll drink to that, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater smiling.

‘What d'you say Jex?' said the surgeon turning to the purser, ‘got your dirty work done just in time, eh?' There was a rumble of laughter round the table. Jex flushed.

‘I protest . . . sir . . .'

‘I rule that unfair, Mr Lettsom,' said Drinkwater still smiling. ‘Consider that Mr Jex paid for the sauerkraut.'

‘The hands'll not thank you for that sir, however good an anti-scorbutic it is.'

Drinkwater ignored Jex's look of startled horror. He did not see it subside into an expression of resentment. ‘What about the other members of the cabinet?' asked Lettsom.

‘I forget, Mr Lettsom. Only that that blade Vansittart is to be Joint Secretary to the Treasury or something. That is all I recollect . . .'

‘Well the damned politicians forget us; why the hell should we
remember them?' Rogers's flushed face expressed approval at his own jest.

‘I have it!' said Lettsom suddenly, snapping his fingers as the laughter died away.

‘Have what sir?' asked Quilhampton in precocious mock horror, ‘The lues? The yaws?'

‘An epigram, gentlemen, an epigram!' He cleared his throat while several banged the table for silence. Lettsom struck a pose:

‘If blocks can from danger deliver,
Two places are safe from the French,
The first is the mouth of the river,
The second the Treasury Bench.'

‘Bravo! Bravo!' They cheered, banged the table and were unaware of the strange face that appeared round the doorway. Drinkwater saw it first, together with that of Mason behind. He called for silence. ‘What is it Mr Mason?'

The assembled officers turned to stare at the newcomer. He wore a royal blue tail coat turned back to reveal scarlet facings. His breeches were white and a cocked hat was tucked underneath his arm. His face was round and red, covered by peppery hair that grew out along his cheekbones, though his chin was shaved yet it had the appearance of being constantly rasped raw as if to keep down its beard. The man's head sat low upon his shoulders, like a 12-pound shot in the garlands.

‘God damn my eyes, it's a bloody lobster,' said Rogers offensively and even though the man wore the blue uniform of the Royal Artillery his apoplectic countenance lent the welcome an amusing aptness.

‘Lieutenant Tumilty of the artillery, sir,' said Mason filling the silence while the artillery officer stared aggressively round his new surroundings.

Drinkwater rose. ‘Good day, lieutenant, pray sit down. Mr Q, make way there. You are to join us then?' He passed the decanter down the table and the messman produced a glass. The other occupants of the cabin eyed the stranger with ill-disguised curiosity.

Tumilty filled his glass, downed it and refilled it. Then he fixed Drinkwater with a tiny, fiery eye.

‘I'm after asking if you're in command of the ship?' The accent
was pugnaciously Irish.

‘That is correct, Mr Tumilty.'

‘It's true then! God save me but 'tis true, so it is.' He swallowed again, heavily.

‘What exactly is true, Mr Tumilty?' asked Drinkwater, beginning to feel exasperated by the artilleryman's circumlocution.

‘Despite appearances to the contrary, and begging your pardon, but you being but a lieutenant, then this ain't a bomb vessel, sir. Is that, or is that not the truth of the matter?'

Drinkwater flushed. Tumilty had touched a raw nerve.
‘Virago
was built as a bomb vessel, but at present she is commissioned only as a tender . . .'

‘Though there's nothing wrong with her structure,' growled the hitherto silent Willerton.

‘Does that answer your question?' added Drinkwater, ignoring the interruption.

Tumilty nodded. ‘Aye, God save me, so it does. And I'll not pretend I like it lieutenant, not at all.' He suddenly struck his hat violently upon the table.

‘Devil take 'em, do they not know the waste; that I'm the finest artilleryman to be employed upon the service?' He seemed about to burst into tears, looking round the astonished faces for agreement. Drinkwater was inclined to forgive him his behaviour; clearly Mr Tumilty was acting as a consequence of some incident at Woolwich and cursing his superiors at the Royal Arsenal.

‘Gentlemen, pity me, I beg you. I'm condemned to hand powder like any of your barefoot powder-monkeys. A fetcher and carrier, me!'

‘It seems, Mr Tumilty, that, to coin a phrase, we are all here present in the same boat.' A rumble of agreement followed Drinkwater's soothing words.

‘But me, sir. For sure I'm the finest pyroballogist in the whole damned artillery!'

‘Pyroballogy, Lieutenant Drinkwater, is the art of throwing fire. 'Tis both scientific and alchemical, and that is why officers in my profession cannot purchase their commissions like the rest of the army, so it is.'

Drinkwater and Tumilty stood at the break of the poop watching the labours of the hands as they manned the yardarm tackles, hoisting barrel after barrel of powder out of the hoy alongside. They had loaded their ordinary powder and shot, naval gunner's stores for their carronades and long guns, from the powder hulk at Blackstakes. Now they loaded the ordnance stores, sent round from Woolwich on the Thames. From time to time Tumilty broke off his monologue to shout instructions at his sergeant and bombadier who, with
Virago's
men, were toiling to get the stores aboard before the wind freshened further.

‘No sir, our commissions are all issued by the Master-General himself and a captain of artillery may have more experience than a field officer, to be sure. I'm not after asking if that's a fair system, Mr Drinkwater, but I'm telling you that a man can be an expert at his work and still be no more than a lieutenant.'

Drinkwater smiled. ‘And I'd not be wanting to argue with you Mr Tumilty,' he said drily.

‘ 'Tis an ancient art, this pyroballogy. Archimedes himself founded it at the seige of Syracuse and the Greeks had their own ballistic fireballs. Now tell me, Mr Drinkwater, would I be right in thinking you'd like to be doing a bit of the fire-throwing yourself?'

Drinkwater looked at the short Irishman alongside him. He was growing accustomed to his almost orientally roundabout way of saying something.

‘I think perhaps we both suffer from a sense of frustration, Mr Tumilty.'

‘And the carpenter assures me the ship's timbers are sound enough.' Drinkwater nodded and Tumilty added, ‘ 'Tis not to be underestimated, sir, a thirteen-inch mortar has a chamber with a capacity of thirty-two pounds. Yet a charge in excess of twenty will shake the timbers of a mortar bed to pieces in a very short time
and may cause the mortar to explode.'

‘But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.'

‘True, true, but you've not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I'm asking myself, would that be?'

Drinkwater shrugged. ‘I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place . . .'

‘And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?'

‘That is correct.'

‘Well now that's very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?'

Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.

‘I don't think I quite understand.'

‘Well look,' Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy's hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of
Virago
. The hoy's crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. ‘Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one ten-inch weighing forty-one hundredweights. Why don't we ship them on the beds, eh?'

‘I take it they're spares.' Tumilty nodded. Drinkwater knew the other bomb vessels already had their own mortars fitted for he had examined those on the
Explosion
. There seemed no very good argument against fitting them in the beds even if they were supposed to be struck down into the hold. After all
Virago
had been fitted to carry them. He wondered what Martin would say if he knew, as doubtless he would in due course.

‘By damn, Mr Tumilty, it is getting dark. Let us have those beauties swung aboard as you suggest. We may carry 'em in their beds safer than rolling about in the hold.'

‘That's the spirit, Mr Drinkwater, that's the spirit to be sure.'

‘Mr Rogers! A word with you if you please.' Rogers ascended the ladder.

‘Sir?'

‘We have two mortars to load, spares for the squadron. I intend to lower them on the beds. D'you understand Sam? If we've two mortars fitted we may yet get a chance to do more than fetch and carry . . .'

The gleam of enthusiasm kindled in Roger's eye. ‘I like the idea, damned if I don't.' He shot a glance at Tumilty, still suspicious of the artilleryman who seemed to occupy a position of a questionable nature aboard a King's ship. The Irishman was gazing abstractedly to windward.

‘Now, 'twill be ticklish with this wind increasing but it will likely drop after sunset. Brace the three lower yards and rig preventers on 'em, then rig three-fold purchases as yard and stay tackles over both beds. Get Willerton to open the hatches and oil the capsquares. Top all three yards well up and put two burtons on each and frap the whole lot together. That should serve.'

‘What weights, sir?'

‘Eighty-two hundred weights to come in on the after bed and . . .'

‘Forty-one on the forward . . .'

‘
Forrard
, Mr Tumilty.'

‘I'm sure I'm begging your pardon, Mr Rogers.' Rogers hurried away shouting for Matchett and Willerton. ‘Why he's a touchy one, Mr Drinkwater.'

‘We're agreed on a number of things, Mr Tumilty, not least that we'd both like to add ‘Captain' to our name, but I believe there was much bad blood between the artillery and the navy the last time an operation like this took place.'

‘Sure, I'd not be knowing about that sir,' replied Tumilty, all injured innocence again.

Virago
creaked and leaned to starboard as the weight came on the tackles. The sun had already set and in the long twilight the hands laboured on. The black mass of the ten-inch mortar, a little under five feet in length, hung above the lightened hoy.

At the windlass Mr Matchett supervised the men on the bars. Yard and stay tackles had been rigged with their hauling parts wound on in contrary directions so that as the weight was eased on the yard arms it was taken up on the stay tackles. The doubled-up mainstay sagged under the weight and Rogers lowered the mortar as quickly as possible. Mr Willerton's party with handspikes eased the huge iron gun into its housing and snapped over the capsquares.
Virago
was upright again, though trimming several inches by the head.

‘Throw off all turns, clear away the foretackles, rig the after tackles!'

It was as Drinkwater had said. The wind had died and the first mortar had come aboard without fuss. Mr Tumilty had left the pure seamanship to the navy and gone to closet himself with his sergeant and Mr Trussel, while they inspected the powder stowage and locked all the shell rooms, powder rooms, fuse rooms and filling rooms that Willerton had lined with the deal boards supplied by Chatham Dockyard.

The tackles suspended from the main and crossjack yards were overhauled and hooked onto the carefully fitted slings round the thirteen-inch mortar. Next the two centreline tackles were hooked on. To cope with the additional weight of the larger mortar Drinkwater had ordered these be rigged from the main and mizzen tops, arguing the mizzen forestay was insufficient for the task.

Again the hauling parts were led forward and the slack taken up. There were some ominous creakings but after half an hour the trunnions settled on the bed and Mr Willerton secured the second set of capsquares. The sliding section of the mortar hatches were pulled over and the tarpaulins battened down. The last of the daylight disappeared from the riot of cloud to the west and the hands, grumbling or chattering according to their inclination, were piped below.