"A private revenge" - читать интересную книгу автора (Вудмен Ричард)

CHAPTER 5 The Matter of Morale

'... A red flag from the foremasthead of the escort shall signify the convoy to form line ahead, to clear such armament as shall be borne by each ship and to maintain station until such time as the said red flag shall be struck.'

Drinkwater ceased dictating and stared over Derrick's shoulder as the Quaker clerk finished writing.

'I think that is all, Derrick. Now we must have fourteen copies, one each for our charges and two for ourselves, one of which is to be kept in the binnacle. You have my authority to impress the midshipmen on the duty of copy-clerks.'

Aye, Captain.'

And Derrick ...'

The Quaker, gathering pens and ink-pot, looked up at Drinkwater.

'Ensure they make no mistakes ...'

'Very well, Captain Drinkwater.'

A knock came at the door and Midshipman Belchambers's face peered round it. 'Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Quilhampton's compliments and there's a boy asking to see you.'

A boy?' Drinkwater frowned.

A native boy, sir . . .'

A Chinese boy?'

'Looks more like an Indian boy to me, sir.'

Something about his assumption of mature judgement on the part of the youthful Belchambers brought a smile to Drinkwater's face. There had been an atmosphere of something like farce attendant upon the affairs of the British ships at Whampoa following Admiral Drury's 'humane retreat' from Canton.

Drinkwater, in receipt of his orders, wanted only to be out of the river and on his way to Penang. Fortunately Drury had hauled down his flag from Patrician's main-masthead and had returned to Russell, pondering his next move and reading the riot act to the dithering Selectmen.

'If neither peace nor commerce is to be had by an act of war, I never will sanction the slaughter of those defenceless multitudes,' Drury had said to them in Drinkwater's cabin before his departure. 'We have trampled under foot every moral law of man and nations, and the poor defenceless Chinese have been infuriated to a frenzy ...'

Something of the fighting-cock had had to explode from this exemplary lecture and poor Drury, having been humiliated personally in his attempt to act to the satisfaction of all parties, suddenly reacted angrily, perhaps contemplating how fortunate the boat expedition had been in avoiding real casualties.

'However, gentlemen, if one of my seamen had been, or is killed, I will destroy Canton. Therefore recollect what you will have to answer for. I gave you quiet possession of Macao, but I tell you no hostile act shall be committed against the Chinese, unless a man is killed, which nothing but the most singular accident has prevented. The seamen under my control have borne to be fired at, but once let loose,' the admiral finished dramatically, 'no power on earth can stop 'em!' Out of tact or embarrassment no one mentioned Drury's failure to bring off a single piece of silver specie.

The Select Committee had been packed off to finish negotiations with the mandarins from the luxurious quarters of the Stirling Castle, East Indiaman, while Drinkwater gathered the few ships that were ready to proceed and prepared to depart with this small convoy.

And now a boy was asking for him.

'What does he want, Mr Belchambers, have you ascertained that?'

'Well, sir, beg pardon, sir, to see you.'

"You had better bring him down then.'

Belchambers seemed to hesitate.

'What is the matter now?'

'Well, sir, Mr Quilhampton voiced an opinion that the boy might be an, er, assassin, sir ...'

Drinkwater laughed. 'That's most solicitous of Mr Q,  Mr Belchambers. It does not occur to you that the lad is doubtless a servant from one of the Indiamen.'

'That's unlikely, sir ...'

'Oh?' Drinkwater's temper was shortening. He had other matters to consider and a final letter of instruction to draft for the masters and commanders of the convoy.

'Yes, sir, he came down river in a sampan.'

'Bring him below,' Drinkwater snapped, meeting Derrick's eye as the clerk, penned in the cabin by this odd exchange, now slipped out to co-opt the midshipmen as copy-clerks.

Drinkwater bent over the chart that lay on his table. It was a survey by Huddart, and Ballantyne had laid off the best course for them to follow, south and then south-westward towards the tip of the long Malay peninsula. Such was his preoccupation that he had almost forgotten the announced visitor when the hobbling Belchambers showed the boy in.

He was shorter than the midshipman, and possibly two or three years younger. His features were neat and small, almost feminine, with huge brown eyes outlined with a hint of kohl. He bowed, displaying a jewelled turban, and drew from his loose sleeve a letter.

Drinkwater took the letter, an amused smile playing about his mouth, for in the shadows beyond the diminutive exotic, Mr Midshipman Belchambers stood anxiously, his hand on a half-drawn dirk.

Drinkwater slit the wafer, half turning to the window to read the message.

          Canton

          20th November 1808

To the Officer Commanding the Convoy Bound for India

Honoured Sir,

Knowing your Imminent Preparations for Departure and the Frustrations your Party has Suffered in its Attempt to recover the Silver owed the British Merchants by the Rascally Hong, I have it in my Power to carry off most of the Specie at the time of your sailing if, in the First Part you Signify at what time this will occur and, in the Second Part you allow Myself and a Servant to Embark in your Frigate. The Matter to be Secret between ourselves.

Please convey your Answer to the Bearer. He is dumb but understands English. I am, Honoured Sir,

Your most humble and obedient Servant,

A Friend.

Drinkwater read the letter through twice. It could be a ruse, of course. Information as to the convoy's sailing could be passed to the forts at the Bogue, or to the pirates of the Ladrones. But that information could as easily be signalled, for it would take several hours for the convoy to drop down river and they could scarcely do so unnoticed. In any case Drury had promised them the escort of the Phaeton until they were clear of land.

On the face of it this unknown 'friend' was obviously anxious to buy his way out of what might prove a dangerous place for a European, and had the decency to attempt to recover what the British merchants most desired. Yet why should the man insist on secrecy when he was proposing to achieve what the British merchants wanted?

To cheat them? Perhaps, and that was why he wanted passage in a frigate rather than a merchant ship. Drinkwater looked at the boy. He was dumb, yet the face was intelligent, and it watched Drinkwater with the passive observance of something feral. He thought for a moment of calling away his barge and consulting Drury, but he knew this boy would take news of his indecision back to his unknown master.

Besides, Drury had employed Drinkwater on the task for his experience, and he had a mind to get to the bottom of what would doubtless turn out to be no mystery at all.

'Tell your master ...no, wait, I'll write.'

He turned to his desk and picked up his steel pen, searching for the ink-pot that Derrick had moved.

The boy was suddenly beside him, the smell of scent wafting from his small body. Drinkwater felt a small brown hand on his arm and the dark, liquid eyes were staring up at his face. Behind them there was a shuffling movement, and the evening light glancing off the river gleamed on the naked blade of Belchambers's dirk.

But these were details on the periphery of Drinkwater's perception. Afterwards he considered the value of the stones in the boy's turban and the oddity of his prominent and pixie ears. In the moment of arrest, as the boy strove to prevent Drinkwater committing anything to paper, he was aware principally of the hollow of the boy's mouth, and the insistent grunts that filled its tongueless monstrosity.

He dreamed that night; a restless half-sleep full of terrors. He was flung down and drowning, drowning in waves of Elizabeth's hair that caught and clung to his struggling body, drowning in the laughter and shouts and smiles of thousands upon thousands of Chinese whose narrow eyes and loose, gaudy clothing seemed to have displaced his wife's tresses and moved with the overwhelming restlessness of the sea. Then he was fighting for air, surfacing in this very cabin, dark, lonely and cold. But there was a sweet and seductive laughter beyond the door and he struggled towards it in anticipation of all the delights of the flesh that he had for so long lived without.

But the woman beyond the door was ghastly; a horror of all the nameless, haunting horrors that mocked a man out of the darkness of his own desire. He drew back, pursued. The hag metamorphosed into the little Indian messenger who, mouth open, came to engulf him with his tongueless hole from which, Drinkwater fancied, the very sulphureous stink of hell itself seemed to emanate. And all about him laughter rang in his ears, laughter from Chinese and Indian and European faces ...

He jerked awake, the sweat pouring from him, the thin laughter coming from beyond the cabin door. It was high-pitched and piping, and combined with the dream to bring him leaping from his cot, his heart thundering in his chest, his night-shirt sticking to his body and the lank locks of his loosely bound hair plastered to his scalp.

Pulling on breeches and tucking the tails of his night-shirt into them, he yanked his cloak from the hook by the door and stepped precipitately out on to the gun-deck. The dozing marine sentry sprang upright with a click of musket against buckles.

The giggling laughter came again, resolving itself into the now familiar sounds of pre-dawn coition from the berth-deck. His confusion clearing from his fogged mind, Drinkwater ran up the quarterdeck ladder, announcing his presence by a discreet cough.

Mr Meggs, the gunner, appeared from beyond the mizen mast. 'Sir?'

'What day is it?'

'Why, er, Sunday, sir.'

'And the time?'

'A little before three bells, sir,' and then added, as if sensing the captain's distraction, 'in the morning watch, sir.'

'Pipe all hands.'

All hands, sir?'

'You heard me, damn it, and clear the ship. No showing of legs, Spithead style, I want the lower deck cleared fore and aft and the people mustered.'

'Ship's company to muster, sir, aye, aye.'

Somewhat bemused at this extraordinary behaviour, the elderly Meggs shuffled forward, hesitated, looked back at the captain, then called for the bosun's mate of the watch.

'Mr Meggs!'

The gunner turned at the captain's shout. He began to shuffle aft again.

'Mr Meggs,' said Drinkwater quietly, 'I am aware that only the recent casualties force you to keep watch on deck, but be so kind as not to appear on the quarterdeck in your slippers.'

Meggs looked down at his erring feet. Habitual use of felt slippers in Patrician's magazine, where the wearing of leather soles might rasp and ignite the coarse grains of spilt gunpowder, probably rendered it instinctive that the poor fellow put them on at the call of the watch. Perhaps, thought Drinkwater, catching a smell of the man, he slept in the festering things!

'I beg your pardon, sir.' Meggs looked crestfallen.

'Be a good fellow and have something more suitable on when you muster.'

'Very well, sir ...' Meggs looked hard at his captain and Drinkwater suddenly looked down at his own appearance.

'Perhaps,' he said, recovering himself at last, 'that had better stand for both of us, eh? You may wait until four bells before turning up the ship.'

Fully awake and aware of the ludicrous appearance he would cut even in the predawn gloom, Drinkwater hurried below. As he turned for his cabin above the companionway, he was aware of a face staring up at him. For a second he stopped, his heart beating as though this was some impish visitation from his dream, and then it was gone, the young Chinese girl vanishing into the stygian darkness.

'Pass word for my steward,' he growled at the marine, and the whisper went around the ship that Captain Drinkwater was awake and something was afoot.

Sluicing his face after the harsh ministrations of the razor Drinkwater called for a clean shirt. It occurred to him that the few days of relatively relaxed routine might prove fatal to the delicate matter of morale. He was aware that he had left the refitting of the ship to Fraser and though he could find little to fault with the first lieutenant's arrangements, only time would prove their thoroughness.

Drinkwater was unhappily conscious that any loosening of the bonds of discipline was a risky matter, and that mumblings of discontent had accompanied Patrician from the moment the crew of Antigone had been turned wholesale into her, topped up with the scum of a hot press and sent round Cape Horn to absent them all from European waters.

The long-service volunteers had had their willingness to serve eroded by lack of shore leave and the association of landsmen, lubbers, thieves and petty felons; men whose proper habitat was a gaol, but whom the Admiralty saw fit to pour into men-of-war to fill their impossible complements. It was for prime seamen to tolerate them, but to be reduced to their level was something that proud men, jealous of their expertise, could not submit to.

Drinkwater's greatest enemy was desertion. Jack had a simple understanding of the world and to him the foreign shore of China offered escape from the endless round of grinding labour expected of him aboard a King's ship. Drinkwater knew and understood all this, and before Patrician had sailed for the Pacific he had had to hang a man at the fore-yardarm for desertion, pour encourager les autres.

He shook the awful image from his mind's eye and summoned more cogent reasons for his attitude. He could not afford to lose a single man. Ballantyne had told him the Indiamen were often short of hands on a China voyage, of how they embarked Chinese to make up their complements, and how their commanders would be keen to secure the services of a dozen active topmen, even to the extent of hiding them until they were out of sight of land. To this must be added the potent inducement of the high and guaranteed wages paid on Company ships.

In short, Drinkwater mused as he tied his stock and reached behind him for the coat that Mullender held out, he would not be at all surprised if he was short of men. The question was, how many?

Beyond the cabin door the pipes squealed as four bells struck. Drinkwater stood before his mirror, head a-cock, listening to the sounds of reaction, judging by the inevitable sluggishness, the little shrieks of the whores and the suppressed oaths, the temper of his men.

Midshipman Count Vasili Chirkov felt his hammock shake. 'Come on, Vasili, get out ... uniform ... muster ...'

Midshipman Dutfield was climbing into his breeches, rousing the indolent Russian between grunts of effort as he and his colleagues sought the neglected items of their uniform in the gloomy chaos of the gunroom.

'Non ... no ...'

The girl stirred in the crook of his arm and nestled comfortably up to him.

Dutfield shook the hammock violently and then Frey was standing close, holding up a glim so that it shone unequivocally over the exposed bodies.

'Come on, you lubber!' the acting lieutenant urged, 'Or the Captain will marry you to the gunner's daughter.'

'No ...' Chirkov peered over the edge of the hammock. 'I have girl first ...'

Dutfield and Frey exchanged glances. Frey winked and shrugged. He felt his new-found authority inadequate to the task. The midshipmen left the gunroom and joined the rush to the upper deck.

The ship was a babel of confusion. Everywhere along the berth-deck men were hurriedly drawing on clothes and unlashing and rolling hammocks. Small brown Tanka women, their usefulness now past and to whom the sudden shrill of the pipes and flurry of activity must have been beyond all comprehension, were being roughly shoved aside. In one place two men were busy thrusting their paramours through an open gun-port into a waiting sampan, in another one of these unfortunate creatures was crying like a child, her ankle badly sprained from too sudden a descent from a hammock.

'Clear lower deck! Out! Out! Out!' Bosun Comley was bawling, urging his mates to use their starters, and lashing about him with his cane.

'Get these whores over the side! This is a King's ship, not a kennel!'

'Bloody hypocrite!' remarked a Quotaman who had once entertained social expectations but had been found guilty of embezzlement.

'Clear lower deck!'

Lieutenant Mount appeared, buttoning his tunic and shouting.

'Ser'nt Blixoe! Pass word for Ser'nt Blixoe ...'

'Here, sir!'

'Give the Bosun a hand to get these trollops into their boats ... not too roughly, Ser'nt.'

Meanwhile, in the gunroom, Midshipman Count Vasili Ghirkov was reaching the climax of his urgent love-making.

His sword hitched and his hat ready in his hand, Drinkwater half sat on the edge of his table, one leg swinging, awaiting the summons to the deck. When it came at last he affected not to notice the inordinate delay, not to enquire from Mr Belchambers, who had been sent limping down to inform him the muster was complete, why he had heard noises below decks that indicated a party of marines sent twice through the ship. He knew already what that signified.

It was growing light as he climbed to the quarterdeck. The men were massed amidships, over the booms and along the gangways, in the lower rigging and, still distracted by the departing women, craning over the rails. Beyond the hammock nettings he could see the trucks of masts as three or four score sampans rocked away from their sides.

'Eyes in the ship there!' Fraser touched his hat. 'Ship's company mustered, sir.'

'Very well, Mr Fraser.'

There was something wrong. He could see instantly the lack of symmetry in the ranks of marines who rigidly lined the sides of the quarterdeck. He caught Fraser's eye and raised an eyebrow.

'Four men missing, sir,' hissed the first lieutenant in a low, tense voice.

'How many marines?'

'None, sir. Corporal Grice is still searching the ship.'

'Any boats missing?'

'No, sir. Too many sampans ...'

Drinkwater nodded a curt acceptance of what he had already guessed. Affecting to ignore the report he stepped forward.

'Well, my lads,' he began, staring at the bleary faces that were taking shape in the growing light, 'the Chinese consider us barbarians, I'm told, and looking at the present state of the ship's company, I'm not entirely surprised ...'

A collectively sheepish grin seemed to spread across the more tractable members of the crew.

'You have all enjoyed a little relaxation and the ship is almost ready to proceed ...'

'Where are we bound, Cap'n?'

The voice was unidentifiable, but it might have asked for all except the Russian prisoners, for the light of interest kindled in their washed-out faces.

'We are escorting a convoy to Prince of Wales Island and then ... then I think it time that we took ourselves home ...'

He was aware that few of them knew where Prince of Wales Island was, and fewer cared, but they all wanted to hear their final destination. He was cut short by a spontaneous burst of cheering, cheering that only died away when Corporal Grice and his detail emerged from the after companionway half dragging, half shoving an able seaman named Ward, and escorting the protesting Chirkov and his half-naked flower-girl in to the ampitheatre of unoccupied deck before the captain.

Chirkov shrugged off the rough hands of the marines and turned as though to join his fellow prisoners, gathered about Prince Vladimir.

'Stand still, sir!' rapped Mount, pleased with his men.

'Make your report, Grice,' said Drinkwater quietly, nodding first at Ward.

'Caught him going out through a gun-port, sir. Into a sampan under number three gun, sir.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Anything to say, Ward?'

The unhappy man shook his head. 'Put him in the bilboes, Corporal.' Drinkwater had no intention of marring the present moment with a flogging. On the other hand ...

He turned to the sulking Russian. Not taking his eyes off the young nobleman, Drinkwater said, 'Captain Rakitin, this officer is under duty to you. He is responsible for a division of your men and has been publicly taken with this woman. Have you anything to say on his behalf?'

It gave Drinkwater a grim satisfaction to see the big Russian nonplussed, even if only for a moment.

'If it was one of my midshipmen he would be made to kiss the gunner's daughter!'

'No ... no, that would be most irregular ...'

'I shall punish him tomorrow, Captain,' Drinkwater said, 'when I deal with my own defaulters. Kindly be answerable for his behaviour until then.' He turned to Fraser. 'Pipe the men down, Mr Fraser, I want to be ready to weigh at first light tomorrow.'

'What about the deserters, sir? asked Fraser as the muster dispersed.

'No more sampans alongside, Mr Fraser, and a better guard boat tonight. Forget the deserters and let the men enjoy the anticipation of seeing Midshipman Chirkov's matrimony.'

Touching his hat, Drinkwater left the deck. Behind him Fraser and Mount exchanged glances.

'Forget the deserters,' muttered Fraser, 'that's no' wise ...'

'I think,' mused Mount quietly to the worried first lieutenant, 'that we are more concerned with morale at the moment.'