An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman Page A

Drinkwater. Then in an intuitive flash he realised she knew of her husband’s humiliation.
    He called aft for Appleby and the surgeon puffed up along the gangway. A glance took in the lady’s condition and her nervous state. Appleby chafed her wrists and sent Drinkwater off for sal volatile from his chest. A few minutes later the girl recovered consciousness. Blackmore had come up and demanded an explanation. Having made an enquiry on passing through the gun-deck en route to the surgeon’s chest, Drinkwater was able to tell the master that Sharples had gone off in the launch with Morris. ‘But the man’s not in the launch crew.’
    ‘I know, Mr Blackmore,’ replied Drinkwater.
    ‘Did Morris single him out?’
    ‘It appears so, sir.’ Drinkwater shrugged and bit his lip.
    ‘D’ye have any idea why?’ asked Blackmore, shrewdly noticing the midshipman’s face shadowed by doubtful knowledge. Drinkwater hesitated. It was more eloquent than words.
    ‘Come on now, young shaver, if ye know, let’s have it out.’
    The midshipman swallowed hard. He looked at the distressed girl, golden curls fell about a comely face and she looked like a damsel in distress. Drinkwater burnt his boats.
    ‘Morris has been buggering her husband,’ he said in a low voice.
    ‘And Sharples?’ enquired Blackmore.
    ‘He was forced, sirЕ’
    Blackmore gave Drinkwater another hard look. He did not have to ask more. Long experience had taught him what had occurred. Morris would have bullied Drinkwater, may even have offered him physical violence or worse. The old man was filled with a loathing for this navy that ran on brutality.
    ‘Let the lady get some air,’ said Blackmore abruptly and turned aft for the quarterdeck.
    When the launch returned Sharples was reunited with his wife. He had endured three hours of abuse and ridicule from Morris and his boat’s crew.
    Having delivered the Admiral’s orders Morris made his way to the cockpit.
    Drinkwater had also been relieved and going below he met Tregembo. The Cornishman was grinning. He held in his hand two ash sticks, each three feet long, with a guard of rattan work obviously untwisted from one of the blacksmith’s withy chisels. ‘Here, zur,’ said Tregembo. Drinkwater took the sticks.
    Drinkwater looked at Tregembo. He had better let the man know what had happened on the upper deck before it became known below.
    ‘The Master knows Morris has been buggering Sharples, Tregembo. You’d better watch ThreddleЕ’
    A cloud crossed the Cornishman’s face and then he brightened again. The midshipman was not such a disappointment after all.
    ‘Ye’ll thrash him easy, zur. Good luckЕ’ Drinkwater continued below. He had uttered words that could hang a man, words that he would never have dared to utter at home. And now he felt ice cold, apprehensive but determinedЕ
    In the cockpit Morris and the other midshipmen were eating, mugs of ale at their places. The messman produced a plate for Drinkwater. He waved it aside, went to his place and, standing, cleared his throat.
    ‘H’hmm.’ Nobody took any notice. The blood pounded in his throat and adrenaline poured into his blood stream. But still he was cool. ‘Mr Morris!’ he shouted. He had their attention now.
    ‘Mr Morris. This morning you threatened me and struck meЕ’ A master’s mate put his head in through the canvas door. The tableau was lit by two lanterns even at 2 p.m. here in the orlop. The air crackled with tension. Two master’s mates were now looking on.
    Morris rose slowly to his feet. Drinkwater did not see the apprehension turning to fear in his eyes. He was too busy remaining cool.
    ‘You struck me, sir,’ he repeated. He threw a single stick on the table, it knocked over a mug of ale and in the ensuing pause the air was filled with the gurgle of beer running on to the deck.
    ‘Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my