An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman Page B

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.
    â€˜The Master knows Morris has been buggering Sharples, Tregembo. You’d better watch Threddle . . .’
    A cloud crossed the Cornishman’s face and then he brightened again. The midshipman was not such a disappointment after all.
    â€˜Ye’ll thrash him easy, zur. Good luck . . .’ 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 determined . . .
    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.
    â€˜H’hmm.’ Nobody took any notice. The blood pounded in his throat and adrenalin poured into his blood stream. But still he was cool. ‘Mr Morris!’ he shouted. He had their attention now.
    â€˜Mr Morris. This morning you threatened me and struck me . . .’ A master’s mate put his head in through the canvas door. The tableau was lit by two lanterns even at two 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.
    â€˜You struck me, sir,’ he repeated. He threw a single stick on the table, it knocked over a mug of ale and in the ensuingpause the air was filled with the gurgle of beer running on to the deck.
    â€˜Perhaps, gentlemen, you would be kind enough after dinner to give me room to thrash Mr Morris at single stick. Now, steward, my dinner if you please . . .’
    He sat down grateful that his own mug remained full. The meal was completed in total silence. The two master’s mates disappeared.
    It was afterwards agreed that Drinkwater had been extremely
sporting
in allowing notice of the forthcoming match to be circulated. It was quite a crowd that eagerly cleared a space for the protagonists while Drinkwater removed his coat and stock. Both combatants were in their shirt-sleeves and Drinkwater took up his stick and tested it for balance. He had chosen the weapon for its familiarity. In Barnet it had been a favourite with the lads, imitating the gentleman’s short sword, it combined the finesse of that weapon with some of the blunt brutality of the quarterstaff. The carpenter’s mate had done well.
    Drinkwater watched Beale push the last sea-chest back against the ship’s side.
    â€˜Mr Beale will ’ee stand second to me?’
    â€˜With pleasure, Mr Drinkwater,’ said the other youngster shooting a sidelong glance at Morris.
    The latter looked desperately around him. At last one of the master’s mates stood second to Morris rather than spoil the match.
    As duelling was illegal on board ship Drinkwater’s choice of weapons was fortuitously apt. Although he had been guided by his own proficiency with the weapon and chose the single stick in ignorance, any action by the lieutenants could be circumvented by an explanation that it was a sporting occasion. To this end the seconds conferred and decided to send the messman in search of Wheeler who, despite his commissioned status, could be relied upon for his vanity in presiding over such a match.
    It was a tiny space in which they had to fight, about five feet four inches high and some fifteen feet by ten in area. The spectators backed up against the ship’s side