The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman Page A

he seemed to float an inch above his chair.
    â€˜I don’t believe a man must shrive his soul with a canting priest, Mr Drinkwater,’ Lettsom went on, helping himself to the bottle. ‘I barely know whether there is an Omnipotent Being. A man is only guts sewn up in a hide bag. No anatomist has discovered the soul and the divine spark is barely perceptible in most.’ He nodded at the gently swinging cot. ‘See how easily it is extinguished. How much of the Almighty d’you think he contains to be snuffed like this?’ he added with sudden vehemence.
    â€˜You were not responsible for Mason’s wound, Mr Lettsom,’ Drinkwater said with an effort, ‘those luggers . . .’
    â€˜Those luggers, sir, were simply a symptom of the malignity of mankind. What the hell is this bloody war about, eh? The king of Denmark’s mad, Gustav of Sweden’s mad, Tsar Paul is a dangerous and criminal lunatic and each of these maniacs is setting his people against us. And what in God’s name are we doing going off to punish Danes and Swedes and Russians for the crazy ambitions of their kings? Why, Mr Drinkwater, it is even rumoured that our very own beloved George is not all that he should be in the matter of knowing what’s what.’ Lettsom tapped his head significantly.
    â€˜We are swept up like chaff in the wind. Mason is hit by the flail and I bungle his excision like a student. That’s all there is to it, Mr Drinkwater. One may philosophise over providence, or what you will, as long as you have a belly empty of splinters, but that
is
all there is to it . . .’
    He fell silent and Drinkwater said nothing. His own belief in fate was a faith that drew its own strength from such misgivings as Lettsom expressed. But he could not himself accept the cold calculations of the scientific mind, could not agree with Lettsom’s assumption of ultimate purposelessness.
    They were both drunk, but at that brief and peculiarly lucid state of drunkenness that it is impossible to maintain and is gone as soon as attained. In this moment of clarity Drinkwater thought himself the greater coward.
    â€˜Perhaps,’ said Lettsom at last, ‘the French did themselves a service by executing King Louis, much as we did the first Charles. Pity of the matter is we replaced a republic by a monarchy and subjected ourselves voluntarily to the humbug of parliamentary politics . . .’
    â€˜You are an admirer of the American rebels, Mr Lettsom?’
    The surgeon focussed a shrewd eye on his younger commander. ‘Would you not welcome a world where ability elevated a man quicker than birth or influence, Mr Drinkwater?’
    â€˜Now you sound like a leveller. You know, you quacks stand in a unique position in relationship to the rest of us. Wielding the knife confers a huge moral advantage upon you. Like priests you are apt to resort to pontification . . .’
    â€˜Moral superiority is conferred on
any
man with a glass in his hand . . .’
    â€˜Aye, Mr Lettsom, and when we rise tomorrow morning the world will be as it is tonight. Imperfect in all its aspects, yet oddly beautiful and full of hidden wonders, cruel and harsh with battles to be fought and gales endured. There is more honesty at a cannon’s mouth than may be found elsewhere. Kings and their ambition are but a manifestation of the world’s turbulence. As a scientist I would have expected you to acknowledge Newton’s third law. It governs the entire travail of humanity Mr Lettsom, and is not indicative of tranquil existence.’
    Lettsom looked at Drinkwater with surprise. ‘I had no idea I was commanded by such a philosopher, Mr Drinkwater.’
    â€˜I learnt the art from a surgeon, Mr Lettsom,’ replied Drinkwater drily.
    â€˜Your journals, Mr Q.’ Drinkwater held out his hand for the bound notebooks. He opened the first and turned over the