poured Drinkwater a cup as the messman brought in some toast and devilled kidneys.
'Compliments of the first lieutenant, sir,' the man mumbled in his ear.
'Thank you, sir,' said Drinkwater, catching Devaux's eye. His mouth watered in anticipation as he fisted knife and fork. 'This is a surprise. I thought I smelt something tasty, but I couldn't identify it and in any case assumed it to be for Captain Hope's table.'
'The single joy of our situation, Nathaniel, is the occasional amelioration of our tedious diet. Sometimes I think it worth it, but at others I do not. This morning is no exception, for the kidneys come with ...', Devaux paused to sip his coffee, 'well, you will know about it.'
'The stores inventory?'
'I wish to God that's all it was, but dear old Kempenfelt wants to know how many musket balls the esteemed Wheeler has. "Enough", replies Wheeler, "to kill every Frenchman to be found in Spithead!"' Devaux paused, laying down his empty cup and refilling it. 'In the absence of any true wit, one is constrained to laugh,' he added.
Drinkwater smiled as he chewed the kidneys. 'I had better lend a hand then. I gather Captain Hope has to see the admiral at nine, so there is little time.'
'Indeed not, but you had better shave and dress your hair. You must go with the captain.'
'I must?' Drinkwater asked, his mouth full.
'I shall not tempt fate, Nathaniel, but consider how you might clear a foul hawse, or send down the t'gallants, or get the mainyard a-port-last.'
'I am to be examined?' Drinkwater asked in astonishment, his eyes wide.
'You cannot expect a proficiency with that damned French skewer of yours to entitle you automatically to a commission in His Majesty's navy'
'No, I suppose not.'
'So good luck. Eat up all those kidneys and prove yourself a devil to boot!' Devaux rose, smiling at his own wit, took his hat from the peg by the gunroom door and turned, suddenly serious. 'Don't forget to take your journals.' The door closed behind him and Drinkwater was abandoned to a lather of anxiety.
By a quarter to nine on the morning of 29 August 1782, Spithead was already crowded with the movement of boats and small craft. Among them coasting vessels worked through the congested roadstead. One of them, the fifty-ton Lark, laid herself neatly alongside the larboard waist of the Royal George and soon afterwards began to discharge hogsheads of rum into the first-rate, a task made somewhat easier for those hauling on the tackles by a slight larboard list. A few moments later a dockyard launch went alongside and the Master Plumber of the Dockyard seized the vertical manropes and laboriously hauled his bulk up the flagship's tumblehome. As soon as the yard boat had laid off, Cyclops's gig ran in under the entry, just astern of the Lark, and C'aptain Hope, in undress uniform, went up the side to the screech of the side-party's pipes. He was followed by Acting Lieutenant Drinkwater, whose bundle of journals went up after him on a line. As he trailed behind Hope through the gun-decks, leaning against the flagship's increasing list, Drinkwater observed men coiling down the larboard batteries' gun tackles, for all the guns on that side had been run out through the opened ports. It was clear the Royal George's company were in the process of careening her, as Blackmore had said they would. He also noted that the decks were even more crowded and noisy than those of Cyclops, the Royal George being similarly infested with what Blackmore collectively referred to as 'beach-vermin', but Drinkwater's anxious mind was dominated by the imminent and summary examination he must undergo and he thought no more of these facts.
Outside the admiral's cabin Hope paused and turned, bracing himself as if the ship were on the wind. 'Wait on the quarterdeck, Mr Drinkwater. You may be kicking your heels for some time. Be patient and muse on your profession. The admiral is a fast friend to those he knows, and particularly to men of merit. I have
'Compliments of the first lieutenant, sir,' the man mumbled in his ear.
'Thank you, sir,' said Drinkwater, catching Devaux's eye. His mouth watered in anticipation as he fisted knife and fork. 'This is a surprise. I thought I smelt something tasty, but I couldn't identify it and in any case assumed it to be for Captain Hope's table.'
'The single joy of our situation, Nathaniel, is the occasional amelioration of our tedious diet. Sometimes I think it worth it, but at others I do not. This morning is no exception, for the kidneys come with ...', Devaux paused to sip his coffee, 'well, you will know about it.'
'The stores inventory?'
'I wish to God that's all it was, but dear old Kempenfelt wants to know how many musket balls the esteemed Wheeler has. "Enough", replies Wheeler, "to kill every Frenchman to be found in Spithead!"' Devaux paused, laying down his empty cup and refilling it. 'In the absence of any true wit, one is constrained to laugh,' he added.
Drinkwater smiled as he chewed the kidneys. 'I had better lend a hand then. I gather Captain Hope has to see the admiral at nine, so there is little time.'
'Indeed not, but you had better shave and dress your hair. You must go with the captain.'
'I must?' Drinkwater asked, his mouth full.
'I shall not tempt fate, Nathaniel, but consider how you might clear a foul hawse, or send down the t'gallants, or get the mainyard a-port-last.'
'I am to be examined?' Drinkwater asked in astonishment, his eyes wide.
'You cannot expect a proficiency with that damned French skewer of yours to entitle you automatically to a commission in His Majesty's navy'
'No, I suppose not.'
'So good luck. Eat up all those kidneys and prove yourself a devil to boot!' Devaux rose, smiling at his own wit, took his hat from the peg by the gunroom door and turned, suddenly serious. 'Don't forget to take your journals.' The door closed behind him and Drinkwater was abandoned to a lather of anxiety.
By a quarter to nine on the morning of 29 August 1782, Spithead was already crowded with the movement of boats and small craft. Among them coasting vessels worked through the congested roadstead. One of them, the fifty-ton Lark, laid herself neatly alongside the larboard waist of the Royal George and soon afterwards began to discharge hogsheads of rum into the first-rate, a task made somewhat easier for those hauling on the tackles by a slight larboard list. A few moments later a dockyard launch went alongside and the Master Plumber of the Dockyard seized the vertical manropes and laboriously hauled his bulk up the flagship's tumblehome. As soon as the yard boat had laid off, Cyclops's gig ran in under the entry, just astern of the Lark, and C'aptain Hope, in undress uniform, went up the side to the screech of the side-party's pipes. He was followed by Acting Lieutenant Drinkwater, whose bundle of journals went up after him on a line. As he trailed behind Hope through the gun-decks, leaning against the flagship's increasing list, Drinkwater observed men coiling down the larboard batteries' gun tackles, for all the guns on that side had been run out through the opened ports. It was clear the Royal George's company were in the process of careening her, as Blackmore had said they would. He also noted that the decks were even more crowded and noisy than those of Cyclops, the Royal George being similarly infested with what Blackmore collectively referred to as 'beach-vermin', but Drinkwater's anxious mind was dominated by the imminent and summary examination he must undergo and he thought no more of these facts.
Outside the admiral's cabin Hope paused and turned, bracing himself as if the ship were on the wind. 'Wait on the quarterdeck, Mr Drinkwater. You may be kicking your heels for some time. Be patient and muse on your profession. The admiral is a fast friend to those he knows, and particularly to men of merit. I have
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