Read Online The Bomb Vessel by Richard Woodman - Free Book Online

sworn reform and Hammond is an infernal jobber. Pray heaven they start at Chatham, eh?’
    ‘I’ll drink to that, Mr Lettsom,’ said Drinkwater smiling.
    ‘What d’you say Jex?’ said the surgeon turning to the purser, ‘got your dirty work done just in time, eh?’ There was a rumble of laughter round the table. Jex flushed.
    ‘I protest
    sir
    ‘
    ‘I rule that unfair, Mr Lettsom,’ said Drinkwater still smiling. ‘Consider that Mr Jex paid for the sauerkraut.’
    ‘The hands’ll not thank you for that sir, however good an antiscorbutic it is.’
    Drinkwater ignored Jex’s look of startled horror. He did not see it subside into an expression of resentment. ‘What about the other members of the cabinet?’ asked Lettsom.
    ‘I forget, Mr Lettsom. Only that that blade Vansittart is to be Joint Secretary to the Treasury or something. That is all I recollect
    ‘
    ‘Well the damned politicians forget us; why the hell should we remember them?’ Rogers’s flushed face expressed approval at his own jest.
    ‘I have it!’ said Lettsom suddenly, snapping his fingers as the laughter died away.
    ‘Have what sir?’ asked Quilhampton in precocious mock horror, ‘The lues? The yaws?’
    ‘An epigram, gentlemen, an epigram!’ He cleared his throat while several banged the table for silence. Lettsom struck a pose:
    ‘If blocks can from danger deliver,
    Two places are safe from the French,
    The first is the mouth of the river,
    The second the Treasury Bench.’
    ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ They cheered, banged the table and were unaware of the strange face that appeared round the doorway. Drinkwater saw it first, together with that of Mason behind. He called for silence. ‘What is it Mr Mason?’
    The assembled officers turned to stare at the newcomer. He wore a royal blue tail coat turned back to reveal scarlet facings. His breeches were white and a cocked hat was tucked underneath his arm. His face was round and red, covered by peppery hair that grew out along his cheekbones, though his chin was shaved yet it had the appearance of being constantly rasped raw as if to keep down its beard. The man’s head sat low upon his shoulders, like a 12-pound shot in the garlands.
    ‘God damn my eyes, it’s a bloody lobster,’ said Rogers offensively and even though the man wore the blue uniform of the Royal Artillery his apoplectic countenance lent the welcome an amusing aptness.
    ‘Lieutenant Tumilty of the artillery, sir,’ said Mason filling the silence while the artillery officer stared aggressively round his new surroundings.
    Drinkwater rose. ‘Good day, lieutenant, pray sit down. Mr Tumility, make way there. You are to join us then?’ He passed the decanter down the table and the messman produced a glass. The other occupants of the cabin eyed the stranger with ill-disguised curiosity.
    Tumilty filled his glass, downed it and refilled it. Then he fixed Drinkwater with a tiny, fiery eye.
    ‘I’m after asking if you’re in command of the ship?’ The accent was pugnaciously Irish.
    ‘That is correct, Mr Tumilty.’
    ‘It’s true then! God save me but ‘tis true, so it is.’ He swallowed again, heavily.
    ‘What exactly is true, Mr Tumilty?’ asked Drinkwater, beginning to feel exasperated by the artilleryman’s circumlocution.
    ‘Despite appearances to the contrary, and begging your pardon, but you being but a lieutenant, then this ain’t a bomb vessel, sir. Is that, or is that not the truth of the matter?’
    Drinkwater flushed. Tumilty had touched a raw nerve. ‘Virago was built as a bomb vessel, but at present she is commissioned only as a tender
    ‘
    ‘Though there’s nothing wrong with her structure,’ growled the hitherto silent Willerton.
    ‘Does that answer your question?’ added Drinkwater, ignoring the interruption.
    Tumilty nodded. ‘Aye, God save me, so it does. And I’ll not pretend I like it lieutenant, not at all.’ He suddenly struck his hat violently upon the table.
    ‘Devil take