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behaviour; clearly Mr Tumilty was acting as a consequence of some incident at Woolwich and cursing his superiors at the Royal Arsenal.
    â€˜Gentlemen, pity me, I beg you. I’m condemned to hand powder like any of your barefoot powder-monkeys. A fetcher and carrier, me!’
    â€˜It seems, Mr Tumilty, that, to coin a phrase, we are all here present in the same boat.’ A rumble of agreement followed Drinkwater’s soothing words.
    â€˜But me, sir. For sure I’m the finest pyroballogist in the whole damned artillery!’

Chapter Six          February 1801
Powder and Shot

    â€˜Pyroballogy, Lieutenant Drinkwater, is the art of throwing fire. ’Tis both scientific and alchemical, and that is why officers in my profession cannot purchase their commissions like the rest of the army, so it is.’
    Drinkwater and Tumilty stood at the break of the poop watching the labours of the hands as they manned the yardarm tackles, hoisting barrel after barrel of powder out of the hoy alongside. They had loaded their ordinary powder and shot, naval gunner’s stores for their carronades and long guns, from the powder hulk at Blackstakes. Now they loaded the ordnance stores, sent round from Woolwich on the Thames. From time to time Tumilty broke off his monologue to shout instructions at his sergeant and bombadier who, with
Virago’s
men, were toiling to get the stores aboard before the wind freshened further.
    â€˜No sir, our commissions are all issued by the Master-General himself and a captain of artillery may have more experience than a field officer, to be sure. I’m not after asking if that’s a fair system, Mr Drinkwater, but I’m telling you that a man can be an expert at his work and still be no more than a lieutenant.’
    Drinkwater smiled. ‘And I’d not be wanting to argue with you Mr Tumilty,’ he said drily.
    â€˜ ’Tis an ancient art, this pyroballogy. Archimedes himself founded it at the seige of Syracuse and the Greeks had their own ballistic fireballs. Now tell me, Mr Drinkwater, would I be right in thinking you’d like to be doing a bit of the fire-throwing yourself?’
    Drinkwater looked at the short Irishman alongside him. He was growing accustomed to his almost orientally roundabout way of saying something.
    â€˜I think perhaps we both suffer from a sense of frustration, Mr Tumilty.’
    â€˜And the carpenter assures me the ship’s timbers are sound enough.’ Drinkwater nodded and Tumilty added, ‘ ’Tis not to be underestimated, sir, a thirteen-inch mortar has a chamber with a capacity of thirty-two pounds. Yet a charge in excess of twenty will shake the timbers of a mortar bed to pieces in a very short timeand may cause the mortar to explode.’
    â€˜But we do not have a mortar, Mr Tumilty.’
    â€˜True, true, but you’ve not dismantled the beds Mr Drinkwater. Now why, I’m asking myself, would that be?’
    Drinkwater shrugged. ‘I was aware that they contained the shell rooms, I assumed they were to remain in place . . .’
    â€˜And nobody told you to take them to pieces, eh?’
    â€˜That is correct.’
    â€˜Well now that’s very fortunate, Mr Drinkwater, very fortunate indeed, for the both of us. What would you say if I was to ship a couple of mortars on those beds?’
    Drinkwater frowned at Tumilty who peered at him with a sly look.
    â€˜I don’t think I quite understand.’
    â€˜Well look,’ Tumilty pointed at the hoy. The last sling of fine grain cylinder powder with its scarlet barrel markings rose out of the hoy’s hold, following the restoved and mealed powder into the magazine of
Virago
. The hoy’s crew were folding another section of the tarpaulin back and lifting off the hatchboards to reveal two huge black shapes. ‘Mortars, Mr Drinkwater, one thirteen-inch weighing eighty-two hundredweights, one