An Eye of the Fleet by Richard Woodman

ratification their fortunes would have remained uncertain’. The admiral prodded his flag lieutenant and that worthy rose unsteadily and read a prepared statement toasting Lieutenant John Devaux and Midshipman Nathaniel Drinkwater for their bold action in boarding the prize and earning a special place in Hope’s report. Devaux rose and bowed to the flag lieutenant and the admiral. Recalling that the midshipman had the post of honour in receiving the Spaniard’s surrender he called upon the young gentleman to reply.
    Drinkwater was barely aware of what was required of him, but he was suddenly aware of Morris staring at him from the far side of the table with an evil grin upon his face. The face seemed to grow larger, terrifying in its size, oppressive with malice. Conversation died as all turned to stare at him. He was confused. He remembered a succession of his seniors standing in turn and he rose unsteadily to his feet. For a moment or two he stood there swaying slightly. The bored expression of the flag lieutenant changed to one of sudden interest at the prospect of a neat gaffe with which to entertain his fashionable friends.
    Drinkwater stared out through the stern windows to where the last shreds of daylight flared above the horizon. Morris’s face faded and that of his mother swam before him. He remembered her preparing his sea-kit, sewing a table cloth for her son to use at sea. It lay hidden and unused at the bottom of his chest. It bore a motto. That motto sprang into his midshipman’s mind now and he uttered it in a loud, commanding voice:
    â€˜Confusion to the king’s enemies!’ He said it all in one breath and without a slur. He sat down abruptly as a roar of assent went round the table. The flag lieutenant resumed his bored expression.
    He vaguely heard Kempenfelt’s approbatory comment: ‘Damme Captain, a real fire eater!’

Chapter Seven
June–July 1780
The Duel
    On awakening next morning Drinkwater had only the haziest notions of turning in the previous night. He was not sure at what hour the Admiral had left for after his toast the evening had become a blur. The blue and white uniforms, the gold braid and pink faces seemed shrouded in more than tobacco smoke. Wheeler’s scarlet coat and glittering gorget had glowed like a surrogate sun in the candlelight as they joked and laughed and became serious again. The conversation had turned on a variety of topics; had been general, then particular; bawdy then technical as the portions of the table concentrated, divided then joined again in a verbal tide.
    The event had been a triumph for Henry Hope. As a crowning to the evening Blackmore had suggested a little music and word was passed for O’Malley. The diminutive Irish cook entered, stealing sidelong glances at the ruins of the meal and the empty bottles. He produced some sweet and melancholic airs after the fashion of the time which brought an appreciative silence to the table. He concluded to loud applause with a frantic jig from his native land which, drawn from the wild turbulence of his people, seemed to Drinkwater to summarise the exhilaration of that Moonlight Battle in which these genial fellows had taken such a part.
    Little O’Malley had gone forward two guineas better off with a farewell whose obsequiousness was not that of sobriety but suggested that, in the course of roasting the very capons whose ruins he had so enviously regarded, he had partaken of ‘pusser’s dips’.
    Despite the vague recollections of a successful evening Drinkwater woke to the disturbing sensation that all was not well. He had a headache due to the quite unaccustomed quantity of wine he had consumed but it was more than that. He groped in his mind for some memory that would give him a clue to his disquiet. At first he thought he had committed some impropriety. His stomach contracted at the thought of an indiscretion in front of the admiral. But the approachof a