figure traversing the darkened orlop brought the memory back.
It was Morris coming to call him at one bell to stand the morning anchor watch. Morrisâs face was lit demoniacally by the lantern. The rest of his body was invisible in the blackness of the cockpit. This apparition finding Drinkwater awake was a very mask of malice which spat out a torrent of invective in a sibilant whisper. Nathaniel was transfixed with horror, a feeling made worse by his prone position. Jealousy and hate burned within Morris, contesting with the fear of Drinkwaterâs knowledge of himself. The resulting conflict of powerful emotion burned within him in a terrible, bullying anger.
âCome on admiralâs lickspittle, get out of your hammock and convey your greasy arse on deck, damn you for a crawling get!â
Drinkwater made no reply, vulnerably shrinking within his blanket. For a second Morrisâs face hung over him, the malevolence in his eyes an almost physical force. In a sudden, swift movement Morris had a knife out, the lantern catching the dull glint of its blade. It was a micro second of suspense wherein Drinkwater suddenly, inexplicably, found himself drained of all fear. He simply tensed and awaited the inevitable . . .
Morris slashed with the knife. The hammock lashing parted and with a jarring crash Drinkwater landed on the deck. Fighting out of his blanket he found himself alone in the creaking darkness.
On deck a squall of rain skittered across Spithead and the wind behind it was cutting. Drinkwater shivered and drew his cloak closer around him. Dawn was not yet visible and Morrisâs figure was barely discernible, huddled in the paltry shelter of the mizzen rigging.
The figure detached itself and approached Drinkwater. Morrisâs face, dark now, came close. The older midshipman gripped the arm of the younger. Spittle flecked offensively on to Drinkwaterâs cheek.
âNow listen,â hissed Morris, âjust because you are a crawling little bastard donât get any God-dammed ideas about anything. Threddle hasnât forgotten his flogging and neither of us have forgotten Humphries. So donât forget what Iâm saying. I mean it.â Morrisâs vehemence was irresistible. Drinkwater shrunk from the voice, from the spittle and the viciousgrip upon his arm. Morrisâs knee came up into his groin. He gasped with pain.
âDâye understand, God-damn you?â queried Morris, an undetected doubt in his voice.
âY . . . yes,â whispered Drinkwater doubling with agony and nausea, his head swimming. Another figure loomed out of the rain-swept darkness. For a terrifying moment Drinkwater thought it was Threddle but the voice of Tregembo asked, âEverything all right, Mr Drinkwater?â He felt Morris freeze then relax as he straightened up. Tears flowed down his cheeks but he managed to steady his nerve enough to mutter, âYes thank you.â
In a clipped tone Morris handed over the watch. âThe lieutenants are excused watches tonight. Call all hands at three bells.â A quartermaster approached, the half-hour glass in his hand. The lower half was almost full.
âEight bells, Mr Morris.â
âMake it so then.â
âAye, aye, sir.â
Four oâclock in the morning.
When Morris had gone below Drinkwater went to the weather side. The rain stung and wet his face. He felt it with relief. The pain in his groin eased and his head felt less thick. Then a wave of nausea swept over him. The pain, the wine and the self-disgust caused him to vomit into the inky, hissing waters of Spithead. After that he felt better. He still stared to windward, his hands gripping the rail. His self-disgust rankled. Why had he not hit Morris back? Just once. He had to face the fact that he was scared, forgetful of the bold resolutions he had formulated and continually put off, pending a more propitious opportunity. He had one now.