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you fired them at no mark?’ Vansittart asked in an attempt to appear knowledgeable. ‘I mean you did not intend the shot to hit anything?’ He thought of the black dots he had seen in the centre of the discharges.
    â€˜No, no, no, we fired at no mark and shot off nothing more offensive then the wads . . .’
    â€˜But I saw . . .’
    â€˜Oakum wadding, nothing more. The only ball you see, they say, is the one heading directly towards you, and I hope it won’t come to that, eh?’
    â€˜Oh.’ Vansittart’s tone was crestfallen.
    Drinkwater felt sorry for the diplomat. ‘ ’Tis too lively to try at a target. If the wind falls light I will put out a boat, but the men are untried, a mixture, rough and uncoordinated as is usual at the beginning of a commission. At first itis essential, a moment please . . .’
    Drinkwater broke off his explanation to attend to Mr Belchambers. Vansittart could not hear what passed between them, but the midshipman’s face was dark and Drinkwater’s bore a look of disquiet when he turned back to resume.
    â€˜At first it is essential to ensure the gun-crews operate in a disciplined manner and serve their guns correctly. One cannot afford mistakes in the heat of battle. You have doubtless seen an excited sportsman loose off a ramrod at game birds, well the same thing may happen here. Perhaps worse. A new charge thrust hastily into an unsponged gun may result in a premature discharge in which the carriage recoils over a gun-captain engaged in clearing a vent.’ He paused, then added, ‘As it is, one man is suffering from crushed fingers.’
    â€˜Mr Belchambers . . . ?’
    Drinkwater nodded. ‘Yes, he brought me word of it. I ordered the powder largely to gratify the hands. Prolonged dumb show is useful, but nothing makes ’em concentrate like gunpowder. Now I’m doubting the wisdom of my own action.’ A rueful expression crossed the captain’s face and he smiled. ‘A pity,’ he concluded.
    Drinkwater turned away. Metcalfe was hovering with his insufferable watch, demanding the captain’s attention. Vansittart cast about him. Already the guns were rese-cured and the pipes twittered at the hatchways with their appalling raucous squealing. Suddenly, as the cry ‘Up spirits!’ went round the ship, Vansittart was aware of a strange buzz, as of a swarm of bees, and realized it was the ship’s company, mustering for their daily issue of grog. For the first time since he had stepped on board, Mr Vansittart felt inexplicably easier about his situation.
    He went below. Miraculously his cabin had reappeared. Copford was laying his toiletries on the chest of drawers. He looked white and drawn.
    â€˜Where the devil were you?’ Vansittart asked.
    â€˜With the surgeon, sir. In what’s called the cockpit. Full o’ knives and saws it were, an’ they brought some young cully down with his hand all bloody . . .’
    It was not with the intention of holding a post-mortem that Drinkwater invited his officers to dinner that afternoon. It occurred to him that the time was ripe, both on account of the weather and the fact that the gunnery exercise had been a corporate act different from the heaving and hauling, the pumping and sheer drudgery necessary to clear the chops of the Channel. Whatever its failings, it had been the first step in shaking his crew together as the ship’s company of a man-o’-war.
    Looking at his officers as they silently sipped their soup, nervously adjusting to the unaccustomed luxury of his cabin, Drinkwater wondered what they feared about him, for their lack of chatter was awesome. Frey might have lightened the mood with his familiarity, but Frey had the deck and Drinkwater had not invited any representatives from the gunroom. He would break his fast with the midshipmen tomorrow morning. For the nonce it