"The flying squadron" - читать интересную книгу автора (Вудмен Ричард)

CHAPTER 3 A Capital Shot

In the hermetic life of a ship the smallest matters assume an unreal importance. This is often the case when a voyage has just begun, as with His Majesty's frigate Patrician, during the process of shaking down, when men thrown together under the iron rule of naval discipline jostle each other for the means by which to express themselves, to keep and maintain their own sense of identity.

The obligations of duty combined with those of dutifulness to suppress the natural instincts of the officers in a subtler and more dangerous way than among the ratings. The stuffy formalities and the rigid, pretentious hierarchies mixed uneasily with a cultivated and assumed languor in the wardroom. The officers were fortunate in having their cabins. Convention permitted private retreat, but while this was more civilized, it tended to prolong the incubation of trouble.

Elsewhere, on the berth and gun decks, men frequently abused each other and came quickly to blows. Such explosions were usually regulated by the lower deck's own, inimitable ruling, and while fights were swift and decisive, they were rarely bloody or degenerated into brawls. The bosun's mates and other petty officers charged with the maintenance of order knew how far to let things go before intervening.

The midshipmen's berth, by its very proximity and open location in the orlop, generally knew about these disturbances, but a tacit and unspoken agreement existed between the men and the younkers, for the latter too often had recourse to their own fists.

While the officers festered in their differences and disagreements, the fights held in the semi-secret rendezvous of the cable tiers provided a cause for betting and gaming, as much natural releases for men pent up within the stinking confines of one of His Britannic Majesty's ships of war, as the catharsis felt by the protagonists themselves.

The tiny, insignificant causes of disorder, whether in the wardroom, the gunroom or the berth deck, fuelled the ship's gossip, or scuttlebutt. Their triviality was rarely a measure of their importance. This lay chiefly in their ability to rouse sentiment and cause diversions.

In the case of Mr Frey's dislocation with Mr Metcalfe, it united the wardroom almost unanimously behind the third lieutenant. Almost unanimously, because Mr Wyatt refused to take sides, his coarse nature impervious to aesthetic considerations, while Mr Simpson the chaplain pretended a charitable neutrality, though Metcalfe's manner deeply offended him.

It was this strained atmosphere that the officers took with them to dinner with Captain Drinkwater and although they might have left it behind them in their commander's presence, it was Metcalfe's peculiar comments about the captain which prevented this. The cause of the trouble had been nonsensical enough. Mr Frey, during his afternoon watch below, had spread a sheet of paper on the wardroom table upon which he was executing some water-colour sketches. He had brought a large number of pencil drawings back from the Patrician's circumnavigation. Some of these had been of hydrographic interest and had been worked up, overlaid with washes, and submitted to the Admiralty. Their lordships had expressed their approbation and Frey, by way of diversion as much as seeking further approval, had decided to embellish all his folio of drawings, many of which were competent and fascinating records of the frigate's sojourn on the coasts of China and Borneo. They ranged from a spirited representation of an attack on the stronghold of piratical Sea-Dyaks and the horrors of a typhoon to dreamy washes showing the Pearl River under calm, grey skies, the background pierced with the exotic spires of pagodas and the foreground filled with the bat-winged sails of junks tacking up under the high poops of anchored Indiamen.

Returning from some roving inspection, Metcalfe had entered the wardroom and sat without comment in his customary chair. Tipping it back on its rear legs against the heel of the ship he nonchalantly threw both feet upon the table. One heel rested upon, and tore, the corner of a sheet of Frey's cartridge paper. Frey looked up from his work with brush and paints. 'If you please, sir ...' he said, at which Metcalfe adjusted his feet and succeeded in extending the tear. Instead of the margin of the paper being damaged, the washed-over drawing was ripped still further.

In the argument which followed, Frey was constrained by his subordinate rank and his outrage, which made him almost mute with indignation. Metcalfe protested Frey had no business 'covering the whole damned table with rubbish', and compounded his vandalism by picking up the drawing by a corner. Already old and browned at the edges, the paper tore completely in half as he held it for the inspection of the others. Frey went deathly pale.

'Have a care, sir...' he breathed almost inaudibly and Moncrieff, suddenly alerted to the seriousness of a situation which warranted a challenge, rallied to Frey's support. He lamented the first lieutenant's carelessness and when Metcalfe rounded on him, damning his insolence, Moncrieff coloured dangerously and put his hand on his empty hip.

'By God, sir, had you done that to me I should have drawn upon you,' he hissed as Simpson came forward to restrain him and Pym emerged from his cabin to stare over his glasses at Metcalfe.

The first lieutenant continued to bluster and Simpson expressed regret that Metcalfe had not the manners to apologize. The consensus of opinion had gathered against Metcalfe. He resorted to a damning of them all for being the captain's lickspittle and reviled Captain Drinkwater for an incompetent tarpaulin officer who, by his very age, was barely fit to command a frigate, had been passed over for a line-of-battle ship and clearly deserved no better than to be commander of the glorified dispatch-boat that the Patrician had become. This irrational outburst astounded the officers. They stood silent with disbelief as Metcalfe's bravado ran its erratic course and he finally slammed out of the wardroom.

For a moment nobody moved, then Frey began to put his paints and paper away and, as always, the routine of the ship reasserted itself. The watch was called, and Frey prepared to go on deck.

'Thank you, Moncrieff,' Frey said as the marine officer bent and retrieved half the water-colour sketch, 'I mean for your support.'

'I can't take the measure of the man,' Moncrieff said, puzzled and staring at the closed door of the wardroom, 'what does he hope to gain by such conduct?'

Frey shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'You kept your temper very well, Mr Frey,' put in the Reverend Simpson, 'under somewhat extreme provocation.' The chaplain's thin, soft fingers had reached out for one of the sketches. 'These are really very good ... but not worth fighting over.'

'I collect Mr Metcalfe's distempered spirit may be something to beware of, gentlemen. Well, we are expected for dinner ...'

Frey cooled off during his watch, his anger subsiding to mere annoyance. He regretted being unable to dine with Drinkwater but could not have sat at the same table as Metcalfe that afternoon. Nor could he, at the end of his watch, return to the wardroom where Metcalfe, being a creature of predictable habit, would be drinking a glass of wine. At such times, the man was at his most truculent and critical, and habitually found some small matter to complain of, a gun in one's battery untidily lashed, a rusty round-shot in the garlands, or a seaman upon whom some misdemeanour could be pinned but in which his divisional officer was implicated. It was remarkable, Frey reflected, how in so short a time Metcalfe has impressed his generally unpleasant character upon the ship.

Resolved not to return to the wardroom, Frey decided instead to visit Midshipman Belchambers in the gunroom on the pretext of giving him some instruction. Immediately upon descending to the gloom of the orlop he realized his mistake. The surprised and furtive looks of men about him, the quick evasive slinking away and the whispered warning of a commissioned presence seemed to Frey's overwrought nerves to echo into the dark recesses of the ship with a sinister significance. Off-duty marines in their berth just forward of the midshipmen's den stopped polishing boots and bayonets. The midshipmen themselves wore expressions of guilt and Frey was just in time to see a book snapped shut, a pencil hurriedly concealed and a stack of promissory notes swept out of sight. He caught Mr Midshipman Porter's eye.

'What are you running a book on, Mr Porter?'

'Er, a book, sir? Er, nothing, sir ...'

Frey looked about him. The collusion of the midshipmen argued against anything serious being wrong. He had not disturbed a mutinous assembly and would be best advised to turn a blind eye to the matter.

'Mr Belchambers?' he said, affecting a disinterested tone, 'Is he here?'

'First Lieutenant sent for him, sir.'

'Ah ...' Frey cast a final look round the dark hole. The stale air was thick with the stink of crowded humanity, stores, bilge-water, rust, rot and rat-droppings. He retreated to the ladder.

'Pass word for Sergeant Hudson, will you,' he called mildly to the marine sentry at the companionway. Frey dawdled in the berth deck, wandering forward. Hudson caught up with him as he stood surveying the surviving pigs in the extempore manger just forward of the breakwater set across the ship to stop sea sloshing aft from the plugged hawse-holes.

'Sir, Mr Frey, sir?' The marine sergeant puffed up, buttoning his tunic and jerking his head. Men in the adjacent messes, alerted to something unusual by Frey's presence so far forward, made themselves scarce.

'Hudson, what the devil's going on below?' Frey pretended interest in the pigs and spoke in a low but insistent voice.

'Below, sir? Nothing, sir ...'

'Don't take me for a fool, Hudson. Something is, or has been going on. When the officers were dining with the captain, I suspect.'

'Ah, well, er, yes, sir ...'

'Go on.'

'Well, sir, weren't nothing much, sir, only a bit o' fun, like.'

'Gaming, you mean?'

Hudson shrugged. 'Well, a few side bets, sir, you know how it is.'

'On what? Baiting? A fight, a wrestle?'

'Bit of wrestling, sir. Nothing to worry about, sir. If it were I'd be down on it like a cauldron o' coal.'

Frey looked hard at the man. 'If I get wind of an assembly, Hudson, I'll have your hide. We want no combinations aboard here.'

Hudson shook his head and Frey noticed the man had no neck, for his whole body swung, adding emphasis to his indignant refutation of the suggestion. 'No fear o' that, sir, not while Josiah Hudson is sergeant aboard this here man-o'-war.'

'I hope you're right, Hudson.'

'O' course I'm right, sir. 'Tis against regulations in the strictest sense but, well, why don't you place a bet, sir? Won't do no harm and I'll do it for you. You won't be the only officer...' Hudson paused, aware he was being indiscreet.

'Really? Who else?' Frey disguised his curiosity.

'Oh, I don't know that, sir, but one or two o' the young gennelmen seems to have enough money to be acting as agents.'

The information robbed Frey of the initiative. He turned aft. At the wardroom door he met Mr Belchambers in search of him.

'I believe you were looking for me, sir.'

'Oh, yes, but it don't matter now. Carry on.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Belchambers turned for the companionway when intuition caused Frey to call him back.

'What did the First Lieutenant want you for?'

Belchambers stammered uncertainly, his eyes on the wardroom door and the sentry posted there. 'Oh, er, er, a small ... er, private matter, sir.'

'A private matter between you and the First Lieutenant, Mr Belchambers?' Frey said archly. 'You should be careful your private affairs are not capable of misconstruction ...'

Belchambers blushed to the roots of his hair. 'I, er, I...'

Did he win?'

'Sir ... ?'

'Did the First Lieutenant win? I assume you had been summoned to tell him whether he had won or lost the bet you had placed for him.'

Belchambers swallowed unhappily. 'Sir, I was unwilling ...'

'Don't worry,' said Frey, his voice suddenly sympathetic, be a good fellow and just let Mr Porter know I am aware of the situation and I've promised a thrashing to anyone I find running a book.' Belchambers caught the twinkle in Frey's eye. He knew Mr Frey, he was a certainty in a shifting world. Mr Belchambers was learning that ships changed as their companies changed and though he respected Captain Drinkwater, the captain was too remote to know the miseries and petty tyrannies that midshipmen endured.

Whilst Captain Drinkwater was unaware of Belchambers' misery and knew nothing of the improper conduct of his first lieutenant as discovered by Mr Frey, he was troubled by the evident bad blood prevailing among his officers. There was little he could do about it, and at heart he was disinclined to make too much of it. They were bound on a specific mission, their cruise was circumscribed by the Admiralty's special instructions and with the Royal Navy pre-eminent in the North Atlantic he privately considered it most unlikely they would see action. Not that he was complacent, it was merely that in weighing up their chances of meeting an enemy, he thought the thing unlikely. Anyway, if he was wrong, Patrician was a heavy ship with a weight of metal superior to most enemy cruisers. Only a line-of-battle ship would out-gun her and she had the speed to escape should she encounter one.

Nevertheless he knew that grievances, once they had taken root, inevitably blossomed into some unpleasantness or other. He would have to wait and see what the disaffection between Mr Metcalfe and his fellow officers produced. For himself, the company of Vansittart proved a welcome diversion. The younger man was pleasant enough, and well-informed; close to Government circles he gossiped readily, though Drinkwater formed the opinion that his own connections with Lord Dungarth proved something of a passport to his confidences. Vansittart knew when to hold his tongue; his present indiscretions were harmless enough.

Mr Frey found his discovery of the secret wrestling match preoccupied his thoughts during the middle watch the following night. Metcalfe's involvement was foolish, the more so since he had implicated Belchambers, who was otherwise an honest lad. It was clear there was nothing he himself could do, though Metcalfe's unwise behaviour would, he felt sure, some time or another cause the first lieutenant to regret the impropriety of his conduct. Metcalfe was not easy-going enough to embroil himself with the dubious affairs of the lower deck. He had already had two men flogged for minor misdemeanours, and while Captain Drinkwater had been compelled to support his subordinate he had passed minimum sentences upon the men concerned.

It was, Frey consoled himself, none of his business, but with that peculiar importance events assume in the small hours of the night, he felt a strong compulsion to probe further into the matter. In the end he waited for Belchambers to make his report at six bells. As the bells struck and the lookouts and sentries called 'All's well' from forecastle, quarter and gun deck, the midshipman of the watch came aft, found Frey in the darkness and touched the brim of his hat.

'All's well, sir, and six bells struck.'

'Very well. Tell me,' he added quickly before Belchambers turned away, 'this business of gaming in the cable lier. Are all the midshipmen involved?'

'Well, more or less, sir,' Belchambers replied unhappily.

'That ain't exactly your kettle o' fish, is it, Mr Belchambers?'

'Not strictly speaking, sir, no ...'

Frey waited in vain for any further amplification. 'Is it Porter or the First Lieutenant?'

'First Lieutenant's pretty keen, sir,' Belchambers began, as though glad of the chance to speak of the matter, then halted, trying to study Frey's expression in the gloom, failing and adding hurriedly, 'though Porter's the devil if lie's crossed, sir, and ...' He trailed off miserably.

'Have there been many of these bouts?'

Three, sir, since we left Plymouth. There were several before we commissioned properly ... dockyard entertainments they called them. I think one or two of the hands look the idea ...'

'Are they always the same men who wrestle?'

'No, sir.'

'Who was it yesterday?'

'Newlyn and Thurston, sir.' The names meant nothing to Frey; neither man was in his division.

'And there are no other officers present?'

'Not present, no, sir.'

'Then other officers place bets?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Who are they, Mr Belchambers?' Frey's voice hardened in its expression and he wondered he had heard nothing of it in the wardroom.

'Mr Wyatt, sir.'

'Interesting,' remarked Frey almost casually. 'Now, there's something I want you to do for me, Mr Belchambers ...'

'Sir?'

'Be a good fellow and let me know when there is next to be a bout, even if I'm on watch, d'you understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

There was a note of relief in Belchambers' voice, as though he felt happier for Frey's discovery and offer of alliance. Mr Belchambers trusted Frey.

And don't say a word to a soul, d'you hear me?'

'No, sir, of course not.'

The morning after he had his officers to dinner, Captain Drinkwater invited the midshipmen to breakfast. They seemed a sound enough group of young men. The two master's mates, Davies and Johnson, were a little older, midshipmen waiting for promotion, and not likely to get it, Drinkwater thought, with Patrician bound on her run back and forth across the Atlantic and a spell tendering to the Western Squadron at the end of it.

After breakfast he sobered them just as they had begun to unwind with the news that he would inspect their journals within the week. Belchambers, used to Drinkwater's methods, brightened perceptibly. He was clearly the only member of the gunroom who had been keeping his journal up to date. The boy's expression puzzled Drinkwater, and it was not until after they had all gone with their formal and insincere expressions of gratitude that he realized Belchambers had been subdued throughout the meal. He had always been a quiet, sensitive fellow — Drinkwater recalled him fainting at the awful spectre of a deserter being hanged at Patrician's fore-yardarm — but he was usually of a cheerful disposition. Had some of the wardroom malaise spilled over into the gunroom?

Drinkwater took his cloak and hat from the hook beside the door and went on deck. Moncrieff was ordering his marines up and the men were falling in for inspection. A basket full of empty green bottles clinked and the frigate rolled and pitched, her grey canvas spread to the topgallant yards as, braced hard up against the starboard catharpings, they drove to the westward with clouds of spray sweeping over her bluff bow.

Drinkwater recalled his order to Moncrieff and watched Sergeant Hudson checking his men while Corporal Bailey issued cartridge and ball for the practice shoot. Metcalfe stood by watching, having directed a pair of grinning topmen to run a flag-halliard up to the lee main topsail yardarm where they rove it through the studding sail boom and brought the end back on deck. The boom was run out, a pair of hitches thrown over the neck of an empty bottle from the basket, and a moment later it twinkled green and provocative at the extremity of the thin spar.

'Very well, Sergeant, you may drill your men. One at a lime at the target. It's accuracy we want, not speed of fire, so take your time, my lads. Carry on.'

Moncrieff, having inspected his men in the belief that ineffective pipeclay and polish inhibited the true martial qualities, retreated to the mizen mast, where a knot of curious officers had assembled, forming round Vansittart who was professing himself something of a wildfowler. Frey, Gordon, Wyatt and Metcalfe watched as Hudson gave some inaudible instructions to his men, told them off in order and formed them into a rough line.

Then, one by one, they stepped up to the hammock nettings, rested their muskets on hammocks or against the iron cranes that supported the nets, took their aim and fired upwards.

Far above them the bottle danced impudently. A slight slackness in the halliard, the working of the ship and the whipping of the spar made it an extremely lively target. Of the thirty-seven privates in Moncrieff's detachment, not one succeeded in hitting the mark, though several struck the studding sail boom and one severed the down-haul of the halliard.

Each shot was keenly watched. Men on deck ceased their tasks, the midshipmen off duty emerged to stare. Every miss was met with a chorus of moans, punctuated by outraged shouts from Wyatt or Metcalfe when splinters flew from the boom. There were five misfires, which Moncrieff disallowed, nodding permission to Corporal Bailey to issue fresh cartridges. He turned to Metcalfe.

'D'your men have to stand and gawp, Mr Metcalfe? Have they nothing better to do?'

'They've nothing better to watch, Mr Moncrieff,' Metcalfe chortled facetiously. The marine officer turned away angrily. The first of the five marines given a second chance squinted along the barrel of his Tower musket and took aim with painstaking slowness. The watchers waited, almost holding their breath in anticipation, their good-natured mockery suspended.

'There's no need to worry about breaking this one, Moncrieff,' Metcalfe called, spoiling his aim, 'we've a whole basket of 'em!'

The frustrated marine glared insubordinately at the first lieutenant's wisecrack. At the end of the five shots, the bottle still swung unmolested. Constrained by the presence of the captain and first lieutenant, the marines shuffled disconsolately off and fell into rank and file.

'You'd better let 'em try again, Mr Moncrieff,' Drinkwater called.

'Aye, aye, sir.' Moncrieff had coloured at his men's failure and Drinkwater heard Metcalfe make some comment to which Moncrieff returned a furious look.

'If you can do any better...' Drinkwater heard Moncrieff snarl.

As the marines reloaded, Metcalfe went below. Drinkwater had dismissed him from his mind, feeling sorrier for Moncrieff who had detached himself from the officers about Vansittart and occupied a miserable no man's land between his colleagues and his men.

'I might ask you gentlemen to try your hands in a moment,' Drinkwater called in a gesture of support for Moncrieff. The marine officer threw him a grateful glance. 'We could tighten the halliard,' he offered.

Moncrieff shook his head. 'It wouldn't be the same ,sir.'

'Perhaps not, but. ..'

'Thank you, no, sir. It wouldn't be the same.'

'Very well.'

The first marine stepped forward, raised his musket and fired. The snap of the lock and spurt of powder-smoke at the gun's breech transmitted itself to a short, yellow-tipped cough from the muzzle. They stared up­wards at the dangling bottle. It spun from the passing wind of the ball, but it remained infuriatingly intact.

'Next!' commanded Moncrieff, superseding Hudson in his anxiety to obtain a hit.

Drinkwater was looking up at the third or fourth shot when Metcalfe reappeared on deck. It was only when these failed and he said in a loud and truculent voice, 'Haven't you succeeded yet?' that Drinkwater saw he was carrying a musket, presumably from the arms rack outside the wardroom.

'With your permission, sir?' he addressed Drinkwater, his expression arch and vaguely offensive.

Do you ask Moncrieff, Mr Metcalfe.'

Well, Moncrieff, will you let a fellow have a pot-shot?'

Moncrieff visibly bit off a retort. He had himself been contemplating a shot, but resisted the impulse, for to have missed would have been more irritating and, in any case, the object of the exercise was to train the men. Their shooting had been damned close for Tower muskets with a three-quarter-inch bore and balls whose casting was often more a matter of luck than precision. Let Metcalfe have a shot and damn him. He would be devilish lucky to hit the damned bottle and if he made a fool of himself, then so much the better! He nodded.

Metcalfe walked confidently to the rail, set the musket against his shoulder and raised the barrel. The bottle swung with the wind of the ball's passage and the officers and marines watching let out a hoot of triumph, for he had missed. They were all still laughing at Metcalfe's pride preceding his humiliation, when a second discharge followed. The bottle shattered, its jagged neck left at the boom-end.

Even as a suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind, the certainty of it had been realized by Moncrieff who was already striding across the deck.

'Let me see that fire-lock,' he cried.

'It ain't a Brown Bess, for sure,' Vansittart opined stridently, moving forward with the others to discover by what malpractice Metcalfe had cheated them.

The speed and accuracy of the second shot had raised all their suspicions. Metcalfe was surrounded by the officers and Drinkwater heard the accusations rain on the first lieutenant.

'It's a damned rifle ...'

'That's a Chaumette breech, damn it...'

'Let me see ... the devil! 'Tis a Ferguson rifle! Where the deuce d'you get this, Metcalfe?' Metcalfe had surrendered the gleaming weapon to their scrutiny and Moncrieff now held it. The question silenced their mild and curious outrage and they stood in a circle, staring at the first lieutenant. A feeling of premonition crept over

Drinkwater as he watched these antics, marking the distastefully smug expression on the face of his second-in-command.

He heard Metcalfe utter the words 'a gift from Captain Warburton', and the mention of his predecessor confirmed his hunch.

'Sergeant Hudson,' he called, suddenly bestirring himself, and the crack of his voice stilled the curious officers examining the rifle.

'Sah!' Hudson was ramrod stiff, his body an admonition to the levity on the quarterdeck.

'There are a dozen or more bottles yet to be shivered. Another round for each of your men and try again.'

'Yes, sah!'

Recalled to his duty, Moncrieff gave back the rifle and bustled to muster his men again. The officers broke up, some still admiring the Ferguson rifle in Metcalfe's hands, others waiting and watching the marines, others wearied of the sport now the first bottle had been dispatched.

Drinkwater went below. As he reached his cabin door he growled to the marine sentry, 'Pass the word for my servant.' A minute later Mullender appeared.

'Mullender, you recollect when we were in the Pacific I had a gun, a rifle ...'

Patiently Drinkwater awaited the slow workings of Mullender's memory.

'Aye, sir, I do. You fetched it back one day from the Californio shore,' Mullender said slowly, his brow furrowed with concentration.

'Yes, exactly. What did we do with it?'

'Well, sir,' Mullender began, stepping forward and wiping his hands on his apron, 'we stowed it in the settee locker, but…'

Drinkwater had the squabbed cushion beneath the stern windows off in a trice, long before Mullender could complete his explanation.

'But after you left the ship, sir, in a hurry like you did, sir, and we heard you wasn't to be coming back, sir, well, that's what we was told at the time and then Captain Warburton and his own man came and I was sent forward, sir…'

The stern locker was empty, at least of the oiled cloth package Drinkwater now clearly remembered laying there for safe-keeping. He had forgotten all about the rifle, assuming it was lost along with his journals and the polar bearskin he had left in Mr Quilhampton's safe-keeping. When Quilhampton had lost the gun-brig Tracker...

Above their heads the bangs of the marines' discharges were suddenly followed by a cheer: a second bottle had been hit!

'It was in here, wasn't it, Mullender? You don't recall it being removed when Mr Quilhampton took my personal effects ashore?'

'No, sir,' Mullender hung his head miserably. 'I forgot it, sir, when I packed, like, 'twas in such a hurry and Mr Quilhampton was bursting to get ashore ...'

'It doesn't matter, Mullender,' Drinkwater said, leaving the puzzled steward staring after him as he took the quarterdeck ladder two at a time. Metcalfe was still on deck, the Ferguson rifle held in the crook of his arm. Drinkwater crossed the deck and confronted Metcalfe.

'That was a capital shot, Mr Metcalfe,' Drinkwater said, 'may I see your gun?'

He knew instantly he had seen the rifle before. It had once belonged to a bearded American mountainman, a man who spent his life wandering across the vast spaces of North America and who had been shot dead at Drinkwater's feet. 'Captain Mack', he had been called, and the long-barrelled Ferguson rifle had been in his possession since he had captured it from a British officer at the Battle of King's Mountain when the gun's inventor himself suffered defeat at the hands of the American rebels. Odd how things turned out.

'If you turn the trigger guard ...'

'Yes, I know.' Drinkwater dropped the guard, exposing the breech opening that facilitated the quick loading which had so impressed them all.

'The rifling makes the shot fly true,' Metcalfe tried again, and again Drinkwater quietly said, 'Yes, I know.' In addition to the rifle, Captain Mack had left half a dozen gold nuggets and with the proceeds of their sale, Captain Drinkwater had purchased Gantley Hall. [See In Distant Waters.]

'I did not know you were so good a shot, Mr Metcalfe,' he said, handing back the rifle. 'It's a fine piece.'

Metcalfe grinned complacently. 'That is why Captain Warburton kindly presented me with it,' he explained.

'And where did Captain Warburton obtain it?' Drinkwater asked.

'I believe he inherited it, sir.'

'Did he now?'

Above their heads there was the sound of shattering glass and a thin cheer went up from the marines still at their target practice.