'What's the date of your commission, Drinkwater?' asked Hetherington of Fox, a small, pinch-faced man with prominent ears.
'October '97.'
'That makes you senior, Morris.'
'It does indeed,' said Morris with relish, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater. 'Mr Drinkwater once outranked me, Hetherington. A temporary matter, d'you know. It is only just that I should have the whip hand now.'
'Well what are we going to do?' enquired the anxious Hetherington who was not much interested in Morris's autobiography.
Morris took his eyes reluctantly off his old enemy and fixed Hetherington with an opaque look that Drinkwater remembered from twenty years earlier. 'Why, just what we have been told, Hetherington. Take the dhows of course. Mr Drinkwater will lead the attack…' Drinkwater met his gaze again, reading Morris's intentions quite clearly. Morris turned to Hetherington. 'You may return to your ship.' His hand shot out and restrained Drinkwater who had thought to leave.
'Not you, my dear Nathaniel,' said Morris with heavy sarcasm, his hand gripping viciously upon Drinkwater's right upper arm, twisting the muscle maimed two years earlier by Edouard Santhonax, 'we have an old acquaintance to revive.'
'I think not, Morris,' said Drinkwater coolly as the other dropped his hand.
'Ah, but I order you to stay, there is so much to discuss. Your wife for instance…'
Drinkwater froze, suddenly anxious and searching Morris's face for the truth.
'Oh, yes, I have seen her, Nathaniel. Heavy with child too. You have overcome your prudery I see. Unless it was another.' Morris broke out into low laughter as Drinkwater's hand reached for his hanger. Morris shook his head. 'That would be most imprudent.' Drinkwater clenched his fist impotently. 'She looked unwell.'
Drinkwater saw in Morris's expression a cruel delight, such as Yusuf ben Ibrahim had worn as he butchered the Frenchmen of La Torride.
Drinkwater opened his mouth to reply but the words were lost in the sudden roar of Daedalus''s guns. Ball had hauled down the flag of truce and resumed the bombardment. Spinning on his heel Drinkwater returned to his boat and Hellebore.
'Bear off forrard! Give way together!' Drinkwater took the tiller and swung the cutter away under Hellebore's stern. Passing across Daedalus's bow he steadied for the nearest dhow. Looking to starboard he saw Hetherington's boat shoot ahead of Fox, then Morris came out from the shelter of Daedalus.
'Pull, you lubbers. Let's get this business finished quickly!' The boat's crew were already grimed and sweat-seamed from working the guns in relays, but they lay back on their oars willingly enough. Over their heads shot whined through the sullen air. Drinkwater looked ahead at Kosseir. The town was passing into shadow, purple and umber as the sun westered behind the mountains of the Sharqiya.
They reached the first vessel, a large baghala, deserted by her crew. Drinkwater led his men aboard and it was the work of only a few minutes to set her on fire. As they tumbled back into the cutter Daedalus's boat came alongside, a midshipman in charge of her.
'Mr Morris orders you to attack yon dhow, sir.' The youth pointed to a vessel anchored just off the ramshackle mole. Drinkwater swung round to look at the dhow next astern of them. He could see Morris on its deck. No smoke as yet issued from her, though their own target was well ablaze. A dark suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind as he nodded to the midshipman. 'Very well.'
'Give way…' Rounding the burning baghala's bow Drinkwater headed for the mole. They were no more than two hundred yards from the decaying breakwater, their new victim lying midway between.
'Is that match all right?' The gunner's mate in charge of the combustibles blew on the slow match and nodded. 'Aye, sir.'
'Pull, damn you!' growled Drinkwater, seeing for the first time men in blue uniforms running out along the mole and dropping to their knees. They were French sharpshooters, the trailleurs of the 21st Demi-Brigade. The oar looms bent under redoubled effort.
The cutter ran alongside the dhow and the seamen jumped aboard. At the instant they stood on the deck the sharpshooters opened fire. It was long musket range but Drinkwater immediately felt a searing pain across his thigh and looked down to see where a ball had galled him, reddening his breeches. Beside him a man was bowled over as though dead but sat up a few moments later, nursing bruised ribs from a spent musket ball. Drinkwater and his men crawled about the deck, assembling enough combustibles to ignite the dhow, wriggling backwards with the small keg of black powder leaving a trail across the deck. Drinkwater nodded and the gunner's mate blew on his match and touched it to the powder train. The flame sputtered and tracked across the deck, over the coaming and below. Smoke began to writhe out of the dhow's hold.
'Back to the boat!' he called sharply over his shoulder, venturing one last look at the crumbling mud brick of Kosseir's pitiful defences. Overhead the whirr of cannon shot told where the squadron were thundering away, while puffs of dust and little settling disturbances of masonry showed the process of reduction. He scanned the beach that curved away to the left of the town. A few small fishing boats were drawn up on it and the dull green of vegetation showed where a hardy and pitiful cultivation was carried on. Some taller palms grew in a clump by a waterhole. As he ducked again and was about to crawl back to the boat Drinkwater noticed something else, something that brought him to his feet in a wild leap for the cutter. Round the end of the mole a boat was pulling vigorously towards them.
The cutter was shoved off from the burning dhow and pulled clear of its shelter. Shot dropped round them and a brief glance astern showed the enemy boat no more than thirty yards astern.
'She's closin' on us, sir,' muttered the man at stroke oak nodding astern. Drinkwater's back felt vulnerable. He looked over his shoulder and stared down the muzzle of a swivel gun. The puff of smoke that followed made his heart skip and he felt the ball hit the transom. Drinkwater looked down to see the dark swirl of water beneath him.
Twilight was increasing by the minute and they had no hope of reaching the brig before being overtaken or sinking. They had a single chance.
'Hold water all! Oars and cutlasses!'
The enemy boat came on and Drinkwater pulled a pistol from his belt. He laid the weapon on one of the gunners and saw the man stagger, a hand to his shoulder. A second later the two boats ground together.
Lent coolness by desperation, Drinkwater grabbed the gunwhale of the enemy boat. Beneath his feet Hellebore's cutter felt sluggish and low as behind him the crew stumbled aft. Swiping upwards with his hanger Drinkwater leapt aboard the French boat. Manning the swivel were three artillerymen from Desaix's army. Their eyes were pus-filled from ophthalmia and one already clasped a wounded shoulder. A second had recovered from Drinkwater's sword swipe as he straightened up. Drinkwater lunged his shoulder into the man, knocking him backwards and banging the pommel of his sword into the side of the man's head.
The impetus of the approaching French boat had slewed the cutter round so that her crew could leap the easier from their sinking craft. Drinkwater was aware of a stumbling, swearing melee of men to his right as, over the fork of the swivel gun, the third gunner faced him, a heavy sword bayonet in his hand.
Drinkwater saw the matter in his eyes, and the mouth set hard beneath the black moustache. He stumbled as the boat rocked violently under the assault. A man, thrown overboard in the scuffle, screamed as the first shark, attracted by the blood, found him. His frenzied cries lent a sudden fury to them all.
The artilleryman struck down at Drinkwater as he recovered. Desperately Nathaniel caught the impact of the heavy blade on the forte of his sword and twisted upwards, carrying the big bayonet with him. Then, in a clumsy manoeuvre, he executed a bind, riding over the blade and forcing it across to the right. He made the movement in instinctive desperation, with every ounce of his strength. In this he had the advantage. The gunner, weakened by disease and malnutrition, only half able to see and unused to boats, lost his balance as he tried to avoid the Englishman's much longer blade. Drinkwate
r felt the pressure stop and saw, with a curious mixture of relief and pity, a pair of tattered bootsoles as the man fell overboard.
This emotion was swiftly replaced by a savage gratification as he swung half right to plunge amongst the fighting still ranging in the boat. Then it was all over, suddenly the boat was theirs and men were grabbing oars and tossing Frenchmen callously overboard. In perhaps three minutes the British had destroyed their pursuers and had begun to pull the boat offshore to where the three British warships still cannonaded the town. It was almost dark. The gun flashes of the squadron were reflected on the oily surface of the sea, the burning dhows flamed like torches. There were only four of them; so neither Morris nor Hetherington had burned more than one dhow and two still remained unscathed. It was clear to Nathaniel that he had run more than the gauntlet of death from the French. The events of less than an hour seemed at that moment to have lasted a lifetime. He felt very tired.
After reporting to Griffiths, Drinkwater went in search of rest. The British remained at quarters during the night, snatching what sleep they could beside their cannon as the chill of the desert night cooled them. From time to time a gun was discharged to intimidate the French. Rolling himself in his boat cloak Drinkwater settled down under the little poop to sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when someone shook him.
'Zur,' Tregembo whispered softly, 'Mr Drinkwater, zur.'
'Eh? What is it, Tregembo?'
'Did you know that bugger Morris was aboard Daed'lus, zur?'
'Of course I did. He commanded her boat in the raid.' A sudden desire to communicate his fears seized him. There was between the two of them a bond that stretched beyond the bulwarks of the brig to the small Hampshire town of Petersfield. This bond underran the social barriers that divided them. 'I think he tried to kill me this evening.'
Drinkwater heard Tregembo whistle. 'That explains it, zur. We saw Fox's boat pull towards you when you was attacked. As it passed Daed'lus's cutter it were turned back. Then the signal for recall was hoisted I heard say, zur. I also heard Mr Dalziell mention he knew the lieutenant just joined Daed'lus, and when I heard him tell Mr Lestock it was a Mr Morris… well I guessed, zur.'
Drinkwater's mind flew back to a day twenty years earlier when this same man had given a nervous midshipman the courage to challenge Morris.
'If anything happens to you, zur, I'll swing for the bastard.'
'No Tregembo,' said Drinkwater sharply. 'If anything happens to me do you get yourself home to your Susan and tell Lord Dungarth. Appleby'll help you. That's an order man.'
Tregembo hesitated. 'Damn it, Tregembo, I'll rest easier if I thought he'd died by due process of law.'
Tregembo sighed. Such niceties were the penalty he paid for his contacts with 'the quality'. 'Aye, zur. I will. And I'll keep a weather eye out for your lady.'
A wave of pure fear swept over Drinkwater but he suppressed it beneath a rough gratitude for Tregembo's loyalty. 'Aye, you do that Tregembo. My thanks to you. The sooner we are away out of this accursed bay the better. We have orders for England once…' he checked himself. He had been about to say 'once the captain has rid himself of his present obsession.' But that was too much of a confidence even for Tregembo. The recollection steadied him and Tregembo left, silently swearing to himself that Lieutenant Drinkwater need have no fear if it was left to him.
But sleep would not now come to Drinkwater. He rose and went below. The scratches of his wounds throbbed and in the gunroom he cleaned them with the remains of a bottle of rum. Above his head a guntruck squealed and the boom of the six-pounder split the night. Mr Rogers was clearly going to let the French know that he was on deck, middle watch or no. Drinkwater went forward to look at Quilhampton.
The apparently indefatigable Catherine Best still ministered to him, washing the small white body with wine and water so that evaporation might cool the boy.
'How is he?'
'A little cooler, but still fevered. You have been wounded, sir?'
'It is nothing at all.'
'But it will mortify in this climate.'
'No. I have washed it with rum. I shall survive.' He took the rag off her and gently pushed her aside. 'Get some rest. I shall sit with him a while.'
He eased himself down beside the midshipman and sniffed the bandages on the stump. Thank God there was no offensive taint to it, as yet. Presently his head dropped forward and he slept.
At five o'clock in the morning the three British cruisers reopened their cannonade on Kosseir. It was to last seven hours.
At noon when the bombardment halted, anxious gunners reported the serious depletion of their stocks of ammunition and Ball summoned his fellow captains. At four in the afternoon the boats of Daedalus succeeded in burning the two dhows that remained anchored in the inner roadstead.
As the day drew to a close a swell rolled into Kosseir Bay, setting the boats of the squadron bobbing and grinding one another as they assembled alongside Hellebore. The brig was the most southerly of the three British ships and a convenient starting place for the next phase of Captain Ball's questionable strategy. All the boats had their carronades mounted, those in the frigate's launches of eighteen pound calibre. The expedition was to land south of the town. Its object was to destroy the wells used by the French, located in the miserable oasis observed by Drinkwater earlier. About eighty seamen and marines were mustered for this purpose under the command of Captain Stuart of Fox. Seconding him were Lieutenants Morris, Hetherington and Drinkwater.
'Watch this swell upon the beach, bach,' said Griffiths at parting and Drinkwater nodded. Service in Kestrel and the buoy yachts of Trinity House had rendered him acutely conscious of sea state.
Night was again falling as they pulled away from the brig. Stuart's boat led, the others following. At the last moment Drinkwater had ordered Tregembo back on board with a message for Lestock. As soon as the Cornishman had disappeared Drinkwater pushed off.
Already the sun was touching the distant peaks of the Sharqiya, but in the gathering shadows troops could be seen hurrying along the road to the oasis. Drinkwater turned his boat, that captured from the French when the cutter had been lost, in the wake of Stuart's launch. As they approached the beach they could feel the swell humping up beneath them, see it rolling ahead of them to break in a heavy surf.
'Mr Brundell!' Drinkwater hailed the master's mate commanding the gig next astern. 'There's a surf. Do you use your anchor from forward, let go abreast of me!'
He saw Brundell wave acknowledgement. The gig did not mount a gun, was too light for the six-pounders lent to the boats that had no carronades. Thankful that there were old Kestrels in Hellebore's company who would appreciate the technique, Drinkwater watched with misgiving where, ahead of them he saw Stuart's boat anchor by the stern.
'Forrard there!' He stood up to command attention. The gunner's mate looked astern. 'Sir?'
'You will have time for only a single discharge. Make sure you fire on the upward pitch. Make ready!'
Drinkwater could see the beach, becoming monochromatic in the dusk. Troops were deploying on it, well back from the water's edge. Drinkwater put the tiller over and cast a single glance astern. The build up of the breakers was very noticeable. He straightened the boat for the beach. 'Oars!' The men ceased rowing. 'Fire!' The carronade barked. 'Hold water starboard!' The boat slewed. 'Let go!' The anchor splashed overboard and the boat drifted broadside. 'Backwater starboard! Backwater all!' The boat turned and from the corner of his eye he saw Brundell bring the gig round.
'Drinkwater! What the hell d'you think you're playing at?' Morris's voice cut across the roar of the breakers. Drinkwater ignored it. 'Check her forrard!' A twitch on the anchor warp told the anchor held. 'Backwater all!' Drinkwater repeated, his back to the beach, watching the boat's head rise to the surf which increased in sharpness as they drove into shallow water. They were surrounded by tumbling wave crests. He cast a single glance astern. 'Hold on! Boat oars!'
He nodded to the corporal of
the marine detachment from Fox. Together the two men led the boat's crew over the transom. For a minute they floundered, found their footing and scrambled ashore. Drinkwater cast a single glance back at the boat to see the boat-keepers at their stations.
To right and left the British were coming ashore. Stuart's men were already deploying, the marine in the centre, but his boat was in trouble, her forefoot pounding on the hard sand, her flat transom presenting a greater impediment to the breakers than the sharp bows of the Hellebore's.
The marines had opened fire, a rolling volley designed to pin down any interference from the town while the seamen attacked the wells. The party began to advance up the beach as the last boats came in. Two had followed Drinkwater's example, the remainder had anchored by the stern, their carronades or borrowed long guns theoretically covering the landing. In the event the violence of the surf prevented more than an occasional lucky shot, while the gunners were bounced and shaken by the motion.
Drinkwater waved his detachment up on the flank of the marines. The men ran forward, their bare feet slapping on the sand, the cutlasses gleaming dully in their brawny hands.
The buzz of a thousand bees halted them. A company of French infantry occupied low scrub ahead of them, galling them with a furious musket fire. The seamen were in soft sand now. Several fired pistols while the officers cheered them forward. They could hardly see the enemy's dark uniform blending with the thorn scrub, the flashes of their muskets too brief to lay a pistol on. Men were falling and the forward rush was checked.
Then the French charged and a stumbling fight ensued, the seamen hacking with their clumsy weapons, glad of the proximity of their enemy, shaken by the earlier fire they had received on the open beach. Drinkwater thought they had a chance. He looked round hoping to find Morris's men coming up behind them. Morris and his men had halted seventy yards away. To his left Stuart was equally hard pressed. Hetherington's men seemed to be in support of the marines. Drinkwater's eye was caught by a movement at the water's edge. The stern line of one of the boats had parted. He saw her broach and roll over in the surf, saw her split like a melon. The moment's inattention was paid for as a Frenchman drove his musket butt into Drinkwater's guts. He gasped and retched, vaguely aware that Brundell's pistol butt caught the man's face, then he was on his knees fighting for breath.
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