'Mr Brundell!'
'Sir?' The master's mate came aft.
'D'you not know your damned business, sir? Those't'gallant buntlines are in need of overhauling. Get about it on the instant!' He missed Brundell's wounded look.
Drinkwater came aft again, scowling at the men at the wheel whose downcast eyes were attentively following the lubber's line.
The pale form of Lieutenant Morris emerged from the companionway. Morris wore his uniform coat over his shoulders and his left arm was slung across his chest. Mild fever sharpened the malevolent glitter in his curiously hooded eyes and Drinkwater was once again disturbed by the almost tangible menace of the man.
'Good morning, my dear Drinkwater,' he hissed, little agglomerations of spittle in the corners of his mouth.
'Mornin' Morris,' Drinkwater managed out of courtesy and passed aft.
Drinkwater judged the sun high enough to take an observation for longitude, ignoring Morris leaning negligently on the companionway, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater. In the middle of the calculation, hurriedly tabulated on a slate, a worried looking carpenter returned to the quarterdeck.
'Well, Mr Johnson?' said Drinkwater as he flicked the table of versines over.
'You was right, sir. Shifted two tiers of barricoes under the sail locker to larboard o' the cables an' found a bleeding split, sir. Reckon the copper's off outside.'
'H'm, can you do anything with it?'
Johnson rubbed his chin which was blue with a fast growing stubble. 'Reckon if I shift a few more o' the casks I can tingle it from the inside, temp'r'y like, sir.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'See to it after breakfast, Mr Johnson. I'll have Mr Rogers send the mate of the day below at eight bells to shift the casks for you.'
He bent again to his figures.
'Beg pardon, sir?'
'Yes, what is it?'
'How did you know it was the larboard bow?'
Drinkwater smiled. 'I thought she touched when we were entering Kosseir Bay, Mr Johnson. Probably hit a coral head and broke it off.'
Johnson nodded. 'Reckon that's the size of it, sir.'
Drinkwater watched him waddle off, saw him hop up on to the fo'c's'le and look into Gregory's hammock, then turn away shaking his head.
'Still a deuced clever and knowing dog are you not, my dear Drinkwater,' insinuated Morris. Drinkwater flicked a glance at the helmsmen. Their fixed expressions showed they had heard and Drinkwater was filled with a sudden anger.
'Don't presume upon our friendship, Morris, and mind your tongue upon my deck.'
But Morris did not react, merely smiled with his mouth, then turned away below. Drinkwater stared ahead. Mocha was eight hundred miles to the southward and the brig could not fly over the distance fast enough.
'Mr Brundell!'
'Sir?'
'At eight bells have both watches hoist studdin' sails.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
He waited impatiently for the quadruple double ring and the arrival of Mr Lestock to relieve him.
The gunroom was crowded when he went below. Cots had been constructed in each of the two after corners, one for Dalziell, displaced by Catherine Best from his own cabin, the other, a hasty addition, for Morris. Gaston Bruilhac still slept beneath the table. Appleby was just emerging from the after cabin when Drinkwater sat for his bowl of burgoo.
The surgeon jerked his head over his shoulder as he caught Drinkwater's interrogative eye. 'Taken to his bed,' explained Appleby, 'the Gambia trouble again.'
Drinkwater sighed. Griffiths had taken the Kosseir debacle very badly. He was never prodigal with the lives of his men, many of whom were old Kestrels, volunteers from the almost forgotten days of peace. The butcher's bill for the action with La Torride and the attack on Kosseir had been excessive. With the thunder of the silent guns ringing in his ears as they withdrew from before the battered but defiant town, Griffiths had succumbed to an onslaught of his malaria.
Finishing his breakfast Drinkwater went into the after cabin. The sweet smell of perspiration filled the stuffy space. Griffiths lay in his cot, his eyes closed, but he opened them as Drinkwater leaned over the twisted sheets.
'How are you sir?'
'Bad, Nathaniel, bach… duw, but get me a drink, get me a drink…'
Drinkwater found a bottle and poured the wine.
'Watch them all, Nathaniel, watch them all. You were the only one I ever trusted.' There was a frantic quality about him, a desperation that Drinkwater suddenly found frightening, reminding him of Griffiths's fragile mortality. The idea of being left without him was unthinkable. As if divining Drinkwater's sense of abandonment Griffiths suddenly asked, 'Where are we? What the devil's our position?'
'Latitude…'
'No where? Where for God's sake?' Griffiths had half sat up and was clawing at Drinkwater's sleeve, like a man who had laid down to sleep in a strange place and, on waking, is unable to recall his whereabouts.
'The Red Sea, sir,' Drinkwater soothed.
Griffiths lay back as though satisfied. 'Ah,Y Môr Coch, Y Môr Coch is it…' His voice trailed off in a murmur of incomprehensible Welsh. For a while Drinkwater sat with him as he seemed to drift off into sleep.
Then Griffiths struggled up, an abrupt frown seaming his gleaming forehead. 'The Red Sea, d'you say? Yes, yes, of course… and we head south, eh?'
'Aye sir.'
'Don't forget the sun's ahead of you, neglect the lookout at your peril…' He fell back from this vehement warning. Drinkwater left the cabin and went to find Johnson and his party in the forehold.
Griffiths's warning was timely. The central part of the Red Sea ran deep but the approach to Mocha was made dangerous by many coral reefs. Sailing north they had always had the sun behind them, facilitating the spotting of reefs from the foremasthead. Now the reverse was true and the force of a favourable wind lent a southerly course the quality of impetuosity. Drinkwater remembered his order to hoist the studding sails with a pang of cautionary misgivings, then allayed his fears with the reflection that this portion of the Red Sea was free of reefs except for the low islet of Daedalus Shoal some sixty leagues south-east of them.
He found Johnson busy crouched in the darkness between two timbers, the gleam of incoming water lit by lanterns held by ship's boys, burning weakly in the bad air. Johnson had a pad of picked oakum pressed against the leak to batten over with timber and tarred canvas. Drinkwater looked round him in the gloom.
'The devil's task moving the casks, eh, Mr Johnson?'
'Aye, sir. I reckon Josh Kirby's ruptured himself, like, beggin' your pardon.'
Drinkwater sighed. Another customer for one of Appleby's trusses. The hard physical labour of working His Majesty's ships of war resulted in frequent hernias, a debilitating condition for any man, let alone a seaman. Drinkwater knew of many officers who suffered from them too, and next to addiction to alcohol it was the commonest form of affliction suffered by seamen of all stations.
Returning aft he called on Mr Quilhampton. Opening the flimsy cabin door he found the boy sitting in a chair, reading aloud from Falconer's Marine Dictionary. Drinkwater was aware of a sudden thrusting movement as Gaston Bruilhac shoved past him in apparent panic.
'Good mornin', Mr Q. What the deuce has that puppy been up to to look so damned guilty?'
'Morning sir.' Quilhampton frowned. 'Damned if I know, sir. It's rather queer, but despite my assurances to the contrary he's still terrified of all the officers sir, especially the captain, you and your friend Mr Morris.'
Drinkwater snorted. 'Mr Morris, Mr Q, is an old "Admiralty acquaintance" with whom I never saw eye to eye. You may disabuse yourself of ideas of intimacy.'
Quilhampton appeared pleased.
'What are you reading?' asked Drinkwater, aware that he should not discuss even Morris with a midshipman. 'Are you communicating with the French boy?'
'Yes, sir,' said Quilhampton enthusiastically, 'Falconer has a French lexicon appended to his dictionary, as you know, s
ir, and we're making some progress. If only he wasn't so damned nervous.'
'Well I'm glad to see you so cheerful, Mr Q.' He forebore mentioning the ligatures. If Appleby was premature in drawing them Quilhampton would suffer agony. That was the surgeon's province.
At noon Drinkwater and Lestock observed their latitude. Both expressed their surprise that the brig was not more to the south but their ponderings were interrupted by a strange cry from the masthead.
'Deck there! Red Sea ahead!'
Such an unusual hail brought all on deck to the rail. The sea had lost its brilliant blue and white appearance and at first seemed the colour of mud, then suddenly Hellebore was ploughing her way through vermillion waves. This strange novelty caused expressions of naive wonder to cross the faces of the men and Drinkwater remembered Griffiths's muttered 'Y Môr Coch'. They dropped a bucket over and brought up a sample. It was, in detail, a disappointing phenomena, a reddish dust lay upon the water, the corpses of millions of tiny organisms which, in dying, turned a brilliant hue. In less than an hour they had passed out of the area and the men went laughing to their dinners.
The sight, the subject of a long entry in Drinkwater's journal, drove all thoughts of the suspect latitude from their minds.
When he came on deck again at eight bells in the afternoon he based his longitude observation on the latitude observed at noon. He was not to know that refraction of the horizon made nonsense of the day's calculations. They were well to the south and east of their assumed position and for some it was to be a fatal error.
But it was Lieutenant Rogers whose greater mistake spelled disaster for the brig. They had experienced the magically disturbing phenomena of a 'milk sea' many times since that first eruption of phosphorescence in the southern Indian Ocean. Conversations with officers at Mocha, experienced in the navigation of the eastern seas, had led them to remit their instinctive fear of shoaling which was often occasioned by this circumstance. They had heard from Blankett's men how captains and all hands had been called and precious anchors lost on several occasions when an officer apprehended the immediate loss of the ship on a shoal in the middle of the night. Subsequent soundings had shown a depth greater than the leadline could determine and the 'foaming breakers' were discovered to be no more than the phosphorescent tumbling of the open sea.
But such arcane knowledge bestowed on a man of Rogers's temperament was apt to blunt his natural fears and he disallowed the report from the masthead with a contemptuous sneer.
And so, at ten minutes after three on the morning of the 19th August 1799 His Britannic Majesty's Brig of War Hellebore ran hard ashore on the outlying spurs of Abu al Kizan, ironically known to the Royal Navy as Daedalus Reef.
Chapter Fourteen
The Will of Allah
August 1799
Drinkwater was flung from his cot by the impact. In the darkness he was aware of shouts, curses and screams. The entire hull seemed to flex once as a loud crack was followed by the crash of falling spars and blocks, the muffling slump of canvas and the peculiar whirring slap of ropes falling slack across the deck. In his drawers he pushed his way through the confused press of men making for the upper deck. As he emerged he was aware that the lofty spread of the brig's masts, rigging and sails were gone, that the mighty arch of the heavens spread overhead uninterrupted. Lieutenant Rogers stood open-mouthed in shock, refusing to believe the evidence of his eyes.
Drinkwater leapt for the rail and in an instant saw the fringe of white water breaking round the low islet to larboard, lifeless patches of blackness in the night marked the presence of rock outcrops. All around Hellebore the surge and welter of water breaking over shallows confirmed what his nerves were already telling him. Beneath his feet the brig's hull was dead.
He turned to Rogers. It was pointless remonstrating with the man. Rogers would be needed in the coming hours and in any case Drinkwater's acute sense of responsibility was already aware that he himself was not without blame. The reef was undoubtedly Daedalus Reef; their assumed position had been woefully in error and, although he did not yet know why, his conscience nagged him.
'Well sir,' he said to Rogers in as steady a voice as he could muster, 'it seems that we have wrecked the ship… and for God's sake close your mouth.'
Drinkwater was suddenly aware of many faces in the night, all clamouring for attention. There was fear too, revealed by panicky movements to and from the rails. He saw Catherine Best, her face white, a shawl made of sennit-work round her shoulders. Undercurrents of disorder swept the deck.
'Silence there!' bawled Drinkwater, leaping on to a gun breech forgetful of his near-nakedness. 'We ain't going to sink, damn it, come away from those boats. Mr Rogers! A roll call if you please. Mr Lestock! Sound round the hull; Mr Johnson the well. Mr Trussel examine the extent of damage to the hull… take parties with you…' His voice trailed away. Rising from the companionway like an apparition, a tall nightcap falling to one side of his face, the wind whipping a voluminous nightshirt about him, came Commander Griffiths. Men fell silent and drew aside from his path.
'Myndiawl!'. What in the name of Almighty God have you done to my ship?'
Griffiths's mighty voice rolled in anguish across the shambles of the deck which had the appearance of a scene from hell. The jagged ends of the masts stuck upwards, their remains grinding alongside, worked by the surge of the sea. Forward of the galley funnel the ship was buried under spars, rigging and canvas which lifted like the obscene death-throes of a gigantic bird. By some fluke the mainmast had tottered over to larboard, leaving a clear patch of deck amidships which seethed with the brig's people.
Drinkwater felt a sharp contraction in his guts, a sudden sense, awful in its intensity, that he had betrayed Griffiths. His nakedness seemed at once shameful and penitent. He was robbed of speech before Griffiths's agony, then a brief anger spurred him to denounce Rogers. But his own underlying sense of culpability checked such a mean outburst. He looked at Griffiths whose eyes glittered with tears and fever then slipped sideways to another face, staring at him out of the gloom with amused satisfaction. Drinkwater's nakedness was reflected in Morris's expression. Real anger came to his aid; he found his voice.
'Carry on with my orders, gentlemen. Mr Grey…' The boatswain pushed forward, 'get a party to start raising provisions out of the storerooms. Master's mate, do you put a guard on the spirit room and if I find a man the worse for liquor I'll have him at the gratings calling for his mother before the sun's up.' He turned to Griffiths. 'Sir… I… we are lost, sir… Daedalus Reef… our reckoning was out sir, I, er…' He felt close to tears himself, a weak desire to capitulate to the overwhelming feelings of frustration that laid siege to his spirit. But then Griffiths tottered forward and Drinkwater caught him. Already the period of shocked lucidity had passed, the ague had reclaimed him and he muttered deliriously to himself in his native tongue. The sudden urgent need to get the captain below reassured Drinkwater. All round them the men were bustling to their new tasks. Catherine Best's hair brushed his face. 'Get him below, hey, you there, lend a hand…'
'Sir, can I…?' It was Mr Quilhampton, his stump across his chest, his right hand held protectively over it. Appleby had tried the ligatures without success. Mr Quilhampton had not flinched. 'Get the surgeon! And round up some men to carry the captain below.' Then he added in a lower voice, 'look after him Catherine, we have great need of him now.' Two seamen arrived to relieve them of their burden. The woman straightened up. In the darkness he could see her smile of reassurance.
'I will sir,' she said, and her hand closed for a second on his. Then Appleby appeared and Drinkwater turned to attend to Johnson.
'Five feet o' water in the well, sir, but the line's short. I think we've lost the bottom, sir.' Lestock arrived. 'Two fathoms aft barely one forrard, both masts gone by the board…'
'Twenty barrels of powder spoiled and we've lost some water. Deal of the dry stores spoiled and judging by the top tier of casks in the hold we've stove in the bo
ttom…' Trussel reported.
Drinkwater forced his mind to assimilate the details. Already a plan for their immediate survival was forming in his mind. He already knew there was no chance of saving the ship.
'Well, Mr Rogers?'
Rogers had recovered his composure. 'Three men killed, sir. Gregory, the foremast fell across his hammock; Stock, foremast lookout, killed when the mast fell, and Jeavons, he was forrard and was struck by a block. There are quite a number of injuries…'
'Right,' Drinkwater cut him short, 'all the unfit to go below. Is that all?'
'Two missing,' added Rogers.
Drinkwater could imagine that, men on duty swept overboard in the chaos of falling gear. He thought for a moment.
'We must get the galley stove lit and all hands fed well at daylight. Use broached stores to conserve stocks. I've put the master's mates in charge of the spirit store until we get things sorted out. Keep a watch for drunkenness, Rogers, if this lot get out of hand there will be the devil to pay.'
'And then what d'you propose?' a voice sneered. Lieutenant Morris intruded into the little group.
'We wait until daylight Morris,' replied Drinkwater coolly, 'unless you have any better suggestions, then we will move the wounded to the reef and salvage what we can. The boats, Mr Grey, must be preserved at all costs. About your duties gentlemen.' The officers dispersed and Drinkwater was left alone with Morris. He was again uncomfortably aware of his lack of clothing.
'I think, my dear Nathaniel, that this time even you have bitten off more than you can chew.'
Drinkwater moved towards the companionway to find a shirt and his breeches. He turned sharply towards his enemy and retraced his steps. For one delicious moment he wished he had had his sword for he would have had no compunction in thrusting it deep into Morris's belly. The satisfaction, like that of lancing a boil, would have been cathartic. Instead he was reduced to a venomous retort.
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