A Brig of War nd-3

by Richard Woodman

  'Let us hope that we may toast our success in this Santhonax's cabin stores before long.' Wrinch extended his hand to Drinkwater.

  'Good luck, Strangford. I hope Allah wills our little enterprise.'

  Wrinch had hardly disappeared before the Hellebores were bundled below and Yusuf ben Ibrahim called his drugged crew to order. With no apparent ill effects the sambnk slipped seawards and two hours after sunrise was beating northwards through sparkling seas. Aware that for the moment he was a passenger Drinkwater slept like a child.

  By mid-morning they had left Rayikhah Island well astern and turned north-east to raise Ras Murabit. They began to fish as they closed the shore again and by the afternoon were in company with two other native craft similarly employed. At about four o'clock with the mountains of the Hejaz well defined against a sky of perfect blue and the low, paler dun-coloured coastal plain still shimmering in the heat, they made out the frigate, tiny at first, but growing larger as they sailed closer, in company with the other boats returning after their day's fishing to the sharm Al Nukhra. As they approached they could see the vessel was upright and lying head to wind with her yards crossed. They must have completed their maintenance work, for the ship had all the appearance of being ready for sea.

  As the wind died towards evening their pace slackened. Once again the Hellebores were sent below, only the officers with Arab dress being permitted to keep the deck. Looking pale and drawn Commander Griffiths remained, his eyes fixed upon the enemy frigate.

  The French ship lay in a sharm which formed a spoon-shaped indentation in the coastline. A few scrubby mangroves were visible on the foreshore and the square shapes of low, mud-brick houses squatted among palms. At the head of the sharm the dried up watercourse wound inland, the wadi that Wrinch would use to cover his own approach.

  Boldly, and with the setting sun silhouetting them, the sambuk of Yusuf ben Ibrahim accompanied the boats from Al Mukhra, his crew exchanging shouted comments about the paucity of fish off Rayikhah and blaming it upon the anger of Allah that the infidel had overrun Egypt. The men from Al Mukhra were clearly of the same opinion. They pointed to the French frigate and made obscene gestures. Their women, they said, were being contaminated by the heathen French who had been anchored too long and were hornier than goats with their drunkenness and their lusting. Indeed Allah must have turned his face from the faithful of Al Mukhra who were among the most wretched of men. All this was perfectly comprehensible to Drinkwater, accompanied as it was by universally accepted gestures. It was clear that though Santhonax might have bought the local headmen with gifts and gold, the humbler people who dwelt here had no love for the French.

  Drinkwater tried to concentrate on the approach to the sharm storing up knowledge for later use but it seemed to be well chosen, for the approach was wide and deep and clearly Santhonax relied upon the fear of reefs more than their actual presence. Drinkwater found himself thinking more of Santhonax himself and knew intuitively that that was what preoccupied Griffiths. The tall, handsome Frenchman with the livid scar, whom they had chased the length and breadth of the English Channel and pursued along the sandy coast of Holland, seemed drawn towards them by a curious fate. Drinkwater thought of the extraordinary circumstances that had led them to the grey afternoon off Camperdown when, in a Dutch yacht, they had taken him prisoner. And there had been his mistress too, the beautiful auburn-haired Hortense, who had fooled the British authorities for months, living as an emigree in England. He wondered what had become of her, whether Santhonax knew that he, Drinkwater, had released her, turned her loose on a French beach like an unwanted bitch.

  He shook his head and drew his glass from under his robe. Careful not to catch the sun upon its lens he levelled it at the French frigate. Half an hour later they anchored off the beach and settled to wait for nightfall.

  The fish-hold of the sambuk presented a bizarre spectacle. Crammed into its odoriferous space the Hellebores, faces blackened with soot, prepared for battle. The two lieutenants checked the men and struggled aft to where Griffiths waited, sitting on a coil of rope. He had hardly spoken since they had left Daedalus Reef.

  'We are prepared sir. I am almost certain that she is not fully armed yet, her draft is too light and there is still a large encampment ashore. A boat came off just after we anchored but pulled ashore again. The land breeze is already stirring and we will need only a little sail to cover the two cables 'twixt us and the enemy.'

  'Da iawn, Mr Drinkwater, well done. You will want to be leaving soon, is it?'

  'Aye, sir, in a moment or two.'

  'Did you observe our friend at all?'

  'Santhonax? No sir.'

  Griffiths grunted. 'Very well, good luck. I hope Wrinch told this blackamoor not to move till he saw the signal.'

  'Yes sir. I do not think Yusuf will move without a fair chance of victory. He is not the kind to embark on forlorn hopes.'

  'Off you go then, bach, and be careful.'

  Drinkwater went on deck. The small dinghy was bobbing alongside and Rogers waited to see him off. Yusuf ben Ibrahim was also on deck, smoking hashish with his wild-eyed crew. The moon was up, a slender crescent, an omen of singular aptness thought Drinkwater pointing it out to the Arab. Yusuf grinned comprehend-ingly. 'In'sh Allah' he breathed fervently, drawing a wickedly curved sabre that gleamed dully in the starlight.

  'Good luck, Drinkwater,' said Rogers offering his hand. ''Tis a damned desperate measure but if it don't succeed…' he left the sentence unfinished.

  'If it don't succeed, Samuel, we can all kiss farewell to a prosperous future.' Nathaniel took the man's hand, searching for the blackened face in the night. Rogers was much chastened since wrecking the brig and Drinkwater found himself liking the man for the first time since leaving home. 'Good luck, Samuel.'

  He descended into the little boat. Drinkwater squatted aft and saw where Kellett and Tregembo each took an oar. The third topman, named Barnes, settled himself in the bow. Drinkwater struggled out of his galabiya as they pulled away from the dhow and made a wide detour round the stern of the frigate as she pointed landwards, head to the offshore breeze. When they had worked round to a position on her starboard bow they began to pull quietly in towards her and, three quarters of an hour after leaving, Barnes caught the boat's painter round the heavy hemp cable of the frigate. Kellett and Tregembo brought their oars inboard and all four men sat in silence under the stem and figurehead of the ship. They had achieved total surprise. Perfection of the plan now depended upon Wrinch.

  Faint sounds came to them; the myriad creaks of a ship at rest, a whistled snatch of the Ça Ira ended in mid-phrase. A muted burst of laughter and the low tone of conversation indicated where the watch on deck spun yarns and played cards. Once the coarse noise of hawking and a loud expectoration was followed by a plop in the water close to them.

  The minutes dragged by and a man came forward to use the heads. The four men maintained a stoic silence beneath the arc of urine that pattered down beside them accompanied by the quiet humming of a man on his own.

  As the man returned inboard Mr Trussel's rocket soared into the night and burst over Al Mukhra with a baleful blue light.

  For what seemed an age total silence greeted the appearance of this spectral flare then above their heads the fo'c's'le of the frigate was crowded with men. They jabbered together and pointed ashore while Drinkwater made a motion of his hand to Barnes. They eased the dinghy further under the round bow of the frigate, slackening the long painter until level with the tack bumpkin. Now they would have to wait for Griffiths and the sambuk to divert the attention of the men above.

  Drinkwater turned his attention ashore. A flash and bang told where Mr Trussel's six-pounders on their improvised carriages were going into action. The concussions increased the speculation and excitement on the deck above them and now the noise of whooping Arab horsemen could be heard, mingling with the shouts of surprised Frenchmen and the commands of officers. Flickering movements around the fires told
their own story and on the fo'c's'le above them someone was giving orders too.

  A terrific explosion shook the air, making Drinkwater's ears ring. The wave of reeking powder smoke that engulfed them a second later told that those on board had at least one gun mounted, a long bow chaser fired more for effect than anything, for no one could say where the fall of shot was. Two minutes later it boomed out again and Drinkwater wished he had a kerchief to wrap around his ears like the seamen were doing. But then there came another cry. A sharp 'Qui vive?' of alarm from amidships and suddenly the fo'c's'le was empty as the Frenchmen streamed away to repel the threat from the approaching dhow.

  'Now lads!' Caution did not matter any more. With an effort Drinkwater swung himself upwards at the bumpkin, dangled a moment then felt Tregembo heave him upwards. The dinghy bobbed dangerously beneath the topman but Drinkwater scrambled upwards reaching the stinking gratings of the heads and covering himself with more filth. He wiped his hands on the gammoning of the bowsprit as his men joined him then they went over the bow on to the now deserted fo'c's'le.

  'Is the boat all right?'

  'Aye zur,' answered Tregembo's offended tone. Tregembo had been offended since the evening Drinkwater had left him behind at Kosseir, but that was of little moment now.

  Coming round the foremast they could see the whole of the waist filling with men from the lower deck. The masts of the sambuk were visible alongside and already Drinkwater could see several Hellebores on the rail. Lieutenant Rogers was there, hacking downwards, one hand grasping a mainmast shroud. He saw the squat shapes of quarterdeck carronades then there were more figures on the rail, British and Arab. Drinkwater recognised Yusuf and his wicked scimitar.

  'Up we go!' he called to the men behind him and flung himself in the larboard foremast rigging. He felt Tregembo beside him; Barnes and Kellet made for the opposite side. Drinkwater looked down once. The sambuk could be seen now, its deck empty. The waist of the frigate was a mass of heaving bodies, of dully flashing blades and the yellow spurts of pistol fire. Then, as he swung back downwards into the futtocks, he heard above the grunting, swearing, shouting men below the thunder of cannon and the blood curdling screams of Arab horsemen as they decimated the French camp at the head of the sharm.

  Drinkwater reached the foretopsail yard and moved out along the footrope. He felt for the seaman's knife on its lanyard and began to slit the ties. At the bunt, having done the same thing, Tregembo was busy severing the bunt and clew lines. In heavy folds, flopping downwards by degrees the huge topsail fell from its stowed position and flattened itself against the mast, all aback.

  Out on the other yardarm Kellett and Barnes completed their half of the task. In a few minutes they were in the top. Kellett and Tregembo ran out along the foreyard, whipping yarns from their belts and seizing the topsails clews to the sheet blocks. The sail secured, the four men scrambled to the deck. Amidships the struggle raged with unabated fury.

  'Below lads!' he snapped pushing them towards the forward companionway. They descended to the gundeck. It was deserted and in the glimmering light of the lantern at the after companionway sixty feet astern of them, they could see the six guns that had been mounted. The empty gun carriages at the remaining gunports along the deck and the untidy raffle of ropes, blocks, tackles, spikes and ropeyarns bespoke a busy day tomorrow. 'Untidy bastards,' volunteered Barnes as he followed Drinkwater to where the lieutenant had already begun work on the cable.

  'Not too much, Barnes,' Drinkwater said, 'there will be a fair weight on it with that topsail aback. It musn't part before we're ready.' Drinkwater ran aft with Tregembo and Kellett in his wake. It was obvious now why the boarding nettings were down. The encumbrance caused by them when hoisting in the guns would have combined with Santhonax's feeling of security to persuade him that they were unnecessary. Besides a further day's labour and the frigate would be ready for sea, ready to challenge any other vessel on the Red Sea. They had arrived only just in time. Above their heads the fight for the deck went on, a scuffing, stamping, shouting melee of men. The legs and waists of several Frenchmen below the level of the deck were temptingly exposed but the three men trotted past their undefended posteriors. Drinkwater swung below into the berth deck.

  There was a whimpering and stifled cry from the dense shadows and Drinkwater picked up the single lantern allowed near the com-panionway after dark. Holding it before him he continued aft. They found the rudder and tiller lines abaft the cadet's cockpit. Sudden reminders of the hell-hole aboard Cyclops flooded his mind. He dreaded finding the tiller lines unrove but no, Santhonax had obligingly rigged new ones.

  They cut them by the lead blocks to the deck above and hauled the tiller across to starboard, forcing the rudder over to port. 'You two remain here!' Leaving the lantern with Kellett and Tregembo, Drinkwater ran forward and up on to the gun deck, finally reaching Barnes after pushing through a number of wounded Frenchmen who stumbled about the gundeck tripping over their own breech-ings.

  'Cut the bloody thing, Barnes!'

  'Aye, aye, sir!' Drinkwater reached the upper deck via the forward companionway only to blunder into more Frenchmen. He drew his hanger and yelled, slashing wildly out to right and left. Like butter they parted before him and he was aware of the last remnants of French resistance crumbling. Against Griffiths, Rogers and their two score men the French had had an anchor watch of thirty-six under a lieutenant. The officer lay mortally wounded, having surrendered his sword to Commander Griffiths. Griffiths stood panting with his exertions, his white hair plastered to his skull by sweat, his sword blade dark. Behind Griffiths stood Yusuf ben Ibrahim, arms akimbo like a harem guard, his men about him daring the surprised Frenchmen to lift a further finger against their conquerors while their frigate was raped.

  Barnes yelled triumphantly as the cable parted.

  'Foretopsail halliards!' shouted Drinkwater, 'Forebraces there!' The special details of men ran to the pinrails.

  The sheeted topsail rose into the night, its bunt pressed against the foremast. He looked over the side. The frigate was gathering sternway.

  'Mr Rogers, secure the prisoners!' Griffiths ordered.

  'We've the tiller lines cut and men manning it, sir. As soon as this lot is under control I'll splice 'em, in the meantime we've sternway on and men at the forrard braces,' Drinkwater reported.

  'Da iawn. Foredeck there! Heave larboard braces!' The frigate's head swung slowly to starboard as she gathered sternway. The fore-yards came round against the catharpings and she increased the speed of her swing. Already the noise and flames of the battle ashore were on the beam. The weather leech of the foretopsail was a-flutter.

  'Leggo and haul!' shouted Griffiths and then, turning to Drinkwater and in a quieter voice. 'Very well, put your helm over and restore steering to the wheel.'

  Drinkwater dashed below and ordered Tregembo and Kellett to haul the huge tiller hard across to the other extremity, then he directed the shortening and resecuring of the tiller lines. In the meantime he stationed several men in a chain for passing orders. With the foretopsail yard braced square the frigate stood seawards.

  'D'you have the blue light, Mr Rogers?'

  After a search the rocket was found, still in the sumbuk bobbing and grinding alongside. It was leaned against the taffrail and, after more delays, finally ignited. It whooshed skywards and burst in a blue light over the sharm and was answered by a second that soared up from the hand of Mr Trussel somewhere ashore.

  'So that's why they call the gunner "Old Blue Lights",' quipped Rogers flippantly and Drinkwater chuckled, moving over to the compass to watch the steering. It had all gone very smoothly, very smoothly indeed. He saw the Frenchmen had been herded forward and one of the quarterdeck carronades spiked round to cover them. Topman Barnes sat negligently on its breech, a slow match in one hand while the other was employed to pick his nose. Tregembo also stood guard, watching Yusuf ben Ibrahim with patent distrust.

  Drinkwater wiped his sword and sheathed it,
walking aft to stand by Griffiths.

  'Congratulations, sir.'

  Thank you, Nathaniel. Your party played their part to perfection.'

  'Thank you, sir…' He was about to say more but took sudden alarm from the expression on Griffiths's face. 'Behind you, bach!'

  Spinning round he saw a man standing on the rail, some six feet from him. As the pistol he held flashed Drinkwater saw who it was. The light from the priming pan flared momentarily on the disfigured features of Edouard Santhonax, contorted with fury and recognition.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Price of Admiralty

  September 1799

  It was supremely ironic that it should have been Santhonax's astute intelligence that saved Drinkwater's life. For that brilliant officer, so swift in resource and quick in perception, instantly recognised Nathaniel Drinkwater, even in the dark. And that second of distraction from the purpose of discharging his pistol made him miss his aim. Even as the priming sparked, Drinkwater threw up his left arm to cover his face and the ball passed his ribs with an inch to spare.

  'Vous!' howled the Frenchman in exasperated fury, flinging the pistol from him and leaping to the deck to draw his sword. Drinkwater's epee rasped from its scabbard. Other figures came over the rail behind Santhonax. Forward there was an ugly movement as the huddle of Frenchmen recognised their commander. Drinkwater heard Griffiths's voice steady the men on the tiller ropes as he and Santhonax circled each other warily.

  Suddenly the carronade roared as the captured French seamen surged aft. Barnes had applied his match and as several of them fell screaming to the deck Drinkwater felt the jar of steel on steel. Yusuf ben Ibrahim was alongside him, advancing on the three officers and half dozen armed seamen that had boarded with Santhonax. He was aware of a white-haired figure on his other flank, a pistol extended towards Santhonax. Then Drinkwater was savagely parrying Santhonax's cut, lunging and riposting as Yusuf's whirring scimitar swung pitilessly to his right. He did not know what happened, but suddenly Santhonax was falling back against the rail, his sword hanging uselessly by its martingale, his left arm clutching his shoulder. Drinkwater turned in time to see Griffiths too falling, a dark stain on his breast. Six feet from him a French officer stood with the pistol still smoking in his hand. Cheated of Santhonax and in the full fury of his cold battle lust, Drinkwater swung half left, the French sword singing in his hand. The blade bit down on the officer's shoulder, bumping over clavicle and ribs, opening a huge bloody wound across the chest. Drinkwater pressed the blade savagely, all around him men were closing on Santhonax's party: battle was to become massacre for already in his heart he knew Griffiths was dying. But in that moment this knowledge was refined into a mere lunge, an increase of pressure on the sword-blade that reached the lower limits of the officer's ribs and, slashing through the muscles of his stomach, eviscerated him.