Drinkwater turned from his act of vengeance to see Yusuf ben Ibrahim stretched on the planking, his head and chest laid open by the blades of three Frenchmen, men who had soon succumbed to the overwhelming numbers of Ben Ibrahim's supporters. The whole incident had taken perhaps five minutes, five minutes in which the slashed tiller lines had been temporarily repaired and the frigate drew offshore, steered from her wheel.
'Attendez votre capitaine!' snapped Drinkwater to one of the cowering Frenchmen and turned away to discover the extent of Griffiths's injuries.
Tregembo had already loosened the commander's shirt and they found the hole above the heart. Blood issued darkly from the old man's mouth and breathing was accomplished only with an immense effort. Struggling, they propped him up against the breech of a carronade. Rogers came up.
'Is he bad?' Drinkwater nodded.
'What course d'you want, Nathaniel?'
'West, steer due west. Get the main topsail on her and then the foretopmast staysail… and for God's sake get those bloody Frogs mewed up below.'
'There aren't many left after Barnes blew them to hell.' Rogers hurried off and checked the course then bellowed for the hands to gather at the foot of the mainmast. Drinkwater turned back to Griffiths. The old man's eyes were wide open and his lips formed the name 'Santhonax?'
Drinkwater flicked a glance in the direction of the French captain He was still slumped in a faint against the bulwarks. Drinkwater jerked his head in the wounded man's direction.
Tregembo, make arrangements to secure yonder fellow when he comes round.'
Does I recognise him as that cap'n we took before, zur?'
Drinkwater nodded wearily. 'You do, Tregembo.' He called for water but Griffiths only choked on it, feebly waving it aside.
'No good, annwyl,' he whispered with an effort, 'too late for all that… done my duty…' One of the seamen approached him with a boat cloak found below and they made Griffiths comfortable, but as they moved him he choked on more blood. His eyes were closed again now and the sweat poured from him like water wrung from a sponge.
Nathaniel put an arm round him, hauling him upright to ease the strain on his chest muscles. He felt the final paroxysm as Griffiths choked, drowning on his own blood, felt the will to live finally wither. Griffiths opened his eyes once more. In the darkness they were black holes in the pallor of his face, black holes that gradually lost their intensity and at the end were no more than marks in the gloom.
They recovered Mr Trussel and his party off Al Wejh that afternoon. By the time Wrinch rejoined them the frigate was well in hand. The Frenchmen had been turned-to securing the gun deck and stowing the loose gear, while the slashed rigging was made good aloft. Trussel cast his eyes about the frigate with gnomish amusement.
'This is an improvement, Mr Drinkwater.'
'Indeed, Mr Trussel,' said Drinkwater gravely. 'We have paid a heavy price for it by losing the captain.'
'I beg your pardon, sir, I had no idea…'
'No matter, Mr Trussel. What about your guns?'
The cloud on the wrinkled face further deepened. 'All gone sir, all of my beauties gone, but surely we have some replacements here?'
'No, we are only armed en flûte, Mr Trussel, these carronades and half a dozen main deck guns below. The Frogs had 'em all ashore. But yours, what happened to Hellebore's sixes?'
'Those damned Arab carts fell apart after half a dozen discharges, though we moved 'em up like regular flying artillery.' He checked his flight of fancy, remembering the circumstances of his report. 'Left my black beauties in the desert, sir, and damned sorry I am for it.'
'Very well, Mr Trussel,' Drinkwater lowered his voice, 'you will find a bottle of claret in the great cabin. Use it sparingly.'
Trussel's eyes gleamed with anticipation. Drinkwater turned his attention to Wrinch. 'A moment, Mr Wrinch, if you please. Forrard there! Hands to the braces! Hard a-starboard, steer nor'west by west!'
'Nor'west by west, aye, aye, sir.'
They braced the yards and set more sail, hoisting the topgallants and lowering the forecourse. The frigate slipped through the water with increasing speed. It ought to have given Drinkwater the feeling of keenest triumph. He turned to Wrinch.
'I went to report to Griffiths… I'm sorry. What happened?'
'He took a pistol ball in the lungs. He was trying to save me from Santhonax.'
'You took this Frenchman then?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Yes, Griffiths shot him and shattered his shoulder. He's very weak but still alive. He chased us in a boat. Boarded us after we had taken the ship. Ben Ibrahim was killed in the scuffle.'
'I know, his men told me.'
'But what of your part? The plan worked to perfection.'
Wrinch managed a wry little laugh. 'Well almost, the guns were more terrifying to us than to the enemy in fact, though their reports in the dark confused then. The two sheiks whose horsemen I led had a blood feud with the very man whom Santhonax had brought to protect his immunity at Al Mukhra. When I offered gold, guns and the distraction of yourselves it was more tempting than a pair of thoroughbreds. Although those damned guns cost us a deal of labour, we had them in position without the French knowing. The ride had strained the carts and they flew to pieces, but I doubt, despite Mr Trussel's excellently contrived lashings, they would have managed much more. My cavalry, however, were superb. You have never seen Arab horsemen, eh? They are fluid, restless as sand itself. The enemy rushed from their miserable tents and the hovels in which they were quartered and we chased them through the thorn scrub…' he paused, apparently forgetful of their dead friend, reliving the moment of pure excitement as a man reflecting on a passionate memory. Drinkwater remembered the feeling of panic that had engulfed the men of Cyclops when caught on land by enemy cavalry.
'We lost four men, Nathaniel, four men that walk now with Allah in paradise. We killed God knows how many. There will not be a Frenchman alive in the Wadi Al Mukhra.'
There was an alien, pitiless gleam in Wrinch's eye as he described the murder of a defeated enemy as a scouring of the sacred earth of the Hejaz after the defiling of the infidel. It occurred to Drinkwater that Wrinch was a believer in the one true faith. It was Islam and patriotism that kept this curious man in self-imposed exile among the wild horsemen and their strangely civilised brand of barbarity. And as he listened, it occurred to him that his own life was beset by paradoxes and anomalies; brutality and honour, death and duty. As if to emphasise these disturbing contradictions Wrinch ended on a note of compassion: 'Do you wish me to attend this Santhonax?'
Drinkwater nodded. 'If you please. Would that your skills had arrived early enough to have been of use to Griffiths.'
'Death, my dear Nathaniel,' said Wrinch, putting his hand familiarly upon Drinkwater's shoulder, 'is the price of Admiralty.'
Chapter Seventeen
A Conspiracy of Circumstances
September-October 1799
Drinkwater stared astern to where Daedalus Reef formed a small blemish on the horizon. He felt empty and emotionless over the loss of Griffiths, aware that the impact would be felt later. They had buried him among the roots of the scrubby grass on the islet, a few yards from the burnt out shell of his brig. During the brief interment several of the hands had wept openly. An odd circumstance that, Drinkwater thought, considering that he himself, who of all the brig's company had been closest to the commander, could feel nothing. Catherine Best had cried too, and it had been Harry Appleby's shoulder that supported her.
Drinkwater sighed. The blemish on the horizon had gone. Griffiths and Hellebore had slipped from the present into the past. Such change, abrupt and cruel as it was, nevertheless formed a part of the sea-life. The Lord gave and took away as surely as day followed night, mused Drinkwater as he turned forward and paced the frigate's spacious deck. The wind shifted and you hauled your braces; that was the way of it and now, in the wake of Griffiths came Morris.
It had taken two days to get the stores off Da
edalus Reef, two days of hard labour and relentless driving of the hands, of standing the big unfamiliar frigate on and offshore while they rowed the boats, splashed out with casks and bundles and hauled them aboard. The paucity of numbers had been acutely felt and officers had doffed coats and turned-to with the hands.
Morris had taken command by virtue of his seniority. It was an incontravertible fact. Drinkwater did not resent it, though he cursed his ill-luck. It happened to sea-officers daily, but he dearly hoped that at Mocha Morris would return to his own ship.
Drinkwater took consolation in his profession, for there was much to do. As he paced up and down, the sinking sun lit the frigate's starboard side, setting the bright-work gleaming. She was a beautiful ship whose name they had at last discovered to be Antigone. She was identical to the Pomone, taken by Sir John Warren's frigate squadron in the St George's Day action of 1794. Although she had only six of her big maindeck guns mounted, her fo'c's'le and quarterdeck carronades were in place, as were a number of swivels mounted along her gangways. With the remnants of the brig's crew it would be as much as they could manage.
Drinkwater clasped his hands behind his back, stretched his shoulders and looked aloft at the pyramids of sail reddening in the sunset. She would undoubtedly be purchased into the service. All they had to do was get her home in one piece. Inevitably his mind slid sideways to the subject of prize money. He should do well from the sale of such a splendid ship. Griffiths would… he caught himself. Griffiths was dead. As the sun disappeared and the green flash showed briefly upon the horizon Drinkwater suddenly missed Madoc Griffiths.
That passage to Mocha in the strange ship, so large after the Hellebore, had a curious flavour to it. As though the tight-knit community that had so perfectly fitted and worked the brig now rattled in too large a space, subject too suddenly to new influences. The change of command, with the nature of Morris's character common knowledge, served to undermine discipline. Men obeyed their new commander's orders with a perceptible lack of alacrity, displaying for Drinkwater a partiality that was obvious. The presence on board of Santhonax and Bruilhac was also unsettling, although the one was still weak from his wound and the other too terrified to pose a threat. But it was Morris who exerted the most sinister influence upon them, as was his new prerogative. Two days after leaving the reef the wind had freshened and Rogers had the topgallants taken off. Morris had gone on deck. During the evolution a clew line had snagged in a block, the result of carelessness, of few men doing a heavy job in a hurry. Rogers had roared abuse at the master's mate in the top while the sail flogged, whipping the yard and setting the mainmast a-trembling.
'Take that man's name, Mr Rogers, by God, I'll have him screaming for his mother yet damn it!' Morris came forward shaking with rage, the stink of rum upon him. 'Where's the first lieutenant? Pass word for the first lieutenant!'
A smirking Dalziell brought Drinkwater hurriedly on deck to where Morris was fuming. The rope had been cleared and the topmen were already working out along the yard, securing the sail.
'Sir?' said Drinkwater, touching his hat to the acting commander.
'What the hell have you been doing with these men, Mr Drinkwater? Eh? The damned lubbers cannot furl a God-damned f gallant without fouling the gear!'
Morris stared at him. 'What d'you say, sir? What d'you say?'
Drinkwater looked at Rogers and then aloft. 'I expect they are still unfamiliar with the gear sir, I…' He faltered at the gleam of triumph in Morris's eye.
'In that case, Mr Drinkwater, you may call all hands and exercise them. Aloft there! Let fall! Let fall!' He turned to Rogers. 'There sir, set 'em again, sheet 'em home properly then furl 'em again. And this time do it properly, damn your eyes!'
Morris stumped off below and Rogers met Drinkwater's eyes. Rogers too had a temper and was clearly containing himself with difficulty.
'Steady Samuel,' said Drinkwater in a low voice. 'He is the senior lieutenant…'
Rogers expelled his breath. 'And two weeks bloody seniority is enough to hang a man… I know,' he turned away and roared at the waisters, 'A touch more on that lee t'garn brace you damned lubbers, or you'll all feel the cat scratching…'
It was only a trivial thing that happened daily on many ships but it had its sequel below when Drinkwater was summoned to the large cabin lately occupied by Edouard Santhonax. It was now filled with the reek of rum and the person of Morris slumped in a chair, his shirt undone, a glass in his hand.
'I will have everything done properly, Drinkwater. Now I command, and by God, I've waited a long time for it, been cheated out of it by you and your ilk too many times to let go now, and I'll not tolerate one inch of slip-shod seamanship. Try and prejudice my chances of confirmation at Mocha, Drinkwater, and I'll ruin you…'
'Sir, if you think I deliberately…'
'Shut your mouth and obey orders. Don't try to be clever or to play the innocent for by God you will not thwart me now. If you so much as cross me I'll take a pretty revenge upon you. Now get out!'
Drinkwater left and shunned the company of Appleby and Wrinch that evening while he thought over their circumstances.
'Well, well, my dear Wrinch, a most brilliant little affair by all accounts and the loss of the Hellebore more than compensated by the acquisition of so fine a frigate as the Antigone. Pity Daedalus and Fox knocked the brig Annette about so much that she's not worth burning for her damned fastenings, eh?' Blankett sniffed, referring to the capture made by the two frigates on their way south of the third vessel in Santhonax's squadron.
'I think the frigate the better bargain, Your Excellency,' said Wrinch drily. Admiral Blankett dabbed at his lips then belched discreetly behind the napkin. 'A rather ironic outcome, don't you know, considering the Hellebore ain't under my command. I suppose I may represent that in this affair she was operating under my orders even though you exceeded your damned authority in sending her.'
Wrinch merely smiled while the admiral weighed Wrinch's impertinence against the gains to be made upon the fulcrum of his own dignity. He appeared to make up his mind.
'Well her damned commander's dead and so it seems I owe that popinjay Nelson a favour after all, eh?'
Wrinch nodded. 'French power is no longer a factor in the Red Sea, sir.'
'What did you make of that damned cove Santhonax?' asked the admiral recollecting his duty together with the fact that Wrinch had interrogated the French officer.
'He was quite frank. Had no option as we had captured his papers entire. He was to have carried a division to India this year, then Bonaparte invaded Syria and Murad Bey tied down Desaix in Upper Egypt and he was ordered to wait. He decided to careen on the coast of the Hejaz, as we know, and was in the process of collecting his squadron before seeking out Your Excellency. Had we arrived two days later he might have achieved his aim. After all he had secured Kosseir and Ball's attempt to dislodge his men failed somewhat abysmally, I believe…' Wrinch went no further, aware that the admiral had had the Kosseir affair represented in a somewhat more flattering light.
'Ha h'm. Well we have a handsome prize to show for our labours, eh Strangford?' Wrinch smiled again. The admiral would make a tidy amount in prize money, despite the loss of Annette. He would receive one-eighth of the Antigone's value if she were purchased into the Royal Navy.
'We had better get Antigone home without delay, eh?' Wrinch inclined his head in agreement. 'And we'll disburse a little more than you claim to those Arabs, they're well-known for their rapacity.' The admiral grinned boyishly, 'you and I split the difference, what d'you say, eh?'
Wrinch shrugged as though helpless. 'Whatever you say, Your Excellency.'
'Good.' Blankett looked pleased and Wrinch reflected he had good reason. Without stirring from his anchorage at Mocha he had enriched himself considerably by the capture of the Antigone and the embezzlement of public money that would be officially disbursed to contingent expenses. Furthermore his subordinates had removed all threat of French expansion to Indi
a and, at least from Captain Lidgbird Ball's account of it, his squadron had taken part in a highly creditable bombardment of Kosseir. That this had been rendered significant more by the capture of Santhonax and his ship than the six thousand rounds of shot picked up by the French upon the foreshore was of no consequence to the admiral. While all this excitement had been going on he had been enjoying the voluptuous pleasure of two willing women. All in all Blankett's circumstances were most satisfactory.
'Whom will you appoint to command the prize home, sir?' enquired Wrinch.
The admiral screwed his face up. 'Well there's young what's his name on the Bombay station to be given a step in rank, but I think one of my own officers… er, Grace, the commander of Hotspur could be posted into the ship; but ain't she only en flûte?'
Wrinch nodded, 'Only six main-deck guns mounted, sir.'
'Hmmm, I doubt Grace'd thank me if I posted him into a sitting duck for a Frog cruiser…' Blankett rubbed his chin which rasped in the still, hot air. 'No, we'll give a deserving lieutenant a step to commander. If he loses the prize on the way home then there's one less indigent on the navy list. Now let me see…'
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