Appleby left the commander to attend to Santhonax. His wound was healing badly, a continuing process of exfoliation preventing the tissues from knitting properly. An easy familiarity had developed between the Frenchman and the surgeon as commonly exists between a man and his physician.
'Where did you learn to speak English, sir?' asked Appleby removing the dressing.
'I was the son of a half-English mother, Mr Appleby, the daughter of a wild-goose Englishman who supported King James III.'
'Ah, the Old Pretender, eh?' said Appleby wryly, 'but you are not so partial to kings since the Revolution?'
'They are not noted for their gratitude to even their most loyal adherents.'
'We notice that in King George's navy.'
'Treason, Mr Appleby?'
'Truth, Captain Santhonax.'
'You would make a most excellent revolutionary.'
'Perhaps, if the material was worth the saving, but I doubt even your brand will materially alter this tired old world. Were you not yourself about to enslave the Hindoos?'
Santhonax smiled, a bleak, wolfish smile. 'Had that damned combination of Drinkwater and Griffiths not been at my tail I might have succeeded.'
'You forget, captain, I too was on Kestrel…'
'Diable, I had forgot… yes it was you sutured my face. It is a strange coincidence is it not, that we should find ourselves fighting a private war?'
Appleby finished binding the new dressing over a clean pledget. 'Griffiths called it proof of Providence, Captain. What would your new religion of Reason call it?'
'Much the same, Mr Appleby… thank you.'
'You will be well enough soon. I think the exfoliation almost complete. It will be a whole man we return to the hulks at Portsmouth.'
'You have yet to get your stolen vessel past lie de France, Appleby. Perhaps it may yet be me who will be visiting you.'
'Well what is the matter with him?' asked Drinkwater, straightening up from the chart spread on the gunroom table, 'he tells me he is of the opinion that he is being poisoned. Damn it, I think he half thought I might have instigated it! What Morris surmises he believes, God help us all, and if there is a shred of truth behind such an apparently monstrous allegation…'
'Oh for the love of heaven don't you start, Nat. Permit me the luxury of knowing my own business yet. You would take exception to my advice upon the reduction of altitudes. I tell you the man is suffering from alcohol induced gastritis.'
'Very well, Harry, I trust your judgement.' Drinkwater cut short the long dissertation that he knew would follow once Appleby was allowed to start expanding on Morris's symptoms.
Rattray scratched at the gunroom door. 'Cap'n's compliments, Mr Drinkwater, and would you join him in the cabin.' Drinkwater cast a significant glance at the surgeon, picked up his hat and followed 'the Rat'.
Drinkwater bridled at the stench in the cabin. Morris looked ghastly, weak and pale, his face covered with perspiration, his cot sheets twisted. He spoke with the economy of effort.
'Would you poison me, Drinkwater?' The man was clearly desperate.
'Certainly not!' Drinkwater's outrage was unfeigned. He recollected himself. Whatever Morris was, he was a sick man now. 'Please rest assured that the surgeon is quite confident that you are suffering from a gastric disorder, sir. I have no doubt that if you modify your diet, sir…'
'Get out, Drinkwater, get out… Rattray! Where the devil is that blagskite?'
As he left Drinkwater noticed the tear in the portrait of Hortense.
The bottle Rattray brought to Drinkwater's cabin that evening for him to take with his biscuits in the gunroom was a surprise. Drinkwater removed the cork and sniffed suspiciously. He was alone in the room, Rogers having turned in and Appleby gone to change Santhonax's dressing. He poured the Oporto that had arrived, uncharacteristically, with the captain's compliments and held the glass against the light of the lantern. He sniffed it then, shrugging, he sipped.
If it was supposed that this was poisoned wine, Drinkwater mused, then it was indeed nonsense and Morris's generosity was but a manifestation of his phobia. He finished the glass and felt nothing more than a comfortable warmth radiating in his guts. Dismissing the matter he sat down, pulled his stores ledger towards him and unsnapped the ink-well. Merrick brought him a new quill from his cabin and he dismissed the messman for the night and stretched his legs.
The water biscuits were in quite good condition, he thought, picking up a third. He settled to his work. And poured a second glass of wine.
Dawn found Nathaniel Drinkwater violently sick, a pale sheen of perspiration upon his face. He sent for Appleby who came on deck expecting he had been summoned to attend the captain.
'What is it, Nat?' Drinkwater beckoned the surgeon to windward, out of earshot of the helmsmen and the quartermaster at the con.
'What d'you make of my complexion, Harry?'
'Eh?' Appleby paused then peered at the lieutenant. 'Why a mild diaphoresis.'
'And I've been violently sick for an hour past. Also I purged myself during the middle watch…'
Appleby frowned. 'But that's not possible… no, I mean…'
'It means that Morris may indeed be being poisoned, man. Last night he sent me a bottle of Oporto… he must have meant me to try it, to see if it had any effect upon me! I drank it entire!'
'For God's sake, Nat, of course he's being poisoned. Rum and fortified wines addle the brain, corrode the guts. Try cleaning brass with them.' Appleby's exasperation was total. Then he calmed, looking again at his friend. 'Forgive me, that was unpardonable. Your own condition I would ascribe to a tainted bottle. Maybe Morris had been consuming a case of bad wine. That would produce such symptoms and aggravate the peptic ulcer I am certain he suffers from.'
'But the wine tasted well, seemed not to be bad.'
Appleby was not listening. Even in the vehemence of his diagnostic defence a tiny doubt had crept into his mind. The symptoms were those produced by sudorifics, used by himself to promote the sweating agues that eased Griffiths's malaria. And though the key to his dispensary never left his side he was wondering who possessed the knowledge enough to incapacitate Morris.
'… 'tis commonly supposed a woman's weapon,' he muttered to himself.
'I beg your pardon?'
Appleby shook his head. ''Tis nothing,' he turned away then came back, having thought of something. 'Nat, would you oblige me by concealing your indisposition… at least for the time being.'
Puzzled, Drinkwater nodded wanly. 'As you wish, Harry.' He fought down a spasm of nausea and stared seawards. Whatever the cause it was not lethal. Just bloody uncomfortable.
'Deck there!' The hail broke from the masthead: 'Ship on the lee beam!'
'God's bones!' swore Drinkwater beneath his breath, fishing in his tail pocket for his Dollond glass.
Chapter Twenty
The Fortune of War
November 1799
In the mizen top Drinkwater fought down a bout of nausea with the feeling that the effect of the bad wine was weakening. In reality the bluish square on the horizon distracted him. He levelled the glass, crouched and trimmed it against a topmast shroud. It was difficult to see at this angle, although the sail was dark against the dawn, but it appeared to be a ship on the wind like themselves. Not that there was a great deal of wind, and the day promised little better. He wiped his eye, looked again and then, still uncertain, he determined to do what any prudent officer could do in a ship as ill-armed as Antigone: assume the worst.
Descending to the deck he addressed Quilhampton. 'You have the deck, Mr Q.' Such an errand as he was bound on was not to be left to a midshipman. Mr Quilhampton's astonishment changed to pride and then to determination.
'Aye, aye, sir!' Despite his preoccupation Drinkwater could not resist a smile. Quilhampton had turned into a real asset, competent and with a touch of loyalty that marked him for a good subordinate. Drinkwater recollected how it had been Mr Q that had brought his effects off Abu al
Kizan. It had been touching to discover his books and journals neatly shelved, his quadrant box lashed and the little watercolour done for him by Elizabeth all in place in the cabin aboard Antigone. That had been a long time ago. There were more pressing matters now.
Drinkwater knocked perfunctorily and entered Morris's stateroom. Automatically his eyes flicked over the portrait of Hortense Santhonax.
'What the hell d'you want? What brings you from the deck?'
'An enemy, sir. To loo'ard,' Drinkwater fought back the desire to vomit. He had forgotten his own sickness and retched on the stink of Morris's. 'I believe her to be a French cruiser out of lie de France.'
Morris absorbed the news. He swallowed, then frowned. 'But, I… a French cruiser d'you say? What makes you so sure?'
'Does it matter, sir? If she's British and we run there's nothing lost, if she's French and we don't we may be.'
'May be what?' Morris frowned again, his obtuseness a symptom of his feeble state. Drinkwater was suddenly sorry for him.
'May be lost, sir. I recommend we make our escape, sir, put the ship on the wind another half point and see what she will do.' He paused. 'We are without a main battery, sir,' he reminded Morris.
The responsibility of command stirred something in Morris. He nodded. 'Very well.'
Drinkwater made for the door.
'Drinkwater!'
Nathaniel paused and peered back into the cabin. Dragging his soiled bedding behind him Morris was straining to see the enemy through the stern windows. 'Yes, sir?' Morris turned, his face grey and fleshless beneath the skin.
'I… nothing, damn it.' Morris looked hideously alone. And frightened.
'Truly sir, you will be better if you abstain from all strong and spirituous liquors.' He hurried off, almost glad to fasten his mind on the problem of escape.
'Hands to the braces!' The cry was taken up.
'All hands sir?' Quilhampton asked eagerly, 'Beat to quarters?'
'Not yet, Mr Q,' said Drinkwater looking aloft, 'we have no marine drummer to do the honours. Besides, one runs away with less ceremony' It occurred to Drinkwater that he had said something shaming to the boy, as if, occasionally even British tars may not run when probably outgunned and certainly outnumbered. 'Trice her up a little, there! Half a point to windward, damn you!' He looked aloft as the watch hauled the yards against the catharpings, each successively higher yard braced at a slightly more acute angle to the wind.
'Royals, sir?'
'Royals, Mr Q.'
The chase wore on into the afternoon and the wind became increasingly fluky. The quality of drama was absent from the desperate business with such a light breeze but it was replaced by a sense of the sinister. Drinkwater kept the deck, amazed at the dark looks of outrage cast by Acting Lieutenant Dalziell. Morris made several appearances on deck, borrowing Drinkwater's glass and mumbling approval at his conduct before slipping below to continue his debilitating flux.
Drinkwater wondered what Appleby had done with the news that he too had been sick, then realised that he was no longer so, merely hungry and that there was another matter to occupy his brain.
'Mr Dalziell, be so kind as to fetch my quadrant from my cabin.'
'Mr Drinkwater, may I remind you that I hold an acting…'
'You may stand upon the quarterdeck, devil take you, but not upon your festerin' dignity! Go sir, at once!' Dalziell fled. For the next half hour he carefully measured the angle subtended by the enemy's uppermost yard and the horizon. In that time it increased by some twelve minutes of are.
'I do not know if I might do that, sir.' He heard Quilhampton's voice and looked up to see the midshipman clasping the watch glass behind his back. He was withholding it from the outstretched hand of Capitaine Santhonax.
'Do you allow the captain the loan of your glass, Mr Q. Perhaps he will be courteous enough to oblige us with his opinion.' Santhonax grinned his predatory smile over Mr Quilhampton's head. 'Ah, Drinkwater, you would not neglect any opportunity to gain information, eh?'
'Your opinion, sir.' Santhonax took the glass and hoisted himself carefully into the lee mizen rigging. His wound had much improved in recent days and Drinkwater saw from the set of his mouth that his own fears were confirmed. Santhonax regained the deck. It is a French vessel, is it not captain?'
Santhonax favoured Drinkwater with a long penetrating look. 'Yes,' he said quietly, 'she is French. And from lie de France.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Thank you, sir. Mr Quilhampton, pass word for the gunner.' He turned to Santhonax. 'Captain I regret the necessity that compels me to confine you but…' he shrugged.
'You will revoke my parole, please?'
Drinkwater nodded as the gunner arrived. 'Mr Trussel, Captain Santhonax and Cadet Bruilhac are to be confined in irons…'
'Merde!'
'My pardon, sir, but your character is too well-known,' he spun on his heel, 'pipe all hands, Mr Dalziell, and take the deck while I confer with the captain.'
Morris listened to what Drinkwater had to say, aware that he was powerless. A man who had never been troubled by moral constraints, who had managed his profession by a bullying authoritarianism and sought to excuse his failures upon others, found it easy to delegate to Drinkwater's competence. Although a bitter irony filled his mind it was not caused by the chance that Drinkwater might steal his thunder and fight a brilliant action. Whatever happened, a victory would be attributed to him as commander. What wormed in Morris's mind was that Drinkwater might botch it, perhaps deliberately.
'If you desert me, or disgrace me, as God is my witness I shall shoot you.'
There was no dissembling in Drinkwater's reply, uttered as it was over his shoulder. 'I should never do that, not in the face of the enemy.'
Drinkwater ran back on deck. One glance to leeward confirmed his worst fears. He could see the enemy hull now. Antigone was losing the race. He began to shout orders.
The burst of activity on deck was barely audible in the orlop. Inside the tiny dispensary, by the light of a guttering candle end Appleby looked from book to pot and back again. At last he sat back and stared at the jar, its glass greenish and clouded, and holding something given apparent life by the flame that flickered uncertainly in the foetid air.
He pulled the stopper from the jar and poured a trickle of white crystals into the palm of his hand. The potassium antimonyl tar-trate twinkled dully from the candle flame.
Appleby poured them back. A few adhered to his perspiring skin. He sighed. 'Tartar emetic,' he muttered to himself, replacing the jar in its rack, 'a sudorific promoting diaphoresis.' He sighed.
The sudden glare of a lantern through the louvred door made his hand shoot out and nip the candlewick. In the sudden close darkness he almost prayed that he might be mistaken, but he heard her indrawn and alarmed breath as she discovered the padlock hanging unlocked in the staple and the hasp free. She paused and he knew she was wondering whether anyone was within. Making up her mind she drew back the door and thrust her lantern into the tiny hutch.
He sat immobile, the trembling lantern throwing his face into sharp relief, its smooth rotundities lit, the shadows of his falling cheeks and dewlap etched black. She drew back a hand at her throat.
'Oh! Mr Appleby! Sir, how you did frighten me, sitting in the dark like that…'
'Come in and close the door.'
He watched her with such an intensity that she thought it was lust, not displeasure. Indeed she began to compose herself for his first embrace as he stood, stooped under the deckhead beams.
'What in the name of heaven are you up to?' Appleby's breath was hot with the passion of anger. She drew back. He picked up the lantern from where she had placed it on the bench and held it over the jar of Tartar Emetic.
'You are giving this to the captain,' he said it slowly, as a matter of fact.
'You know then…'
'I do. In his wine, though I have not yet discovered how you do it.'
For a long moment she said nothing. Apple
by put the lantern down and sat again. He looked up at her. 'I am disappointed… I had hoped…'
She knelt at his knees and took his hands, her huge eyes staring up at him.
'I did not… I wished only to make him indisposed, too ill to command. You yourself suggested it in conversation with Mr Drinkwater…'
'I…?'
'Yes sir,' she had sown the seed of doubt now, caught him between her suppliant posture and her rapid city-bred quick wit-tedness. 'You see what he has done to the men, how he has flogged them without mercy or reason. Why look at the way he sent poor little Mr Q to the top of the mast, and him with one hand missing…' She appealed to his inherent kindness and felt him relax. 'We all know what Mr Rogers said about what happened at Mocha, how Mr Drinkwater should've been in command.'
'That is no reason to…'
'And the kind of man he is, sir…' But Appleby rallied.
'That is not for you to say,' he said vehemently, a trace of misogyny emerging, 'it does not justify poisoning…'
'But I gave him only a little, sir, enough to purge himself with a flux. Why 'twas little more than you gave the old Captain for his ague, sir. 'Twas not a lethal dose.'
Appleby knitted his brows in concentration. His professional sense warred with his curious regard for this woman kneeling in the stinking darkness. He would not call it love for he thought of himself as too old, too ugly and too much a man of science to be moved by love. This wish to defend her was aided by his dislike of Morris. He found he was no longer angry with her. He could understand her motives much as one does a child who misbehaves. It did not condone the crime.
'You poisoned Mr Drinkwater, Catherine,' he said, unknowingly reproving her most effectively.
'Mr Drinkwater, my God! How?'
'Morris sent him in a bottle last night.'
'Oh!' It was Catherine's turn to deflate. She had not meant to harm any other person, especially he who offered her almost her only chance of avoiding a convict transport. 'H… how is he?'
'He will be all right.' He paused. 'Are you sorry?'
She could read him now. She had won. Hipping open the lantern she blew it out. And sealed her advantage.
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