A Brig of War

by Richard Woodman

  He knew it instinctively for what it was, an argument that would engage the interest of any sentries in the vicinity. A woman’s shrill voice screamed outrage at some demand made on her by one of the ‘moustaches’, the man bellowed back. Thus did a Frenchman’s passion cover his escape. Once on the first craft the shadows and fittings provided cover. All the craft were deserted and he moved across them cautiously, anxiously searching for a small boat. He found several but none could be moved to the outer limit of the moored craft and the open sea. He lay panting and cursing after a protracted and final attempt to dislodge one for his use.

  He must have dozed, for he sensed the passage of time when he next had a conscious thought. If no boat were available he might, just might, be able to attract attention at dawn from the extremity of the mole. He knew Griffiths scanned the town at first light and he remembered loose stonework at the end where he might remain unobserved from the town. He reached the mole half an hour later and found himself a hiding place among a pile of nets and pots. He fell asleep.

  He woke at dawn but it was not daylight that startled him. The pounding of feet was accompanied by the crackle of musketry, shouts and orders. He recognised Stuart’s voice and peered out to see a file of marines trot past him. Then Stuart appeared, leading a band of armed seamen ashore. He saw Mr Brundell and the gig’s crew from Hellebore and it was if he had been absent a hundred years. ‘Mr Drinkwater!’ He stood unsteadily and bowed at Brundell’s smile, aware that he still clasped the fishnet about his shoulders.

  ‘Have the goodness to direct a boat to convey me back to the ship, Mr Brundell.’

  ‘Of course. Here you! Support the first lieutenant back to the gig. And go handsomely with him.’

  Drinkwater accepted the rough arm, aware that a face appeared in front of him that was aghast with astonishment.

  ‘Mornin’ Morris,’ he said, stumbling past as Daedalus’s landing party stormed the mole.

  ‘How are you, sir?’

  ‘Eh?’ Drinkwater stared round him in the darkness. The stink of the orlop finally identified his whereabouts. He turned. Quilhampton lay next to him, a Quilhampton sitting up on his good elbow. ‘I believe I am quite well,’ he sat up and stopped abruptly. His bruises, severe at the outset, had been strained by the exertions of the night and the cut on his leg had gone septic from contact with the filthy fishnet.

  ‘I am exceeding glad to see you sir, notwithstanding the stink of fish hereabouts.’ Safety and the impertinent cheek of the youngster blew the shadows of fear from Drinkwater’s spirit. He was no longer alone.

  ‘I am glad to hear it, Mr Q. I apologise for my malodorous condition.’

  ‘That is all right, sir. The captain and Mr Appleby were glad you survived.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that too,’ observed Drinkwater drily.

  ‘I wish the same could be said of Lieutenant Rogers.’

  ‘Ahhh.’ Drinkwater could imagine Rogers’s rapid assumption of his own duties. ‘You should not gossip, Mr Q. I understand Mr Rogers’s motives as you will do one day. I trust he was the only one.’

  ‘The only one I know of, sir. Except of course Gaston.’

  ‘Gaston? Oh, yes, I recollect. The French boy. What of him? How have I offended to warrant such a return?’

  ‘For some reason that I cannot fathom, sir, he is of the opinion that either the captain or yourself shot off my hand. Leastways that is what I think he meant, unless I mistook his sense.’ The boy shrugged and smiled with a puzzled expression.

  ‘It’s damned good to see you smiling, Mr Q One day I’ll tell you the whole story.’

  As if from nowhere Catherine Best appeared, a bowl of water in her hands. Simultaneously the concussion of Hellebore’s broadside roared overhead.

  ‘What has happened?’ Drinkwater asked making to get up and suddenly guiltily aware that the silence had driven all thoughts of duty from his mind.

  He felt Catherine’s hand firm on his breast. ‘Lie back, sir. Mr Appleby’s orders are that you are not to move, that your cut leg needs cleaning or you may yet lose it.’

  He lay back while the vibration of the brig’s cannon reached down through the hull. He closed his eyes, the dull throbbing in his lower parts reasserting itself.

  ‘The attack on the town has been beaten off, sir.’ Catherine’s voice seemed to come from a great way off. So; the fight for Kosseir was over.

  And Catherine’s hands were unbelievably cool on his burning flesh.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Y Môr Coch

  August 1799

  ‘How much, damn it?’

  ‘Three feet, sir,’ replied Johnson, screwing up his eyes against the glare of the newly risen sun.

  ‘God’s bones!’ Drinkwater cursed with quiet venom, suddenly remembering something. ‘Take a look forrard, larboard bow, low down.’ He dismissed the carpenter who turned away with a puzzled look. The lieutenant fell to a limping pacing of the deck, his left leg still stiff from Appleby’s ruthless cauterisation, his abdomen and loins still bruised and sore. But his mind no longer dwelt upon these matters. He thrashed over a score of problems that fluttered round in his head like so many bats seeking anchorage. He was aware of being bad tempered, for the gnawing presence of Augustus Morris on board clouded every issue. Morris was amongst the squadron’s wounded, all bundled aboard Hellebore after Ball’s withdrawal from Kosseir.

  Morris had been wounded in the attack on the mole, a stone chipping driving into his shoulder, breaking his collar bone.

  ‘ ’Tis to disencumber himself of the evidence of defeat more than from compassion,’ Appleby had said, referring to Captain Ball with a bitterness born of the prospect of additional duty as the two officers watched the silent procession out of the boats.

  In compliance with the orders brought from England, Ball was sending Hellebore south, to call at Mocha and land the sick or carry them homewards at the behest of Rear-Admiral Blankett. And the admiral was not pleased with Hellebore’s unsanctioned departure from Mocha, a fact that had led Ball to take fifteen of her crew as replacements for losses sustained by the frigates. That loss was only one of the consequences of the sorry affair at Kosseir. Now the matter of the leak demanded Drinkwater’s attention. He remembered the slight tremble Hellebore had given when standing into Kosseir Bay. She had probably caught a coral head and torn her copper sheathing. The damage was undoubtedly slight and had produced no significant inflow of water while they sat and pounded Kosseir. A few hours of working in a seaway would have torn off loose copper and strained any sprung planks.

  Drinkwater swore again as the first of the wounded emerged on deck for their morning airing. The watch were just completing the ritual of washdeck routine and he noticed one or two of them wrinkle their noses. He realised that a faintly repulsive smell had been pervading the ship since the night before, overlaying the indigent stink of bilge and crowded humanity. He knew what it was: gangrene.

  For a moment he worried that it might be Quilhampton, simultaneously wishing it were Morris and that Providence might twist a little in his favour. But Appleby’s features were no more animated than usual as he appeared on deck and touched his hat to Drinkwater. ‘Morning.’

  ‘Mornin’ Harry. Who’s succumbed to gangrene?’

  ‘Gregory. I cannot amputate again, the shock will kill him. They will be bringing him up now.’

  Even with a following wind the stench was offensive, causing an involuntary contraction of the nostrils. The men lifting Gregory on deck performed the duty with a mixture of peremptory haste and rough solicitude. Appleby strode forward to direct a hammock slung on the fo’c’s’le, where the unfortunate man was hastily suspended. He came aft again, tired and old, Drinkwater thought, but a sudden surprising light spread across the surgeon’s features as Catherine Best emerged on deck, wiping a lock of greasy hair off her forehead and clearly as weary as Appleby himself.

  Drinkwater smiled as the surgeon made to step forward then, as if recollecting himself
, drew back. ‘Mistress Best has surprised us all, eh Harry?’ he said quietly. Catching his eye Appleby blushed and Drinkwater smiled again. Something was stirring old Harry Appleby and it was not his usual outrage at the bloody waste of action or the follies of mankind.

  ‘How is Mr Quilhampton today, Catherine?’ Drinkwater asked in a louder voice.

  She refocussed tired eyes upon the first lieutenant, dragging them away from a distant horizon. ‘He’s on his feet this morning, Mr Drinkwater, I believe he is breaking his fast in the gunroom.’ She looked shyly at Appleby. ‘I think Mr Appleby intends to try the ligatures this morning . . .’

  Appleby nodded. ‘He’s a healthy boy and healing well, thanks to Catherine’s ministrations. Would that all my patients could have such treatment.’

  ‘It’s not your fault . . .’ began the woman, breaking off with a look at Drinkwater. It was clear even to Nathaniel’s preoccupied mind that there was an intimacy here, professional and ripeningly personal. It was curiously touching and he felt oddly embarrassed and strode across to the wheel where the helmsmen were half a point off course. Catherine Best influenced them all he reflected, suddenly irritable again.

  ‘Quartermaster, you’re half a point off your course. I’ll have the hide off you for neglect if you don’t pay more attention.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Drinkwater strode forward and cast his eyes aloft at the foremast, spun on his heel and surveyed the mainmast. ‘It’ll be t’gallant buntlines next, my cockers,’ muttered the quartermaster to his helmsmen, shifting a quid surreptitiously over his tongue.

  ‘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 onto 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 débâcle 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 . . . du, 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 fore-masthead. 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 timber
s, 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.’

  Quilhamptom 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, sir, 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.