A Brig of War

by Richard Woodman

  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 va là?’ 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 onto 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 topsail 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 mustn’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 scuffling, stamping shouting mêlée 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 companionway 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 onto the gun deck, finally reaching Barnes after pushing through a number of wounded Frenchmen who stumbled about the gun-deck tripping over their own breechings.

  ‘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 foreyards 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 sambuk 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 t
hey 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 epée 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.

  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 hi
m 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 them. 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 now 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?’