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 Daedalus 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 main-deck 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 Drink-water? Eh? The damned lubbers cannot furl a God-damned t’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 ha
d 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 to 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 India 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 . . .’
‘Surely the honour should go to the officer whose exertions secured the prize? Isn’t that the tradition?’
Blankett waved the assumption aside. ‘Will’tis a tradition, to be sure, but sometimes a little done for one’s friends . . . you know well enough, Strangford.’
‘True sir, but I thought myself,’ Wrinch laid a little emphasis on the pronoun to indicate his was a position of some influence, ‘that the officer most deserving was Drinkwater. His efforts have been indefatigable.’ Wrinch met the eyes of the admiral. ’I am sure you agree with me, sir, now that Griffiths is dead, that you will see eye to eye in the matter.’ Wrinch’s voice had an edge to it which changed abruptly to a tone of complicit bonhomie, ‘As of course we have over so much lately: your accommodation at my house with its attendant comforts, the matter of the disbursement to my Arab friends at Al Wejh . . .’ he trailed off, allowing the significance of his meaning to sink in.
But Blankett was unabashed and shrugged urbanely. ‘Perhaps, Strangford, but Mr Morris is a pressing candidate, he has some clout with their Lordships though why he is only a lieutenant I cannot guess. I shall consult Ball upon the matter. At all events I am obliged to hold an enquiry into the loss of the Hellebore, the more now that their Lordships are screaming out for her speedy return home.’
The court was convened aboard Leopard on 1st October 1799 under the chairmanship of the rear-admiral. The members of the court were Captain Surridge of the Leopard, Ball and Stuart of Daedalus and Fox, and Commander Grace of the Hotspur, the sloop that had brought Morris out from England.
In his capacity as British consular agent Strangford Wrinch, having some formal knowledge of the law, sat as judge advocate. He wore European clothes for the purpose.
In the absence of her commander, Drinkwater was called first. His deposition as to the brig’s loss was read out. In it he outlined his own misgivings about the accuracy of their assumed position. It was followed by that of Mr Lestock, a cautiously worded and prolix document which said a great deal about Mr Lestock’s character and little in favour of his abilities. It called forth a sotto voce comment from the admiral that the master seemed very like his ‘damned namesake’, referring to an Admiral Lestock who had failed to support his principal in battle half a century earlier.
Rogers’s statement was then read out to the court who were by this time finding the heat in Leopard’s cabin excessive, packed as it was by so many officers in blue broadcloth coats. Rogers was called to the stand.
‘Well, Mr, er . . .’
‘Rogers, sir.’
‘. . . Rogers,’ said the admiral whose wig was awry above his florid face, ‘this ain’t a hanging offence but it does seem that you presumed a great deal, eh?’ On either side of him three post-captains and the commander nodded sagely, as if men of their eminence never made errors of judgement.
‘It was hardly ”a misfortune” that breakers turned out to be over a reef, sir, is it, eh? Stap me, where else d’you expect to find ’em? Had you hove-to and found two hundred fathoms and made yourself the laughing stock of the whole damned squadron you could hardly have been blamed. It would certainly have made more sense.’
Drinkwater watched the colour mount to Rogers’s face and felt sorry for him. He knew the loss of the brig had been acutely felt by Rogers. It had tempered his fiery self-conceit into an altogether different metal. Blankett whispered to the officers on either side of him. Drinkwater noted Commander Grace seemed to be making a point and looking in his direction. Blankett passed a napkin across his streaming face and addressed the court.
‘Very well gentlemen, I see there are mitigating factors. Captain Grace reminds me of Mr Drinkwater’s observations about refraction and adds he has been making a study of the phenomena. In the circumstances the court take cognizance of these factors, though these do not relate directly to Mr, er, er the lieutenant’s conduct on the night in question.’ He looked round at his fellow judges and they each nodded agreement.
‘It is the opinion of this court of enquiry that the loss of His Britannic Majesty’s Brig-of-War Hellebore upon the night of 19th August last was due to circumstances of misadventure. But it wishes to record a motion of censure upon Lieutenant . . .’
‘Rogers,’ put in Wrinch helpfully.
‘Rogers, as to the degree of care he employs while in charge of a watch aboard one of His Majesty’s ships of war.’ The sweat was pouring down Blankett’s face and he wiped it solemnly. ‘That I think concludes our business.’
The admiral rose heavily and withdrew as the court broke up. Drinkwater found himself approached by Grace who wished to see his figures on refraction while Rogers hovered uncomfortably. When Grace had been satisfied Drinkwater turned to Rogers. ‘Well Sam, ’twasn’t too bad, eh?’
‘Is that it? Does that mean there will be no formal court-martial?’
‘I think not. Griffiths is dead and the navigation of the Red Sea intricate enough to mollify this court. By the time the admiral’s secretary has dressed up the minutes of these proceedings for the consumption of a London quill-pusher, and by the time it takes for the mills of Admiralty to grind, I wager you’ll not hear another word abou
t it.’
They went out into the blinding sunshine of the quarterdeck to bid Wrinch farewell.
‘I doubt we will meet again, Nathaniel,’ said Wrinch extending his hand which emerged from an over lavish profusion of cuff extending from a sober black sleeve. ‘Now that the matter of the brig’s loss is concluded Blankett will be anxious to have you on your way. I have done you a little service. I think by sunset you will have an epaulette.’ Wrinch smiled while Drinkwater stammered his thanks. ‘Do not mention it, my dear fellow. God go with you and do you mind that sot Morris, there’s no love for him in the squadron and I think he’ll accompany you home.’
They watched him descend into the admiral’s barge and were on the point of calling their own boat when a midshipman approached Drinkwater.
‘The admiral desires that you attend him in the cabin, sir.’
Drinkwater returned to the admiral’s presence. The green baize covered table was swept clear of papers and a bottle and glass had replaced them. The admiral sat in his shirt-sleeves with his stock loosened.
‘Ah, Mr er, Mr . . .’
‘Drinkwater, sir.’
‘Ah, yes, quite so. Prefer wine myself,’ chuckled the admiral pouring himself a glass. He swallowed half of it and looked up. ‘The matter of the Antigone. I have it in mind to promote you, subject of course to their lordships’ ratification. You will receive your commission and your orders to proceed without delay to Spithead. You will also carry my dispatches. Have the goodness to send an officer an hour before sunset. I understand the frigate is adequately supplied?’
Drinkwater expressed his gratitude. ‘As to provisions, sir, she was wanting only her guns when we took her. The French had salted a quantity of mutton looted from the Arabs and we were able to salvage much from the Hellebore.’
A Brig of War Page 21