A Brig of War

by Richard Woodman

  ‘. . .’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 Ile 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 abstrain 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 arc.

  ‘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 Ile 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 tartrate 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 displeased. 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. Appleby 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 wittedness. ‘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 mysongyny 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 his 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. Flipping open the lantern she blew it out. And sealed her advantage.

  On the gun deck every man who could be spared was at work. Drinkwater had relinquished the upper deck to Dalziell with an admonition to the quartermaster that if he was a degree off the wind more than was necessary he would be flayed. The man grinned cheerfully and the first lieutenant went below to orchestrate the idea that was already causing a buzz of comment, much of it unfavourable.

  ‘Belay that damned Dover court and take heed of what I have to say . . .’

  The wind eased by the minute but it continued to blow down to leeward, conferring an advantage on the pursuer. She could be plainly seen from the deck now but Drinkwater no longer fretted over her approach. Instead he sweated and swore, admonished and encouraged, belaboured and bullied the tired Hellebores as they lugged the six larboard eighteen pounders across the deck to assemble a battery of twelve in the vacant gun-ports on the starboard side.

  The deck was criss-crossed with tackles, bull ropes and preventers. After several hours employed in hauling first one and then another, of casting stoppers on and off, of wracking seizings and heaving on handspikes Rogers, stripped to his shirt and mopping his florid face with a handkerchief, fought his way over the network of lines.

  ‘Christ alive, Drinkwater, this is a confounded risky trick, ain’t it. Damn me if I can see the logic of putting all your eggs in one basket.’ There was a murmur of agreement from several of the men.

  ‘Why, Mr Rogers,’ said Drinkwater cheerfully, suddenly realising that his flux and nausea had vanished, and pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, ‘the easier to hurl ‘em at the French!’

  ‘So’s they can make bleeding hommelettes . . .’

  ‘To go with their fucking frog’s legs . . .’A burst of laughter greeted this sally while Mr Lestock, peering down from the deck, tut-tutted and went aft.

  ‘The captain is aware of our doin’s, Mr Lestock,’ called Drink-water and another burst of laughter came from the men. It might be a dangerous indication of indiscipline but what the hell? They might all be dead in the coming hours. Or exchanging places with Santhonax. ‘Right; a touch more on that tackle, Mr Brundell, if you please.’

  ‘Come then, lads,’ roared the master’s mate. The men spat on their hands and lay back. They broke out into the spontaneous cry they had evolved for concerted effort: ‘Hellee-ee-bores . . . Bellee-ee-whores . . . !’ The eighteen-pounder moved across the deck and Drinkwater thought Griffiths would have approved of that cry.

  Night found them almost becalmed but the whisper of wind remained constant in direction and Drinkwater held to his belief that they must not throw away their position to windward, that to attempt to run down past their enemy and escape only put the French between them and the Cape. But dawn found them to leeward, the wind backing and rising as, in growing daylight they were able to see the wind fill the enemy’s sails before their own.

  But Drinkwater’s chagrin was swiftly replaced by hope an hour after dawn. Without warning the wind chopped round to the south-west again and began to freshen, both ships leaned to it, Antigone less than usual since she carried all her artillery on her starboard, windward side.

  But the fluky quality of the wind had overnight brought their opponent almost within gunshot. At last Drinkwater was compelled to order his men to quarters.

  He had not done so earlier to preserve their energy but, hardly had he taken the decision and the watch below came tumbling sleepily on deck, than the first shot fell short upon their larboard quarter.

  The four-score Hellebores ran to their stations. Rogers came aft and received his instructions. When Drinkwater explained what he intended to do Rogers hel
d out his hand.

  ‘I’ve misjudged you in the past, Nathaniel, and I’m sorry for it. I only hope my new-found confidence is not misplaced.’

  ‘Amen to that, Samuel,’ replied Drinkwater, smiling ruefully. Appleby came on deck.

  ‘D’you have your saws and daviers at the ready, Harry?’ jested Drinkwater hollowly, shuddering at the thought of being rendered limbless by such instruments.

  ‘Aye, Nat, and God help me,’ he added with a significant stare at Drinkwater, ‘Kate Best assists me.’ He disappeared below, followed by Rogers en route to command the battery of eighteen-pounders. Lestock coughed beside him, affecting to study the enemy and remarking upon his shooting as the French bow-chaser barked away at them. The tricolour could be seen trailing astern from her peak and mainmasthead. As yet no colours flew from Antigone’s spars. Mr Dalziell strutted nervously along the line of larboard quarterdeck carronades. To starboard Mr Quilhampton was quietly pacing up and down, his stump behind his back, doing his best to ape Mr Drinkwater. At the mainmast Mr Brundell commanded the waisters to board or trim sail as the need arose while, legs apart on the fo’c’s’le Mr Grey, his silver whistle about his neck commanded the head party.

  The person of Rattray appeared carrying a chair. He placed it upon the quarterdeck and Morris, pale and shaking, slumped into it. Drinkwater approached him.

  ‘I am glad to see you sir, your presence will encourage the hands.’ Under the circumstances he could say no more. Morris’s courage had surely been misjudged, perhaps the responsibility of command could yet temper the man just as culpability had changed Rogers.

  Morris stared up at Drinkwater and moved his hand from beneath the blanket. The lock of a pistol was visible in his lap.