A Brig of War

'And your dispatches conveyed the news of the victory at Aboukir to Blankett I assume?'

Lawrence nodded over the rim of his glass.

'And was there mention of a French army in those dispatches? Of a force landed in Egypt?'

'Oh that! Yes sir, there are indications of such a thing. Duval suggested that they might attempt a descent on India but the idea is quite preposterous: their force in the Red Sea is totally inadequate. It gave us a nasty shock, though,' he laughed faily, 'quite unexpected!'

'What?' snapped Griffiths, 'd'you mean there are already French ships in the Red Sea?'

'Oh yes, one of them, a smart little sloop, call 'em corvettes I recollect, attempted to chase us off Perim two days ago. We led him a merry dance through the reefs and soon shook him off.'

'Myndiawl,' growled Griffiths while Drinkwater asked, 'How many ships have the French got out there, sir?'

'I've really no idea, sir, two or three. The Arabs don't view their arrival with much enthusiasm since they seem to be taking dhows. God knows what for. It might be the will of Allah but the faithful don't take too kindly to it.'

'A true corsair by the sound of him,' said Griffiths pondering. 'Tell me sir, could you oblige us with a modern chart of the Red Sea? Ours is most fearfully wanting in detail,' Drinkwater pulled the appropriate chart from the drawer beneath the settee. He showed Lawrence. The lieutenant laughed. 'Good God, gentlemen, I believe Noah had a better. Yes, I am sure I can furnish your wants there, send a midshipman back with me.'

'There's a further thing,' said Griffiths, 'we've a woman on board and I want her given passage to Bombay.'

Lawrence's face clouded. 'Who is she?'

'Oh, some convict scum we found floating in a ship's boat in the South Atlantic. She got amongst the men with her damned fornicating.'

Lawrence was indignant: 'I'm sorry sir, but I cannot help you with convicts.'

'Damn it man, I order you to, I hold a commission in the King's Service…'

'You say you picked her up in the South Atlantic?' temporised Lawrence.

'Yes.'

'But you come from the Cape. Could you not have landed her there?' Lawrence frowned. He supposed these naval officers had tired of the jade and now wished to be rid of her. 'You must understand, sir, that I have a crew of lascars: their notion of Englishwomen is not such that they would readily comprehend the nature of a whore and a convict.' He picked up his hat and bowed. 'But the chart you shall have with pleasure. Good morning gentlemen, my thanks for your hospitality…'

'Wait, Mr Lawrence,' snapped Griffiths. The man's refusal to take Mistress Best had not surprised him. Other things were crowding the mind of Madoc Griffiths. 'A moment more. I desire you to inform the Governor at Bombay and the General Officer commanding the Company's troops that there is substantial risk of the French descending upon India. It is most important that you carry Admiral Nelson's apprehensions upon this matter with more conviction than did Lieutenant Duval. To this end I shall have the matter in writing…' The commander turned to his desk. Lawrence's face was a picture of scepticism; he seemed unable to take such a threat seriously. Drinkwater was not surprised; he had heard that prolonged service in India induced a euphoria in Europeans that was a consequence of their exalted position. Lawrence's lofty dismissal of Catherine Best amply demonstrated this attitude.

'See Mr Lawrence over the side, Mr Drinkwater,' Griffiths handed the Company officer a letter. Lawrence bowed, took the packet and left the cabin. As the two men climbed into the brilliant sunshine of the deck Drinkwater called Quilhampton to accompany the officer to his ship.

'I'll send my boat back with him, sir,' smiled Lawrence, 'lest it be said that I refused a woman but took a boy, eh?'

Drinkwater found the jest distasteful and dismissed Lawrence as a sybarite. But he managed a thin smile out of courtesy.

'You be careful of those Frogs,' Lawrence said lightly, 'you don't have the local knowledge that we do and even my chart is not a great deal of use above Jabal Zuqar; but it'll get you to Mocha. Good day, sir.'

'Good day, and thank you. I suppose you know no more of the French force?'

Lawrence shrugged. 'A frigate and one or two corvettes… commodore's name was unusual,' he paused with one elegant calf over the rail. 'I remember Tom Duval sounded more Frog than this villain. Something like Santon… Santa…'

'Santhonax?'

'You have it exactly sir, Santhonax. Good day, sir.'

'God's bones!' Nathaniel turned swiftly away and scrambled below while Lawrence returned to his ship. Drinkwater burst in upon Griffiths. 'I just asked that popinjay who commanded the French squadron, sir!'

Griffiths looked up: 'Well?'

'Santhonax!'

For a second Griffiths sat silent, then a torrent of Welsh oaths rolled from him in a spate of invective that terminated in the pouring of two further glasses of sercial. Both men sat staring before them. Both thought of the long duel they had fought with Santhonax in the Channel and the North Sea. They had put an end to his depredations by capture at Camperdown. Now, by some twist of fate, Santhonax had beaten them, arrived ahead of them in the Red Sea.

'It is not coincidence, Nathaniel, if that is what you are thinking. Duw, it is Providence… myndiawl, it is more than that, it is proof of Providence!'

'There is one thing, sir.'

'Eh? And what is that?' asked Griffiths pouring a third glass of the wine.

'He does not know it is us that are in pursuit.'

'Huh! That is something like cold comfort, indeed it is.'

The bump of a boat alongside told where Quilhampton had been returned. A minute later the boy knocked and came in. He handed Drinkwater the rolled chart. 'Beg pardon, sir, but it was a snow, sir, name of Dart, sir and…'

'Mr Quilhampton!' snapped Griffiths.

'Sir?' said the boy blushing.

'Do you tell the master that I desire him to brace up and lay a course for the Straits of Bab el Mandeb.'

'B… Bab el…'

'Mandeb.'

'Aye aye, sir.'

Chapter Nine Mocha Road

 December 1798-May 1799

Lieutenant Drinkwater slowly paced Hellebore's tiny quarterdeck. The almost constant southerly wind that blew hot from the Horn of Africa tended to ease at nightfall and Drinkwater, in breeches and shirt, had come to regard his sunset walks as an indispensible highlight to the tedium of these weeks. Now, as the sun sank blood-red and huge, its reflection glowing on the sea, he felt a bitter-sweet sadness familiar to seamen at the close of the day when far from home. He turned aft and strode evenly, measuring the deck. His eyes were caught by the rose-coloured walls and towers of Mocha to the east, a mile distant. The mud brick of the town's buildings also reflected the setting glory of the sun. The slender minaret pointed skywards like a sliver of gold and beside it the dome of the mosque blazed. Behind the town the Tihamah plain stretched eastward, already shadowing and cooling until, like a fantastic backcloth it merged with the crags and fissures of the Yemeni mountains that rose into a sky velvet with approaching night. It was not the first time that the beauty of a tropical night had moved him, provoking thoughts of home and Elizabeth and the worry of her accouchement. Then he chid