A Brig of War

'Place looks like a heap of camel-shit,' muttered Rogers. They all suffered from a sense of being engaged in an unworthy activity, not least Griffiths.

'A most inglorious proceeding indeed,' he said, disgust filling his dry mouth. And Drinkwater knew the old man considered this a side-show compared with the task of destroying Santhonax himself.

'Commodore's signalling for an officer, sir.' Dalziell reported.

'Duw… see to it Mr Drinkwater.'

Clambering in at the entry of Daedalus Drinkwater was escorted by a cool-looking midshipman to the quarterdeck. He found a lieutenant from Fox already there, together with a figure he knew well.

Time had not been kind to Augustus Morris. The years had ravaged his body, the skin drawn over prematurely withered flesh, his stance flaccid, listless in a manner that could not entirely be attributed to the heat. His face bore the marks of a heavy drinker, a tic twitching beneath his right eye. But although time might be remarked in his person and emphasised by his long worn lieutenant's uniform, his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, glittered with a potent malevolence.

There was no time for formalities. Captain Ball turned from a consultation with his sailing master and addressed the three lieutenants.

'Gentlemen, I propose in an hour to hoist the Union at the fore-masthead. Upon that signal I require you to take the boats from your ships and attack the native craft exposed in the outer roadstead. You should direct your respective boats to the nearest craft and thereafter concert your efforts as seems best to you. That is all.' Ball turned away dismissively.

'What's the date of your commission, Drinkwater?' asked Hetherington of Fox, a small, pinch-faced man with prominent ears.

'October '97.'

'That makes you senior, Morris.'

'It does indeed,' said Morris with relish, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater. 'Mr Drinkwater once outranked me, Hetherington. A temporary matter, d'you know. It is only just that I should have the whip hand now.'

'Well what are we going to do?' enquired the anxious Hetherington who was not much interested in Morris's autobiography.

Morris took his eyes reluctantly off his old enemy and fixed Hetherington with an opaque look that Drinkwater remembered from twenty years earlier. 'Why, just what we have been told, Hetherington. Take the dhows of course. Mr Drinkwater will lead the attack…' Drinkwater met his gaze again, reading Morris's intentions quite clearly. Morris turned to Hetherington. 'You may return to your ship.' His hand shot out and restrained Drinkwater who had thought to leave.

'Not you, my dear Nathaniel,' said Morris with heavy sarcasm, his hand gripping viciously upon Drinkwater's right upper arm, twisting the muscle maimed two years earlier by Edouard Santhonax, 'we have an old acquaintance to revive.'

'I think not, Morris,' said Drinkwater coolly as the other dropped his hand.

'Ah, but I order you to stay, there is so much to discuss. Your wife for instance…'

Drinkwater froze, suddenly anxious and searching Morris's face for the truth.

'Oh, yes, I have seen her, Nathaniel. Heavy with child too. You have overcome your prudery I see. Unless it was another.' Morris broke out into low laughter as Drinkwater's hand reached for his hanger. Morris shook his head. 'That would be most imprudent.' Drinkwater clenched his fist impotently. 'She looked unwell.'

Drinkwater saw in Morris's expression a cruel delight, such as Yusuf ben Ibrahim had worn as he butchered the Frenchmen of La Torride.

Drinkwater opened his mouth to reply but the words were lost in the sudden roar of Daedalus''s guns. Ball had hauled down the flag of truce and resumed the bombardment. Spinning on his heel Drinkwater returned to his boat and Hellebore.

'Bear off forrard! Give way together!' Drinkwater took the tiller and swung the cutter away under Hellebore's stern. Passing across Daedalus's bow he steadied for the nearest dhow. Looking to starboard he saw Hetherington's boat shoot ahead of Fox, then Morris came out from the shelter of Daedalus.

'Pull, you lubbers. Let's get this business finished quickly!' The boat's crew were already grimed and sweat- seamed from working the guns in relays, but they lay back on their oars willingly enough. Over their heads shot whined through the sullen air. Drinkwater looked ahead at Kosseir. The town was passing into shadow, purple and umber as the sun westered behind the mountains of the Sharqiya.

They reached the first vessel, a large baghala, deserted by her crew. Drinkwater led his men aboard and it was the work of only a few minutes to set her on fire. As they tumbled back into the cutter Daedalus's boat came alongside, a midshipman in charge of her.

'Mr Morris orders you to attack yon dhow, sir.' The youth pointed to a vessel anchored just off the ramshackle mole. Drinkwater swung round to look at the dhow next astern of them. He could see Morris on its deck. No smoke as yet issued from her, though their own target was well ablaze. A dark suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind as he nodded to the midshipman. 'Very well.'

'Give way…' Rounding the burning baghala's bow Drinkwater headed for the mole. They were no more than two hundred yards from the decaying breakwater, their new victim lying midway between.

'Is that match all right?' The gunner's mate in charge of the combustibles blew on the slow match and nodded. 'Aye, sir.'

'Pull, damn you!' growled Drinkwater, seeing for the first time men in blue uniforms running out along the mole and dropping to their knees. They were French sharpshooters, the trailleurs of the 21st Demi-Brigade. The oar looms bent under redoubled effort.

The cutter ran alongside the dhow and the seamen jumped aboard. At the instant they stood on the deck the sharpshooters opened fire. It was long musket range but Drinkwater immediately felt a searing pain across his thigh and looked down to see where a ball had galled him, reddening his breeches. Beside him a man was bowled over as though dead but sat up a few moments later, nursing bruised ribs from a spent musket ball. Drinkwater and his men crawled about the deck, assembling enough combustibles to ignite the dhow, wriggling backwards with the small keg of black powder leaving a trail across the deck. Drinkwater nodded and the gunner's mate blew on his match and touched it to the powder train. The flame sputtered and tracked across the deck, over the coaming and below. Smoke began to writhe out of the dhow's hold.

'Back to the boat!' he called sharply over his shoulder, venturing one last look at the crumbling mud brick of Kosseir's pitiful defences. Overhead the whirr of cannon shot told where the squadron were thundering away, while puffs of dust and little settling disturbances of masonry showed the process of reduction. He scanned the beach that curved away to the left of the town. A few small fishing boats were drawn up on it and the dull green of vegetation showed where a hardy and pitiful cultivation was carried on. Some taller palms grew in a clump by a waterhole. As he ducked again and was about to crawl back to the boat Drinkwater noticed something else, something that brought him to his feet in a wild leap for the cutter. Round the end of the mole a boat was pulling vigorously towards them.

The cutter was shoved off from the burning dhow and pulled clear of its shelter. Shot dropped round them and a brief glance astern showed the enemy boat no more than thirty yards astern.

'She's closin' on us, sir,' muttered the man at stroke oak nodding astern. Drinkwater's back felt vulnerable. He looked over his shoulder and stared down the muzzle of a swivel gun. The puff of smoke that followed made his heart skip and he felt the ball hit the transom. Drinkwater looked down to see the dark swirl of water beneath him.

Twilight was increasing by the minute and they had no hope of reaching the brig before being overtaken or sinking. They had a single chance.

'Hold water all! Oars and cutlasses!'

The enemy boat came on and Drinkwater pulled a pistol from his belt. He laid the weapon on one of the gunners and saw the man stagger, a hand to his shoulder. A second later the two boats ground together.

Lent coolness by desperation, Drinkwater grabbed the gunwhale of the enemy boat. Beneath his feet Hellebore's cutter felt sluggish and low as behind him the crew stumbled aft. Swiping