A Brig of War

upwards with his hanger Drinkwater leapt aboard the French boat. Manning the swivel were three artillerymen from Desaix's army. Their eyes were pus-filled from ophthalmia and one already clasped a wounded shoulder. A second had recovered from Drinkwater's sword swipe as he straightened up. Drinkwater lunged his shoulder into the man, knocking him backwards and banging the pommel of his sword into the side of the man's head.

The impetus of the approaching French boat had slewed the cutter round so that her crew could leap the easier from their sinking craft. Drinkwater was aware of a stumbling, swearing melee of men to his right as, over the fork of the swivel gun, the third gunner faced him, a heavy sword bayonet in his hand.

Drinkwater saw the matter in his eyes, and the mouth set hard beneath the black moustache. He stumbled as the boat rocked violently under the assault. A man, thrown overboard in the scuffle, screamed as the first shark, attracted by the blood, found him. His frenzied cries lent a sudden fury to them all.

The artilleryman struck down at Drinkwater as he recovered. Desperately Nathaniel caught the impact of the heavy blade on the forte of his sword and twisted upwards, carrying the big bayonet with him. Then, in a clumsy manoeuvre, he executed a bind, riding over the blade and forcing it across to the right. He made the movement in instinctive desperation, with every ounce of his strength. In this he had the advantage. The gunner, weakened by disease and malnutrition, only half able to see and unused to boats, lost his balance as he tried to avoid the Englishman's much longer blade. Drinkwater felt the pressure stop and saw, with a curious mixture of relief and pity, a pair of tattered bootsoles as the man fell overboard.

This emotion was swiftly replaced by a savage gratification as he swung half right to plunge amongst the fighting still ranging in the boat. Then it was all over, suddenly the boat was theirs and men were grabbing oars and tossing Frenchmen callously overboard. In perhaps three minutes the British had destroyed their pursuers and had begun to pull the boat offshore to where the three British warships still cannonaded the town. It was almost dark. The gun flashes of the squadron were reflected on the oily surface of the sea, the burning dhows flamed like torches. There were only four of them; so neither Morris nor Hetherington had burned more than one dhow and two still remained unscathed. It was clear to Nathaniel that he had run more than the gauntlet of death from the French. The events of less than an hour seemed at that moment to have lasted a lifetime. He felt very tired.

After reporting to Griffiths, Drinkwater went in search of rest. The British remained at quarters during the night, snatching what sleep they could beside their cannon as the chill of the desert night cooled them. From time to time a gun was discharged to intimidate the French. Rolling himself in his boat cloak Drinkwater settled down under the little poop to sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when someone shook him.

'Zur,' Tregembo whispered softly, 'Mr Drinkwater, zur.'

'Eh? What is it, Tregembo?'

'Did you know that bugger Morris was aboard Daed'lus, zur?'

'Of course I did. He commanded her boat in the raid.' A sudden desire to communicate his fears seized him. There was between the two of them a bond that stretched beyond the bulwarks of the brig to the small Hampshire town of Petersfield. This bond underran the social barriers that divided them. 'I think he tried to kill me this evening.'

Drinkwater heard Tregembo whistle. 'That explains it, zur. We saw Fox's boat pull towards you when you was attacked. As it passed Daed'lus's cutter it were turned back. Then the signal for recall was hoisted I heard say, zur. I also heard Mr Dalziell mention he knew the lieutenant just joined Daed'lus, and when I heard him tell Mr Lestock it was a Mr Morris… well I guessed, zur.'

Drinkwater's mind flew back to a day twenty years earlier when this same man had given a nervous midshipman the courage to challenge Morris.

'If anything happens to you, zur, I'll swing for the bastard.'

'No Tregembo,' said Drinkwater sharply. 'If anything happens to me do you get yourself home to your Susan and tell Lord Dungarth. Appleby'll help you. That's an order man.'

Tregembo hesitated. 'Damn it, Tregembo, I'll rest easier if I thought he'd died by due process of law.'

Tregembo sighed. Such niceties were the penalty he paid for his contacts with 'the quality'. 'Aye, zur. I will. And I'll keep a weather eye out for your lady.'

A wave of pure fear swept over Drinkwater but he suppressed it beneath a rough gratitude for Tregembo's loyalty. 'Aye, you do that Tregembo. My thanks to you. The sooner we are away out of this accursed bay the better. We have orders for England once…' he checked himself. He had been about to say 'once the captain has rid himself of his present obsession.' But that was too much of a confidence even for Tregembo. The recollection steadied him and Tregembo left, silently swearing to himself that Lieutenant Drinkwater need have no fear if it was left to him.

But sleep would not now come to Drinkwater. He rose and went below. The scratches of his wounds throbbed and in the gunroom he cleaned them with the remains of a bottle of rum. Above his head a guntruck squealed and the boom of the six-pounder split the night. Mr Rogers was clearly going to let the French know that he was on deck, middle watch or no. Drinkwater went forward to look at Quilhampton.

The apparently indefatigable Catherine Best still ministered to him, washing the small white body with wine and water so that evaporation might cool the boy.

'How is he?'

'A little cooler, but still fevered. You have been wounded, sir?'

'It is nothing at all.'

'But it will mortify in this climate.'

'No. I have washed it with rum. I shall survive.' He took the rag off her and gently pushed her aside. 'Get some rest. I shall sit with him a while.'

He eased himself down beside the midshipman and sniffed the bandages on the stump. Thank God there was no offensive taint to it, as yet. Presently his head dropped forward and he slept.

At five o'clock in the morning the three British cruisers reopened their cannonade on Kosseir. It was to last seven hours.

At noon when the bombardment halted, anxious gunners reported the serious depletion of their stocks of ammunition and Ball summoned his fellow captains. At four in the afternoon the boats of Daedalus succeeded in burning the two dhows that remained anchored in the inner roadstead.

As the day drew to a close a swell rolled into Kosseir Bay, setting the boats of the squadron bobbing and grinding one another as they assembled alongside Hellebore. The brig was the most southerly of the three British ships and a convenient starting place for the next phase of Captain Ball's questionable strategy. All the boats had their carronades mounted, those in the frigate's launches of eighteen pound calibre. The expedition was to land south of the town. Its object was to destroy the wells used by the French, located in the miserable oasis observed by Drinkwater earlier. About eighty seamen and marines were mustered for this purpose under the command of Captain Stuart of Fox. Seconding him were Lieutenants Morris, Hetherington and Drinkwater.

'Watch this swell upon the beach, bach,' said Griffiths at parting and Drinkwater nodded. Service in Kestrel and the buoy yachts of Trinity House had rendered him acutely conscious of sea state.

Night was again falling as they pulled away from the brig. Stuart's boat led, the others following. At the last moment Drinkwater had ordered Tregembo back on board with a message for Lestock. As soon as the Cornishman had disappeared Drinkwater pushed off.

Already the sun was touching the distant peaks of the Sharqiya, but in the gathering shadows troops could be seen hurrying along the road to the oasis. Drinkwater turned his boat, that captured from the French when the cutter had been lost, in the wake of Stuart's launch. As they approached the beach they could feel the swell humping up beneath them, see it rolling ahead of them to break in a heavy surf.

'Mr Brundell!' Drinkwater hailed the master's mate commanding the gig next astern. 'There's a surf. Do you use your anchor from forward, let go abreast of me!'

He saw Brundell wave acknowledgement. The gig did not mount a gun, was too light for the six-pounders lent to the boats that had no carronades. Thankful that there were old Kestrels in Hellebore's company who would appreciate the technique, Drinkwater watched with misgiving where, ahead of them he saw Stuart's boat anchor by the stern.

'Forrard there!' He stood up to command attention. The gunner's mate looked astern. 'Sir?'

'You will have time for only a single discharge. Make sure you fire on the upward pitch. Make ready!'