A Brig of War

larboard bow, low down.' He dismissed the carpenter who turned away with a puzzled look. The lieutenant fell to a limping pacing of the deck, his left leg still stiff from Appleby's ruthless cauterisation, his abdomen and loins still bruised and sore. But his mind no longer dwelt upon these matters. He thrashed over a score of problems that fluttered round in his head like so many bats seeking anchorage. He was aware of being bad tempered, for the gnawing presence of Augustus Morris on board clouded every issue. Morris was amongst the squadron's wounded, all bundled aboard Hellebore after Ball's withdrawal from Kosseir.

Morris had been wounded in the attack on the mole, a stone chipping driving into his shoulder, breaking his collar bone.

'Tis to disencumber himself of the evidence of defeat more than from compassion,' Appleby had said, referring to Captain Ball with a bitterness born of the prospect of additional duty as the two officers watched the silent procession out of the boats.

In compliance with the orders brought from England, Ball was sending Hellebore south, to call at Mocha and land the sick or carry them homewards at the behest of Rear-Admiral Blankett. And the admiral was not pleased with Hellebore's unsanctioned departure from Mocha, a fact that had led Ball to take fifteen of her crew as replacements for losses sustained by the frigates. That loss was only one of the consequences of the sorry affair at Kosseir. Now the matter of the leak demanded Drinkwater's attention. He remembered the slight tremble Hellebore had given when standing into Kosseir Bay. She had probably caught a coral head and torn her copper sheathing. The damage was undoubtedly slight and had produced no significant inflow of water while they sat and pounded Kosseir. A few hours of working in a seaway would have torn off loose copper and strained any sprung planks.

Drinkwater swore again as the first of the wounded emerged on deck for their morning airing. The watch were just completing the ritual of washdeck routine and he noticed one or two of them wrinkle their noses. He realised that a faintly repulsive smell had been pervading the ship since the night before, overlaying the indigent stink of bilge and crowded humanity. He knew what it was: gangrene.

For a moment he worried that it might be Quilhampton, simultaneously wishing it were Morris and that Providence might twist a little in his favour. But Appleby's features were no more animated than usual as he appeared on deck and touched his hat to Drinkwater. 'Morning.'

'Mornin' Harry. Who's succumbed to gangrene?'

'Gregory. I cannot amputate again, the shock will kill him. They will be bringing him up now.'

Even with a following wind the stench was offensive, causing an involuntary contraction of the nostrils. The men lifting Gregory on deck performed the duty with a mixture of peremptory haste and rough solicitude. Appleby strode forward to direct a hammock slung on the fo'c's'le, where the unfortunate man was hastily suspended. He came aft again, tired and old, Drinkwater thought, but a sudden surprising light spread across the surgeon's features as Catherine Best emerged on deck, wiping a lock of greasy hair off her forehead and clearly as weary as Appleby himself.

Drinkwater smiled as the surgeon made to step forward then, as if recollecting himself, drew back. 'Mistress Best has surprised us all, eh Harry?' he said quietly. Catching his eye Appleby blushed and Drinkwater smiled again. Something was stirring old Harry Appleby and it was not his usual outrage at the bloody waste of action or the follies of mankind.

'How is Mr Quilhampton today, Catherine?' Drinkwater asked in a louder voice.

She refocussed tired eyes upon the first lieutenant, dragging them away from a distant horizon. 'He's on his feet this morning, Mr Drinkwater, I believe he is breaking his fast in the gunroom.' She looked shyly at Appleby. 'I think Mr Appleby intends to try the ligatures this morning…'

Appleby nodded. 'He's a healthy boy and healing well, thanks to Catherine's ministrations. Would that all my patients could have such treatment.'

'It's not your fault…' began the woman, breaking off with a look at Drinkwater. It was clear even to Nathaniel's preoccupied mind that there was an intimacy here, professional and ripeningly personal. It was curiously touching and he felt oddly embarrassed and strode across to the wheel where the helmsmen were half a point off course. Catherine Best influenced them all he reflected, suddenly irritable again.

'Quartermaster, you're half a point off your course. I'll have the hide off you for neglect if you don't pay more attention.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater strode forward and cast his eyes aloft at the foremast, spun on his heel and surveyed the mainmast. 'It'll be't'gallant buntlines next, my cockers,' muttered the quartermaster to his helmsmen, shifting a quid surreptitiously over his tongue.

'Mr Brundell!'

'Sir?' The master's mate came aft.

'D'you not know your damned business, sir? Those't'gallant buntlines are in need of overhauling. Get about it on the instant!' He missed Brundell's wounded look.

Drinkwater came aft again, scowling at the men at the wheel whose downcast eyes were attentively following the lubber's line.

The pale form of Lieutenant Morris emerged from the companionway. Morris wore his uniform coat over his shoulders and his left arm was slung across his chest. Mild fever sharpened the malevolent glitter in his curiously hooded eyes and Drinkwater was once again disturbed by the almost tangible menace of the man.

'Good morning, my dear Drinkwater,' he hissed, little agglomerations of spittle in the corners of his mouth.

'Mornin' Morris,' Drinkwater managed out of courtesy and passed aft.

Drinkwater judged the sun high enough to take an observation for longitude, ignoring Morris leaning negligently on the companionway, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater. In the middle of the calculation, hurriedly tabulated on a slate, a worried looking carpenter returned to the quarterdeck.

'Well, Mr Johnson?' said Drinkwater as he flicked the table of versines over.

'You was right, sir. Shifted two tiers of barricoes under the sail locker to larboard o' the cables an' found a bleeding split, sir. Reckon the copper's off outside.'

'H'm, can you do anything with it?'

Johnson rubbed his chin which was blue with a fast growing stubble. 'Reckon if I shift a few more o' the casks I can tingle it from the inside, temp'r'y like, sir.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'See to it after breakfast, Mr Johnson. I'll have Mr Rogers send the mate of the day below at eight bells to shift the casks for you.'

He bent again to his figures.

'Beg pardon, sir?'

'Yes, what is it?'

'How did you know it was the larboard bow?'

Drinkwater smiled. 'I thought she touched when we were entering Kosseir Bay, Mr Johnson. Probably hit a coral head and broke it off.'

Johnson nodded. 'Reckon that's the size of it, sir.'

Drinkwater watched him waddle off, saw him hop up on to the fo'c's'le and look into Gregory's hammock, then turn away shaking his head.

'Still a deuced clever and knowing dog are you not, my dear Drinkwater,' insinuated Morris. Drinkwater flicked a glance at the helmsmen. Their fixed expressions showed they had heard and Drinkwater was filled with a sudden anger.

'Don't presume upon our friendship, Morris, and mind your tongue upon my deck.'

But Morris did not react, merely smiled with his mouth, then turned away below. Drinkwater stared ahead. Mocha was eight hundred miles to the southward and the brig could not fly over the distance fast enough.

'Mr Brundell!'

'Sir?'

'At eight bells have both watches hoist studdin' sails.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

He waited impatiently for the quadruple double ring and the arrival of Mr Lestock to relieve him.

The gunroom was crowded when he went below. Cots had been constructed in each of the two after corners,