A Brig of War

one for Dalziell, displaced by Catherine Best from his own cabin, the other, a hasty addition, for Morris. Gaston Bruilhac still slept beneath the table. Appleby was just emerging from the after cabin when Drinkwater sat for his bowl of burgoo.

The surgeon jerked his head over his shoulder as he caught Drinkwater's interrogative eye. 'Taken to his bed,' explained Appleby, 'the Gambia trouble again.'

Drinkwater sighed. Griffiths had taken the Kosseir debacle very badly. He was never prodigal with the lives of his men, many of whom were old Kestrels, volunteers from the almost forgotten days of peace. The butcher's bill for the action with La Torride and the attack on Kosseir had been excessive. With the thunder of the silent guns ringing in his ears as they withdrew from before the battered but defiant town, Griffiths had succumbed to an onslaught of his malaria.

Finishing his breakfast Drinkwater went into the after cabin. The sweet smell of perspiration filled the stuffy space. Griffiths lay in his cot, his eyes closed, but he opened them as Drinkwater leaned over the twisted sheets.

'How are you sir?'

'Bad, Nathaniel, bach… duw, but get me a drink, get me a drink…'

Drinkwater found a bottle and poured the wine.

'Watch them all, Nathaniel, watch them all. You were the only one I ever trusted.' There was a frantic quality about him, a desperation that Drinkwater suddenly found frightening, reminding him of Griffiths's fragile mortality. The idea of being left without him was unthinkable. As if divining Drinkwater's sense of abandonment Griffiths suddenly asked, 'Where are we? What the devil's our position?'

'Latitude…'

'No where? Where for God's sake?' Griffiths had half sat up and was clawing at Drinkwater's sleeve, like a man who had laid down to sleep in a strange place and, on waking, is unable to recall his whereabouts.

'The Red Sea, sir,' Drinkwater soothed.

Griffiths lay back as though satisfied. 'Ah,Y Môr Coch, Y Môr Coch is it…' His voice trailed off in a murmur of incomprehensible Welsh. For a while Drinkwater sat with him as he seemed to drift off into sleep.

Then Griffiths struggled up, an abrupt frown seaming his gleaming forehead. 'The Red Sea, d'you say? Yes, yes, of course… and we head south, eh?'

'Aye sir.'

'Don't forget the sun's ahead of you, neglect the lookout at your peril…' He fell back from this vehement warning. Drinkwater left the cabin and went to find Johnson and his party in the forehold.

Griffiths's warning was timely. The central part of the Red Sea ran deep but the approach to Mocha was made dangerous by many coral reefs. Sailing north they had always had the sun behind them, facilitating the spotting of reefs from the foremasthead. Now the reverse was true and the force of a favourable wind lent a southerly course the quality of impetuosity. Drinkwater remembered his order to hoist the studding sails with a pang of cautionary misgivings, then allayed his fears with the reflection that this portion of the Red Sea was free of reefs except for the low islet of Daedalus Shoal some sixty leagues south-east of them.

He found Johnson busy crouched in the darkness between two timbers, the gleam of incoming water lit by lanterns held by ship's boys, burning weakly in the bad air. Johnson had a pad of picked oakum pressed against the leak to batten over with timber and tarred canvas. Drinkwater looked round him in the gloom.

'The devil's task moving the casks, eh, Mr Johnson?'

'Aye, sir. I reckon Josh Kirby's ruptured himself, like, beggin' your pardon.'

Drinkwater sighed. Another customer for one of Appleby's trusses. The hard physical labour of working His Majesty's ships of war resulted in frequent hernias, a debilitating condition for any man, let alone a seaman. Drinkwater knew of many officers who suffered from them too, and next to addiction to alcohol it was the commonest form of affliction suffered by seamen of all stations.

Returning aft he called on Mr Quilhampton. Opening the flimsy cabin door he found the boy sitting in a chair, reading aloud from Falconer's Marine Dictionary. Drinkwater was aware of a sudden thrusting movement as Gaston Bruilhac shoved past him in apparent panic.

'Good mornin', Mr Q. What the deuce has that puppy been up to to look so damned guilty?'

'Morning sir.' Quilhampton frowned. 'Damned if I know, sir. It's rather queer, but despite my assurances to the contrary he's still terrified of all the officers sir, especially the captain, you and your friend Mr Morris.'

Drinkwater snorted. 'Mr Morris, Mr Q, is an old 'Admiralty acquaintance' with whom I never saw eye to eye. You may disabuse yourself of ideas of intimacy.'

Quilhampton appeared pleased.

'What are you reading?' asked Drinkwater, aware that he should not discuss even Morris with a midshipman. 'Are you communicating with the French boy?'

'Yes, sir,' said Quilhampton enthusiastically, 'Falconer has a French lexicon appended to his dictionary, as you know, sir, and we're making some progress. If only he wasn't so damned nervous.'

'Well I'm glad to see you so cheerful, Mr Q.' He forebore mentioning the ligatures. If Appleby was premature in drawing them Quilhampton would suffer agony. That was the surgeon's province.

At noon Drinkwater and Lestock observed their latitude. Both expressed their surprise that the brig was not more to the south but their ponderings were interrupted by a strange cry from the masthead.

'Deck there! Red Sea ahead!'

Such an unusual hail brought all on deck to the rail. The sea had lost its brilliant blue and white appearance and at first seemed the colour of mud, then suddenly Hellebore was ploughing her way through vermillion waves. This strange novelty caused expressions of naive wonder to cross the faces of the men and Drinkwater remembered Griffiths's muttered 'Y Môr Coch'. They dropped a bucket over and brought up a sample. It was, in detail, a disappointing phenomena, a reddish dust lay upon the water, the corpses of millions of tiny organisms which, in dying, turned a brilliant hue. In less than an hour they had passed out of the area and the men went laughing to their dinners.

The sight, the subject of a long entry in Drinkwater's journal, drove all thoughts of the suspect latitude from their minds.

When he came on deck again at eight bells in the afternoon he based his longitude observation on the latitude observed at noon. He was not to know that refraction of the horizon made nonsense of the day's calculations. They were well to the south and east of their assumed position and for some it was to be a fatal error.

But it was Lieutenant Rogers whose greater mistake spelled disaster for the brig. They had experienced the magically disturbing phenomena of a 'milk sea' many times since that first eruption of phosphorescence in the southern Indian Ocean. Conversations with officers at Mocha, experienced in the navigation of the eastern seas, had led them to remit their instinctive fear of shoaling which was often occasioned by this circumstance. They had heard from Blankett's men how captains and all hands had been called and precious anchors lost on several occasions when an officer apprehended the immediate loss of the ship on a shoal in the middle of the night. Subsequent soundings had shown a depth greater than the leadline could determine and the 'foaming breakers' were discovered to be no more than the phosphorescent tumbling of the open sea.

But such arcane knowledge bestowed on a man of Rogers's temperament was apt to blunt his natural fears and he disallowed the report from the masthead with a contemptuous sneer.

And so, at ten minutes after three on the morning of the 19th August 1799 His Britannic Majesty's Brig of War Hellebore ran hard ashore on the outlying spurs of Abu al Kizan, ironically known to the Royal Navy as Daedalus Reef.

Chapter Fourteen The Will of Allah

 August 1799