A Brig of War

Drinkwater was flung from his cot by the impact. In the darkness he was aware of shouts, curses and screams. The entire hull seemed to flex once as a loud crack was followed by the crash of falling spars and blocks, the muffling slump of canvas and the peculiar whirring slap of ropes falling slack across the deck. In his drawers he pushed his way through the confused press of men making for the upper deck. As he emerged he was aware that the lofty spread of the brig's masts, rigging and sails were gone, that the mighty arch of the heavens spread overhead uninterrupted. Lieutenant Rogers stood open-mouthed in shock, refusing to believe the evidence of his eyes.

Drinkwater leapt for the rail and in an instant saw the fringe of white water breaking round the low islet to larboard, lifeless patches of blackness in the night marked the presence of rock outcrops. All around Hellebore the surge and welter of water breaking over shallows confirmed what his nerves were already telling him. Beneath his feet the brig's hull was dead.

He turned to Rogers. It was pointless remonstrating with the man. Rogers would be needed in the coming hours and in any case Drinkwater's acute sense of responsibility was already aware that he himself was not without blame. The reef was undoubtedly Daedalus Reef; their assumed position had been woefully in error and, although he did not yet know why, his conscience nagged him.

'Well sir,' he said to Rogers in as steady a voice as he could muster, 'it seems that we have wrecked the ship… and for God's sake close your mouth.'

Drinkwater was suddenly aware of many faces in the night, all clamouring for attention. There was fear too, revealed by panicky movements to and from the rails. He saw Catherine Best, her face white, a shawl made of sennit-work round her shoulders. Undercurrents of disorder swept the deck.

'Silence there!' bawled Drinkwater, leaping on to a gun breech forgetful of his near-nakedness. 'We ain't going to sink, damn it, come away from those boats. Mr Rogers! A roll call if you please. Mr Lestock! Sound round the hull; Mr Johnson the well. Mr Trussel examine the extent of damage to the hull… take parties with you…' His voice trailed away. Rising from the companionway like an apparition, a tall nightcap falling to one side of his face, the wind whipping a voluminous nightshirt about him, came Commander Griffiths. Men fell silent and drew aside from his path.

'Myndiawl!'. What in the name of Almighty God have you done to my ship?'

Griffiths's mighty voice rolled in anguish across the shambles of the deck which had the appearance of a scene from hell. The jagged ends of the masts stuck upwards, their remains grinding alongside, worked by the surge of the sea. Forward of the galley funnel the ship was buried under spars, rigging and canvas which lifted like the obscene death-throes of a gigantic bird. By some fluke the mainmast had tottered over to larboard, leaving a clear patch of deck amidships which seethed with the brig's people.

Drinkwater felt a sharp contraction in his guts, a sudden sense, awful in its intensity, that he had betrayed Griffiths. His nakedness seemed at once shameful and penitent. He was robbed of speech before Griffiths's agony, then a brief anger spurred him to denounce Rogers. But his own underlying sense of culpability checked such a mean outburst. He looked at Griffiths whose eyes glittered with tears and fever then slipped sideways to another face, staring at him out of the gloom with amused satisfaction. Drinkwater's nakedness was reflected in Morris's expression. Real anger came to his aid; he found his voice.

'Carry on with my orders, gentlemen. Mr Grey…' The boatswain pushed forward, 'get a party to start raising provisions out of the storerooms. Master's mate, do you put a guard on the spirit room and if I find a man the worse for liquor I'll have him at the gratings calling for his mother before the sun's up.' He turned to Griffiths. 'Sir… I… we are lost, sir… Daedalus Reef… our reckoning was out sir, I, er…' He felt close to tears himself, a weak desire to capitulate to the overwhelming feelings of frustration that laid siege to his spirit. But then Griffiths tottered forward and Drinkwater caught him. Already the period of shocked lucidity had passed, the ague had reclaimed him and he muttered deliriously to himself in his native tongue. The sudden urgent need to get the captain below reassured Drinkwater. All round them the men were bustling to their new tasks. Catherine Best's hair brushed his face. 'Get him below, hey, you there, lend a hand…'

'Sir, can I…?' It was Mr Quilhampton, his stump across his chest, his right hand held protectively over it. Appleby had tried the ligatures without success. Mr Quilhampton had not flinched. 'Get the surgeon! And round up some men to carry the captain below.' Then he added in a lower voice, 'look after him Catherine, we have great need of him now.' Two seamen arrived to relieve them of their burden. The woman straightened up. In the darkness he could see her smile of reassurance.

'I will sir,' she said, and her hand closed for a second on his. Then Appleby appeared and Drinkwater turned to attend to Johnson.

'Five feet o' water in the well, sir, but the line's short. I think we've lost the bottom, sir.' Lestock arrived. 'Two fathoms aft barely one forrard, both masts gone by the board…'

'Twenty barrels of powder spoiled and we've lost some water. Deal of the dry stores spoiled and judging by the top tier of casks in the hold we've stove in the bottom…' Trussel reported.

Drinkwater forced his mind to assimilate the details. Already a plan for their immediate survival was forming in his mind. He already knew there was no chance of saving the ship.

'Well, Mr Rogers?'

Rogers had recovered his composure. 'Three men killed, sir. Gregory, the foremast fell across his hammock; Stock, foremast lookout, killed when the mast fell, and Jeavons, he was forrard and was struck by a block. There are quite a number of injuries…'

'Right,' Drinkwater cut him short, 'all the unfit to go below. Is that all?'

'Two missing,' added Rogers.

Drinkwater could imagine that, men on duty swept overboard in the chaos of falling gear. He thought for a moment.

'We must get the galley stove lit and all hands fed well at daylight. Use broached stores to conserve stocks. I've put the master's mates in charge of the spirit store until we get things sorted out. Keep a watch for drunkenness, Rogers, if this lot get out of hand there will be the devil to pay.'

'And then what d'you propose?' a voice sneered. Lieutenant Morris intruded into the little group.

'We wait until daylight Morris,' replied Drinkwater coolly, 'unless you have any better suggestions, then we will move the wounded to the reef and salvage what we can. The boats, Mr Grey, must be preserved at all costs. About your duties gentlemen.' The officers dispersed and Drinkwater was left alone with Morris. He was again uncomfortably aware of his lack of clothing.

'I think, my dear Nathaniel, that this time even you have bitten off more than you can chew.'

Drinkwater moved towards the companionway to find a shirt and his breeches. He turned sharply towards his enemy and retraced his steps. For one delicious moment he wished he had had his sword for he would have had no compunction in thrusting it deep into Morris's belly. The satisfaction, like that of lancing a boil, would have been cathartic. Instead he was reduced to a venomous retort.

'Go to the devil!'

'Careful Nathaniel, remember that old Welsh goat is a sick man and I am far senior to you…' The insinuation was plain enough and it choked Drinkwater with his own rising bile.

'Go to hell, Morris!'

'Witness that remark, Mr Dalziell,' snapped Morris in a sudden change of tone as the midshipman hurried up. Drinkwater turned away in search of his breeches.

It was late afternoon before Drinkwater paused to take stock of their situation on the tiny island. In the hours that succeeded the brush with Morris he had worked ceaselessly. It was only as he stood staring westwards that he realised why the brig had been lost. As the sun sank the mountain peaks of Upper Egypt were clear on the horizon. Drinkwater knew they were sixty to seventy miles away, far over the sea horizon. It had been the unusual refraction of that very horizon that had caused their errors and he walked tiredly over to Lestock to point it out. But Mr Lestock, who had long ago been prejudiced against Mr Drinkwater's methods of navigation, especially that of determining longitude by chronometer, merely curled his lip.

'Perhaps, Mr Drinkwater, it would have been more prudent to have observed the phenomena before the loss of the ship…' Lestock rose and cut him, leaving Drinkwater isolated as he stared after the retreating back of the retrospectively wise master whose fussing indecision seemed justified.

Mr Quilhampton appeared at his elbow. 'Beg pardon, sir, Miss Best says you are to drink this and take some