A Brig of War

'We lost four men, Nathaniel, four men that walk now with Allah in paradise. We killed God knows how many. There will not be a Frenchman alive in the Wadi Al Mukhra.'

There was an alien, pitiless gleam in Wrinch's eye as he described the murder of a defeated enemy as a scouring of the sacred earth of the Hejaz after the defiling of the infidel. It occurred to Drinkwater that Wrinch was a believer in the one true faith. It was Islam and patriotism that kept this curious man in self-imposed exile among the wild horsemen and their strangely civilised brand of barbarity. And as he listened, it occurred to him that his own life was beset by paradoxes and anomalies; brutality and honour, death and duty. As if to emphasise these disturbing contradictions Wrinch ended on a note of compassion: 'Do you wish me to attend this Santhonax?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'If you please. Would that your skills had arrived early enough to have been of use to Griffiths.'

'Death, my dear Nathaniel,' said Wrinch, putting his hand familiarly upon Drinkwater's shoulder, 'is the price of Admiralty.'

Chapter Seventeen A Conspiracy of Circumstances

 September-October 1799

Drinkwater stared astern to where Daedalus Reef formed a small blemish on the horizon. He felt empty and emotionless over the loss of Griffiths, aware that the impact would be felt later. They had buried him among the roots of the scrubby grass on the islet, a few yards from the burnt out shell of his brig. During the brief interment several of the hands had wept openly. An odd circumstance that, Drinkwater thought, considering that he himself, who of all the brig's company had been closest to the commander, could feel nothing. Catherine Best had cried too, and it had been Harry Appleby's shoulder that supported her.

Drinkwater sighed. The blemish on the horizon had gone. Griffiths and Hellebore had slipped from the present into the past. Such change, abrupt and cruel as it was, nevertheless formed a part of the sea-life. The Lord gave and took away as surely as day followed night, mused Drinkwater as he turned forward and paced the frigate's spacious deck. The wind shifted and you hauled your braces; that was the way of it and now, in the wake of Griffiths came Morris.

It had taken two days to get the stores off Daedalus Reef, two days of hard labour and relentless driving of the hands, of standing the big unfamiliar frigate on and offshore while they rowed the boats, splashed out with casks and bundles and hauled them aboard. The paucity of numbers had been acutely felt and officers had doffed coats and turned-to with the hands.

Morris had taken command by virtue of his seniority. It was an incontravertible fact. Drinkwater did not resent it, though he cursed his ill-luck. It happened to sea-officers daily, but he dearly hoped that at Mocha Morris would return to his own ship.

Drinkwater took consolation in his profession, for there was much to do. As he paced up and down, the sinking sun lit the frigate's starboard side, setting the bright-work gleaming. She was a beautiful ship whose name they had at last discovered to be Antigone. She was identical to the Pomone, taken by Sir John Warren's frigate squadron in the St George's Day action of 1794. Although she had only six of her big maindeck guns mounted, her fo'c's'le and quarterdeck carronades were in place, as were a number of swivels mounted along her gangways. With the remnants of the brig's crew it would be as much as they could manage.

Drinkwater clasped his hands behind his back, stretched his shoulders and looked aloft at the pyramids of sail reddening in the sunset. She would undoubtedly be purchased into the service. All they had to do was get her home in one piece. Inevitably his mind slid sideways to the subject of prize money. He should do well from the sale of such a splendid ship. Griffiths would… he caught himself. Griffiths was dead. As the sun disappeared and the green flash showed briefly upon the horizon Drinkwater suddenly missed Madoc Griffiths.

That passage to Mocha in the strange ship, so large after the Hellebore, had a curious flavour to it. As though the tight-knit community that had so perfectly fitted and worked the brig now rattled in too large a space, subject too suddenly to new influences. The change of command, with the nature of Morris's character common knowledge, served to undermine discipline. Men obeyed their new commander's orders with a perceptible lack of alacrity, displaying for Drinkwater a partiality that was obvious. The presence on board of Santhonax and Bruilhac was also unsettling, although the one was still weak from his wound and the other too terrified to pose a threat. But it was Morris who exerted the most sinister influence upon them, as was his new prerogative. Two days after leaving the reef the wind had freshened and Rogers had the topgallants taken off. Morris had gone on deck. During the evolution a clew line had snagged in a block, the result of carelessness, of few men doing a heavy job in a hurry. Rogers had roared abuse at the master's mate in the top while the sail flogged, whipping the yard and setting the mainmast a-trembling.

'Take that man's name, Mr Rogers, by God, I'll have him screaming for his mother yet damn it!' Morris came forward shaking with rage, the stink of rum upon him. 'Where's the first lieutenant? Pass word for the first lieutenant!'

A smirking Dalziell brought Drinkwater hurriedly on deck to where Morris was fuming. The rope had been cleared and the topmen were already working out along the yard, securing the sail.

'Sir?' said Drinkwater, touching his hat to the acting commander.

'What the hell have you been doing with these men, Mr Drinkwater? Eh? The damned lubbers cannot furl a God-damned f gallant without fouling the gear!'

Morris stared at him. 'What d'you say, sir? What d'you say?'

Drinkwater looked at Rogers and then aloft. 'I expect they are still unfamiliar with the gear sir, I…' He faltered at the gleam of triumph in Morris's eye.

'In that case, Mr Drinkwater, you may call all hands and exercise them. Aloft there! Let fall! Let fall!' He turned to Rogers. 'There sir, set 'em again, sheet 'em home properly then furl 'em again. And this time do it properly, damn your eyes!'

Morris stumped off below and Rogers met Drinkwater's eyes. Rogers too had a temper and was clearly containing himself with difficulty.

'Steady Samuel,' said Drinkwater in a low voice. 'He is the senior lieutenant…'

Rogers expelled his breath. 'And two weeks bloody seniority is enough to hang a man… I know,' he turned away and roared at the waisters, 'A touch more on that lee t'garn brace you damned lubbers, or you'll all feel the cat scratching…'

It was only a trivial thing that happened daily on many ships but it had its sequel below when Drinkwater was summoned to the large cabin lately occupied by Edouard Santhonax. It was now filled with the reek of rum and the person of Morris slumped in a chair, his shirt undone, a glass in his hand.

'I will have everything done properly, Drinkwater. Now I command, and by God, I've waited a long time for it, been cheated out of it by you and your ilk too many times to let go now, and I'll not tolerate one inch of slip-shod seamanship. Try and prejudice my chances of confirmation at Mocha, Drinkwater, and I'll ruin you…'

'Sir, if you think I deliberately…'

'Shut your mouth and obey orders. Don't try to be clever or to play the innocent for by God you will not thwart me now. If you so much as cross me I'll take a pretty revenge upon you. Now get out!'

Drinkwater left and shunned the company of Appleby and Wrinch that evening while he thought over their circumstances.

'Well, well, my dear Wrinch, a most brilliant little affair by all accounts and the loss of the Hellebore more than compensated by the acquisition of so fine a frigate as the Antigone. Pity Daedalus and Fox knocked the brig Annette about so much that she's not worth burning for her damned fastenings, eh?' Blankett sniffed, referring to the capture made by the two frigates on their way south of the third vessel in Santhonax's squadron.

'I think the frigate the better bargain, Your Excellency,' said Wrinch drily. Admiral Blankett dabbed at his lips then belched discreetly behind the napkin. 'A rather ironic outcome, don't you know, considering the