A Brig of War

Their hurried departure from Mocha, the stunned disbelief as he had stood as he did now and listened to Morris confidently reading his commission to the ship's company had triggered his depression and sent him miserable to his cabin, to grieve over his own ill-fortune and, at last, the loss of Griffiths.

In reality that onset of depression had saved him from rashness. Later Rogers had accosted him over the matter, only to reveal that he had himself sent Mr Dalziell to obtain the commission. Now Rogers, already shaken in his confidence over the loss of the brig and the censure of the admiral, had retreated into his own resentment. With the two lieutenants nursing their private grievances Morris had triumphed and Antigone was out of the Gulf of Aden before Drinkwater cast aside his 'blue devils' and resolved to make the best of things.

But he knew it was already too late. While the officers had sulked the men had been scourged. Morris flogged savagely for every small offence that was brought to his notice by his toadies. Among these was a man name Rattray, Morris's servant sent over from Daedalus, a thin seedy man who padded silently about the ship and swiftly became known, predictably, as 'the Rat'. There was Dalziell, of course, promoted acting lieutenant by Morris, who terrorised the hands to Drinkwater's fury; and there was Lestock, whose fussing temperament seemed seduced by Morris's brand of command by terror. It was these men who formed the Praetorian Guard round their new commander, a little coterie of self-seekers and survivors who wielded enormous influence and filled the punishment book with trivial entries.

Drinkwater's mouth set in a hard line as he thought of the increased number of times he had had to make entries in that book. The binding no longer cracked as it had done when Griffiths commanded them. Of course the entries read well. Insolence for a man laughing too loudly when the captain was on deck; Defiling the Deck for a man who spilled his mess kit by accident; Improper Conduct when a rope was untidily belayed on the fife-rails, all trivial matters ending up with the culprit being seized to the gratings.

Morris closed the Prayer Book with a snap, recalling Drinkwater to his duty.

'On hats!' Routinely Drinkwater touched his hat brim as Morris went below.

'Bosun! Pipe the hands to dinner!' he turned away to find Rattray alongside him, as though he had been there all the time, silently listening to Drinkwater's thoughts.

'Cap'n's compliments, sir, and he'd be obleeged if you'd join him for dinner at four bells.'

Drinkwater searched the man's face for some reason for this unexpected courtesy. He found nothing except a pair of shifty eyes and replied. 'Very well. My thanks to the captain.'

He looked forward again to see Appleby and Catherine Best crossing the deck. They had become very close since Morris took command and Drinkwater thought that the presence of the woman even exerted some restraining influence upon Morris himself. Drinkwater uncovered to her. 'Mornin' Mistress Best. I see Mr Wrinch's promise of something more suitable to wear was no vain boast.'

Catherine smiled at him, a shy kind of happiness lighting her eyes while her right hand swirled the skirt of Arab cotton in a small coquettish movement.

'Indeed, Mr Drinkwater, it was not.' Drinkwater looked at Appleby, who was blushing furiously. He smiled, touched his hat again and turned to the quartermaster.

'Well bless my soul,' he muttered to himself, then, in a louder tone, 'call me if there's any wind.' The quartermaster acknowledged the first lieutenant and Drinkwater went below to change his shirt.

The meal, at which no others were present, was conducted in silence. Rattray padded behind their chairs and even with the after sashes lowered the air in the large cabin was stale and hot. When the dishes were cleared away a bottle of port was decanted in Santhonax's personal crystal and, Drinkwater noticed, circulation was slow. The decanter did duty at Morris's glass three times before being shoved reluctantly in his direction. Drinkwater drank sparingly, aware that Morris's appetite was gross.

'Have you seen that?' Morris pointed to where, half hidden behind the cabin door a woman's portrait hung on the white bulkhead. Already his voice was slurred. 'I presume it to be the Frog's whore.' Drinkwater found the portrait amazing. Hortense's grey eyes stared out of the canvas, her long neck bared and her flaming hair piled up above her head, wound with pearls. A wisp of gauze covered the swell of her breasts. He remembered the woman in the cabin of Kestrel and stumbling on the beach at Criel where they had let her go free. He found the portrait disquieting and turned back to Morris. The man was watching him from beneath his hooded eyelids.

'She's his wife,' said Drinkwater, returning Morris's stare.

'And what of Appleby's whore, Nathaniel? Is she what I am told she is, a convict?'

It was pointless to deny it, but then it was unnecessary to confirm it. 'I believe she has redeemed herself by her services to the ship. As to her status, I think you are mistaken.'

Morris waved aside Drinkwater's compassion, to him the pompous assertion of a liberal. 'Pah! She is Appleby's whore,' repeated Morris, slumping back into his chair.

Drinkwater shrugged, aware that Morris was wary, beating about the bush of his intention in asking Drinkwater to dine. He wished they might reach a truce, unaware that Morris had left him upon the beach at Kosseir. Their enmity aboard Cyclops was long past, they were grown men now. Whatever Morris's private desires were, they were not overt.

'You are wondering why I have asked you to dine with me, eh? You, who crossed me years ago, who saw to it that I was dismissed out of Cyclops…'

'I did no such thing, sir.'

'Don't haze me, damn you!' Morris restrained himself and Drinkwater was increasingly worried about the reason for this cosy chat. Drinkwater had played a small part in Morris's disgrace, which had largely been accomplished by his own character. The captain of the frigate was long dead; the first lieutenant, now Lord Dungarth, beyond Morris's vengeance. But Drinkwater was again at his mercy and Morris had intended his ruin, for he had nursed a longing for revenge for twenty years; twenty years that had twisted rejected desire into an obsession.

The pure, vindictive hatred that had made Morris drop the fainting Drinkwater on the beach at Kosseir had been thwarted in the latter's survival, but was now complicated by his reliance on the man he had tried to kill.

'I have my own command now, Drinkwater,' he said, his mouth slack, his chin on his chest, a sinister cartoon by Rowlandson. 'Do anything to prejudice me again and I'll see you in hell…'

'I shall do my duty, sir,' said Drinkwater cautiously, but too primly for Morris's liking.

'Aye by God you will!' Spittle shot from Morris's mouth.

'Then why should you suppose…'

'Because there is a damned rumour persisting in this ship that I have the swab,' he gestured at the damaged epaulette on his shoulders that he had rifled from Griffiths's belongings, 'that should have gone to you.' It was not the only reason but one on which Morris might draw a reaction from Drinkwater whom he now watched closely, his mind concentrated by alcohol on the focus of his obsession.

But Drinkwater did not perceive this, merely saw the matter as something to be raised between them, another ghost to be laid. 'I was given to understand Admiral Blankett desired I should command the prize, certainly. Whatever made him change his mind is no longer any concern of mine.' He paused, sitting up, hoping to terminate the interview. 'But in the meantime I shall do my duty as first lieutenant as I did for Commander Griffiths, sir.' Then he added, irritated at being catechised: 'Unless you have a notion to promote Mr Dalziell over my head.'

'What the hell d'you mean by that?' flared Morris, and Drinkwater sensed he had touched a nerve. Dalziell. The relative, quiescent of late. A catamite? Drinkwater looked sharply at Morris. The commander's glare was unchanged but a sheen of sweat had erupted across his face.

All was suddenly clear to Drinkwater. Morris had obtained his command at last. Unable to earn it by his own merits, a twist of fate had delivered it unexpectedly into his lap. A further helix in that turn of circumstances had made Drinkwater both his unwitting benefactor and first lieutenant on whose abilities he must rely to take advantage of this new opportunity. He would not sacrifice the possibility of a post-captaincy even for revenge on Drinkwater, but Drinkwater knew of his past and might know of his present. Morris, long driven by vengeance, could not imagine another dismissing such an opportunity with contempt. Even a sanctimonious liberal like Drinkwater. And Morris was guilty of unnatural crimes specifically proscribed by the Articles of War.

But this potential nemesis was of small apparent consolation to Nathaniel. He merely found it odd that that usurped tangle of gold wire could tame so disturbed a spirit as Augustus Morris's.