A Brig of War

'It was a poor jest, sir. I am sure you will know how to keep Mr Dalziell in his proper place.' Drinkwater rose. It had not been a deliberate innuendo but Morris continued to stare suspiciously at him. 'Thank you for the courtesy of your invitation.' He turned for the door, his eye falling on the picture of Hortense. 'By the way sir, the surgeon tells me Santhonax would benefit from some fresh air. May I have permission to exercise him on deck tomorrow?'

'Solicitude for prisoners, eh?' slurred Morris, his eyes clouding, turning inwards. 'Do as you see fit…' He dismissed Drinkwater with a flick of his wrist, then reached for the decanter. Alone, he saw, with the perception of the drunk the pair of level grey eyes staring at him from the bulkhead. They seemed to accuse him with the whole mess of his life. Viciously his hand found a fork left on the table by the careless Rattray. With sudden venom he flung it at the canvas. The tines vibrated in the creamy shoulder, reminding Morris of the past, good old days when the senior midshipmen drove a fork into a deck beam as a signal to send their juniors to bed while they 'sported'. The euphemism covered many sins. Things had changed in His Majesty's navy since the mutinies of 1797. Now canting bastards like Drinkwater with their liberal ideas were ruining the Service, God damn them. He flung his head back and roared 'Rattray!'

'Sir?'

'Pass word for Mr Dalziell.'

Drinkwater drew the air into his lungs. After the calm the strengthening north-easter was like champagne. Above his head the watch had just taken in the royals and were descending via the backstays. Those to windward were taut and harping gently as a patter of spray came over the windward rail. He walked over to the binnacle. 'Steer small now, a good course will bring us home the sooner.'

He resumed his pacing, free of the effects of his bruising and the cauterised cut on his leg that would not even leave a scar worth mentioning. He passed along the squat black breeches of the quarterdeck carronades, as near content as his circumstances would permit. After the dinner with Morris he sensed an easing of tension between them, aware that his own duties preoccupied him while Morris, isolated in command, would brood in his cabin. Despite the promotion of Dalziell to acting lieutenant, Drinkwater had not relinquished his watch. He might have availed himself of big-ship tradition, had not the notion with so small a crew been a piece of conceit that ran contrary to his nature. In Dalziell's abilities he had no confidence whatsoever, regarding his elevation as a shameful abuse of the system, a blatant piece of influence that he thought unlikely to last long after their return home. For himself he kept the privacy of his morning and evening watches while the poor devils forward were compelled to work watch and watch. It could not be helped. It was the way of the world and the naval service in particular.

Unfamiliar figures emerged on deck and Drinkwater remembered his own orders. Gaston Bruilhac assisted the tall figure of Edouard Santhonax whose arm was still slung beneath his coat. The hands idled curiously as Santhonax cast his eyes aloft, noting the set of the sails.

'Good mornin', sir.' Drinkwater touched his hat out of formal courtesy. Long enmity had bred a respect for the Frenchman and Drinkwater hoped his presence as a prisoner satisfied the shade of Madoc Griffiths.

'Good morning, Boireleau…' He winced, adjusting himself against the motion of the ship. 'Perhaps I should call you Drinkwater, now the ship is yours.'

'I should be honoured, sir. She is a fine ship.'

'That is a compliment, yes?'

'It was intended so, sir, and the only one I can offer, under the circumstances.'

Santhonax narrowed his eyes. 'You do not have many men to work her.'

'Sufficient, sir.'

'You are pleased with your success, hein?' He bit his lip as a wave of pain swept over him, 'pleased that I am your prisoner?'

'C'est la guerre, sir, the fortune of war. I would rather Griffiths lived, you have the advantage over him there.'

'He saved your life.' Santhonax looked down at his shoulder.

'But you are not dead, Capitaine.'

Santhonax smiled. 'He intended to kill me.'

'He was intent upon revenge.'

'Revenge? Pourquoi?'

'Major Brown,' Drinkwater said icily, 'rotting on a gibbet over the guns of Kijkduin.'

Santhonax frowned. 'Ah, the English spy we caught…' Drinkwater remembered the jolly brevet-major Santhonax had captured in Holland. He and Griffiths had been friends, brothers-inarms.

Santhonax shrugged. 'Most assuredly, Lieutenant, we are all of us mortal. My wife has not yet forgiven you this…' His finger reached up and indicated the disfigurement of his face. 'I doubt she ever will.'

For a moment it occurred to Drinkwater to roll up his sleeve and reveal the twisted flesh of his own right arm, but the childishness of such an action suddenly struck him. He remained silent.

'You are bound for England, yes?' Santhonax went on. Drinkwater nodded. 'It is a long way yet, eh?' Santhonax turned and began to pace the deck, leaning on Bruilhac's shoulder.

'Mr Drinkwater!' Morris's voice cut across the quarterdeck as he emerged from the companionway.

'Mornin' sir,' Drinkwater uncovered again.

'Mr Drinkwater, hands are to witness punishment at four bells.'

'Punishment, sir? Nothing has been reported to me…'

'Insolence, Mr Drinkwater, insolence was reported to me at six bells in the first watch, Mr Dalziell's watch.'

'And the offender sir?'

'Your lackey, Drinkwater,' said Morris with evident pleasure, Tregembo.'

Drinkwater forced himself to watch Tregembo's face. The eyes were tight shut and the teeth bit into the leather pad that prevented the Cornishman from biting through his own tongue as each stroke of the cat made him flinch. At the twelfth stripe the bosun's mates changed. The second man ran the bloody tails of cat through his hand as he braced his feet. He hesitated.

'Lay on there, damn you!' Morris snapped and Drinkwater sensed the wave of resentment that ran through the people assembled in the waist. Tregembo's 'insolence', Drinkwater had learned in the roundabout way that a good first lieutenant might determine the true course of events, had consisted of no more than being last back on deck after working aloft during Dalziell's watch. When accused of idleness Tregembo had mumbled that one must always be last on deck and it was usually the first aloft who had been working on the yardarm.

For this piece of logic Tregembo was now being flayed. The bosun's mates changed again. Drinkwater recollected Dalziell's earlier attempt to have Tregembo flogged and the smirk on the young man's face fully confirmed his present satisfaction. Morris too had a reason for flogging Tregembo. The Cornishman had been a witness to his disgrace aboard Cyclops, indeed Tregembo had had a hand in the disappearance one night of one of Morris's cabal.

Drinkwater was pleased to note that Lieutenant Rogers appeared most unhappy over an issue that previously might have pleased him, while Quilhampton, Appleby and the rest stood mutely averting their eyes. At the conclusion of the third dozen Tregembo was cut down. Drinkwater dismissed the hands in a dispassionate voice.

That evening it fell calm again, the sea smooth on its surface with the ship rolling on a lazy swell. The sun had set blood-red, leaving an after glow of scarlet reaching almost to the zenith, through which the cold pin-pricks of stars were beginning to break. Venus blazed above Africa eighty leagues to the west. Drinkwater paced the deck, an hour and a half of his watch to go. His uniform coat stuck to his back, a prickling example of Morris's tyranny, for the commander had refused to allow his officers to appear on the quarterdeck in their shirt-sleeves as they had done under Griffiths.

Already shadows were deepening about the deck. The second dog-watch idled about restlessly. Drinkwater picked up the quadrant Quilhampton had brought up.

'Ready, Mr Q?'

'All ready, sir,' replied the midshipman, squatting down on the deck next to the chronometer box and jamming the slate between his crossed knees in the position he had found most suitable, minus one hand, for jotting down the first lieutenant's observations. Drinkwater smiled at the small, crouched figure. The boy frowned in concentration as he watched the second hand jerk round, the slate pencil poised in his only fist.