A Brig of War

'Very well then, Venus first.' Drinkwater set the index to zero and caught the planet in the mirrors, twisting his wrist and rotating the instrument about its index. His long fingers twiddled the vernier screw and he settled the planet's disc precisely on the horizon, his fingers turning slowly as he followed the mensurable descent of it, rocking the whole so that the disc oscillated on the tangent of the horizon. 'On!'

Quilhampton noted the time as Drinkwater read the altitude off the arc and called the figures to the midshipman. Quilhampton dutifully repeated them.

Drinkwater took a second observation of Venus then crossed the deck. 'Canopus next!'

'Get up, brat!' Drinkwater turned at the intrusion. Morris stood over the midshipman who, in his concentration had not seen the commander arrive on the quarterdeck. 'Have you never been taught respect, you damned whoreson?'

Quilhampton put out his left arm to push himself to his feet, forgetting he had no hand. The still soft stump gave under him and he slipped on to his knees, the colour draining from his face. 'I, I'm sorry sir, I was watching the chronometer…' Morris's foot came back and sent the chronometer box spinning across the deck. It caught against a ring bolt, tipped and the glass shattered.

Drinkwater swiftly crossed the deck. 'Turn a glass,' he snapped at the quartermaster by the binnacle. Perhaps there was not too much damage and any stopping of the timepiece might be allowed for, 'then go below and get the precise time from Mr Appleby's hunter.' Morris had begun to rail at the terrified midshipman. It was clear that he was drunk.

'I think, sir,' intervened Drinkwater, 'that you are mistaken in supposing Mr Quilhampton intended any disrespect. The loss of his hand necessitates that he…'

'Be silent, Mr Drinkwater,' slurred Morris, 'and have this scum at the foremasthead at once.'

Drinkwater took one look at the swaying figure of Morris. 'Up you go, Mr Q,' he said quietly, lowering the quadrant into its case. Quilhampton's eyes were filling with tears. Drinkwater jerked his head imperceptibly and the boy turned forward. Drinkwater bent over the chronometer case.

'Mr Drinkwater! I am addressing you!' Drinkwater picked up the case.

'Sir?' he was looking down at the bent gimbals. The second hand no longer moved. 'I don't expect that sort of disrespect on my quarterdeck…' Morris was very drunk. It was clear that he had not yet realised what it was he had kicked across the deck.

'I doubt that it will occur again, sir,' said Drinkwater looking down at the ruined chronometer.

'It had better bloody not.' Suddenly Morris heaved, swallowed and staggered below. Darkness stole over the ship. The time to take stellar observations had passed. Drinkwater did not know precisely where they were and, in truth, he did not greatly care.

'Don't worry, Mr Drinkwater,' said Lestock, apparently pleased at the destruction of the timepiece. 'Your theoretical navigation lost us a brig and the captain has had the sense to deprive you of your toy before you cause more damage.'

'Go to the devil, you addle-brained old fool!' snapped Drinkwater.

They got Quilhampton down at dawn, calling the surgeon to roll him in warmed blankets and chafe him with spirits. The inside of his left elbow was raw from where the laborious climb had caused him to use it as a hook. At the conclusion of his watch Drinkwater sought out the surgeon and found him still attending the boy in the company of Catherine Best.

'How is he?'

'He'll live, but he's chilled to the marrow and cramped.'

'Aye the damned wind got up during the middle watch and it's already half a gale. This is the monsoon all right.'

'Damn your monsoon, Nat, have we to put up with that vicious bastard aft all the way home? Oh, don't worry about Catherine,' he added seeing Drinkwater's covert glance at the woman, 'she well knows all my sentiments on Mister festering Morris.'

'You know the answer to your own question, Harry.'

'So it's shorten canvas and ride out the gale even if it lasts another three or four months, eh?'

'Your metaphor is good enough.'

'Pity he can't be ill like poor old Griffiths, then he could let you run the blasted ship.'

'I doubt he would allow that,' smiled Drinkwater resignedly.

'Well if he goes on swilling rum at the present rate he'll either destroy his intestines or drink us out of the damned stuff and be raving from delirium tremens!' Appleby stood up as Quilhampton opened his eyes. 'Then you would have to take over, eh?'

'That talk from another I would take as sedition, Harry,' said Drinkwater seriously. 'I beg you do not be so free with your opinions.'

'Bah!' said Appleby contemptuously while Catherine Best gave both the men an odd look.

Chapter Nineteen A Woman's Touch

 October-November 1799

Appleby regarded his new patient with distaste. Commander Morris lay exhausted in his cot, the sweat pouring from him, the seat lid of his cabin commode lifted and a bucket swilling with vomit by his side. Appleby moved nearer the open stern window for some fresh air. Antigone slipped south, her clean hull slicing the blue waters of the Indian Ocean, her towering pyramids of canvas expanding laterally as studding sails increased her speed. Beneath her elegant bowsprit and white figurehead the bottle-nosed dolphins leapt and cavorted, effortlessly outstripping the ship as she threw up scores of flying fish on either hand. October was passing to November and the high summer of the southern hemisphere .

The hiss of the sea, upwelling green and white from under the frigate's plunging stern, the creak of the rudder chains and tiller ropes a deck below and the chasing seas seemed a cleansing antidote to the stink of the cabin. Appleby turned back into it.

'The diaphoresis is very severe, sir, and the flux abnormal. How many times did you purge yourself during the night?'

'Don't bandy your medical quackery here Appleby, I was up shitting most of the night and when I was not doing that I was puking my guts into that bucket. I tell you someone is poisoning me !'

'Come, come, sir. Don't be ridiculous. These are not the symptoms of poison. Where would one obtain poison on a ship? My chest is locked and I wear the keys, here,' he jingled the bunch on his fob.

'Appleby, you damned fool, you can poison a man…'

'Sir,' cut in Appleby sharply, 'I assure you that you are not being poisoned. Such a notion is preposterous. You are exhibiting symptoms of chronic gastritis. Your dependence upon alcohol has ulcerated the mucous membrane of the stomach as a result of which you are unable to retain nourishment in your belly. The natural reaction of the body is to void itself. If you do not trust my diagnosis sir, I would be only too happy to transfer to another ship at the Cape. In the meantime I shall send Tyson in to attend you and clean up some of this mess. Good morning.'

Appleby left the commander to attend to Santhonax. His wound was healing badly, a continuing process of exfoliation preventing the tissues from knitting properly. An easy familiarity had developed between the Frenchman and the surgeon as commonly exists between a man and his physician.

'Where did you learn to speak English, sir?' asked Appleby removing the dressing.

'I was the son of a half-English mother, Mr Appleby, the daughter of a wild-goose Englishman who supported King James III.'

'Ah, the Old Pretender, eh?' said Appleby wryly, 'but you are not so partial to kings since the Revolution?'

'They are not noted for their gratitude to even their most loyal adherents.'

'We notice that in King George's navy.'

'Treason, Mr Appleby?'