A Brig of War

'Truth, Captain Santhonax.'

'You would make a most excellent revolutionary.'

'Perhaps, if the material was worth the saving, but I doubt even your brand will materially alter this tired old world. Were you not yourself about to enslave the Hindoos?'

Santhonax smiled, a bleak, wolfish smile. 'Had that damned combination of Drinkwater and Griffiths not been at my tail I might have succeeded.'

'You forget, captain, I too was on Kestrel…'

'Diable, I had forgot… yes it was you sutured my face. It is a strange coincidence is it not, that we should find ourselves fighting a private war?'

Appleby finished binding the new dressing over a clean pledget. 'Griffiths called it proof of Providence, Captain. What would your new religion of Reason call it?'

'Much the same, Mr Appleby… thank you.'

'You will be well enough soon. I think the exfoliation almost complete. It will be a whole man we return to the hulks at Portsmouth.'

'You have yet to get your stolen vessel past lie de France, Appleby. Perhaps it may yet be me who will be visiting you.'

'Well what is the matter with him?' asked Drinkwater, straightening up from the chart spread on the gunroom table, 'he tells me he is of the opinion that he is being poisoned. Damn it, I think he half thought I might have instigated it! What Morris surmises he believes, God help us all, and if there is a shred of truth behind such an apparently monstrous allegation…'

'Oh for the love of heaven don't you start, Nat. Permit me the luxury of knowing my own business yet. You would take exception to my advice upon the reduction of altitudes. I tell you the man is suffering from alcohol induced gastritis.'

'Very well, Harry, I trust your judgement.' Drinkwater cut short the long dissertation that he knew would follow once Appleby was allowed to start expanding on Morris's symptoms.

Rattray scratched at the gunroom door. 'Cap'n's compliments, Mr Drinkwater, and would you join him in the cabin.' Drinkwater cast a significant glance at the surgeon, picked up his hat and followed 'the Rat'.

Drinkwater bridled at the stench in the cabin. Morris looked ghastly, weak and pale, his face covered with perspiration, his cot sheets twisted. He spoke with the economy of effort.

'Would you poison me, Drinkwater?' The man was clearly desperate.

'Certainly not!' Drinkwater's outrage was unfeigned. He recollected himself. Whatever Morris was, he was a sick man now. 'Please rest assured that the surgeon is quite confident that you are suffering from a gastric disorder, sir. I have no doubt that if you modify your diet, sir…'

'Get out, Drinkwater, get out… Rattray! Where the devil is that blagskite?'

As he left Drinkwater noticed the tear in the portrait of Hortense.

The bottle Rattray brought to Drinkwater's cabin that evening for him to take with his biscuits in the gunroom was a surprise. Drinkwater removed the cork and sniffed suspiciously. He was alone in the room, Rogers having turned in and Appleby gone to change Santhonax's dressing. He poured the Oporto that had arrived, uncharacteristically, with the captain's compliments and held the glass against the light of the lantern. He sniffed it then, shrugging, he sipped.

If it was supposed that this was poisoned wine, Drinkwater mused, then it was indeed nonsense and Morris's generosity was but a manifestation of his phobia. He finished the glass and felt nothing more than a comfortable warmth radiating in his guts. Dismissing the matter he sat down, pulled his stores ledger towards him and unsnapped the ink-well. Merrick brought him a new quill from his cabin and he dismissed the messman for the night and stretched his legs.

The water biscuits were in quite good condition, he thought, picking up a third. He settled to his work. And poured a second glass of wine.

Dawn found Nathaniel Drinkwater violently sick, a pale sheen of perspiration upon his face. He sent for Appleby who came on deck expecting he had been summoned to attend the captain.

'What is it, Nat?' Drinkwater beckoned the surgeon to windward, out of earshot of the helmsmen and the quartermaster at the con.

'What d'you make of my complexion, Harry?'

'Eh?' Appleby paused then peered at the lieutenant. 'Why a mild diaphoresis.'

'And I've been violently sick for an hour past. Also I purged myself during the middle watch…'

Appleby frowned. 'But that's not possible… no, I mean…'

'It means that Morris may indeed be being poisoned, man. Last night he sent me a bottle of Oporto… he must have meant me to try it, to see if it had any effect upon me! I drank it entire!'

'For God's sake, Nat, of course he's being poisoned. Rum and fortified wines addle the brain, corrode the guts. Try cleaning brass with them.' Appleby's exasperation was total. Then he calmed, looking again at his friend. 'Forgive me, that was unpardonable. Your own condition I would ascribe to a tainted bottle. Maybe Morris had been consuming a case of bad wine. That would produce such symptoms and aggravate the peptic ulcer I am certain he suffers from.'

'But the wine tasted well, seemed not to be bad.'

Appleby was not listening. Even in the vehemence of his diagnostic defence a tiny doubt had crept into his mind. The symptoms were those produced by sudorifics, used by himself to promote the sweating agues that eased Griffiths's malaria. And though the key to his dispensary never left his side he was wondering who possessed the knowledge enough to incapacitate Morris.

'… 'tis commonly supposed a woman's weapon,' he muttered to himself.

'I beg your pardon?'

Appleby shook his head. ''Tis nothing,' he turned away then came back, having thought of something. 'Nat, would you oblige me by concealing your indisposition… at least for the time being.'

Puzzled, Drinkwater nodded wanly. 'As you wish, Harry.' He fought down a spasm of nausea and stared seawards. Whatever the cause it was not lethal. Just bloody uncomfortable.

'Deck there!' The hail broke from the masthead: 'Ship on the lee beam!'

'God's bones!' swore Drinkwater beneath his breath, fishing in his tail pocket for his Dollond glass.

Chapter Twenty The Fortune of War

 November 1799

In the mizen top Drinkwater fought down a bout of nausea with the feeling that the effect of the bad wine was weakening. In reality the bluish square on the horizon distracted him. He levelled the glass, crouched and trimmed it against a topmast shroud. It was difficult to see at this angle, although the sail was dark against the dawn, but it appeared to be a ship on the wind like themselves. Not that there was a great deal of wind, and the day promised little better. He wiped his eye, looked again and then, still uncertain, he determined to do what any prudent officer could do in a ship as ill-armed as Antigone: assume the worst.

Descending to the deck he addressed Quilhampton. 'You have the deck, Mr Q.' Such an errand as he was bound on was not to be left to a midshipman. Mr Quilhampton's astonishment changed to pride and then to determination.

'Aye, aye, sir!' Despite his preoccupation Drinkwater could not resist a smile. Quilhampton had turned into a real asset, competent and with a touch of loyalty that marked him for a good subordinate. Drinkwater recollected how it had been Mr Q that had brought his effects off Abu al Kizan. It had been touching to discover his books and journals neatly shelved, his quadrant box lashed and the little watercolour done for him by Elizabeth all in place in the cabin aboard Antigone. That had been a long time ago. There were more pressing matters now.

Drinkwater knocked perfunctorily and entered Morris's stateroom. Automatically his eyes flicked over the portrait of Hortense Santhonax.