A Brig of War

fortuitously past him across a deck that was still inches deep in water. 'Mr Grey! Have your men at the braces! Rise foretacks and sheets, get the ship before the wind! Have Johnson sound the well!'

Already the ship was turning, gathering way from her broached position, supine in the huge wave troughs and rolling abominably, sluggish from the water washing about below.

'Spanker brails there! Douse the spanker, Mr Q!' He grabbed the flask from the midshipman and drew on its contents.

He looked forward as the spirit warmed him. They might have lost the jib-boom but they could still set a fore topmast staysail. He would get everything off her in a minute, leaving only the clews of the forecourse to goosewing her before the wind while they sorted out the shambles and pumped her dry. They must not run off too much easting for they would have to claw every inch back again.

Slowly they fought the ship before the wind, cutting away the raffle forward, unjamming the blocks aloft where parted ropes had fouled, and laboriously pumping the Southern Ocean from their bilges. It was four hours before they brought ship to the wind again. Telemachus had disappeared.

It was only then they found Dalziell was missing.

'Permission to make the signal, sir?' Drinkwater requested. Morris did not turn, merely nodded. Drinkwater looked up at the peak of the gaff. Old Glory, the British red ensign they had salvaged from Hellebore and that had fluttered briefly over a tiny islet in the Red Sea, now cracked, tattered, in the sharp breeze blowing into Table Bay. Beneath it flew the much larger ensign of France, its brilliant scarlet fly snapping viciously, as though resenting its inferior position.

'Hoist away, Mr Q.' The little bundles rose to break out in the sunshine and stream colourfully to leeward. Mr Quilhampton looked aloft with evident pride.

'Beg pardon, zur,' said Tregembo belaying the halliards, 'but what do it say?'

'It says, Tregembo,' explained Quilhampton expansively 'that this ship is the prize of the brig- sloop Hellebore.'

Not one of the most memorable of signals, Drinkwater concluded, levelling his glass at the fifty-gun two- decker Jupiter with a broad pendant at her masthead. But given the limitations of the code an apt description of Antigone. He wished it was old Griffiths who occupied the weather side of her quarterdeck.

Morris turned, as if aware of Drinkwater's thoughts. There was a calmness about the commander that had come with returning health. It pleased Appleby but worried Drinkwater. There was a triumph in those hooded eyes.

'Have the ship brought to the wind, Mr Lestock,' ordered Morris. There was a new authority about Morris too, a confidence which disturbed Drinkwater. The sailing master obeyed the order with obsequious alacrity. Morris had exploited the dislike between his master and first lieutenant to make Lestock a creature of his own. Lestock now wore a permanently prim expression, anticipating Drinkwater's imminent downfall. It occurred to Drinkwater as he observed this new and unholy alliance that Dalziell had gone unmourned.

Drinkwater touched the letter in his pocket. If he could have it delivered to White all might yet be set right, provided it did not fall into the wrong hands or was misconstrued. That thought set doubts whirling in his brain and to steady himself he raised his glass again.

Antigone was turning into the wind, her sails backing. At an order from the quarterdeck Johnson let the anchor go. The splash was followed by the rumble of the cable snaking up from the tiers.

'Topsail halliards!'

'Aloft and stow! Aloft and stow!'

'Commence the salute, Mr Rogers!'

Drinkwater could see six vessels in the anchorage. Three flew the blue pendant of the Transport Board and partially obscured what appeared to be two frigates and a sloop. He stared hard, satisfying himself that one of the frigates was Telemachus. White had beaten them to the Cape after their separation in the gale. He felt a sensation of relief at the sight of the distant frigate.

'Hoist the boat out.' Morris addressed the perfunctory order to Drinkwater who ignored the implied discourtesy. They had repaired a single boat for use at the Cape and Drinkwater watched it swung up from the waist and over the side by the yardarm tackles. The crew tumbled down into it. A sight of the land had cheered the hands at least, he mused, wondering if he dared dispatch the letter in the boat.

He decided against it and joined the side party waiting to see Commander Morris ashore. He knew Morris would keep them all waiting. Rogers joined him, having secured his signal guns.

'I suppose we must wait for that dropsical pig like a pair of whores at a wedding, eh?' Rogers muttered into Drinkwater's ear. Drinkwater found himself oddly sympathetic to Rogers's crude wit. From a positive dislike of each other the two men had formed a mutual respect, acknowledging their individual virtues. In the difficulties they had shared since the loss of the brig and assumption of command by Morris this had ripened to friendship. Drinkwater grinned his agreement.

Morris emerged at last in full dress. He paused in front of Drinkwater, swaying slightly, the stink of rum on his breath.

'And now,' said Morris with quiet purpose, 'we will see about you.'

As he stared into Morris's eyes Drinkwater understood. The death of Dalziell removed substantial evidence of any possible case against Morris. Dalziell was a used vessel, the breaking of which liberated Morris from his past. The action which Antigone had fought with Romaine had been creditable and, as commander, Morris would benefit from that credit. A feeling almost of reform animated Morris, consonant with his new opportunities and encouraged by his reinvigoration after his illness. The huge irony that Morris had obtained his step in rank thanks to Drinkwater's efforts was enlarged by the reflection that he might yet found a professional reputation based on his lieutenant's handling of the Antigone during the action with the Romaine. All these facts were suddenly clear to Nathaniel as he returned Morris's drunken stare.

He took his hat off as Morris turned to the rail. Another thought struck him. To succeed in his manipulation of events Morris must now utterly discredit Drinkwater. And Nathaniel had no doubt that was what he was about to do.

The problem of conveying the letter to Telemachus solved itself an hour later when Drinkwater renewed his acquaintance with Mr Mole. Drinkwater had viewed the approaching boat with some misgivings but was relieved when Mole's mission was revealed to be the bearing of an invitation to the promised dinner aboard White's frigate.

'Would you oblige me, Mr Mole,' Drinkwater had said after accepting the kindness and privately hoping he was still at liberty to enjoy it, 'by delivering this note to Captain White when you return to your ship. It is somewhat urgent.'

'Captain White attends the commodore aboard Jupiter, sir.' Drinkwater thought for a second. 'Be so kind to see he receives it there, Mr Mole, if you please.' The departure of Mr Molt sent Drinkwater into an anxious pacing during which Appleby tried to interrupt him. But Appleby was snubbed. Drinkwater knew of the surgeon's apprehensions, knew he was worried about the possible discovery of Catherine Best's activities and guessed that the future of Harry Appleby himself figured largely in those fears. But Drinkwater's anxiety excluded the worries of others. That pendant at the masthead of Jupiter meant the formal and sometimes summary justice of naval regulation. The Cape might be an outpost, a salient held in the Crown's fist at the tip of Africa but it was within the boundaries of Admiralty. Nathaniel shivered.

When nemesis appeared a little later it was in the person of a midshipman even more supercilious than Mr Mole. Mr Pierce was conducted to Drinkwater by Quilhampton.

'The commodore, desires, sah, that you be so kind as to accompany me to the Jupiter without unnecessary delay, sah,' he drawled. Pierce's manner was so exaggerated that it struck Drinkwater that all these spriggish midshipmen must see him as an old tarpaulin lieutenant, every hair a rope-yarn, every finger a marline spike. The thought steadied him, sent him below for his sword with something approaching dignity. When he emerged in his best coat, now threadbare and shiny, the battered French hanger at his side and his hat fresh glazed with some preparation concocted by Merrick from God knew what, only the violent beating of his heart betrayed him.