A Brig of War (31 page)

‘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.

‘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-in-arms.

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 the 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 yard-arm.

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.

‘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!'