A Brig of War (38 page)

‘But his sickness, doctor. The diaphoresis, the purging and vomiting . . .' Appleby could restrain himself no longer, though he checked himself sufficiently to adopt a tone of deference, not daring to suggest a diagnosis lest such presumption invited contradiction.

‘Oh, you are worried about his wild allegations about being poisoned, eh? Well he is, in a manner of speaking, but I think we may consider that he is effecting his own ruin. No, he has chronic gastric inflammation, undoubtedly due to a peptic ulcer of some inveteracy. You see, my dear sir, his temperament seems to vacillate between the choleric and the melancholic humours. The man who depends upon drink hides both an acknowledged weakness and an inability to accept his own culpability for self-destruction. The consequence of such a vicious spiral can have but one result. That of the unhappy man now lying in his bed yonder.'

Macphadden turned and they began pacing back to the white walled hospital. A flood of relief began to wash over Appleby and he nodded at the physician's words: ‘I doubt you will want a commanding officer in the throes of a delirium tremens.'

Drinkwater returned to
Antigone
after the frustrations of an hourlong interview with Losack. It was clear from the manner of the commodore's questions that the contents of his letter to White had been made known. A sense of betrayal that the information had been made available to Losack was heightened by White's silence during Drinkwater's ordeal. The letter had been a private document between friends. Now it seemed a court-martial might be pending against him.

The knock at his cabin door announced the arrival of Appleby for whom he had sent as soon as the surgeon arrived from the shore.

‘Things have turned out well, Nat. A didactic Scot named Macphadden has diagnosed gastritis . . .'

‘Things are
not
well, Harry . . .'

‘What the devil is it?'

‘Catherine, Harry. She is known to be a convict. She is to be transported. I did my best,' he paused at the unintended pun, ‘my uttermost, but Morris has revealed her real status to Losack.'

The colour drained from Appleby's face. ‘Why the uncharitable whoreson bastard!'

‘Calm yourself. There is nothing either of us can do here.
Perhaps when we reach home . . .' It was a straw held out to a drowning man. It was doubtful if he would reach home with a reputation untarnished enough to secure a convict's pardon, no matter how meritorious her services.

‘But Nat, I cannot let her go.'

‘She is to take passage in the
Lord Moira
without delay. I am so very sorry.'

In silence Appleby left the cabin. Opening his desk Drinkwater took out inkwell and pen and began to write the report Losack had requested.

Drinkwater sat in silence while Losack read his report, occasionally referring to the corroborative evidence of the deck and signal logs and what remained of Griffiths's papers. At last the commodore looked up and removed his spectacles. For a moment he regarded the man sitting anxiously before him.

‘Mr Drinkwater,' he said after this pause, ‘it seems that I have been unnecessarily suspicious of you.' He waved the spectacles over the books and papers spread out upon the table. ‘I am persuaded that your services merit some recognition, but you will understand it is a difficult matter to resolve. I am not empowered to restitute your commission and it may be some consolation to you that in any event it would have required their Lordships' ratification. There the matter must rest.'

Drinkwater inclined his head. ‘I understand, sir.'

Losack smiled. ‘The only reparation I can offer you is command of the prize home. Do you attend to her refit. A convoy sails in some three weeks. You should be ready to join it. Your devoted friend Captain White will command the escort.'

‘Thank you, sir. And Commander Morris?'

‘Is sick, Mr Drinkwater. A peptic ulcer, I understand.' Losack closed the subject.

Drinkwater rose and Losack tossed a bundle across the table. ‘My secretary recognised your name, this letter has been here for months waiting for you.'

With a beating heart he picked up Elizabeth's letter.

The air of the quarterdeck of the
Jupiter
was undeniably sweet and in an unoccupied corner he tore open the packet, catching the enclosure for Quilhampton and stuffing it in his pocket. Impatiently he began to read.

My Dearest Nathaniel,

At long last I have received news of you, that you were sent round Africa in accordance with some notion of Ad. Nelson's. I write in great anxiety about you and pray nightly for your well-being and that, if God wills it, you will return whole and safe.

But you will not wish to hear of me now that another claims your affections, my dearest. Your daughter Charlotte Amelia is past a twelve-month now and has her father's nose poor lamb . . .'

Drinkwater handed the letter with the thin feminine superscription to Quilhampton. ‘Pass word for Tregembo, Mr Q.' When the boy had gone he peered into the mirror let into the lid of his cabin chest. What the devil was the matter with his nose?

Tregembo coughed respectfully at the open door and Drinkwater started, aware that for several minutes he had been staring vacantly at his reflection contemplating his new role as a father.

‘Ah, Tregembo. Your Susan is quite well. Mrs Drinkwater writes to tell me the news. She had a little quinsy some months past but was in good spirits. The letter is some months old I am afraid.'

‘An' your baby, zur?'

‘A daughter, Tregembo.'

‘Ahhh.' The awkward, almost embarrassed monosyllable was full of hidden pleasure. Tregembo flushed and Drinkwater swallowed. ‘And the commission, zur?'

‘No commission, not yet.'

‘ 'Tis nought but a matter of time, zur.'

Drinkwater smiled as Tregembo resumed his duties. It occurred to him that he was smiling a lot this morning. He turned again to the letter and re-read it.

Appleby burst in upon him. ‘Nat, a word, do I hear correctly that you command the ship home?'

Drinkwater looked up. The surgeon was agitated, his hands fluttering, his jowls wobbling. ‘Yes I do.'

‘Then I beg you will permit me to leave the ship.'

‘What the devil d'you mean?'

‘The
Lord Moira
has a vacancy for a surgeon's assistant. I have made enquiries, there are precious few surgeons in the colony . . . 
I have taken the vacancy for the passage.' Appleby swallowed hard. He had crossed his Rubicon.

‘Harry, you sly dog, do you purpose to become an emigrant?'

Appleby ran a finger round his collar. ‘She'd hardly be fit company for me at Bath, would she?'

Drinkwater began to laugh but was interrupted by Appleby. ‘Come Nat, I pray your attention for a moment, I have little time. Here are some papers giving you powers to act on my behalf in the matter of prize money. I beg you consent and purchase for me the quantities of medicines here listed. Any apothecary will comprehend these zodiacal signs. I am also in need of new instruments, doubtless I will need become a man-midwife and I am without forceps . . .'

Drinkwater nodded at Appleby's instructions, taking the bundle of papers, thinking of Catherine Best, of Elizabeth and of Charlotte Amelia and the power of the hand that rocks the cradle.

Drinkwater returned the decanter to White and leaned forward to light the cheroot from the candle flame. ‘I think now that the others have left we might forget the divisions of rank, eh?' White chuckled. ‘Young Quilhampton is something of an imp of Satan, is he not? Did you hear his assertion that young Bruilhac considers you eat human limbs? No, don't protest, my dear fellow, I heard quite clearly.'

‘Mr Quilhampton is given to exaggeration, I regret to say,' said Drinkwater with some affection. Then he frowned. ‘There's something I want to ask you Richard. Something I don't understand. What exactly happened the other day when Morris reported to Losack? You
were
there, were you not?'

White puffed out his florid cheeks. ‘Yes, I was there and my presence seemed to infuriate Morris. I suppose he thought I was going to mention his unpleasant habits. He began to complain about you. Minor matters; the way you did not always refer to him when shortening sail, you know the sort of thing. He kept looking at me as if I might contradict him. I could smell rum on his breath and could see he was enunciating his words with care. He began some cock and bull allegations that you were poisoning him. I didn't like the sound of that! I could tell Losack was taking an interest and I asked Morris why he struck to the
Romaine
.' White laughed.

‘By heaven, that threw him flat aback! He looked at me with his
jaw hanging like a scandalised gaff. Then he began a stream of meaningless abuse, interspersed with occasional references to you and poison. He was beside himself and in the middle of this outburst he had what I took at first to be a fit. In fact I understand it to have been a gastric spasm.'

White paused, refilled his glass and continued. ‘Although it was obvious that Morris was ill, or drunk, or both, Losack fretted over the allegations of poisoning. I'm certain he had it in mind to put the matter to a court-martial, he had sufficient ships here to convene one. While I thought Morris had gone off his head he thought you were mad.'

‘Me?'

‘Aye, you. I showed him the letter in which you claimed the commission granted Morris had been intended for you.'

‘Oh, my God . . . I thought you had. But that was a private letter, Richard, I had no idea . . .'

‘I know, I know, my dear fellow, but it did the trick. Losack wanted to see you, and once he had the doctor's diagnosis and had studied your report he knew the truth as well as I did. But for a while I thought he would have you examined! He quoted Euripides at me. Er, “Whom God destroys he first makes mad”.'

‘That might more readily be applied to Morris.'

‘To which,' White pressed on, not to be deterred, ‘I managed to reply with a snippet of Horace, to wit “
Ira furor brevis est
”.'

‘I'm sorry, you have the advantage of me.'

‘ “Anger is a brief madness”.'

‘Ahhh.' Drinkwater leaned back in his chair. He had had a narrow escape from a dangerous vindictiveness. ‘I am greatly indebted to you, Richard.'

White waved his thanks aside. ‘I owed you for your support on the
Cyclops
against that unsavoury rakehell.'

‘Well the score is even now,' said Drinkwater. ‘I suppose I had better see Morris. Try to make my peace with him before we leave.'

White looked at him sharply. ‘See Morris? What the devil for? Let the bastard rot.'

‘But he is ill, Richard . . .'

‘Stap me, Nat, you are a soft-hearted fool. But 'tis why we love you, Bruilhac's limbs notwithstanding. Besides, Morris would not thank you for it. He would misconstrue your motives, assume you had come to gloat. There is no point in seeing Morris. Ever again.'
The remark seemed final and White tossed off his glass. Refilling it, he too eased back in his chair. The cabin filled with a companionable silence, broken only by the creak of the hull, the groaning of the rudder chains and the occasional muffled noise from the people forward. Drinkwater felt a massive weight lift from him. White's explanation had cleared the air of lingering doubts, images of Elizabeth and the yet unseen Charlotte Amelia floated in the blue cheroot smoke. He felt a great contentment spread through him.

‘I recollect another piece of Horace that is perhaps more apposite to the case,' said White at last. ‘ “
Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt
”. Which rendered into English is, “They change their skies but not their souls who run across the sea”.'

And looking across the table at his flushed friend Drinkwater nodded his agreement.

Detractors of Napoleon have insinuated that his Indian project was a fantasy of St Helena. There is evidence, however, to suggest there was a possibility that he contemplated such an expedition in 1798 or 1799. Certainly Nelson regarded it seriously enough to send Lieutenant Duval overland to Bombay
after
his victory at the Nile, and as late as November 1798 the dissembling Talleyrand suggested it.

The British attack on Kosseir is rather obscure. Even that most partial of historians, William James, admits that
Daedalus
and
Fox
shot off three quarters of their ammunition to little effect. He finds it less easy to explain how about a hundred diseased French soldiers, the remnants of two companies of the 21st Demi-brigade under Donzelot, could drive off a British squadron of overwhelming power. Perhaps this is why he makes no mention of
Hellebore's
presence, since Captain Ball did not do so in his report, thus saving a little credit for the British.

The senior officers who appear in these pages actually existed. Rear Admiral Blankett commanded the Red Sea squadron at this time, though his character is my own invention. So too is Mr Wrinch, though a British ‘agent' appears to have resided at Mocha at about his period.

The part played by Edouard Santhonax is not verified by history, but the consequences of his daring are the only testimony we have to Nathaniel Drinkwater's part in this small campaign. Napoleon later complained that the British had a ship wherever there was water to float one. The brig
Hellebore
was one such ship.

As to sources of other parts of the story, the mutiny on the
Mistress Shore
is based on the near contemporary uprising on the transport
Lady Shore
, while the presence of women on British men-of-war was not unknown.

For proof of drunkenness and homosexuality in the navy of this time I refer the curious to the contemporary evidence of Hall, Gardner and Beaufort amongst others. Much may also be inferred from other diarists.