A Brig of War (4 page)

‘I'm all right, sir.' Drinkwater rose slowly to his feet and made for the door of his own cabin, cannoning into the portly figure of the surgeon.

Griffiths smiled to himself as he watched the two manoeuvre round one another, the one sleepily indignant, the other wakefully apologetic. Appleby seated himself at the table. ‘Morning sir, dreadful night . . .' The surgeon fell to a dissertation about the movement of brigs as opposed to ships of the line, to whether or not their respective motions had an adverse effect on the human frame, and to what degree in each case. Griffiths had long since learned to disregard the surgeon's ramblings which increased
with age. Griffiths remembered the mutual animosity that had characterised their early relationship. But that had all changed. After Griffiths had been left ashore at Great Yarmouth in the autumn of the previous year it had been Appleby who had come in search of him when the
Kestrel
decommissioned. It had been Appleby too who had not merely sworn at the incompetence of the physicians there, but who had nearly fought a duel with a certain Dr Spriggs over the manner in which the latter had set Griffiths's femur. Appleby had wished to break and reset it, but was prevailed upon to desist by Griffiths himself, who had felt that matters were passing a little out of his own control.

Still raging inwardly Appleby had written off to Lord Dungarth to remind the earl of the invaluable services performed by Griffiths during his tenure of command of the cutter
Kestrel
. Thus the half-pay commander with the game leg had found himself commissioning the new brig-sloop
Hellebore
. Appleby's appointment to surgeon of the ship was the least Griffiths could do in return and they had become close in the succeeding weeks.

Lord Dungarth had pleaded his own cause and requested that a Mr Dalziell be found a place as midshipman. It was soon apparent why the earl had not sent the youth to a crack frigate, whatever the obligation he owed the Dalziell family. Griffiths sighed; Mr Dalziell was fortunately small beer and unlikely to cause him great loss of sleep, but he could not escape a sense of exasperation at having been saddled with such a make-weight. He poured more coffee as Appleby drew to his conclusion.

‘And so you see, sir, I am persuaded that the lively motion of such a vessel as this, though the buffetting one receives below decks is apt to give one a greater number of minor contusions than enough, is, however, likely to exercise more muscles in the body and invigorate the humours more than the leisurely motion of, say, a first rate. In the latter case the somnolent rhythms may induce a langour, and when coupled to the likelihood of the vessel being employed on blockade, hove to and so forth, actually contribute to that malaise and boredom that are the inevitable concomitants of that unenviable employment. Do you not agree sir?'

‘Eh? Oh, undoubtedly you are right, Mr Appleby. But frankly I am driven to wonder to what purpose you men of science address your speculations.'

Appleby expelled his breath in an eloquent sigh. ‘Ah well, sir,
'tis no great matter . . . how long d'you intend to stay here?'

‘Just as long as it takes Mr Rogers to assist the people of
Hecuba
to get up a new foremast. Under the circumstances they did a wonderful job themselves, for in that sea there was no question of them securing a tow.'

‘Ah! I was thinking about that, sir. Nathaniel was talking about using a rocket to convey a line. Now, if we could but . . .' Appleby broke off as Mr Q popped his head round the door.

‘Beg pardon sir, but the captain of the Ra . . . Rag . . .'

‘Ragusan,' prompted Griffiths.

‘Yes, sir . . . well he's here sir.'

‘Then show him in, boy, show him in.'

Griffiths summoned Drinkwater from sleep at noon. The tiny cabin that accommodated the brig's commander was strewn with charts and Lestock was in fussy attendance.

‘Ah, Mr Drinkwater, please help yourself to a glass.' Griffiths indicated the decanter which contained his favourite
sercial
. As the lieutenant poured Griffiths outlined the events of the morning.

‘This mistral that prevented our getting up to Toulon has been a blessing in disguise . . .' Drinkwater saw Lestock nodding in sage agreement with his captain. ‘The fact that we have had to run for shelter has likely saved us from falling into the hands of the French.'

Still tired, Drinkwater frowned with incomprehension. Nelson was blockading Toulon; what the devil was Griffiths driving at?

‘The French are out, somewhere it is believed, in the eastern Mediterranean. That polaccra spoke with Admiral Nelson off Cape Passaro on June the twenty-second . . . two weeks ago. He's bound to Barcelona and was quizzed by the admiral about the whereabouts of the French armada.'

‘Armada, sir? You mean an invasion force?'

Griffiths nodded. ‘I do indeed,
bach. Myndiawl
, they've given Nelson the slip, see.'

‘And did this Ragusan offer Sir Horatio any intelligence?'

‘Indeed he did. The polaccra passed the entire force, heading east . . .'

‘East? And Nelson's gone in pursuit?'

‘Yes indeed. And we must follow.' Drinkwater digested the news, trying to make sense of it. East? All his professional life the
Royal Navy had guarded against a combination of naval forces in the Channel. His entire service aboard
Kestrel
had been devoted to that end. Indeed his motives for entering the service in the first place had had their inspiration in the Franco-Spanish attempt of 1779 which, to the shame of the navy, had so nearly succeeded. East? It did not make sense unless it was an elaborate feint, the French buying time to exercise in the eastern Mediterranean. If that were the case they might draw Nelson after them – such an impetuous officer would not hold back – and then they might turn west, slip through the Straits, clear St Vincent from before Cadiz and join forces with the Spanish fleet.

‘Did our informant say who commanded them, sir?' he asked.

‘No less a person than Bonaparte,' said Lestock solemnly.

‘Bonaparte' But we read in the newspapers that Bonaparte commanded the Army of England . . . I remember Appleby jesting that the English Army had long wanted a general officer of his talent.'

‘Mr Appleby's joke seems to have curdled, Mr Drinkwater,' said Lestock without a smile. Drinkwater turned to Griffiths.

‘You say you'll follow Nelson, sir, to what rendezvous?'

‘What do you suggest, Mr Drinkwater? Mr Lestock?'

Lestock fidgetted. ‘Well, sir, I er, I think that in the absence of a rendezvous with the admiral we ought to proceed to, er . . .'

‘Malta, sir,' said Drinkwater abruptly, ‘then if the French double for the Atlantic we might be placed there with advantage, on the other hand there will doubtless be some general orders for us there.'

‘No, Mr Drinkwater. Your reasoning is sound but the Ragusan also told us that Malta has fallen to the French.' Griffiths put down his glass and bent over the charts, picking up the dividers to point with.

‘We will proceed south and run through the Bonifacio Strait for Naples, there will likely be news there, or here at Messina, or here, at Syracuse.'

There was no news at Naples beyond that of Nelson's fleet having stopped there on 17th June, intelligence older than that from the polaccra. Griffiths would not anchor and all hands eyed the legendary port wistfully. The ochre colours of its palazzi and its tenements were lent a common and ethereal appeal by distance, and the onshore breeze enhanced a view given a haunting beauty
beyond the blue waters of the bay by the backdrop of Vesuvius.

‘God, but I'd dearly love a night of sport there,' mused Rogers, who had acquitted himself in re-rigging the
Hecuba
and now seemed of the opinion that he had earned at least one night of debauchery in the Neapolitan stews. Appleby, standing within earshot and aware of the three seamen grinning close by said, ‘Then thank the lord you've a sane man to command your instincts, Mr Rogers. The Neapolitan pox is a virulent disease well-known for its intractability.'

Rogers paled at the sally and the three men coiled the falls of the royal halliards with uncommon haste.

Hellebore
worked her way slowly south, past the islands of the Tyrrhenian Sea and through the narrow Straits of Messina; but there was no further news of Nelson or the French.

On 16th July the convoy stood into the Bay of Syracuse to wood and water and to find a welcome for British ships. Through the good offices of the British Ambassador to the Court of the Two Sicilies, Sir William Hamilton, facilities were available to expedite the reprovisioning of units of the Royal Navy.

‘It seems,' Griffiths said to his assembled officers, ‘that Sir Horatio has considered the possibility of using Syracuse as a base. We must simply wait.'

They waited three days. Shortly before noon on the 19th the British fleet was in the offing and with the
Leander
in the van, came into Syracuse Harbour. By three minutes past three in the afternoon the fourteen ships of the line under the command of Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson had anchored. Within an hour their boats swarmed over the blue waters of the bay, their crews carrying off wood and water, their pursers haggling in the market place for vegetables and beef.

Hellebore
's boat pulled steadily through the throng of craft, augmented by local bumboats which traded hopefully with the fleet. Officers' servants were buying chickens for their masters' tables while a surreptitious trade in rot-gut liquor was being conducted through lower deck ports. The apparent confusion and bustle had an air of charged purpose about it and Drinkwater suppressed a feeling of almost childish excitement. Beside him Griffiths wore a stony expression, his leathery old face hanging in sad folds, the wisps of white hair escaping untidily from below the new, glazed cocked hat. Drinkwater felt a wave of sympathy for the old man with his one glittering epaulette. Griffiths had been
at sea half a century; he had served in slavers as a mate before being pressed as a naval seaman. He was old enough, experienced enough and able enough to have commanded this entire fleet, reflected Nathaniel, but the man who did so was only a few years older than Drinkwater himself.

‘You had better attend on me,' Griffiths had said, giving his first lieutenant permission to accompany him aboard
Vanguard
, ‘seeing that you are so damned eager to clap eyes on this Admiral Nelson.'

Drinkwater looked at Quilhampton who shared his curiosity. Mr Q's hand rested nervously on the boat's tiller. The boy was concentrating, not daring to look round at the splendours of British naval might surrounding him. Drinkwater approved of his single-mindedness; Mr Q was developing into an asset.

‘Boat ahoy!' The hail came from the flagship looming ahead of them, her spars and rigging black against the brilliant sky, the blue rear-admiral's flag at her mizen masthead. Drinkwater was about to prompt Quilhampton but the boy rose, cleared his throat and in a resonant treble called out ‘
Hellebore
!' The indication of his commander's presence thus conveyed to
Vanguard
, Quilhampton felt with pleasure the half smile bestowed on him by Mr Drinkwater.

At the entry port four white gloved side-boys and a bosun's mate greeted
Hellebore
's captain and his lieutenant. The officer of the watch left them briefly on the quarterdeck while he reported their arrival to the demi-god who resided beneath the poop. Curiously Drinkwater looked round.
Vanguard
was smaller than
Victory
, a mere 74-gun two decker, but there was that same neatness about her, mixed with something else. He sensed it intuitively from the way her people went about their business. From the seamen amidships, rolling empty water casks to the gangway and from a quarter gunner changing the flints in the after carronades emanated a sense of single-minded purpose. He was always to remember this drive that superimposed their efforts as the ‘Nelson touch', far more than the much publicised manoeuvre at Trafalgar that brought Nelson his apotheosis seven years later.

‘Sir Horatio will see you now sir,' said the lieutenant re-emerging. Drinkwater followed Griffiths, ignoring the gesture of restraint from the duty officer. They passed under the row of ciphered leather fire-buckets into the shade of the poop, passing the master's cabin and the rigid marine sentry. Uncovering,
Drinkwater followed his commander into the admiral's cabin.

Sir Horatio Nelson rose from his desk as Griffiths presented Drinkwater and the latter bowed. Nelson's smallness of stature was at first a disappointment to Nathaniel who expected something altogether different. Disappointing too were the worn uniform coat and the untidy mop of greying hair, but Drinkwater began to lose his sense of anti-climax as the admiral quizzed Griffiths about the stores contained in
Hecuba
and
Molly
. There was in his address an absence of formality, an eager confidence which was at once infectious. There was a delicacy about the little man. He looked far older than his thirty-nine years, his skin fine drawn, almost transparent over the bones. His large nose and wide, mobile mouth were at odd variance with his body size. But the one good blue eye was sharply attentive, a window on some inner motivation, and the empty sleeve bore witness to his reckless courage.

‘Do you know the whereabouts of my frigates, Captain?' he asked Griffiths, ‘I am driven desperate for want of frigates. The French have escaped me, sir, and I have one brig at my disposal to reconnoitre for a fleet.'

Drinkwater sensed the consuming frustration felt by this most diligent of flag officers, sensed his mortification at being deprived of his eyes in the gale that had dismasted
Vanguard
. Yet
Vanguard
had been refitted without delay and the battle line was impressive enough to strike terror in the French if only this one-armed dynamo could catch them.