A Brig of War

Chapter Eleven Kosseir Bay

On the afternoon of 10th August it seemed that Santhonax had surprised them. Anxious glasses trained astern at the two ships foaming up from the southward while Hellebore staggered under a press of canvas in a desperate claw to windward and safety. The leading pursuer was indisputably a frigate. Optimists claimed it was Fox, the more cautious Griffiths assumed the worst. Bruilhac had told them of a third ship in Santhonax's squadron, for whom Hellebore had been taken by the officers of La Torride. He was not to be caught by the same ruse. 'Let the wrecks of others be your seamarks, Mr Drinkwater,' he said without removing his eye from the long glass.

'She's tacking.' They watched the leading ship come up into the wind, saw her foresails flatten and the swing of the mainyards. As she paid off, the foreyards followed suit and the bright spots of bunting showed from her mastheads.

'British colours and Admiral Blankett's private signal, sir,' reported Rogers. Her exposed side revealed her as Fox.

'It seems you were right, Mr Drinkwater,' said Griffiths drily. Keeping his men at quarters the commander put Hellebore before the wind and ran down towards his pursuers. They proved to be Fox and Daedalus, sent north by Rear-Admiral Blankett who had taken sufficient alarm from Strangford Wrinch to dispatch Captains Stuart and Ball without seeing the necessity to come himself and thus forgo the carnal delights of Mr Wrinch's hospitality.

Griffiths was summoned on board for a council of war, the outcome of which was to attack Kosseir, destroy Santhonax and open the port to traffic from the Hejaz. French defeat would not only result in an improvement to the Meccans able to join Murad Bey, but would enable the British to pre-empt any French attempt upon India the following year. Returning from the meeting Griffiths also brought back personal news.

A replacement for Echo had joined the squadron. The ship-sloop Hotspur had brought out mail, news and orders. The latter included a tersely worded instruction that Hellebore was to be returned at once to England. Nelson, the author of her present predicament was, it seemed, in disgrace. His euphoric languishing at Naples after Aboukir had been tarnished by the Caraccioli affair and followed by a leisurely return home by way of a circuitous route through Europe during which his conduct with the wife of the British Ambassador to the court of the Two Sicilies was scandalous.

Drinkwater paid scant attention to this gossip, depressed by the realisation that Hotspur had brought no letters from Elizabeth. Then Griffiths swiftly recalled him to the present.

'Oh, by the way, Nathaniel, Hotspur brought two lieutenants to the station. One is appointed to Daedalus and he wished to be remembered to you. He was insistent I convey his felicitations to you.'

An image of the ruddy and diminutive White formed in his mind. Perhaps White had news of Elizabeth! But he checked this sudden hope on the recollection that White would not exchange the quarterdeck of Victory for an obscure frigate in an even more obscure corner of the world without an epaulette on his shoulder.

'The gentleman's name, sir?'

'A Welsh one, bach. Morris if I recollect right.'

A strong presentiment swept over Drinkwater. From the moment he had jestingly suggested shooting off Bruilhac's fingers and found Quilhampton handless, Providence seemed to have deserted him. The strain of weary months of service manifested itself in this feeling. His worries for Elizabeth stirred his own loneliness. It was a disease endemic among seamen and fate lent it a further twist when he recalled the words Morris had uttered to him years earlier.

Drinkwater had been instrumental in having Mr Midshipman Morris turned out of the frigate Cyclops where he had dominated a coterie of bullying sodomites. Morris had threatened revenge even at the earth's extremities. Suddenly Drinkwater seemed engulfed in a web from which he could not escape. The revelation that Dalziell was related to Morris made months earlier seemed now to preface his present apprehension.

On the morning of 14th August 1799 in light airs the brig of war Hellebore led Captain Henry Lidgbird Ball's squadron slowly into Kosseir Bay. The indentation of the coast was formed by a headland, a small fort and a mole which protected a large number of native craft gathered inside. More dhows lay anchored in the inner roadstead. Above the fort the tricolour floated listlessly. Of the frigate of Edouard Santhonax there was no sign.

Griffiths swore as he paced up and down the quarterdeck, one ear cocked to hear the leadsman's chant from the chains. Whilst the taking of the dhows and fort were of importance to Ball, only the destruction of Santhonax would satisfy Griffiths.

The men waited round the guns, the sail-trimmers at their stations. Lestock fussed over a rudimentary chart he had copied from Fox's as Hellebore picked her way slowly inshore. Drinkwater stared at the town through his glass. It was past noon with the sun burning down on them from almost overhead. Drinkwater indicated the dhows.

'Santhonax's fleet of transports, I believe sir.' He handed the glass to Griffiths. The commander swept the yellow shoreline shimmering under the glare. He nodded. 'But that cythral Santhonax is nowhere to be seen.' Griffiths cast a glance about him. 'Strike number five the instant the leadsman finds six fathoms, the closer in we get the greater the risk of coral outcrops.'

As if to justify Griffiths's concern Hellebore trembled slightly. Griffiths and Drinkwater exchanged glances but even the jittery Lestock seemed not to have noticed the tremor. The leadsman allayed their fears: 'By the mark seven… by the deep eight… a quarter less eight!'

Hellebore crept onward. 'By the deep six!'

'Strike number five! Braces there! Main topsail to the mast!' The red and white chequered numeral flag fluttered to the deck and the brig lost way as the main yards braced round to back their sails. She ceased her forward motion.

'Let go!' The anchor dropped with a splash as the first gun boomed out from the fort. Unhurriedly the three British ships clapped springs on their cables and traversed to bring their full broadsides on the wretched town. The fire from the fort ceased, as though the gunners, having tried the range, paused to see what the British would do.

Aboard Hellebore they waited for Ball's signal to open fire, their own capstan catching a final turn on the spring to align the guns to Griffiths's satisfaction. Drinkwater listened to the stage whispers of the gun crew nearest him.

'Why don't the bastards open fire at us, Jim?'

'Cos they're shit-scared, laddy. Froggies is all the same.'

'Don't be bleeding stupid. They want to save their sodding powder until the brass have stopped pissing about and decide where to station us sitting ducks.'

'It's only a piddling little fort, mates. Bugger all to worry about.'

'But you still save your powder an' bleeding shot, Tosher, you stupid sod.'

'How the hell d'you know?'

'Look if you had to carry the fucking stuff over them mountains behind this dunghill you wouldn't throw the stuff away, now would you, my old cock?'

This debate was interrupted by Daedalus opening fire. Her consorts followed suit. The bombardment of Kosseir had begun.

For an hour the men toiled at the guns under a burning sun. The constant concussions killed the wind and when Ball hoisted the signal to cease fire the men slumped exhausted at their pieces or scrabbled for the chained ladle at the scuttlebutt. They tore off their headbands and shook their heads to clear the ringing from their ears, wiping the grimy sweat from their foreheads. In his berth two feet below the now silent cannon, Midshipman Quilhampton writhed, tortured by heat, inflammation and fever. From time to time Catherine Best wiped the heavy perspiration from his brow and desultorily fanned his naked body. Appleby waited for casualties in the cockpit, cooling himself with rum and ignoring the groans of the wounded that had survived their earlier action and now twisted in the stifling, stinking heat of Hellebore's bowels.

Stripped to his shirt sleeves Drinkwater scanned the dun-coloured shore, watching for a response to the flag of truce now at Daedalus's foremasthead. But although the fort's guns had fallen silent the tricolour still hung limply from its staff. No movement could be discerned in the town after a first terrified evacuation of the dhows in the harbour. Drinkwater felt a strong sense of anti-climax. The fort seemed weak, no more than half-a-dozen cannon.

'Old guns installed by the Turks,' observed Lestock.

'Place looks like a heap of camel-shit,' muttered Rogers. They all suffered from a sense of being engaged in an unworthy activity, not least Griffiths.

'A most inglorious proceeding indeed,' he said, disgust filling his dry mouth. And Drinkwater knew the old man considered this a side-show compared with the task of destroying Santhonax himself.

'Commodore's signalling for an officer, sir.' Dalziell reported.

'Duw… see to it Mr Drinkwater.'

Clambering in at the entry of Daedalus Drinkwater was escorted by a cool-looking midshipman to the quarterdeck. He found a lieutenant from Fox already there, together with a figure he knew well.

Time had not been kind to Augustus Morris. The years had ravaged his body, the skin drawn over prematurely withered flesh, his stance flaccid, listless in a manner that could not entirely be attributed to the heat. His face bore the marks of a heavy drinker, a tic twitching beneath his right eye. But although time might be remarked in his person and emphasised by his long worn lieutenant's uniform, his eyes, beneath their heavy lids, glittered with a potent malevolence.

There was no time for formalities. Captain Ball turned from a consultation with his sailing master and addressed the three lieutenants.

'Gentlemen, I propose in an hour to hoist the Union at the fore-masthead. Upon that signal I require you to take the boats from your ships and attack the native craft exposed in the outer roadstead. You should direct your respective boats to the nearest craft and thereafter concert your efforts as seems best to you. That is all.' Ball turned away dismissively.

'What's the date of your commission, Drinkwater?' asked Hetherington of Fox, a small, pinch-faced man with prominent ears.

'October '97.'

'That makes you senior, Morris.'

'It does indeed,' said Morris with relish, never taking his eyes off Drinkwater. 'Mr Drinkwater once outranked me, Hetherington. A temporary matter, d'you know. It is only just that I should have the whip hand now.'

'Well what are we going to do?' enquired the anxious Hetherington who was not much interested in Morris's autobiography.

Morris took his eyes reluctantly off his old enemy and fixed Hetherington with an opaque look that Drinkwater remembered from twenty years earlier. 'Why, just what we have been told, Hetherington. Take the dhows of course. Mr Drinkwater will lead the attack…' Drinkwater met his gaze again, reading Morris's intentions quite clearly. Morris turned to Hetherington. 'You may return to your ship.' His hand shot out and restrained Drinkwater who had thought to leave.

'Not you, my dear Nathaniel,' said Morris with heavy sarcasm, his hand gripping viciously upon Drinkwater's right upper arm, twisting the muscle maimed two years earlier by Edouard Santhonax, 'we have an old acquaintance to revive.'

'I think not, Morris,' said Drinkwater coolly as the other dropped his hand.

'Ah, but I order you to stay, there is so much to discuss. Your wife for instance…'

Drinkwater froze, suddenly anxious and searching Morris's face for the truth.

'Oh, yes, I have seen her, Nathaniel. Heavy with child too. You have overcome your prudery I see. Unless it was another.' Morris broke out into low laughter as Drinkwater's hand reached for his hanger. Morris shook his head. 'That would be most imprudent.' Drinkwater clenched his fist impotently. 'She looked unwell.'

Drinkwater saw in Morris's expression a cruel delight, such as Yusuf ben Ibrahim had worn as he butchered the Frenchmen of La Torride.

Drinkwater opened his mouth to reply but the words were lost in the sudden roar of Daedalus''s guns. Ball had hauled down the flag of truce and resumed the bombardment. Spinning on his heel Drinkwater returned to his boat and Hellebore.

'Bear off forrard! Give way together!' Drinkwater took the tiller and swung the cutter away under Hellebore's stern. Passing across Daedalus's bow he steadied for the nearest dhow. Looking to starboard he saw Hetherington's boat shoot ahead of Fox, then Morris came out from the shelter of Daedalus.

'Pull, you lubbers. Let's get this business finished quickly!' The boat's crew were already grimed and sweat-seamed from working the guns in relays, but they lay back on their oars willingly enough. Over their heads shot whined through the sullen air. Drinkwater looked ahead at Kosseir. The town was passing into shadow, purple and umber as the sun westered behind the mountains of the Sharqiya.

They reached the first vessel, a large baghala, deserted by her crew. Drinkwater led his men aboard and it was the work of only a few minutes to set her on fire. As they tumbled back into the cutter Daedalus's boat came alongside, a midshipman in charge of her.

'Mr Morris orders you to attack yon dhow, sir.' The youth pointed to a vessel anchored just off the ramshackle mole. Drinkwater swung round to look at the dhow next astern of them. He could see Morris on its deck. No smoke as yet issued from her, though their own target was well ablaze. A dark suspicion crossed Drinkwater's mind as he nodded to the midshipman. 'Very well.'

'Give way…' Rounding the burning baghala's bow Drinkwater headed for the mole. They were no more than two hundred yards from the decaying breakwater, their new victim lying midway between.

'Is that match all right?' The gunner's mate in charge of the combustibles blew on the slow match and nodded. 'Aye, sir.'

'Pull, damn you!' growled Drinkwater, seeing for the first time men in blue uniforms running out along the mole and dropping to their knees. They were French sharpshooters, the trailleurs of the 21st Demi-Brigade. The oar looms bent under redoubled effort.

The cutter ran alongside the dhow and the seamen jumped aboard. At the instant they stood on the deck the sharpshooters opened fire. It was long musket range but Drinkwater immediately felt a searing pain across his thigh and looked down to see where a ball had galled him, reddening his breeches. Beside him a man was bowled over as though dead but sat up a few moments later, nursing bruised ribs from a spent musket ball. Drinkwater and his men crawled about the deck, assembling enough combustibles to ignite the dhow, wriggling backwards with the small keg of black powder leaving a trail across the deck. Drinkwater nodded and the gunner's mate blew on his match and touched it to the powder train. The flame sputtered and tracked across the deck, over the coaming and below. Smoke began to writhe out of the dhow's hold.

'Back to the boat!' he called sharply over his shoulder, venturing one last look at the crumbling mud brick of Kosseir's pitiful defences. Overhead the whirr of cannon shot told where the squadron were thundering away, while puffs of dust and little settling disturbances of masonry showed the process of reduction. He scanned the beach that curved away to the left of the town. A few small fishing boats were drawn up on it and the dull green of vegetation showed where a hardy and pitiful cultivation was carried on. Some taller palms grew in a clump by a waterhole. As he ducked again and was about to crawl back to the boat Drinkwater noticed something else, something that brought him to his feet in a wild leap for the cutter. Round the end of the mole a boat was pulling vigorously towards them.

The cutter was shoved off from the burning dhow and pulled clear of its shelter. Shot dropped round them and a brief glance astern showed the enemy boat no more than thirty yards astern.

'She's closin' on us, sir,' muttered the man at stroke oak nodding astern. Drinkwater's back felt vulnerable. He looked over his shoulder and stared down the muzzle of a swivel gun. The puff of smoke that followed made his heart skip and he felt the ball hit the transom. Drinkwater looked down to see the dark swirl of water beneath him.

Twilight was increasing by the minute and they had no hope of reaching the brig before being overtaken or sinking. They had a single chance.

'Hold water all! Oars and cutlasses!'

The enemy boat came on and Drinkwater pulled a pistol from his belt. He laid the weapon on one of the gunners and saw the man stagger, a hand to his shoulder. A second later the two boats ground together.

Lent coolness by desperation, Drinkwater grabbed the gunwhale of the enemy boat. Beneath his feet Hellebore's cutter felt sluggish and low as behind him the crew stumbled aft. Swiping upwards with his hanger Drinkwater leapt aboard the French boat. Manning the swivel were three artillerymen from Desaix's army. Their eyes were pus-filled from ophthalmia and one already clasped a wounded shoulder. A second had recovered from Drinkwater's sword swipe as he straightened up. Drinkwater lunged his shoulder into the man, knocking him backwards and banging the pommel of his sword into the side of the man's head.

The impetus of the approaching French boat had slewed the cutter round so that her crew could leap the easier from their sinking craft. Drinkwater was aware of a stumbling, swearing melee of men to his right as, over the fork of the swivel gun, the third gunner faced him, a heavy sword bayonet in his hand.

Drinkwater saw the matter in his eyes, and the mouth set hard beneath the black moustache. He stumbled as the boat rocked violently under the assault. A man, thrown overboard in the scuffle, screamed as the first shark, attracted by the blood, found him. His frenzied cries lent a sudden fury to them all.

The artilleryman struck down at Drinkwater as he recovered. Desperately Nathaniel caught the impact of the heavy blade on the forte of his sword and twisted upwards, carrying the big bayonet with him. Then, in a clumsy manoeuvre, he executed a bind, riding over the blade and forcing it across to the right. He made the movement in instinctive desperation, with every ounce of his strength. In this he had the advantage. The gunner, weakened by disease and malnutrition, only half able to see and unused to boats, lost his balance as he tried to avoid the Englishman's much longer blade. Drinkwater felt the pressure stop and saw, with a curious mixture of relief and pity, a pair of tattered bootsoles as the man fell overboard.

This emotion was swiftly replaced by a savage gratification as he swung half right to plunge amongst the fighting still ranging in the boat. Then it was all over, suddenly the boat was theirs and men were grabbing oars and tossing Frenchmen callously overboard. In perhaps three minutes the British had destroyed their pursuers and had begun to pull the boat offshore to where the three British warships still cannonaded the town. It was almost dark. The gun flashes of the squadron were reflected on the oily surface of the sea, the burning dhows flamed like torches. There were only four of them; so neither Morris nor Hetherington had burned more than one dhow and two still remained unscathed. It was clear to Nathaniel that he had run more than the gauntlet of death from the French. The events of less than an hour seemed at that moment to have lasted a lifetime. He felt very tired.

After reporting to Griffiths, Drinkwater went in search of rest. The British remained at quarters during the night, snatching what sleep they could beside their cannon as the chill of the desert night cooled them. From time to time a gun was discharged to intimidate the French. Rolling himself in his boat cloak Drinkwater settled down under the little poop to sleep. He had barely closed his eyes when someone shook him.

'Zur,' Tregembo whispered softly, 'Mr Drinkwater, zur.'

'Eh? What is it, Tregembo?'

'Did you know that bugger Morris was aboard Daed'lus, zur?'

'Of course I did. He commanded her boat in the raid.' A sudden desire to communicate his fears seized him. There was between the two of them a bond that stretched beyond the bulwarks of the brig to the small Hampshire town of Petersfield. This bond underran the social barriers that divided them. 'I think he tried to kill me this evening.'

Drinkwater heard Tregembo whistle. 'That explains it, zur. We saw Fox's boat pull towards you when you was attacked. As it passed Daed'lus's cutter it were turned back. Then the signal for recall was hoisted I heard say, zur. I also heard Mr Dalziell mention he knew the lieutenant just joined Daed'lus, and when I heard him tell Mr Lestock it was a Mr Morris… well I guessed, zur.'

Drinkwater's mind flew back to a day twenty years earlier when this same man had given a nervous midshipman the courage to challenge Morris.

'If anything happens to you, zur, I'll swing for the bastard.'

'No Tregembo,' said Drinkwater sharply. 'If anything happens to me do you get yourself home to your Susan and tell Lord Dungarth. Appleby'll help you. That's an order man.'

Tregembo hesitated. 'Damn it, Tregembo, I'll rest easier if I thought he'd died by due process of law.'

Tregembo sighed. Such niceties were the penalty he paid for his contacts with 'the quality'. 'Aye, zur. I will. And I'll keep a weather eye out for your lady.'

A wave of pure fear swept over Drinkwater but he suppressed it beneath a rough gratitude for Tregembo's loyalty. 'Aye, you do that Tregembo. My thanks to you. The sooner we are away out of this accursed bay the better. We have orders for England once…' he checked himself. He had been about to say 'once the captain has rid himself of his present obsession.' But that was too much of a confidence even for Tregembo. The recollection steadied him and Tregembo left, silently swearing to himself that Lieutenant Drinkwater need have no fear if it was left to him.

But sleep would not now come to Drinkwater. He rose and went below. The scratches of his wounds throbbed and in the gunroom he cleaned them with the remains of a bottle of rum. Above his head a guntruck squealed and the boom of the six-pounder split the night. Mr Rogers was clearly going to let the French know that he was on deck, middle watch or no. Drinkwater went forward to look at Quilhampton.

The apparently indefatigable Catherine Best still ministered to him, washing the small white body with wine and water so that evaporation might cool the boy.

'How is he?'

'A little cooler, but still fevered. You have been wounded, sir?'

'It is nothing at all.'

'But it will mortify in this climate.'

'No. I have washed it with rum. I shall survive.' He took the rag off her and gently pushed her aside. 'Get some rest. I shall sit with him a while.'

He eased himself down beside the midshipman and sniffed the bandages on the stump. Thank God there was no offensive taint to it, as yet. Presently his head dropped forward and he slept.

At five o'clock in the morning the three British cruisers reopened their cannonade on Kosseir. It was to last seven hours.

At noon when the bombardment halted, anxious gunners reported the serious depletion of their stocks of ammunition and Ball summoned his fellow captains. At four in the afternoon the boats of Daedalus succeeded in burning the two dhows that remained anchored in the inner roadstead.

As the day drew to a close a swell rolled into Kosseir Bay, setting the boats of the squadron bobbing and grinding one another as they assembled alongside Hellebore. The brig was the most southerly of the three British ships and a convenient starting place for the next phase of Captain Ball's questionable strategy. All the boats had their carronades mounted, those in the frigate's launches of eighteen pound calibre. The expedition was to land south of the town. Its object was to destroy the wells used by the French, located in the miserable oasis observed by Drinkwater earlier. About eighty seamen and marines were mustered for this purpose under the command of Captain Stuart of Fox. Seconding him were Lieutenants Morris, Hetherington and Drinkwater.

'Watch this swell upon the beach, bach,' said Griffiths at parting and Drinkwater nodded. Service in Kestrel and the buoy yachts of Trinity House had rendered him acutely conscious of sea state.

Night was again falling as they pulled away from the brig. Stuart's boat led, the others following. At the last moment Drinkwater had ordered Tregembo back on board with a message for Lestock. As soon as the Cornishman had disappeared Drinkwater pushed off.

Already the sun was touching the distant peaks of the Sharqiya, but in the gathering shadows troops could be seen hurrying along the road to the oasis. Drinkwater turned his boat, that captured from the French when the cutter had been lost, in the wake of Stuart's launch. As they approached the beach they could feel the swell humping up beneath them, see it rolling ahead of them to break in a heavy surf.

'Mr Brundell!' Drinkwater hailed the master's mate commanding the gig next astern. 'There's a surf. Do you use your anchor from forward, let go abreast of me!'

He saw Brundell wave acknowledgement. The gig did not mount a gun, was too light for the six-pounders lent to the boats that had no carronades. Thankful that there were old Kestrels in Hellebore's company who would appreciate the technique, Drinkwater watched with misgiving where, ahead of them he saw Stuart's boat anchor by the stern.

'Forrard there!' He stood up to command attention. The gunner's mate looked astern. 'Sir?'

'You will have time for only a single discharge. Make sure you fire on the upward pitch. Make ready!'

Drinkwater could see the beach, becoming monochromatic in the dusk. Troops were deploying on it, well back from the water's edge. Drinkwater put the tiller over and cast a single glance astern. The build up of the breakers was very noticeable. He straightened the boat for the beach. 'Oars!' The men ceased rowing. 'Fire!' The carronade barked. 'Hold water starboard!' The boat slewed. 'Let go!' The anchor splashed overboard and the boat drifted broadside. 'Backwater starboard! Backwater all!' The boat turned and from the corner of his eye he saw Brundell bring the gig round.

'Drinkwater! What the hell d'you think you're playing at?' Morris's voice cut across the roar of the breakers. Drinkwater ignored it. 'Check her forrard!' A twitch on the anchor warp told the anchor held. 'Backwater all!' Drinkwater repeated, his back to the beach, watching the boat's head rise to the surf which increased in sharpness as they drove into shallow water. They were surrounded by tumbling wave crests. He cast a single glance astern. 'Hold on! Boat oars!'

He nodded to the corporal of the marine detachment from Fox. Together the two men led the boat's crew over the transom. For a minute they floundered, found their footing and scrambled ashore. Drinkwater cast a single glance back at the boat to see the boat-keepers at their stations.

To right and left the British were coming ashore. Stuart's men were already deploying, the marine in the centre, but his boat was in trouble, her forefoot pounding on the hard sand, her flat transom presenting a greater impediment to the breakers than the sharp bows of the Hellebore's.

The marines had opened fire, a rolling volley designed to pin down any interference from the town while the seamen attacked the wells. The party began to advance up the beach as the last boats came in. Two had followed Drinkwater's example, the remainder had anchored by the stern, their carronades or borrowed long guns theoretically covering the landing. In the event the violence of the surf prevented more than an occasional lucky shot, while the gunners were bounced and shaken by the motion.

Drinkwater waved his detachment up on the flank of the marines. The men ran forward, their bare feet slapping on the sand, the cutlasses gleaming dully in their brawny hands.

The buzz of a thousand bees halted them. A company of French infantry occupied low scrub ahead of them, galling them with a furious musket fire. The seamen were in soft sand now. Several fired pistols while the officers cheered them forward. They could hardly see the enemy's dark uniform blending with the thorn scrub, the flashes of their muskets too brief to lay a pistol on. Men were falling and the forward rush was checked.

Then the French charged and a stumbling fight ensued, the seamen hacking with their clumsy weapons, glad of the proximity of their enemy, shaken by the earlier fire they had received on the open beach. Drinkwater thought they had a chance. He looked round hoping to find Morris's men coming up behind them. Morris and his men had halted seventy yards away. To his left Stuart was equally hard pressed. Hetherington's men seemed to be in support of the marines. Drinkwater's eye was caught by a movement at the water's edge. The stern line of one of the boats had parted. He saw her broach and roll over in the surf, saw her split like a melon. The moment's inattention was paid for as a Frenchman drove his musket butt into Drinkwater's guts. He gasped and retched, vaguely aware that Brundell's pistol butt caught the man's face, then he was on his knees fighting for breath.

He did not hear Stuart's order to retreat. A kind of obscurity was clouding his mind. He was not even aware that he was half crouched in a kind of stumbling run, with Brundell on one side of him and a seaman on the other. He did not feel the seaman fall, a musket ball in his heart, did not feel another's arm bear him up, nor hear the shouted instruction from Morris.

'I have him, Mister, he's an old friend. You take charge of the brig's detachment now.'

'Aye, aye, sir,' Brundell turned uncertainly away. There was nasty gossip in the squadron about Lieutenant Morris.

Everywhere men ran to the boats, the seamen first to man the oars and haul in the anchors. In a wavering line the marines retreated, holding the advancing French just far enough to permit the embarkation of the British.

It was as well the French garrison was both sickly and small. The commandant, Adjutant Donzelot, could not afford to lose men. To drive the British back to their boats and to preserve his wells was enough. Desert war had taught him not to attempt the impossible.

In the dark confusion of the embarkation Morris found it a matter of ease to spin the semi-conscious Drinkwater round as they waded into the water, to bring his knee up into Drinkwater's groin and to drop him as though shot. Morris spared a single glance at his enemy. In falling Drinkwater had cut his leg upon the blade of the sword that had all the while dangled on its martingale from his wrist.

Morris was smiling as he scrambled over the bow of his boat. In the final surge of the sea as it washed the beach of Kosseir Bay lay the body of Nathaniel Drinkwater.