A Brig of War

Chapter Twelve A Stink of Fish

Adjutant Donzelot's caution did not prevent him allowing his men to bayonet the wounded and dying British. Those that did not die during the night would be killed the following morning by Arabs and eaten by the yellow-necked vultures that wheeled above the town. That Drinkwater was not one of these unfortunates was the merest whim of fortune. He was washed all a-tumble among the wreckage of the smashed boat, one more black hummock upon the pale sand beneath the stars. Those of Donzelot's men who ventured to the edge of the sea were content to find the groaning body of an eighteen-year-old boy, an ordinary seaman from Fox whose task of tending the launch's anchor warp had resulted in his being rolled on by the heavy boat. The bayonets of the infantrymen only added to the perforations in the boy's lungs.

Drinkwater knew nothing of this. He came to long after the French had returned to their billets, long after the young seaman was dead. He was already missed by Griffiths and Appleby, already being revenged in the mind of Tregembo. And while Brundell puzzled over his disappearance, Morris was already half-drunk over it. Even aboard Hellebore it had its element of satisfaction. To Lestock it justified a certain mean pleasure that 'Mr Drinkwater was too clever for his own good,' while Rogers's career could only benefit from Nathaniel's death.

Whatever agency ensured his survival, be it fortune, the Providence he believed in, or the prayer Elizabeth daily offered for his preservation, it was pain, not life that he was first aware of.

Waves of it spread upwards from the bruises in his lower abdomen where his legs terminated in huge, unnatural swellings. It was an hour before the pain had subsided sufficiently for him to command his faculties. An hour before his mind, registering facts from casual observation, gave them the meaning of cause and effect. It penetrated his mind that it was the hog of a boat that blotted out his vision of the stars, that he lay on sand shivering and soaking wet, an occasional wave still washing up around him. Fear of a terrible loneliness slowly replaced that of death. And that comparative condition was the first awakening of his mental will to live. He became aware that he was sheltered from observation by the boat's wreckage, that he could not move his right arm only because its wrist was fast to the martingale of the sword upon which the inert weight of his body lay. He moved, this time by conscious effort, fighting the pain from his swollen testicles. The pain in his gut he could account for, that in his loins was a mystery.

He muttered a string of meaningless filth as he drew his knees up and tried to rise. Just as the distraction of the smashing boat had caused his incapacity yet saved his body, now the cold numbed him and revived him to make an effort. The North Sea had taught him the dangers of succumbing to cold. Cold was an enemy and the thought of it brought him unsteadily to his feet.

As he stood panting with shallow respirations, waiting for the nausea to wane, the necessity of a plan presented itself to him. He remembered where he was. Slowly he turned his head. The occasional flame and thump from seaward showed where the squadron fired its minute guns as it had the night before. Less than two miles away was all he held sacred. His career, the talisman of his love, his duty; the brig Hellebore. Like a vision of the Holy City beckoning Pilgrim on, that gunfire cauterised his despair.

Aware that the moving chiaroscuro of the sea's edge facilitated his own movement he began to crawl north, along the curve of the bay towards Kosseir itself.

At first it was easy. He developed a simian lope that accommodated his hurt, but as he approached the town his senses urged caution and progress slowed. He had no idea where the French posted their vedettes. They must have someone watching the beach. He rested in the protection of a small fishing boat drawn up above the high water line. The sharp stink of fish assailed him and from its offensive odour he had an idea. Wriggling round the boat he discovered a net lying nearby. Carefully, trying to prevent the slightest gleam of starlight on its blade, he used the hanger to cut off a section the size of a blanket, pulling it round his shoulders like a cloak. If a sentry should challenge him he could pull it round him, humping his body so that in the darkness he might look like an old pile of net such as may be found on any beach in the world used by fishermen.

Encouraged he continued his painful and patient advance towards the little harbour that lay behind the mole. He could not risk swimming to the squadron. The presence of sharks made that a suicidal choice. But he could steal a boat. He came to the first building and heard the dull clink of accoutrements. Upon the flat roof a sentry yawned, the smell of his tobacco mingling with the stink that filled Drinkwater's offended nostrils as he struggled beneath his net.

It was after midnight when the prospect of the harbour was exposed to him. He was warm with exertion and his pain had subsided to inhabit only those parts of him that were worst affected. Hope had given him the courage to make the journey, now success this far spurred him on. He sat and caught his breath. The occasional crash told where the balls from the British guns landed. Once he heard a scream and shouts. The scream was a woman's and the shouts unmistakably French oaths.

The harbour presented a fantastic sight. It was crammed with native craft of all sizes. In the centre the large hulls of a group of baghalas were to be dimly perceived, rising above the lower decks of sambuks and fishing dhows. It was a testimony to the energy of Edouard Santhonax. But it was also a testimony to British seapower. For though it seemed to observers on board the squadron off-shore that Kosseir was capable of absorbing an infinity of round-shot, Drinkwater's seaman's eye saw immediately the irregularities in that close-packed wedge of ships. The broken masts, the jagged lines of their rails, the dark holes in their decks and the lower ones, already resting on the bottom, spoke of the results of cannon fire.

Drinkwater moved forward, sure that somewhere a dinghy or small boat existed to carry him back to Hellebore.

That hope was nearly his undoing. From nowhere a dog appeared. Both parties shared surprise but the dog barked, not once, but with the persistent yapping of the pariah. Above him Drinkwater heard an oath and curled like a woodlouse. The dog snuffled round him, its hunger almost audible. Then it began to bark again. The stone hit the ground an inch from his head and the dog yelped and ran off. Drinkwater froze, imagining the sentry looking down. Had he scanned the ground earlier? Would the presence of an old net excite his suspicion? For as long as his nerves could stand it Drinkwater remained immobile. Then he began to move forward, eager to reach a downward slope on to the crumbling quay that ran along the inside of the harbour. He made it without mishap, moving swiftly across the open quay when he heard a fortuitous disturbance within the town.

He knew it instinctively for what it was, an argument that would engage the interest of any sentries in the vicinity. A woman's shrill voice screamed outrage at some demand made on her by one of the 'moustaches', the man bellowed back. Thus did a Frenchman's passion cover his escape. Once on the first craft the shadows and fittings provided cover. All the craft were deserted and he moved across them cautiously, anxiously searching for a small boat. He found several but none could be moved to the outer limit of the moored craft and the open sea. He lay panting and cursing after a protracted and final attempt to dislodge one for his use.

He must have dozed, for he sensed the passage of time when he next had a conscious thought. If no boat were available he might,' just might, be able to attract attention at dawn from the extremity of the mole. He knew Griffiths scanned the town at first light and he remembered loose stonework at the end where he might remain unobserved from the town. He reached the mole half an hour later and found himself a hiding place among a pile of nets and pots. He fell asleep.

He woke at dawn but it was not daylight that startled him. The pounding of feet was accompanied by the crackle of musketry, shouts and orders. He recognised Stuart's voice and peered out to see a file of marines trot past him. Then Stuart appeared, leading a band of armed seamen ashore. He saw Mr Brundell and the gig's crew from Hellebore and it was if he had been absent a hundred years. 'Mr Drinkwater!' He stood unsteadily and bowed at Brundell's smile, aware that he still clasped the fishnet about his shoulders.

'Have the goodness to direct a boat to convey me back to the ship, Mr Blundell.'

'Of course. Here you! Support the first lieutenant back to the gig. And go handsomely with him.'

Drinkwater accepted the rough arm, aware that a face appeared in front of him that was aghast with astonishment.

'Morning Morris,' he said, stumbling past as Daedalus's landing party stormed the mole.

'How are you, sir?'

'Eh?' Drinkwater stared round him in the darkness. The stink of the orlop finally identified his whereabouts. He turned. Quilhampton lay next to him, a Quilhampton sitting up on his good elbow. 'I believe I am quite well,' he sat up and stopped abruptly. His bruises, severe at the outset, had been strained by the exertions of the night and the cut on his leg had gone septic from contact with the filthy fishnet.

'I am exceedingly glad to see you sir, notwithstanding the stink of fish hereabouts.' Safety and the impertinent cheek of the youngster blew the shadows of fear from Drinkwater's spirit. He was no longer alone.

'I am glad to hear it, Mr Q. I apologise for my malodorous condition.'

'That is all right, sir. The captain and Mr Appleby were glad you survived.'

'I am glad to hear that too,' observed Drinkwater drily.

'I wish the same could be said of Lieutenant Rogers.'

'Ahhh.' Drinkwater could imagine Rogers's rapid assumption of his own duties. 'You should not gossip, Mr Q. I understand Mr Rogers's motives as you will do one day. I trust he was the only one.'

'The only one I know of, sir. Except of course Gaston.'

'Gaston? Oh, yes, I recollect. The French boy. What of him? How have I offended to warrant such a return?'

'For some reason that I cannot fathom, sir, he is of the opinion that either the captain or yourself shot off my hand. Leastways that is what I think he meant, unless I mistook his sense.' The boy shrugged and smiled with a puzzled expression.

'It's damned good to see you smiling, Mr Q. One day I'll tell you the whole story.'

As if from nowhere Catherine Best appeared, a bowl of water in her hands. Simultaneously the concussion of Hellebore's broadside roared overhead.

'What has happened?' Drinkwater asked making to get up and suddenly guiltily aware that the silence had driven all thoughts of duty from his mind.

He felt Catherine's hand firm on his breast. 'Lie back, sir. Mr Appleby's orders are that you are not to move, that your cut leg needs cleaning or you may yet lose it.'

He lay back while the vibration of the brig's cannon reached down through the hull. He closed his eyes, the dull throbbing in his lower parts reasserting itself.

'The attack on the town has been beaten off, sir.' Catherine's voice seemed to come from a great way off. So, the fight for Kosseir was over.

And Catherine's hands were unbelievably cool on his burning flesh.