A Brig of War

Chapter Nine Mocha Road

Lieutenant Drinkwater slowly paced Hellebore's tiny quarterdeck. The almost constant southerly wind that blew hot from the Horn of Africa tended to ease at nightfall and Drinkwater, in breeches and shirt, had come to regard his sunset walks as an indispensible highlight to the tedium of these weeks. Now, as the sun sank blood-red and huge, its reflection glowing on the sea, he felt a bitter-sweet sadness familiar to seamen at the close of the day when far from home. He turned aft and strode evenly, measuring the deck. His eyes were caught by the rose-coloured walls and towers of Mocha to the east, a mile distant. The mud brick of the town's buildings also reflected the setting glory of the sun. The slender minaret pointed skywards like a sliver of gold and beside it the dome of the mosque blazed. Behind the town the Tihamah plain stretched eastward, already shadowing and cooling until, like a fantastic backcloth it merged with the crags and fissures of the Yemeni mountains that rose into a sky velvet with approaching night. It was not the first time that the beauty of a tropical night had moved him, provoking thoughts of home and Elizabeth and the worry of her accouchement. Then he chid himself for a fool, reminding himself that although he knew a good deal about the ship beneath his feet he knew precious little about the fundamentals of human life. Elizabeth would have been long since brought to bed. He wondered whether the child had lived and tore his mind from the prospect of having lost Elizabeth.

Mr Brundell approached him and reported the sighting of the captain's boat. Drinkwater hurried below for his coat and hat, then met Griffiths at the entry.

After the exchange of routine remarks Griffiths beckoned Drinkwater into the cabin; throwing his hat on to the settee he indicated the first lieutenant should pour them both a glass of wine. Flinging himself on to his chair the commander covered his face with his hands.

'No news, sir?' enquired Drinkwater pushing the wine across the table.

'Aye, bach, but of a negative kind, damn it. It is Santhonax. Wrinch is certain of it,' Griffiths's frequent visits ashore to the delightful residence of Mr Strangford Wrinch had almost assumed the character of a holiday, so regular a thing had they become in the last month. But it was not pleasure that drove Griffiths to the table of the British 'resident'.

Wrinch was a coffee merchant with consular powers, an 'agent' for British interests, not all of them commercial. Drinkwater had dined with him several times and formed the impression that he was one of those strange expatriate Britons who inhabit remote parts of the world, exercising almost imperial powers and writing the pages of history anonymously. It had become apparent to Griffiths and Drinkwater that the man sat spider-like at the centre of a web that strung its invisible threads beside the old caravan routes of Arabia, extended to the ancient Yemeni dependencies in the Sudan and the uncharted tracks of the dhows that traded and plundered upon the Red Sea.

Griffiths had long been involved with the gleaning of intelligence, had spent the latter part of his life working for greater men whose names history would record as the conductors of foreign policy. Yet it was a war within war that occupied Griffiths and Wrinch, a personal involvement which gave them both their motivation. And for Griffiths the personal element had reached an apogee of urgency. Santhonax had been their old adversary in the Channel and the North Sea in the anxious months before Camperdown. Santhonax had been responsible for the barbaric execution of Major Brown, a fact that stirred all Griffiths's latent Celtic hatred. Griffiths was an old, infirm man. Santhonax's presence in the Red Sea mocked him as a task unfinished.

So Griffiths sat patiently in the cool, whitewashed courtyard, brushing off the flies that plagued the town, and waited for news of Santhonax. What Drinkwater did not share with his commander was the latter's patience.

In the weeks they had swung at anchor Drinkwater had concluded that Admiral Nelson had sent them on a wild goose chase; that Lieutenant Duval's overland journey to Bombay was sufficient. They had strained every sinew to reach the Red Sea only to find Admiral Blankett was not at Mocha, that he had gone in search of the French squadron and might have by now destroyed Santhonax. The admiral had been told by Wrinch that a French force was loose in the area. Wrinch affirmed the accuracy of his intelligence without moving from his rug where he would sit in his galahiya and fadhl with his fellow merchants, with the Emirs el Hadj that led the caravans, with commanders of dhows who swapped news for gold, pearls or hashish, or fondled the pretty boys Wrinch was said to prefer to women.

Whatever the truth about himself Wrinch was shrewd enough to know when an Arab invoked the one true God to verify his lies, and when he reported facts. And Griffiths was not interested in the moral qualities of his sources; for him the world was as it was.

Blankett too, had taken alarm. Red-faced and damning Wrinch roundly he had set off north while the season of southerly winds lasted. After his departure Lawrence had arrived, only to be chased by one of Santhonax's ships, appearing mysteriously in Blankett's rear. Despite this intelligence Wrinch urged Griffiths not to cruise in search of either party. He should simply wait. For Wrinch, waiting and 'fadhling' were part of the charm of Arab life. For Griffiths they were a tolerable way of passing the time, enduring the heat and sharpening his appetite for revenge. For Drinkwater the delay was intolerable.

'So we continue to wait, sir?'

Griffiths nodded. 'I know, bach, idleness is bad for the people for-rard but, duw, we have no choice. Wrinch is right,'

Griffiths soothed, brushing the flies away from his face. 'Damned flies have the impertinence of Arabs… No, Mocha Road is the rendezvous.' His white-haired head sank in thought. 'Hmmm, Yr Aifft…'

'Sir?'

'Egypt, Nathaniel, Egypt. There is great activity in Egypt. Bonaparte has made himself master of Cairo. A general named Desaix is blazing a trail through Upper Egypt with the assistance of a Copt called Moallem Jacob.' He paused. 'I think Nelson may be right and with that devil Santhonax to reckon with…' He raised his white eyebrows and clamped his mouth tight shut. Then he blew out his cheeks. 'I wish to God you'd shot him.'

Inaction, like the heat, seemed to have settled permanently upon the brig. The pitch bubbled in the seams and Drinkwater had the duty watch keep the decks wet during daylight. They listed the ship with the guns and scrubbed the waterline, they overhauled the rigging and painted ship. Griffiths forbade exercising the guns with powder and a silent ritual was meaningless to the men. To divert them Drinkwater sent Lestock, his mates and the midshipman off in the boats to survey the road. Although this stimulated a competitiveness among the junior officers and promoted a certain amount of professional interest, once again high-lighting Mr Quilhampton's potential talents, it was limited in its appeal to the hands and soon became unpopular as the boats roamed further afield. Lethargy began to spread its tentacles through the brig, bearing out Appleby's maxim that war was mostly a waste of time, a waste of money and a waste of energy.

As week succeeded week Drinkwater's frustration mounted. He was tormented by worry over Elizabeth, worry that could not easily be set aside in favour of more pressing duties because there were none to demand his attention beyond the routine of daily life at anchor. The myriad flies that visited them drove them to distraction and the lack of shore leave for the hands exacerbated their own cramped lives.

Strangford Wrinch passed them alarming intelligence, gathered from a certain Hadji Yusuf ben Ibrahim, commander of a sambuk. In December of the old year a French division under General Bon had occupied Suez. Bonaparte himself had accepted tribute from the Arabs of Tor in Sinai and reached an accommodation with the monks of the mysterious monastery of St Catherine at the southern extremity of that peninsula. General Desaix was scattering the mamelukes to the four winds in an energetic sweep up the Nile Valley. Egypt had become a province of France and it was clear that, despite Nelson's victory at Aboukir and the subsequent blockade of the Mediterranean coast under Sir Samuel Hood, the French were far from beaten. They might yet move further east and in the absence of Blankett Hellebore would be no more than a straw under the hooves of the conqueror.

At the end of January Griffiths ordered them to sea. For a fortnight they cruised between Perim and Jabal Zugar, exercising the guns and sails. Then they returned to Mocha Road and the shallow bight of its bay, to the heat and flies and the deceptive, fairy-tale wonder of its minaret. Again Griffiths departed daily, smilingly ordering them to submit to the will of Allah, to learn to keyf, to sit in suspended animation after the manner of the Arabs.

'Holy Jesus Christ,' blasphemed the intemperate Rogers in sweating exasperation, 'the stupid old bastard has gone senile.'

'Mr Drinkwater!' The knocking at the door was violently urgent. The face of Quilhampton peered round it, white with worry. 'Mr Drinkwater!'

Drinkwater swam stickily into consciousness. 'Eh? What is it?'

'Two ships standing in from the south, sir!'

Drinkwater was instantly awake. 'Inform the captain! General Quarters and clear for action!'

The midshipman fled and Drinkwater heard the brig come alive, heard the boy's treble taken up by the duty bosun's mate piping at the hatchways. He reached for his breeches, buckled on his sword and snatched up the loaded pistol he habitually kept ready. He rushed on deck.

It was just light and the waist was all confusion with the slap of two hundred bare feet and the whispered exertions of five score of sleep-befuddled seamen driven by training and fear to their stations.

Drinkwater picked up the night glass from its box and did the required mental gymnastics with its inverted image. He swept the horizon and steadied it on the two shapes standing into the road. The larger vessel might be a frigate. Some of the new French frigates were big vessels, yet she seemed too high and not long enough to be a French thoroughbred. The smaller ship was clearly a brig of their own size.

Griffiths appeared. 'Hoist the private signal, Mr Drinkwater!'

Rogers reported the batteries cleared for action. 'Very well, Mr Rogers. Man the starboard. Mr Drinkwater, set tight the spring. Traverse three points to larboard!'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater cast a final glance at Quilhampton's party hoisting the private signal to the lee foretopsail yardarm where the wind spread it for the approaching ships to see. 'Mr Grey, waisters to the capstan!'

Hellebore trembled slightly as the spring came tight and she turned off the wind, bringing her starboard broadside to bear upon the strangers. Drinkwater watched apprehensively. There was no reply to the private signal.

'Starboard battery made ready, sir,' Rogers reported. All activity had ceased now, the gun crews squatting expectantly around their pieces, the captains kneeling off to one side of the recoil tracks, the lanyards tight in their hands.

Hellebore was a sitting duck, silhouetted against the sunrise while the newcomers approached out of the night shadows.

'Mr Rogers! Fire Number One gun astern of her if you please.'

Drinkwater raised his glass and watched the bigger of the two ships. Forward the gun barked. Daylight grew rapidly, distinct rays from the rising sun fanned out from behind the crags of the Yemeni mountains. As the Muezzin called the faithful to prayer from the distant minaret of Mocha, Drinkwater saw the British ensign hoisted to the peak of the approaching ships and an answering puff of smoke from the off-bow of the bigger one.

'British ensign, sir.'

'Then answer at the dip.'

An hour later he was anxiously waiting for Griffiths to return from the fifty-gun Centurion, commanded by Captain Rainier.

Drinkwater ran a surreptitious finger round the inside of his stock. He could not understand why, in the heat of the Red Sea, the Royal Navy could not relax its formality sufficiently to allow officers to remove their broadcloth coats when dining with their seniors. After all, this moment, when the humidor of cheroots followed the decanter of port round the table, was tacitly licensed for informality. They were listening to an anecdote concerning the social life of Bombay told by Centurion's first lieutenant. It was an irreverent story and concerned a general officer in the East India Company's service whose appetite for women was preserved within strictly formal bounds: '…and then, sir, when the nautch-girl threw her legs round him and displayed a certain amount of enthusiasm for the old boy, d'you see, he ceased his exertions and glared down at her; "any more of this familiarity," the old bastard said, "and this coupling's off"!'

The easy laughter of Centurion's officers was joined by that of the young commander of the eighteen-gun brig Albatross, a man more than ten years Drinkwater's junior. It seemed that all these officers from the India station led a life of voluptuous ease and licence. It suddenly rankled Nathaniel that their partners with Duncan in the grey North Sea, with St Vincent off Cadiz and with Nelson in the Mediterranean led a different life. He thought of the rock off Ushant and of the storm-lashed squadron that kept a ceaseless watch on Brest and, in the smoky heat of Captain Rainier's cabin, had a sudden poignant urge to be part of that windy scene, where the rain squalls swept like curtains across the sky, obscuring the reefs that waited impassively to leeward of the lumbering divisions of British watchdogs. This effete bunch of well-laundered, red-faced hedonists made Drinkwater feel uncomfortable, offended his puritan sensibilities. It was as if over-long exposure to the heady tropical beauty of Indian nights had affected them with moon-madness.

Neither had Griffiths forgotten his duty, as the slight edge of sarcasm in his voice implied.

'Duw, sir, 'tis a wonder you sallied so far from home with such delights to keep you at Bombay. May one enquire of your intentions?'

'Of course, Captain,' said Rainier, a large fleshy man with an expansive manner who appeared like an Indian Buddha surrounded by blue cheroot smoke. 'The news we had from Nelson, both from Duval and yourself, is what brings me to carry out the present reconnaissance of the Red Sea.'

'And effecting a junction with Admiral Blankett, sir?'

The captain shrugged. He did not seem eager to combine his force with Blankett's. Yet if he did the Red Sea squadron would almost certainly be sufficient to bottle up the Straits of Bab el Mandeb, locate and destroy whatever ship Santhonax had at his command.

'Blankett's whereabouts are somewhat unknown. My own instructions are clear. I am to determine the extent of French military action in Egypt relative to a descent upon India. That is all.' It was clear to Drinkwater that the nautch-girls of Bombay sang a sweeter song than the sirens lurking on the imperfectly known reefs of the Red Sea.

Rainier exhaled elaborately, indolently watching the three concentric smoke rings waft slowly towards the deckhead with obvious satisfaction.

'Oh bravo, sir,' breathed Adams sycophantically, giving Drinkwater a clue to his early promotion. Rainier raised his fingers in a gesture of unconcern that seemed not to warrant a shrug of the shoulders. 'I think the matter of little moment, 'tis but in the nature of an excursion.' He caught sight of Griffiths's frown. 'Oh, I know, Captain Griffiths, you come panting from the battlefields of Europe, lathered with the sweat of your own efforts, your energy is not the plague, you know. It is not contagious. We have our own way of attending to the King's business out here. We are not unaware that Tippoo Sahib, the Sultan of Mysore,' he added for the benefit of the new arrivals from England, 'is raising rebellion against us. We even have information that Bonaparte himself has been in contact with him. But I am not of the opinion any great risk attends the matter.'

Rainier drew heavily upon the cheroot and a comfortable little ripple of self-satisfaction went round the table amongst the officers of the two ships.

'I wish I shared your confidence, sir,' Griffiths said.

'Oh, come, sir,' put in Adams, 'the French are not here in force. Why, how many ships does Blankett have, eh?' Adams turned to the only non-uniformed figure at the table, strange in civilian clothing a decade out of fashion.

'He has three sixty-fours,' said Wrinch, 'America, Stately and Ruby. The two first named were due home, the third on a cruise. He has two frigates, Daedalus and Fox with the sloop Echo. She too is due home.'

'You see, Griffiths,' said Adams, 'that is a sizeable squadron.'

'If it is all together,' growled Griffiths unconvinced.

Rainier seemed to want to terminate the argument.

'Come Griffiths, it is not as though we are up against Suffren, is it?' The captain muttered through his fist as he picked at a sliver of mutton lodged irritatingly in his molars. 'Eh?'

'The French commander is a pupil of Suffren, sir. He is well-known to my first lieutenant and myself, sir. A true corsair, cunning as a fox, dangerous and resourceful. Not a man to underestimate.' Griffith's voice was low and penetrating.

'How come that you know him, sir?' enquired Centurion's captain of marines.

Griffiths outlined the tasks assigned to the twelve-gun cutter Kestrel during her special service on the coasts of France and Holland. He spoke of how they had come into conflict with the machinations of Capitaine Edouard Santhonax, how they had tracked him from the coves of France to the sandy beaches of Noord Holland and how Drinkwater had finally captured him during the bloody afternoon of Camperdown. He told them of the brutal murder of the British agent, Major Brown, taken in civilian clothing and strung up on a gibbet above the battery at Kijkduin in full view of the blockading squadron. As his voice rose and fell, assembling the sentences of his account he compelled them all to listen, straightening the supercilious mouth of Commander Charles Adams. '… And so gentlemen, Santhonax contrived to escape, devil take him, by what means I do not know, and if this French army in Egypt is as powerful and as dangerous as Admiral Nelson seemed to think, then myndiawl, you should be cautioned against this man.' A silence followed broken at last by Rainier.

'That was bardic, captain, truly bardic,' said Rainier dismissively, taking snuff.

'Captain Griffiths is right, sir,' put in Wrinch at a moment when Drinkwater sensed Rainier wished to conclude matters. 'Santhonax is taking native craft, perhaps to use as transports to India, perhaps to prevent the transfer of the faithful from the Hejaz across the Red Sea to Kosseir. These "Meccan" reinforcements have been told that they have but to shake a Frenchman to dislodge the gold dust from his clothes. They are flocking to join Murad Bey by way of the caravan route to Qena. Murad,' he added with the same condescension as had been used to explain Tippoo Sahib to the uninitiated, 'is a Circassian who commands the Mameluke forces in Upper Egypt. Now, although Desaix has beaten him and scattered his forces, Murad is, in reality, undefeated. To bring him to his knees Desaix must strangle his reinforcements from Arabia either by taking the dhows at sea, or by taking Kosseir. If this is done then additional tariffs will be levied on trade from Arabia, as Bon is already doing at Suez on the trade from Yambo and Jeddah. Bonaparte's government in Cairo is already said to be much pressed for cash and driven to all manner of expedients to raise it.'

'And do you think Santhonax and Desaix could concert their actions to the necessary degree?' asked Rainier at last, disquieted despite himself by the turn the conversation had taken.

'Indeed, sir. Men have done such things. Egypt is ungovernable, of course. It may well be that the French will push on to India. That would be more prestigious for them than ultimate retreat.'

'Do you think prestige would outweigh military sense?' sneered Adams.

'In France,' retorted Wrinch coolly, 'they have just undergone a revolution caused by inferiors revolting that they may be equal. Equals, like Bonaparte and Desaix, Captain Adams, revolt in order that they may be superior. Such is the state of mind that creates, and is created by, revolutions.'

'That is sophistry, sir,' bridled the commander flushing.

'That is Aristotle, sir,' replied Wrinch icily.

An uncomfortable silence fell on the table. Then Wrinch went on.

'By June the wind in the Red Sea will be predominantly from the north. Often this northerly wind reaches as far south as Perim and lasts until August. A sambuk goes excellent well down wind, a baghala could carry a battery of horse artillery or three companies of infantry. In the Arabian Sea from May to September the monsoon is favourable for a fast passage, if an uncomfortable one.'

'Ah,' interjected Adams, at last able to put a technical obstacle in front of Wrinch, 'but you cannot land at Bombay or on the Malabar coast during the south-west monsoon.'

Wrinch raised an eyebrow. 'Even a Frenchman may round Cape Comorin, Captain. They may still have friends in Pondicherry and it is not many miles from there to Mysore.'

Rainier had had enough. He rose. 'We sail in two days, gentlemen.'

'Am I to join you, sir?' asked Griffiths.

'No, Griffiths. Do you stay here and wait for Blankett. You are possessed of all the facts and can best acquaint the admiral of 'em. Your orders from Nelson were explicit. You have managed to convince me that perhaps I must look a little further into the matter, damn you.'

So Hellebore continued to wait. Having, as Appleby put it, sped with the wings of Hermes half way round the world, they had now to acquire the patience of Job. Griffiths spent less time ashore, apparently happier now that Rainier had gone north. But it was not only this that had relaxed the man. The true reason was revealed one night over a more frugal and less formal meal than that enjoyed aboard Centurion. In the cabin of Hellebore the brig's officers dined off mutton, of which there was a good supply in Mocha, and drank their madeira with dark coffee and sweet dates, listening to the reason for Griffiths's change.

'To be without pain, gentlemen, is like a rebirth. Mr Strangford Wrinch is a man of many parts. You have seen only one side of him; that of a gossiping coffee merchant who keeps a kind of court in Mocha. In fact he is much more than that. He has journeyed into the interior and tells of mysterious cities long deserted by their inhabitants. He is a hadji who has twice been where it is not permitted for an infidel to go. He has fought in three Arab wars, is an expert in mathematics, astronomy and Arab literature, writes verses in Arabic and keeps a flight of sakers worthy of a prince…' He paused and Drinkwater heard Rogers mutter a reference to boys. If Griffiths heard it he ignored it, fixing Appleby with a stare. 'And he has some medical knowledge.'

As if on cue Appleby snorted. 'You are going to tell me he knows a few nostrums, sir,' the surgeon said archly.

'Indeed not. I am going to tell you he knows a great deal. That he can cauterize a wound with hot oil, or sear the back with hot irons to cure rheumatism. Furthermore for open wounds an application of rancid butter or cow dung…'

'Cow dung?' Appleby's head shot up in disbelief, his chins quivering. Rogers was laughing silently as if this revelation proved his private theory that Griffiths was mad. Griffiths ignored him, obviously enjoying Appleby's scepticism.

'Just so, Mr Appleby. An application of cow dung, see, possesses certain properties which enable a wound to heal cleanly.'

Behind his hand Rogers muttered, 'No wonder there are so many flies… god-damned cow shit, for Christ's sake.' Mr Dalziell began to giggle and even the loyal Quilhampton found it impossible to resist. The sniggers spread to uncontrollable open laughter to which Appleby succumbed.

Drinkwater coughed loudly, mindful of a first lieutenant's duty. 'And this cure for your pain, sir, was that one of these, h'hm extreme and, er… h'hm unusual remedies?'

Griffiths turned towards Drinkwater, a mildly benevolent smile on his face. He shook his head, his eyes twinkling beneath their bushy eyebrows. 'For the gout, Mr Drinkwater, an affliction long considered by the best English brains as incurable, Mr Wrinch prescribed crocus bulbs and seeds…'

'Crocus bulbs…!' guffawed Rogers whose mirth was past rational control. The tears streamed down the faces of the midshipmen and even Appleby was too stunned to offer resistance to this challenge to English medicine.

'And you are quite without pain?' asked Drinkwater, controlling himself with difficulty.

'Quite, my dear Nathaniel. Fit enough to finish the task that brought us here.'

At the beginning of May Blankett arrived at Mocha having exchanged his flag into the Leopard, newly arrived from England. He had with him Daedalus and Fox. They had swept the Red Sea and the Gulf of Aden without discovering Santhonax. Off Guardafui Blankett had transferred into Leopard and sent the fourth-rates home. He was disinclined to listen to the dire warnings of Griffiths, not admitting the argument that he had not only failed to find the French but had missed Rainier. Annoyed, Griffiths returned to Hellebore and fumed like Achilles in his tent. Then, a week later Rainier returned. He had penetrated as far as Suez and bombarded the place. Although the French army was there no ships were to be seen and it was said that Centurion was the first ship of force seen before the town.

'That,' said Appleby, 'is a piece of conceit I mislike. I dare say Egyptian ships of force were off Suez while Rainier's ancestors were farting in caves.'

'Ah, but not with eighteen-pounders in their batteries,' said Drinkwater laughing, 'cannon are a powerful argument to revise history.'

'Pah! A matter of mere comparisons.'

'Like the ingredients of medicines, eh?' grinned Drinkwater at the surgeon.

Convinced that the French threat was illusory Rainier departed for India, leaving Hellebore to the mercies of Blankett. After his exertions the rear-admiral was not inclined to cruise further. He took himself to Wrinch's house to keyf and dally with a seraglio of houris while his squadron settled down to wait. Though for what, no-one seemed quite certain.

'Boat approaching, sir. Looks like that fellow Sinbad.' Quilhampton interrupted the first lieutenant who had had the carpenter make a small portable desk for him on deck where, beneath the quarterdeck awning, the breeze ruffled his shirt and made the intolerable paperwork that was part of his duty a trifle more bearable.

'Sinbad?'

'That damned Arab Yusef ben Ibrahim, sir!' Drinkwater looked up. It was a great pity that idleness was affecting Mr Quilhampton. The contempt the meanest of Hellebore's people felt for the local population struck Drinkwater as quite incomprehensible. Perhaps it was a result of their being cooped up on board, but there was little contemptible about Yusef ben Ibrahim. A striking figure with the hawk-like good looks of his race who could handle his rakish sambuk with a skill that compelled admiration.

'Go and inform the captain, Mr Q.' Ben Ibrahim had assumed the duty of chief messenger between Wrinch and Griffiths now that Blankett's residence precluded Griffiths's presence. The Arab clambered over the rail. He salaamed at Drinkwater and handed over a sealed letter. Drinkwater bowed as he took it straightening up to see three men turning sheepishly back to their work while Mr Dalziell insolently essayed a bow himself.

'Bosun's mate,' Drinkwater called sharply, 'I desire you to keep those men at their duty or I will be obliged to teach 'em better manners. Mr Dalziell you will be mastheaded until sunset.' He turned away and went below. Griffiths read the letter then handed it back to Drinkwater. 'Read it,' he said transferring his attention to the chart before him.

My Dear Madoc, [Drinkwater read] I am writing to you as I doubt that blockhead Blankett will take alarm from what I have learned. It occurs to me that since you have no written instructions from the admiral you might still consider yourself under Nelson's orders. Although my official powers are limited, my influence is not. I can offer a considerable measure of protection in case of trouble with your superior.

I have received news from Upper Egypt that Desaix is everywhere and Murad's force is scattered. This is confusing. What is certain is that General Belliard has occupied Kosseir and. Murad's reinforcements from the Hejaz are choked. Also the bearer, Ben Ibrahim, has sighted French ships in the Gulf of Aqaba and at Kosseir. I am certain our quarry is accumulating dhows at Kosseir for Bonaparte or Desaix to proceed against India.

I shall exert pressure upon the admiral but, I beg you my dear Madoc, to go and cruise northwards with your brig. Even now Blankett snores upon my divan but I propose to wake him to his duty. I know his ships have yet still to water and anticipate he will yet delay. If you regard this Santhonax as dangerous, now is the time to locate him.

[The letter was signed] Strangford W.

Drinkwater looked up at Griffiths. 'I warned them both, damn them.' Griffiths beckoned Drinkwater over to the chart. The long sleeve of the Red Sea ran almost north to south. At its head in a gesture of vulgar contempt as if refusing to link up with the Mediterranean at the last minute, the two fingers of the Gulfs of Aqaba and Suez were divided by the mountains of Sinai.

Griffiths moved his finger up to the Gulf of Aqaba. 'These two numbskulls scoured the Egyptian coast while Santhonax hid round the corner and snapped up potential transports like a fox does chickens. Duw bach, what fools these Englishmen are…'

Drinkwater smiled ruefully. 'Not quite all, sir. Nelson's an Englishman, he could see clearly enough.'

Drinkwater put down the letter, seeing the postscript.

Take Yusufand his dhow with you. I have instructed him to go as your eyes and ears. Though he does not speak English he understands the situation.

'Send that Arab down and pass word to get the spring off the cable. We'll slip an hour after dark. Send Lestock to me and have the water casks topped off.'

'With the greatest of pleasure, sir.' Drinkwater left the cabin eagerly.