A Brig of War

Chapter One The Convoy Escort

A low mist hung in the valley of the Meon where the pale winter sunshine had yet to reach. Beneath the dripping branches of the apple trees Lieutenant Nathaniel Drinkwater paced slowly up and down, shivering slightly in the frosty air. He had not slept well, waking from a dream that had been full of fitful images of faces he had done with now that he had come home. The nocturnal silence of the cottage was still disturbingly unfamiliar even after two months leave of absence from the creaking hull of the cutter Kestrel. It compelled him to rise early lest his restlessness woke his wife beside him. Now, pacing the path of the tiny garden, the chill made the wound in his right arm ache, bringing his mind full circle to where the dream had dislodged it from repose.

It had been Edouard Santhonax who had inflicted the wound and of whom he had dreamed. But as he came to his senses he recollected that Santhonax was now safely mewed up, a prisoner. As for his paramour, the bewitching Hortense Montholon, she was in France begging for her bread, devil take her! He felt the sun penetrate the mist, warm upon his back, finally dispelling the fears of the night. The recent gales had gone, giving way to sharp frosty mornings of bright sunshine. The click of a door latch reminded him he was in happier circumstances.

The dark hair fell about Elizabeth's face and her brown eyes were full of concern. 'Are you not well, my dear?' she asked gently, putting a hand on his arm. 'Did you not hear the knock at the street door?'

'I am quite well, Bess. Who was at the door?'

'Mr Jackson at the Post Office sent young Will up from Petersfield with letters for you. They are on the table.'

'I am indebted to Mr Jackson's kindness.' He moved to pass inside the cottage but she stopped him. 'Nathaniel, what troubles you?' Then, in a lower voice, 'You have not been disappointed in me?'

He caught her up and kissed her, then they went in to read the letters. He broke the one with the Admiralty seal first: Sir, you are required and directed that upon receipt of these instructions you proceed... He was appointed first lieutenant of the brig-sloop Hellebore under Commander Griffiths. In silence he handed the letter to Elizabeth who caught her lower lip in her teeth as she read. Drinkwater picked up the second letter, recognising the shaky but still bravely flowing script.

My Dear Nathaniel,

You will doubtless be in receipt of their L'dships' Instructions to join the Brig under my Command. She is a new Vessel and lying at Deptford. Do not hasten. I am already on board and doing duty for you, the end of the month will suffice. Our Complement is almost augmented as I was able to draft the Kestrels entire. We sail upon Convoy duty. Convey my felicitations to your wife,

I remain, etc

Madoc Griffiths

P.S. I received News but yesterday that M. Santhonax Escaped Custody and has been at Liberty for a month now.

Drinkwater stood stunned, the oppression of the night returned to him. Elizabeth was watching, her eyes large with tears. 'So soon, my darling…'

He smiled ruefully at her. 'Madoc has extended my leave a little.' He passed the second letter over. 'Dear Madoc,' she said, brushing her eyes.

'Aye, he does duty for me now. He has nowhere else to go.' He slipped his arm around her waist and they kissed again.

'Come we have time to complete the purchase of the house at Petersfield and your cook should arrive by the end of the week. You will be quite the grande dame.'

'Will you take Tregembo with you?'

He laughed. 'I doubt that I have the power to stop him.' They fell silent, Elizabeth thinking of the coming months of loneliness, Drinkwater disloyally of the new brig. 'Hellebore,' he said aloud, 'ain't that a flower or something? Elizabeth? What the devil are you laughing at?'

Lieutenant Richard White had the morning watch aboard Victory. Flying the flag of Earl St Vincent the great three decker stood north west under easy sail, the rest of the blockading squadron in line ahead and astern of her. To the east the mole and lighthouse of Cadiz were pale in the sunshine but White's glass was trained ahead to where a cutter was flying the signal for sails in sight to the north.

A small midshipman ran up to him. 'Looks like the convoy, sir.'

'Thank you, Mr Lee. Have the kindness to inform His Lordship and the Captain.' Mr Lee was ten years old and had endeared himself to Lieutenant White by being the only officer aboard Victory shorter than himself. Instinctively White looked round the deck, checking that every rope was in its place, every man at his station and every sail drawing to perfection before St Vincent's eagle eye drew his attention to it.

'Good morning, my lord,' said White, vacating the windward side of the deck and doffing his hat as the admiral ascended to the poop for a better view of the newcomers. 'Good morning sir,' responded the admiral with the unfailing courtesy that made his blasts of admonition the more terrible.

Captain Grey and Sir Robert Calder, Captain of the Fleet also came on deck, followed by Victory's first lieutenant and several other officers, for any arrival from England brought news; letters and gossip to break the tedium of blockade.

They could see the convoy now, six storeships under the escort of a brig from whose masthead a string of bunting broke out. In White's ear Mr Lee squeaked the numerals followed by a pause while he hunted in the lists. 'Brig-sloop Hellebore, sir, but newly commissioned under Commander Griffiths.'

'Thank you, Mr Lee. Brig Hellebore, Captain Griffiths, my lord, with convoy'

'Thank you, Mr White, have the goodness to desire him to send a boat with an officer.'

'Aye, aye, my lord.' He turned to Lee who was already chalking the signal on his slate and calling the flag numbers to his yeoman.

White, who had given the commander his courtesy title when addressing the punctilious St Vincent, was wondering where he had heard the name before. It was not long before he had his answer.

When the brig's boat hooked on to Victory's chains he recognised the figure who came in at the entry.

'Nathaniel! My dear fellow, so you're still with Griffiths, eh? How capital to see you! And you've been made.' White indicated the gilt-buttoned lieutenant's cuff that he was vigorously pumping up and down in welcome. 'Damn me but I'm delighted, delighted, but come, St Vincent will not tolerate our gossiping.'

Drinkwater followed his old friend apprehensively. It was many years since he had 'trod such a flagship's deck and the ordered precision of Victory combined with her size to show Admiral Duncan's smaller, weathered and worn-out Venerable in a poor light. Drinkwater uncovered and made a small and, he hoped, elegant bow as White introduced him to the earl. He felt himself under the keenest scrutiny by a pair of shrewd old eyes that shone from a face that any moment might slip from approbation to castigation. Lord St Vincent studied the man before him. Drinkwater's intelligent gaze met that of the admiral. He was thirty-four, lean and of middle height. His face was weathered and creased about the grey eyes and mouth, with the thin line of an old scar puckering down the left cheek. There were some small blue powder burns about the eyes, like random inkspots. Drinkwater's hair, uncovered by the doffed hat, was still a rich brown, clubbed in a long queue behind the head. Not, the admiral concluded, a flagship officer, but well enough, judging by the firm, full mouth and steady eyes. The mouth was not unlike Nelson's, St Vincent thought with wry affection, and Nelson had been a damned pain until he had hoisted his own flag.

'Are you married sir?' St Vincent asked sharply.

'Er, yes, my lord,' replied Drinkwater, taken aback.

'A pity, sir, a pity. A married officer is frequently lost to the service. Come let us descend to my cabin and arrange for the disposition of your convoy. Sir Robert, a moment of your time…'

When the business of the fleet had been attended to Drinkwater had a few minutes for an exchange of news with White while Victory backed her maintopsail and summoned Hellebore's boat.

'How is Elizabeth, my dear fellow?'

'She goes along famously, Richard, and would have asked to be remembered to you had she known we might meet.'

'When were you gazetted, Nat?'

'After Camperdown.'

'Ah, so you were there. Damn! That still gives you the advantage of one fleet action to boast of ahead of me,' he grinned. 'D'you have many other old Kestrels besides Griffiths on your brig?'

'Aye, Tregembo you remember, and old Appleby…'

'What? That old windbag Harry Appleby? Well I'm damned. She looks a long-legged little ship, Nat,' he nodded at the brig.

'She's well enough, but you still have the important advantages,' replied Drinkwater, a sweep of his hand including Victory, the puissant personages upon her deck and alluding to White's rapid rise by comparison with his own. 'Convoy work ain't quite the way to be made post.'

'No, Nat, but my bet is you're ordered up the Mediterranean, eh?' Drinkwater nodded and White went on, 'that's where Nelson is, before Toulon, Nat, and wherever Nelson is there's action and glory.' White's eyes gleamed. 'D'you know St Vincent sent him back into the Med after we evacuated it last year and a month ago he reinforced Nelson with Troubridge's inshore squadron. Sent the whole lot of 'em off from the harbour mouth before Curtis's reinforcements had come up with the fleet. And the blasted Dons didn't even know the inshore squadron had been changed! What d'you think of that, eh? No,' he patted Drinkwater's arm condescendingly, 'the Med's the place, Nat there's bound to be action with Nelson.'

'I'm only escorting a convoy in a brig, Richard,' said Drinkwater deprecatingly.

White laughed again and held out his hand. 'Good fortune then Nat, for we're all hostage to it, d'you know.'

They shook hands and Drinkwater descended to the boat where Mr Quilhampton, two years older than Mr Lee, but with a fraction of the latter's experience, overawed by the mass of Victory lumbering alongside his cockleshell cutter, made a hash of getting off the battleship's side.

'Steady now, Mr Q. Bear off forward, put the helm over and then lower your oars. 'Tis the only way, d'you see,' Drinkwater said patiently, looking back at Victory. Already her main topsail was filled and White's grin was clearly visible. Drinkwater looked ahead towards the tiny, fragile Hellebore. The cutter rose over the long, low Atlantic swells, the sea danced blue and gold in the sunshine where the light westerly wind rippled its surface. He felt the warmth in the muscles of his right arm.

'Hecuba and Molly to accompany us into the Med, sir, to Nelson, off Toulon. We're to proceed as soon as possible.' Drinkwater looked at Griffiths who lent heavily against the rail, gazing at the stately line of the British fleet to the eastward. 'Prydferth, bach, beautiful,' he muttered. Drinkwater stared astern at the convoy, their topsails aback in an untidy gaggle as they waited to hear their fate. Boats were bobbing towards the brig. 'I've sent for their masters,' Griffiths explained.

'How's the leg today, sir?' Drinkwater asked while they waited for the boats to arrive. The old, white-haired Welshman looked with disgust at the twisted and puffy limb stretched stiffly out on the gun carriage before him.

'Ah, devil take it, it's a damned nuisance. And now Appleby tells me it's gouty. And before you raise the matter of my bottle,' he hurried on with mock severity, 'I'll have you know that without it I'd be intolerable, see.' They grinned at each other, their relationship a stark contrast with the formality of Victory's quarterdeck. They had sailed together for six years, first in the twelve-gun cutter Kestrel, and their intimacy was established upon a mutually understood basis of friendship and professional distance. For Griffiths was an infirm man, subject to recurring malarial fevers, whose command had been bestowed for services rendered to British intelligence. Without Hellebore Griffiths would have rotted ashore, a lonely and embittered bachelor in anonymous lodgings. He had requested Drinkwater as his first lieutenant partly out of gratitude, partly out of friendship. And if Griffiths sought to protect his own career by delegating with perfect confidence to Drinkwater, he could console himself with the thought that he did the younger man a service.

'You forget, Mr Drinkwater, that if I had not broke my leg last year you'd not have been in command of Kestrel at Camperdown.'

Drinkwater agreed, but any further rejoinder was cut short by the arrival of the storeship commanders.

To starboard the dun-coloured foothills of the Atlas Mountains shone rose-red in the sunset. To larboard the hills of southern Spain fell to the low promontory of Tarifa. Far ahead of her elongated shadow the Mediterranean opened before the bowsprit of the brig. From her deck the horizontal light threw into sharp relief every detail of her fabric: the taut lines of her rigging, the beads of her blocks, her reddened canvas and an unnatural brilliance in her paintwork. Astern on either quarter, in dark silhouette, Hecuba and Molly followed them. Drinkwater ceased pacing as the skinny midshipman barred his way.

'Yes, Mr Q?' The gunroom officers of H.M. Brig Hellebore had long since ceased to wrap their tongues round Quilhampton. It was far too grand a name for an animal as insignificant as a volunteer. Once again Drinkwater experienced that curious reminder of Elizabeth that the boy engendered, for Drinkwater had obtained a place for him on the supplication of his wife. Mrs Quilhampton was a pretty widow who occasionally assisted Elizabeth with her school, and Drinkwater had been both flattered and amused that anyone should consider him a person of sufficient influence from whom to solicit 'interest'. And there was sufficient resemblance to his own introduction to naval life to arouse his natural sympathy. He had acquiesced with only a show of misgivings and been rewarded by a quite shameless embrace from the boy's mother. Now the son's eager-to-please expression irritated him with its power to awaken memories.

'Well,' he snapped, 'come, come, what the devil d'you want?'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Appleby's compliments and where are we bound, sir?'

'Don't you know, Mr Q?' said Drinkwater mellowing.

'N… no, sir.'

'Come now, what d'you see to starboard?'

'To starboard, sir? Why that's land, sir.'

'And to larboard?'

'That's land too, sir.'

'Aye, Mr Q. To starboard is Africa, to larboard is Europe. Now what d'you suppose lies between eh? What did Mrs Drinkwater instruct you in the matter, eh?'

'Be it the M… Mediterranean, sir?'

'It be indeed, Mr Q,' replied Drinkwater with a smile, 'and d'you know who commands in the Mediterranean?'

'Why sir, I know that. Sir Horatio Nelson, K.B., sir,' said the boy eagerly.

'Very well, Mr Q. Now do you repair directly to the surgeon and acquaint him with those facts and tell him that we are directed by Earl St Vincent to deliver the contents of those two hoys astern to Rear Admiral Nelson off Toulon.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And Mr Q…'

'Sir?'

'Do you also direct Mr Appleby to have a tankard of blackstrap ready for me when I come below at eight bells.'

Drinkwater watched the excited Quilhampton race below. Like the midshipman he was curious about Nelson, a man whose name was known to every schoolboy in England since his daring manoeuvre at the battle of Cape St Vincent. Not that his conduct had been put at risk by the enemy so much as by those in high places at the Admiralty. Drinkwater knew there were those who considered he would be shot for disobedience before long, just as there were those who complained he was no seaman. Certainly he did not possess the abilities of a Pellew or a Keats, and although he enjoyed the confidence of St Vincent he had been involved in the fiasco at Santa Cruz. Perhaps, thought Drinkwater, he was a man like the restless Smith, with whom he had served briefly in the Channel, a man of dynamic force whose deficiencies could be forgiven in a kind of emulative love. But, he concluded, pacing the deck in the gathering darkness, whatever White said on the subject, it did not alter the fact that Hellebore was but a brig and fitted for little more than her present duties.