A Brig of War

Chapter Twenty-Two The Cape of Good Hope

Captain Richard White had many years earlier suffered from the sadistic bullying of Morris when he and Drinkwater served on the frigate Cyclops as midshipmen. Since that time, when the frightened White had been protected by Drinkwater, service under the punctilious St Vincent followed by absolute command of his own ship had turned White into an irascible, forthright character. Beneath this exterior his friends might perceive the boyish charm and occasional uncertainty of a still young man, but the accustomed authority that he was now used to, combined with an irresistible urge to thus publicly humiliate his former tormentor.

There was for a moment a silence between the three men that was pregnant with suppressed emotions. Drinkwater, caught like a shuttlecock between two seniors, prudently waited, watching Morris's reaction, aware that White had committed a gross impropriety. Unaccountably Drinkwater felt a momentary sympathy for Morris. If the commander called for satisfaction at the Cape he would have been justified, whatever the naval regulations said about duelling. For his own part White was belligerently unrepentant, weeks of adolescent misery springing into his mind as he confronted his old tormentor.

Morris stood stock still, colour draining from his face as the insult on his own quarterdeck outraged him. Brought up in the old school of naval viciousness, protected by petticoat influence from the consequences of his vice, his brutal nature protected by the privileges of rank for so long, Morris now found himself confronted by a moral superiority undeterred by the baser motives of naval intrigue. White's impetuous candour had disarmed him.

Morris shot White a look of pure venom, but his new-found accession to command caused him to hold his tongue. He turned and made for the companionway below, half jostling Drinkwater as he did so, his mouth twisted with rage and humiliation.

White ignored Drinkwater's embarrassed glance after the retreating figure of Morris. 'Well, Nat, I'm darned sorry we lost the Frog, gave me the slip during the night. Blasted wind fell light under a threatening overcast. Black as the Earl of Hell's riding boots, by God. A damned shame.' He cast his eyes over Antigone's spars and rigging. By comparison with when he had last seen them they had all the hallmarks of Drinkwater's diligence. 'You've been busy I perceive. But come, tell me what the deuce became of that brig I last saw you on, heard you'd been sent to the Red Sea. St Vincent was damned annoyed. I do believe if Nelson had not blown Brueys to hell at Aboukir he might have been called to account.' White grinned his boyish smile. 'I wrote to Elizabeth and told her. Didn't think you'd get word off until you reached the Cape…' Drinkwater tried to express his thanks but White rattled on, all the while pacing the deck and staring curiously about him. 'By the devil but you've a fine frigate here, and no mistake. Mole said you were en flute.'

'Aye, sir. Twelve eighteens on the main deck.'

'And you fought the Romaine with a broadside of six, eh?'

'Not quite. We had 'em all mounted to starboard.' White's eyebrows went up and then came down with comprehension. 'So your larboard battery was empty?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Well stap me. You're becoming as unorthodox as Nelson. But we thought you'd struck.'

'Ensign halliards shot through,' Drinkwater said obscurely.

'Ahhh.' White gave Drinkwater a quizzical look. 'We had been looking for a French cruiser ever since Jupiter was mauled by Preneuse in October. We thought Romaine was the Pfeneuse, damn it.' He rubbed his hands. 'Still, we will see you to the Cape, eh? Table Bay for orders, you may tell Morris that. What d'you say to dinner on the Telemachus, eh?'

Drinkwater cast a rueful glance at the cabin skylight. 'I shall be honoured to accept, sir. And I am indebted to you for writing to Elizabeth. She was with child d'you see.'

White made a deprecating gesture with his hand, pregnant women being outside his experience. He had caught the significance of Drinkwater's concern for the smouldering Morris beneath them. 'Haven't made it too hard for you, have I? Between you and Morris, I mean?'

'It couldn't be much worse, sir.'

White cocked a shrewd eye at Drinkwater. 'Had you struck?'

'I hadn't sir.' Drinkwater returned the stare and emphasised the personal pronoun.

'I'll see you at the Cape, Nat.' Drinkwater watched White's gig pull smartly away. The Cape of Good Hope was still a thousand miles distant and seamen called it the Cape of Storms. It had been that on the outward voyage, he hoped it might live up to its other name on the homeward. Drinkwater put his hat on.

'Brace her sharp up, Mr Lestock. A course of south-west if she'll take it.'

He went below to confront Morris.

The commander sat bolt upright in his chair, his hands gripping the arms. He was paralysed by the judicial implications of White's remark and fear of the noose warred with a sense of outrage at being humiliated on his own quarterdeck. The timid White had become a choleric, devil-may-care captain, a coming man and recognisably dangerous to Morris's low cunning.

Drinkwater had the distinct impression that Morris would spring at his throat even while he sat rigid with shock. Perhaps Nathaniel saw in his mind's eye the intent of Morris's spirit.

'I am sorry for Captain White's remark sir, I was not a party to…'

'God damn you, Drinkwater! God damn you to hell!' Morris spat the words from between clenched teeth, but so great was his fury as it burst through his self-restraint that his words became an incomprehensible torrent of filth and invective.

Drinkwater spun on his heel. Later Rattray came in search of Dalziell.

Two weeks passed during which Morris made no appearance on deck. Appleby paid him daily visits, announcing that though there was some improvement in his condition it was not as rapid as he himself had hoped. He did not amplify the remark but it was made with a significant gravity that was not lost on Drinkwater.

They were not to come to the shelter of Table Bay without leave of the sea. Antigone carried the favourable current round the southern tip of Africa ignorant of the fact that somewhere off the Agulhas Bank, where the continental shelf declines into the depths of the Southern Ocean, a combination of the prevailing westerlies opposing the force of the current produces some of the most monstrous seas encountered by man.

As the frigate beat laboriously to windward, her small crew wet through, tired and hungry, the westerly gales blew furiously. Even the bad jokes about the southern summer faded, giving way to hissed oaths as men struggled to haul the third earings out to the topsail yardarms.

In the screaming madness of an early morning Lieutenant Drinkwater clung onto a mizen backstay. The decks were shiny with water, pools of it still running out through the lee ports from the last inundation. Every rope ran with water, the sails were stiff with it. To windward Telemachus butted into the seas.

Amidships he heard a cry and saw the seaman's pointing arm.

'Oh, my God,' whispered Drinkwater, his voice filled with awe. He reached for the speaking trumpet: 'Hold fast! Hold fast there !'

At the cry Mr Quilhampton looked up from the coil of log line in its basket. His gaze fell stupidly on his left arm. He had a hook there now, cunningly fashioned from a cannon worm by Mr Trussel. Ho flung himself down behind the aftermost carronadc slide and hooked its point round a slewing eye, throwing a bight of the train tackle round his waist and catching a turn on the gun's cascabel. It was his very vulnerability that saved him.

At the main deck companionway Dalziell emerged on deck unbidden, dismissed by Morris in the dawn. The wave was three-quarters of a mile away when they had seen it, looming huge over the crests before it, a combination of forces far beyond the imagination. Its crest was reaching that critical state of instability that would induce its collapse in a rolling avalanche of water.

The frigate fell into the trough and her sails cracked from loss of wind. Even in the depths of her hull, where Appleby was doing his morning rounds this momentary hiatus was felt. Then the mass of solid water thundered over the ship.

Drinkwater was mashed to his knees and swept along the deck like flotsam. He was washed beneath a gun, the air squeezed from his lungs as his mind filled with a red and roaring struggle for breath. Mr Quilhampton too, lay gasping as the seemingly endless mass of water poured green across the deck. Forward a tremble and a shudder told where the frigate's long jib-boom detached itself from the bowsprit. A body bumped past Drinkwater and then Antigone began to rise, the water sluicing from her decks. The succeeding waves were much lower, giving men time to catch their breath. They staggered to their feet, stumbling among the shot, dislodged from the garlands and rolling menacingly from side to side, ready to trip or cripple the unwary.

Drinkwater coughed the last of the sea water from him and helped Mr Quilhampton to his feet. 'Get below, see Merrick for a flask of rum!' He raised his voice.

'Quartermaster! Up helm! East the ship before the wind.' He picked up the speaking trumpet rolling fortuitously past him across a deck that was still inches deep in water. 'Mr Grey! Have your men at the braces! Rise foretacks and sheets, get the ship before the wind! Have Johnson sound the well!'

Already the ship was turning, gathering way from her broached position, supine in the huge wave troughs and rolling abominably, sluggish from the water washing about below.

'Spanker brails there! Douse the spanker, Mr Q!' He grabbed the flask from the midshipman and drew on its contents.

He looked forward as the spirit warmed him. They might have lost the jib-boom but they could still set a fore topmast staysail. He would get everything off her in a minute, leaving only the clews of the forecourse to goosewing her before the wind while they sorted out the shambles and pumped her dry. They must not run off too much easting for they would have to claw every inch back again.

Slowly they fought the ship before the wind, cutting away the raffle forward, unjamming the blocks aloft where parted ropes had fouled, and laboriously pumping the Southern Ocean from their bilges. It was four hours before they brought ship to the wind again. Telemachus had disappeared.

It was only then they found Dalziell was missing.

'Permission to make the signal, sir?' Drinkwater requested. Morris did not turn, merely nodded. Drinkwater looked up at the peak of the gaff. Old Glory, the British red ensign they had salvaged from Hellebore and that had fluttered briefly over a tiny islet in the Red Sea, now cracked, tattered, in the sharp breeze blowing into Table Bay. Beneath it flew the much larger ensign of France, its brilliant scarlet fly snapping viciously, as though resenting its inferior position.

'Hoist away, Mr Q.' The little bundles rose to break out in the sunshine and stream colourfully to leeward. Mr Quilhampton looked aloft with evident pride.

'Beg pardon, zur,' said Tregembo belaying the halliards, 'but what do it say?'

'It says, Tregembo,' explained Quilhampton expansively 'that this ship is the prize of the brig-sloop Hellebore.'

Not one of the most memorable of signals, Drinkwater concluded, levelling his glass at the fifty-gun two-decker Jupiter with a broad pendant at her masthead. But given the limitations of the code an apt description of Antigone. He wished it was old Griffiths who occupied the weather side of her quarterdeck.

Morris turned, as if aware of Drinkwater's thoughts. There was a calmness about the commander that had come with returning health. It pleased Appleby but worried Drinkwater. There was a triumph in those hooded eyes.

'Have the ship brought to the wind, Mr Lestock,' ordered Morris. There was a new authority about Morris too, a confidence which disturbed Drinkwater. The sailing master obeyed the order with obsequious alacrity. Morris had exploited the dislike between his master and first lieutenant to make Lestock a creature of his own. Lestock now wore a permanently prim expression, anticipating Drinkwater's imminent downfall. It occurred to Drinkwater as he observed this new and unholy alliance that Dalziell had gone unmourned.

Drinkwater touched the letter in his pocket. If he could have it delivered to White all might yet be set right, provided it did not fall into the wrong hands or was misconstrued. That thought set doubts whirling in his brain and to steady himself he raised his glass again.

Antigone was turning into the wind, her sails backing. At an order from the quarterdeck Johnson let the anchor go. The splash was followed by the rumble of the cable snaking up from the tiers.

'Topsail halliards!'

'Aloft and stow! Aloft and stow!'

'Commence the salute, Mr Rogers!'

Drinkwater could see six vessels in the anchorage. Three flew the blue pendant of the Transport Board and partially obscured what appeared to be two frigates and a sloop. He stared hard, satisfying himself that one of the frigates was Telemachus. White had beaten them to the Cape after their separation in the gale. He felt a sensation of relief at the sight of the distant frigate.

'Hoist the boat out.' Morris addressed the perfunctory order to Drinkwater who ignored the implied discourtesy. They had repaired a single boat for use at the Cape and Drinkwater watched it swung up from the waist and over the side by the yardarm tackles. The crew tumbled down into it. A sight of the land had cheered the hands at least, he mused, wondering if he dared dispatch the letter in the boat.

He decided against it and joined the side party waiting to see Commander Morris ashore. He knew Morris would keep them all waiting. Rogers joined him, having secured his signal guns.

'I suppose we must wait for that dropsical pig like a pair of whores at a wedding, eh?' Rogers muttered into Drinkwater's ear. Drinkwater found himself oddly sympathetic to Rogers's crude wit. From a positive dislike of each other the two men had formed a mutual respect, acknowledging their individual virtues. In the difficulties they had shared since the loss of the brig and assumption of command by Morris this had ripened to friendship. Drinkwater grinned his agreement.

Morris emerged at last in full dress. He paused in front of Drinkwater, swaying slightly, the stink of rum on his breath.

'And now,' said Morris with quiet purpose, 'we will see about you.'

As he stared into Morris's eyes Drinkwater understood. The death of Dalziell removed substantial evidence of any possible case against Morris. Dalziell was a used vessel, the breaking of which liberated Morris from his past. The action which Antigone had fought with Romaine had been creditable and, as commander, Morris would benefit from that credit. A feeling almost of reform animated Morris, consonant with his new opportunities and encouraged by his reinvigoration after his illness. The huge irony that Morris had obtained his step in rank thanks to Drinkwater's efforts was enlarged by the reflection that he might yet found a professional reputation based on his lieutenant's handling of the Antigone during the action with the Romaine. All these facts were suddenly clear to Nathaniel as he returned Morris's drunken stare.

He took his hat off as Morris turned to the rail. Another thought struck him. To succeed in his manipulation of events Morris must now utterly discredit Drinkwater. And Nathaniel had no doubt that was what he was about to do.

The problem of conveying the letter to Telemachus solved itself an hour later when Drinkwater renewed his acquaintance with Mr Mole. Drinkwater had viewed the approaching boat with some misgivings but was relieved when Mole's mission was revealed to be the bearing of an invitation to the promised dinner aboard White's frigate.

'Would you oblige me, Mr Mole,' Drinkwater had said after accepting the kindness and privately hoping he was still at liberty to enjoy it, 'by delivering this note to Captain White when you return to your ship. It is somewhat urgent.'

'Captain White attends the commodore aboard Jupiter, sir.' Drinkwater thought for a second. 'Be so kind to see he receives it there, Mr Mole, if you please.' The departure of Mr Molt sent Drinkwater into an anxious pacing during which Appleby tried to interrupt him. But Appleby was snubbed. Drinkwater knew of the surgeon's apprehensions, knew he was worried about the possible discovery of Catherine Best's activities and guessed that the future of Harry Appleby himself figured largely in those fears. But Drinkwater's anxiety excluded the worries of others. That pendant at the masthead of Jupiter meant the formal and sometimes summary justice of naval regulation. The Cape might be an outpost, a salient held in the Crown's fist at the tip of Africa but it was within the boundaries of Admiralty. Nathaniel shivered.

When nemesis appeared a little later it was in the person of a midshipman even more supercilious than Mr Mole. Mr Pierce was conducted to Drinkwater by Quilhampton.

'The commodore, desires, sah, that you be so kind as to accompany me to the Jupiter without unnecessary delay, sah,' he drawled. Pierce's manner was so exaggerated that it struck Drinkwater that all these spriggish midshipmen must see him as an old tarpaulin lieutenant, every hair a rope-yarn, every finger a marline spike. The thought steadied him, sent him below for his sword with something approaching dignity. When he emerged in his best coat, now threadbare and shiny, the battered French hanger at his side and his hat fresh glazed with some preparation concocted by Merrick from God knew what, only the violent beating of his heart betrayed him.

'Very well, Mr Pierce, let us be off.'

Watching from forward Tregembo muttered his 'good luck', aware that his own future was allied to Drinkwater's. Further aft Mr Quilhampton saw him go. The midshipman had watched the furious pacing of the last hour, knew the Antigone's open secret and shared his shipmates' hatred of their commander. He had also once taken a most ungentlemanly look at Mr Drinkwater's journals. He too muttered his good wishes which mingled with a quixotic vision of shooting Morris dead in a duel if anything happened to Mr Drinkwater.

Captain George Losack, commodore of the naval forces then at the Cape, leaned back in his chair and looked up at Captain White. The cabin of Jupiter had an air of relief in it, as though something unpleasant had just occurred and both men wished to re-establish normality as quickly as possible; to divert their minds from contemplating the recently vacated chair and the papers surrounding it. Commander Morris's hat still lay on the side table where he had laid it earlier.

'Well, by God, what d'you make of that?'

'He did not want me here, sir,' replied White, 'it was clear he considered I prejudiced his case.'

'Because you are an acquaintance of this fellow Drinkwater?'

'That sir, and the fact that the baser side of his nature is known to me…'

Losack looked up sharply. 'Be advised and drop that, Richard. A court-martial under that Article would be politically risky for us both. Though Jemmy Twitcher no longer rules the Admiralty and addresses blasphemous sermons to a congregation of cats he is still powerful. To antagonise the brother of his lordship's mistress would not only move the earl's malice it might invite the enmity of his whore.'

White shut his mouth. He did not subscribe to the older man's fear of the Earl of Sandwich. Petticoat interference in the affairs of the navy had affected men of his generation deeply. The disasters of the American War could in part be attributed to this form of malign influence. 'Nevertheless,' he said, 'Morris terrorised the cockpit and lower deck of the Cyclops in the last war. Sometimes a man is called to account for that.'

'Rarely,' replied Losack drily, ringing the bell on his deck 'though 'tis a fine, pious thought.' His man appeared. 'Wine, Jacklin, directly if you please.'

White watched Losack as the commodore once again scanned the papers before him. The allegations that Morris had made against Drinkwater looked serious for the lieutenant. But the circumstances that had followed White's own questions had thrown a doubt over the whole and Losack was too diligent an officer to take refuge in his isolation from London and dismiss the affair. And the matter of Morris's influence could not be ignored. It behove Losack to tread carefully. He had seen something of one party. What of the other?

'You say Drinkwater had a commission years ago?'

'He had a commission as acting lieutenant back in eighty-one. I It-passed over Morris.'

'Ah. Then Morris was appointed over him at Mocha, eh? The first action turns his head, the second overturns his senses. The consequence is bad blood…' Losack paused as the wine arrived. Jacklin placed the salver and decanters. He turned to White.

'Mr Mole's compliments sir, and I was to give you this at once.' White took the letter Losack went on: 'There would be a case to answer if I was sure…' he stopped indecisively, worried about Morris's wild allegations.

'I do not think Drinkwater was greatly disappointed in eighty-one, sir. His commission dates from ninety-seven…'

'Well what manner of man is he, White?' snapped Losack exasperated. 'You seem damned eager to befriend him.'

'Damn it, sir,' said White flushing with anger, ''tis a devilish difficult business serving under a… a…' he recovered himself. 'Drinkwater, sir, is a thoroughly professional officer. He commands little or no influence. I doubt he gave Morris grounds for his allegations beyond an excess of zeal and surely it has not come to an officer suffering for that?'

Losack stood and turned to stare through the cabin windows, his hands clasped behind his back. He found his command at the Cape a tiresome business. His force was inadequate to police the converging trade routes that made this post so important and such a rich hunting ground for French corsairs. The parochial problems of passing ships were a confounded nuisance. The present one was no exception; bad feeling between the officers of a prize, a woman convict mixed up in some unholy cabal. He felt irritated by the demands of his rank, envying White who sat on the table edge, his leg swinging while he read the letter Jacklin had brought in.

'It was the remark you made about the striking of the flag that caused our late visitor to fly into a passion. What was behind that, eh?'

White looked up from the letter. 'May I suggest you ask Drinkwater, sir. I have here a letter from him. It would appear that at Mocha some error was committed. Morris's commission should have gone to him!'

'Good God!' Losack looked up sharply. 'An excess of zeal, d'you say? By God, it looks to me more like bloody-minded madness! "Quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat".'

'I do not think for a moment that he is mad, sir. Overwrought, perhaps. Angry even. As Horace has it, "Ira furor brevis est".'

'Hmmm. Let us send for this friend of yours.'

Appleby too had been summoned. He sat on a bench in the bare anteroom of the hospital and looked down at the chequered Dutch floor tiles. Despite the cool of the room he was sweating profusely, his mind a confusion of counteracting thoughts in which his professional detachment was knocked all awry by the depth of his feeling for Catherine Best. 'They have sent for me,' he had told her shakily. 'I am too old to dissemble, Catherine, I am fearful there may be consequences…'

She had been silent, having said all she had to say days before.

Now her opportunist nature waited upon events. She was not a maker of circumstances, simply a manipulator of their outcome. But she kissed him as he left, puffing up the ladders, fat, ungainly, ageing and kind. Now he sweated like a man under sentence .

'You seem to be suffering from diaphoresis yourself, Mr Appleby,' said the physician, surprising him. Appleby rose to his feet. 'Shall we take a turn in the garden, my dear sir?'

Mr Macphadden was a dry, bent little Scot who exuded an air of erudition; the garden was a cloistered square of trimmed lawn suitable for the exchange of medical confidences. 'From the message that ran ahead of the patient I fully expected to find I had a derangement on my hands. Indeed I had effected the precaution of preparing a jacket for the fellow. But I was misinformed. The ravings were no more than those of a drunk far gone in his cups and overcome by an exaggeration of the choleric humour, so my anticipation was a little out of kilter with the facts.' The doctor chuckled wheezily to himself while Appleby held his breath. 'The effects of rum are well-known. I don't doubt but that you know Haslar is full of men for whom rum has been a consolation, men for whom responsibility is too great, whose expectations have been disappointed, whose abilities are inadequate. Why the chemical effect of rum upon the brain itself…'

'But his sickness, doctor. The diaphoresis, the purging and vomiting…' Appleby could restrain himself no longer, though he checked himself sufficiently to adopt a tone of deference, not daring to suggest a diagnosis lest such presumption invited contradiction.

'Oh, you are worried about his wild allegations about being poisoned, eh? Well he is, in a manner of speaking, but I think we may consider that he is effecting his own ruin. No, he has chronic gastric inflammation, undoubtedly due to a peptic ulcer of some inveteracy. You see, my dear sir, his temperament seems to vacillate between the choleric and the melancholic humours. The man who depends upon drink hides both an acknowledged weakness and an inability to accept his own culpability for self-destruction. The consequence of such a vicious spiral can have but one result. That of the unhappy man now lying in his bed yonder.'

Macphadden turned and they began pacing back to the white walled hospital. A flood of relief began to wash over Appleby and he nodded at the physician's words: 'I doubt you will want a commanding officer in the throes of a delirium tremens.'

Drinkwater returned to Antigone after the frustrations of an hour-long interview with Losack. It was clear from the manner of the commodore's questions that the contents of his letter to White had been made known. A sense of betrayal that the information had been made available to Losack was heightened by White's silence during Drinkwater's ordeal. The letter had been a private document between friends. Now it seemed a court-martial might be pending against him.

The knock at his cabin door announced the arrival of Appleby for whom he had sent as soon as the surgeon arrived from the shore.

Things have turned out well, Nat. A didactic Scot named Macphadden has diagnosed gastritis…'

'Things are not well, Harry…'

'What the devil is it?'

'Catherine, Harry. She is known to be a convict. She is to be transported. I did my best,' he paused at the unintended pun, 'my uttermost, but Morris has revealed her real status to Losack.'

The colour drained from Appleby's face. 'Why the uncharitable whoreson bastard!'

'Calm yourself. There is nothing either of us can do here. Perhaps when we reach home…' It was a straw held out to a drowning man. It was doubtful if he would reach home with a reputation untarnished enough to secure a convict's pardon, no matter how meritorious her services.

'But Nat, I cannot let her go.'

'She is to take passage in the Lord Moira without delay. I am so very sorry'

In silence Appleby left the cabin. Opening his desk Drinkwater took out inkwell and pen and began to write the report Losack had requested.

Drinkwater sat in silence while Losack read his report, occasionally referring to the corroborative evidence of the deck and signal logs and what remained of Griffiths's papers. At last the commodore looked up and removed his spectacles. For a moment he regarded the man sitting anxiously before him.

'Mr Drinkwater,' he said after this pause, 'it seems that I have been unnecessarily suspicious of you.' He waved the spectacles over the books and papers spread out upon the table. 'I am persuaded that your services merit some recognition, but you will understand it is a difficult matter to resolve. I am not empowered to restitute your commission and it may be some consolation to you that in any event it would have required their Lordships' ratification. There the matter must rest.'

Drinkwater inclined his head. 'I understand, sir.'

Losack smiled. 'The only reparation I can offer you is command of the prize home. Do you attend to her refit. A convoy sails in some three weeks. You should be ready to join it. Your devoted friend Captain White will command the escort.'

'Thank you, sir. And Commander Morris?'

'Is sick, Mr Drinkwater. A peptic ulcer, I understand.' Losack closed the subject.

Drinkwater rose and Losack tossed a bundle across the table. 'My secretary recognised your name, this letter has been here for months waiting for you.'

With a beating heart he picked up Elizabeth's letter.

The air of the quarterdeck of the Jupiter was undeniably sweet and in an unoccupied corner he tore open the packet, catching the enclosure for Quilhampton and stuffing it in his pocket. Impatiently he began to read.

My Dearest Nathaniel,

At long last I have received news of you, that you were sent round Africa in accordance with some notion of Ad. Nelson's. I write in great anxiety about you and pray nightly for your well-being and that, if God wills it, you will return whole and safe.

But you will not wish to hear of me now that another claims your affections, my dearest. Your daughter Charlotte Amelia is past a twelve-month now and has her father's nose poor lamb…'

Drinkwater handed the letter with the thin feminine superscription to Quilhampton. 'Pass word for Tregembo, Mr Q.' When the boy had gone he peered into the mirror let into the lid of his cabin chest. What the devil was the matter with his nose?

Tregembo coughed respectfully at the open door and Drinkwater started, aware that for several minutes he had been staring vacantly at his reflection contemplating his new role as a father.

'Ah, Tregembo. Your Susan is quite well. Mrs Drinkwater writes to tell me the news. She had a little quinsy some months past but was in good spirits. The letter is some months old I am afraid.'

'An' your baby, zur?'

'A daughter, Tregembo.'

'Ahhh.' The awkward, almost embarrassed monosyllable was full of hidden pleasure. Tregembo flushed and Drinkwater swallowed. 'And the commission, zur?'

'No commission, not yet.'

'Tis nought but a matter of time, zur.'

Drinkwater smiled as Tregembo resumed his duties. It occurred to him that he was smiling a lot this morning. He turned again to the letter and re-read it.

Appleby burst in upon him. 'Nat, a word, do I hear correctly that you command the ship home?'

Drinkwater looked up. The surgeon was agitated, his hands fluttering, his jowls wobbling. 'Yes I do.'

'Then I beg you will permit me to leave the ship.'

'What the devil d'you mean?'

'The Lord Moira has a vacancy for a surgeon's assistant. I have made enquiries, there are precious few surgeons in the colony… I have taken the vacancy for the passage.' Appleby swallowed hard. He had crossed his Rubicon.

'Harry, you sly dog, do you purpose to become an emigrant?'

Appleby ran a finger round his collar. 'She'd hardly be fit company for me at Bath, would she?'

Drinkwater began to laugh but was interrupted by Appleby. 'Come Nat, I pray your attention for a moment, I have little time. Here are some papers giving you powers to act on my behalf in the matter of prize money. I beg you consent and purchase for me the quantities of medicines here listed. Any apothecary will comprehend these zodiacal signs. I am also in need of a few instruments, doubtless I will need become a man-midwife and I am without forceps…'

Drinkwater nodded at Appleby's instructions, taking the bundle of papers, thinking of Catherine Best, of Elizabeth and of Charlotte Amelia and the power of the hand that rocks the cradle.

Drinkwater returned the decanter to White and leaned forward to light the cheroot from the candle flame. 'I think now that the others have left we might forget the divisions of rank, eh?' White chuckled. 'Young Quilhampton is something of an imp of Satan, is he not? Did you hear his assertion that young Bruilhac considers you eat human limbs? No, don't protest, my dear fellow, I heard quite clearly'

'Mr Quilhampton is given to exaggeration, I regret to say,' said Drinkwater with some affection. Then he frowned. 'There's something I want to ask you Richard. Something I don't understand. What exactly happened the other day when Morris reported to Losack? You were there, were you not?'

White puffed out his florid cheeks. 'Yes, I was there and my presence seemed to infuriate Morris. I suppose he thought I was going to mention his unpleasant habits. He began to complain about you. Minor matters; the way you did not always refer to him when shortening sail, you know the sort of thing. He kept looking at me as if I might contradict him. I could smell rum on his breath and could see he was enunciating his words with care. He began some cock and bull allegations that you were poisoning him. I didn't like the sound of that! I could tell Losack was taking an interest and I asked Morris why he struck to the Romaine.' White laughed.

'By heaven, that threw him flat aback! He looked at me with his jaw hanging like a scandalised gaff. Then he began a stream of meaningless abuse, interspersed with occasional reference to you and poison. He was beside himself and in the middle of this outburst he had what I took at first to be a fit. In fact I understand it to have been a gastric spasm.'

White paused, refilled his glass and continued. 'Although it was obvious that Morris was ill, or drunk, or both, Losack fretted over the allegations of poisoning. I'm certain he had it in mind to put the matter to a court-martial, he had sufficient ships here to convene one. While I thought Morris had gone off his head he thought you were mad.'

'Me?'

'Aye, you. I showed him the letter in which you claimed the commission granted Morris had been intended for you.'

'Oh, my God… I thought you had. But that was a private letter, Richard, I had no idea…'

'I know, I know, my dear fellow, but it did the trick. Losack wanted to see you, and once he had the doctor's diagnosis and had studied your report he knew the truth as well as I did. But for a while I thought he would have you examined! He quoted Euripides at me. Er, "Whom God destroys he first makes mad".'

'That might more readily be applied to Morris.'

'To which,' White pressed on, not to be deterred, 'I managed to reply with a snippet of Horace, to wit "Ira furor brevis est"'.'

'I'm sorry, you have the advantage of me.'

'"Anger is a brief madness".'

'Ahhh.' Drinkwater leaned back in his chair. He had had a narrow escape from a dangerous vindictiveness. 'I am greatly indebted to you, Richard.'

White waved his thanks aside. 'I owed you for your support on the Cyclops against the unsavoury rakehell.'

'Well the score is even now,' said Drinkwater. 'I suppose I had better see Morris. Try to make my peace with him before we leave.'

White looked at him sharply. 'See Morris? What the devil for? Let the bastard rot.'

'But he is ill, Richard…'

'Strap me, Nat, you are a soft-hearted fool. But 'tis why we love you, Bruilhac's limbs notwithstanding. Besides, Morris would not thank you for it. He would misconstrue your motives, assume you had come to gloat. There is no point in seeing Morris. Ever again.' The remark seemed final and White tossed off his glass. Refilling it, he too eased back in his chair. The cabin filled with a companionable silence, broken only by the creak of the hull, the groaning of the rudder chains and the occasional muffled noise from the people forward. Drinkwater felt a massive weight lift from him. White's explanation had cleared the air of lingering doubts, images of Elizabeth and the yet unseen Charlotte Amelia floated in the blue cheroot smoke. He felt a great contentment spread through him.

'I recollect another piece of Horace that is perhaps more apposite to the case,' said White at last. '"Caelum non animum mutant qui trans mare currunt". Which rendered into English is, "They change their skies but not their souls who run across the sea".'

And looking across the table at his flushed friend Drinkwater nodded his agreement.