A Brig of War Read Free Page A

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Well,’ he snapped, ‘come, come, what the devil d’you want?’
    â€˜Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr Appleby’s compliments and where are we bound, sir?’
    â€˜Don’t you know, Mr Q?’ said Drinkwater mellowing.
    â€˜N . . . no, sir.’
    â€˜Come now, what d’you see to starboard?’
    â€˜To starboard, sir? Why that’s land, sir.’
    â€˜And to larboard?’
    â€˜That’s land too, sir.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Be it the M . . . Mediterranean, sir?’
    â€˜It be indeed, Mr Q,’ replied Drinkwater with a smile, ‘and d’you know who commands in the Mediterranean?’
    â€˜Why sir, I know that. Sir Horatio Nelson, K.B., sir,’ said the boy eagerly.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir.’
    â€˜And Mr Q . . .’
    â€˜Sir?’
    â€˜Do you also direct Mr Appleby to have a tankard of blackstrap ready for me when I come below at eight bells.’
    Drinkwater