A Brig of War

by Richard Woodman

  A BRIG OF WAR

  Mariner’s Library Fiction Classics

  STERLING HAYDEN

  Voyage: A Novel of 1896

  BJORN LARSSON

  The Celtic Ring

  SAM LLEWELLYN

  The Shadow in the Sands

  RICHARD WOODMAN

  The Darkening Sea

  Endangered Species

  Wager

  The Nathaniel Drinkwater Novels

  (in chronological order):

  An Eye of the Fleet

  A King’s Cutter

  A Brig of War

  The Bomb Vessel

  The Corvette

  1805

  Baltic Mission

  In Distant Waters

  A Private Revenge

  Under False Colours

  The Flying Squadron

  Beneath the Aurora

  The Shadow of the Eagle

  Ebb Tide

  A BRIG OF WAR

  Richard Woodman

  For Christine

  “I shall believe that they are going on with their scheme of possessing Alexandria, and getting troops to India—a plan concerted with Tipoo Sahib, by no means so difficult as might at first be imagined.”

  Nelson, 1798

  This edition published 2001 by

  Sheridan House Inc.

  145 Palisade Street

  Dobbs Ferry, NY 10522

  www.sheridanhouse.com

  Copyright © 1983 by Richard Woodman

  First published in Great Britain 1983 by

  John Murray (Publishers) Ltd

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission in writing of Sheridan House.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Woodman, Richard, 1944-

  A brig of war: a Nathaniel Drinkwater novel/

  Richard Woodman

  p.cm. —(Mariner’s library fiction classics)

  ISBN 1-57409-125-5 (alk. paper)

  1. Drinkwater, Nathaniel (Fictitious character)—Fiction.

  2. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century—Fiction.

  3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815—Campaigns—Egypt—Fiction

  I. Title. II. Series

  PR6073.0618 B75 2001

  823'.914—dc21

  00-066183

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN 1-57409-125-5

  Contents

  Paris

  1

  The Convoy Escort

  2

  Nelson

  3

  A Brig of War

  4

  Shadows of Clouds

  5

  The Mistress Shore

  6

  The Cape of Storms

  7

  Vanderdecken’s Curse

  8

  A John Company Man

  9

  Mocha Road

  10

  Winging the Eagle

  11

  Kosseir Bay

  12

  A Stink of Fish

  13

  Y Môr Coch

  14

  The Will of Allah

  15

  Santhonax

  16

  The Price of Admiralty

  17

  A Conspiracy of Circumstances

  18

  Morris

  19

  A Woman’s Touch

  20

  The Fortune of War

  21

  A Matter of Luck

  22

  The Cape of Good Hope

  Author’s Note

  Paris

  February 1798

  Rain beat upon the rattling window and beyond the courtyard the naval captain watched the tricolour stiff with wind, bright against the grey scud sweeping over Paris. In his mind’s eye he conjured the effect of the gale upon the green waters of the Channel and the dismal, rain-sodden shore of the English coast beyond.

  Behind him the two secretaries bent over their desks. The rustle of papers was reverently hushed. An air of expectancy filled the room, emphasised by the open door. Presently rapid footsteps sounded in the corridor and the secretaries bent with more diligence over their work. The naval officer half turned from the window, then resumed his survey of the sky.

  The footsteps sounded louder and into the room swept a short, thin, pale young man whose long hair fell over the high collar of his over-large general’s coat. He was accompanied by an hussar, whose elaborate pelisse dangled negligently from his left shoulder.

  ‘Ah, Bourienne!’ said the general abruptly in a voice that reflected the same energy as the restless pacing he had fallen into. ‘Have you the dispatches for Generals Dommartin and Cafarelli, eh? Good, good.’ He took the papers and glanced at them, nodding with satisfaction. ‘You see Androche,’ he remarked to the hussar, ‘it goes well, very well and the project of England is dead.’ He turned towards the window. ‘Whom have we here, Bourienne?’

  ‘This is Capitaine de Frégate Santhonax, General Bonaparte.’

  ‘Ah!’

  Hearing his name the naval officer turned from the window. He was much taller than the general, his handsome features severely disfigured by a recent scar that ran upwards from the corner of his mouth into his left cheek. He made a slight bow and met General Bonaparte’s appraising grey eyes.

  ‘So, Captain, you contrived to escape from the English, eh?’

  ‘Yes Citizen General, I arrived in Paris three weeks ago.’

  ‘And have already married, eh?’ Santhonax nodded, aware that the Corsican knew all about him. The general resumed his pacing, head sunk in thought. ‘I have just come from an inspection of the Channel Ports and the arrangements in hand for an invasion of England . . .’ he stopped abruptly in front of Santhonax. ‘What are your views of the practicality of such an enterprise?’

  ‘Impossible without complete command of the Channel, any attempt without local superiority would be doomed, Citizen General. Conditions in the Channel can change rapidly, we should have to hold it for a week at least. The British fleet, if it cannot be overwhelmed, must be dissipated by ruse and threat . . .’

  ‘Exactly! That is what I have informed the Directory . . . but do we have the capability to achieve such a local superiority?’

  ‘No, Citizen General.’ Santhonax lowered his eyes before the penetrating stare of Bonaparte. While this young man had been trouncing the Austrians out of Italy he had been working to achieve such a combination by bringing the Dutch fleet to Brest. The attempt had been shattered by the British at Camperdown four months earlier.

  ‘Huh!’ exclaimed Bonaparte, ‘then we agree at all points, Captain. That is excellent, excellent. The Army of England is to have employment in a different quarter, eh Androche?’ He turned to the hussar, ‘This is Androche Junot, Captain, an old friend of the Bonapartes.’ The two men bowed. ‘But the Army of England will lay the axe to the root of England’s wealth. What is your opinion of the English, Captain?’

  Santhonax sighed. ‘They are the implacable enemies of the Revolution, General Bonaparte, and of France. They possess qualities of great doggedness and should not be underestimated.’

  Bonaparte sniffed in disagreement. ‘Yet you escaped from them, no? How did you accomplish that, eh?’

  ‘Following my capture I was taken to Maidstone Gaol. After a few weeks I was transferred to the hulks at Portsmouth. However my uniform was so damaged in the action off Camperdown that I managed to secure a civilian coat from my gaolers. When the equipage in which I was travelling changed horses at a place called Guildford, I made my escape.’


  ‘And?’

  Santhonax shrugged. ‘I turned into an adjacent alleyway and then the first tavern where I took a corner seat. I speak English without an accent, Citizen General.’

  ‘And this?’ Bonaparte pointed to his own cheek.

  ‘The escort were looking for a man with a bandage. I removed it and occupied an obscure corner. I was not discovered.’ He paused, then added, ‘I am used to subterfuge.’

  ‘Yes, yes, Captain, I know of your services to the Republic, you have a reputation for intrepidity and audacity. Admiral Bruix speaks highly of you and as you are not at present quite persona grata with the Directors,’ Bonaparte paused while Santhonax flushed at the illusion to his failure, ‘he recommends you to this especial command.’ The general stopped again in front of Santhonax and looked directly up at him. ‘You are appointed to a frigate I understand, Captain?’

  ‘The Antigone, Citizen General, now preparing for a distant cruise at Rochefort. I am also to have the corvettes La Torride and Annette with me. I am directed to take command as commodore on receipt of your final orders.’

  ‘Good, very good.’ Bonaparte held out his hand to Bourienne and the secretary handed him a sealed packet. ‘The British have a small squadron in the Red Sea. They should cause you no fear. As you have been told the Army under my command is bound for Egypt. When my veterans reach the shores of the Red Sea I anticipate you will have secured a sufficiency of transport, local craft of course, and a port of embarkation for a division. You will convey it to India, Captain Santhonax. You are familiar with those waters?’

  ‘I served under Suffren, Citizen General. So we are to harrass the British in India.’ Santhonax’s eyes glowed with a new enthusiasm.

  ‘You will carry but the advance guard. Paris burns the soles of my feet, Captain. In India may be found the empire left by Alexander. There greatness awaits us.’ It was not the speech of a fanatic, Santhonax had heard enough of them during the Revolution. But Bonaparte’s enthusiasm was infectious. After the defeat of Camperdown and his capture, Santhonax’s ambition had seemed exhausted. But now, in a few words, this dynamic little Corsican had swept the past aside, like the Revolution itself. New visions of glory were opened to the imagination by a man to whom all things seemed possible.

  Abruptly Bonaparte held out the sealed packet to Santhonax. Junot bent forward to whisper in his ear. ‘Ah! Yes, Androche reminds me that your wife is a celebrated beauty. Good, good. Marriage is what binds a man to his country and beauty is the Inspiration of ambition, eh? You shall bring Madame Santhonax to the Rue Victoire this evening, Captain, my wife is holding a soirée. You may proceed to Rochefort tomorrow. That is all Captain.’

  As Santhonax left the room General Bonaparte was already dictating to his secretaries.

  Chapter One

  The Convoy Escort

  February–June 1798

  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 Vesfel 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 blo
ckade.

  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 onto 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.