At noon Drinkwater and Lestock observed their latitude. Both expressed their surprise that the brig was not more to the south but their ponderings were interrupted by a strange cry from the masthead.
‘Deck there! Red Sea ahead!’
Such an unusual hail brought all on deck to the rail. The sea had lost its brilliant blue and white appearance and at first seemed the colour of mud, then suddenly Hellebore was ploughing her way through vermillion waves. This strange novelty caused expressions of naïve wonder to cross the faces of the men and Drinkwater remembered Griffiths’s muttered ‘Y Môr Coch’. They dropped a bucket over and brought up a sample. It was, in detail, a disappointing phenomena, a reddish dust lay upon the water, the corpses of millions of tiny organisms which, in dying, turned a brilliant hue. In less than an hour they had passed out of the area and the men went laughing to their dinners.
The sight, the subject of a long entry in Drinkwater’s journal, drove all thoughts of the suspect latitude from their minds.
When he came on deck again at eight bells in the afternoon he based his longitude observation on the latitude observed at noon. He was not to know that refraction of the horizon made nonsense of the day’s calculations. They were well to the south and east of their assumed position and for some it was to be a fatal error.
But it was Lieutenant Rogers whose greater mistake spelled disaster for the brig. They had experienced the magically disturbing phenomena of a ‘milk sea’ many times since that first eruption of phosphorescence in the southern Indian Ocean. Conversations with officers at Mocha, experienced in the navigation of the eastern seas, had led them to remit their instinctive fear of shoaling which was often occasioned by this circumstance. They had heard from Blankett’s men how captains and all hands had been called and precious anchors lost on several occasions when an officer apprehended the immediate loss of the ship on a shoal in the middle of the night. Subsequent soundings had shown a depth greater than the leadline could determine and the ‘foaming breakers’ were discovered to be no more than the phosphorescent tumbling of the open sea.
But such arcane knowledge bestowed on a man of Rogers’s temperament was apt to blunt his natural fears and he disallowed the report from the masthead with a contemptuous sneer.
And so, at ten minutes after three on the morning of the 19th August 1799 His Britannic Majesty’s Brig of War Hellebore ran hard ashore on the outlying spurs of Abu al Kizan, ironically known to the Royal Navy as Daedalus Reef.
Chapter Fourteen
The Will of Allah
August 1799
Drinkwater was flung from his cot by the impact. In the darkness he was aware of shouts, curses and screams. The entire hull seemed to flex once as a loud crack was followed by the crash of falling spars and blocks, the muffling slump of canvas and the peculiar whirring slap of ropes falling slack across the deck. In his drawers he pushed his way through the confused press of men making for the upper deck. As he emerged he was aware that the lofty spread of the brig’s masts, rigging and sails were gone, that the mighty arch of the heavens spread overhead uninterrupted. Lieutenant Rogers stood open-mouthed in shock, refusing to believe the evidence of his eyes.
Drinkwater leapt for the rail and in an instant saw the fringe of white water breaking round the low islet to larboard, lifeless patches of blackness in the night marked the presence of rock outcrops. All around Hellebore the surge and welter of water breaking over shallows confirmed what his nerves were already telling him. Beneath his feet the brig’s hull was dead.
He turned to Rogers. It was pointless remonstrating with the man. Rogers would be needed in the coming hours and in any case Drinkwater’s acute sense of responsibility was already aware that he himself was not without blame. The reef was undoubtedly Daedalus Reef; their assumed position had been woefully in error and, although he did not yet know why, his conscience nagged him.
‘Well sir,’ he said to Rogers in as steady a voice as he could muster, ‘it seems that we have wrecked the ship . . . and for God’s sake close your mouth.’
Drinkwater was suddenly aware of many faces in the night, all clamouring for attention. There was fear too, revealed by panicky movements to and from the rails. He saw Catherine Best, her face white, a shawl made of sennit-work round her shoulders. Undercurrents of disorder swept the deck.
‘Silence there!’ bawled Drinkwater, leaping onto a gun breech forgetful of his near-nakedness. ‘We ain’t going to sink, damn it, come away from those boats. Mr Rogers! A roll call if you please. Mr Lestock! Sound round the hull; Mr Johnson the well. Mr Trussel examine the extent of damage to the hull . . . take parties with you . . .’ His voice trailed away. Rising from the companionway like an apparition, a tall nightcap falling to one side of his face, the wind whipping a voluminous nightshirt about him, came Commander Griffiths. Men fell silent and drew aside from his path.
‘Myndiawl! What in the name of Almighty God have you done to my ship?’
Griffiths’s mighty voice rolled in anguish across the shambles of the deck which had the appearance of a scene from hell. The jagged ends of the masts stuck upwards, their remains grinding alongside, worked by the surge of the sea. Forward of the galley funnel the ship was buried under spars, rigging and canvas which lifted like the obscene death-throes of a gigantic bird. By some fluke the mainmast had tottered over to larboard, leaving a clear patch of deck amidships which seethed with the brig’s people.
Drinkwater felt a sharp contraction in his guts, a sudden sense, awful in its intensity, that he had betrayed Griffiths. His nakedness seemed at once shameful and penitent. He was robbed of speech before Griffiths’s agony, then a brief anger spurred him to denounce Rogers. But his own underlying sense of culpability checked such a mean outburst. He looked at Griffiths whose eyes glittered with tears and fever then slipped sideways to another face, staring at him out of the gloom with amused satisfaction. Drinkwater’s nakedness was reflected in Morris’s expression. Real anger came to his aid; he found his voice.
‘Carry on with my orders, gentlemen. Mr Grey . . .’ The boatswain pushed forward, ‘get a party to start raising provisions out of the storerooms. Master’s mate, do you put a guard on the spirit room and if I find a man the worse for liquor I’ll have him at the gratings calling for his mother before the sun’s up.’ He turned to Griffiths. ‘Sir . . . I . . . we are lost, sir . . . Daedalus Reef . . . our reckoning was out sir, I, er . . .’ He felt close to tears himself, a weak desire to capitulate to the overwhelming feeling of frustration that laid siege to his spirit. But then Griffiths tottered forward and Drinkwater caught him. Already the period of shocked lucidity had passed, the ague had reclaimed him and he muttered deliriously to himself in his native tongue. The sudden urgent need to get the captain below reassured Drinkwater. All round them the men were bustling to their new tasks. Catherine Best’s hair brushed his face. ‘Get him below, hey, you there, lend a hand . . .’
‘Sir, can I . . ?’ It was Mr Quilhampton, his stump across his chest, his right hand held protectively over it. Appleby had tried the ligatures without success. Mr Quilhampton had not flinched. ‘Get the surgeon! And round up some men to carry the captain below.’ Then he added in a lower voice, ‘look after him Catherine, we have great need of him now.’ Two seamen arrived to relieve them of their burden. The woman straightened up. In the darkness he could see her smile of reassurance.
‘I will sir,’ she said, and her hand closed for a second on his arm. Then Appleby appeared and Drinkwater turned to attend to Johnson.
‘Five feet o’ water in the well, sir, but the line’s short. I think we’ve lost the bottom, sir.’ Lestock arrived. ‘Two fathoms aft, barely one forrard, both masts gone by the board . . .’
‘Twenty barrels of powder spoiled and we’ve lost some water. Deal of the dry stores spoiled and judging by the top tier of casks in the hold we’ve stove in the bottom . . .’ Trussel reported.
Drinkwater forced his mind to assimilate the details. Already a pl
an for their immediate survival was forming in his mind. He already knew there was no chance of saving the ship.
‘Well, Mr Rogers?’
Rogers had recovered his composure. ‘Three men killed, sir. Gregory, the foremast fell across his hammock; Stock, foremast lookout, killed when the mast fell, and Jeavons, he was forrard and was struck by a block. There are quite a number of injuries . . .’
‘Right,’ Drinkwater cut him short, ‘all the unfit to go below. Is that all?’
‘Two missing,’ added Rogers.
Drinkwater could imagine that, men on duty swept overboard in the chaos of falling gear. He thought for a moment.
‘We must get the galley stove lit and all hands fed well at daylight. Use broached stores to conserve stocks. I’ve put the master’s mates in charge of the spirit store until we get things sorted out. Keep a watch for drunkenness, Rogers, if this lot get out of hand there will be the devil to pay.’
‘And then what d’you propose?’ a voice sneered. Lieutenant Morris intruded into the little group.
‘We wait until daylight Morris,’ replied Drinkwater coolly, ‘unless you have any better suggestions, then we will move the wounded to the reef and salvage what we can. The boats, Mr Grey, must be preserved at all costs. About your duties gentlemen.’ The officers dispersed and Drinkwater was left alone with Morris. He was again uncomfortably aware of his lack of clothing.
‘I think, my dear Nathaniel, that this time even you have bitten off more than you can chew.’
Drinkwater moved towards the companionway to find a shirt and his breeches. He turned sharply towards his enemy and retraced his steps. For one delicious moment he wished he had had his sword for he would have had no compunction in thrusting it deep into Morris’s belly. The satisfaction, like that of lancing a boil, would have been cathartic. Instead he was reduced to a venomous retort.
‘Go to the devil!’
‘Careful Nathaniel, remember that old Welsh goat is a sick man and I am far senior to you . . .’ The insinuation was plain enough and it choked Drinkwater with his own rising bile.
‘Go to hell, Morris!’
‘Witness that remark, Mr Dalziell,’ snapped Morris in a sudden change of tone as the midshipman hurried up. Drinkwater turned away in search of his breeches.
It was late afternoon before Drinkwater paused to take stock of their situation on the tiny island. In the hours that succeeded the brush with Morris he had worked ceaselessly. It was only as he stood staring westwards that he realised why the brig had been lost. As the sun sank the mountain peaks of Upper Egypt were clear on the horizon. Drinkwater knew they were sixty to seventy miles away, far over the sea horizon. It had been the unusual refraction of that very horizon that had caused their errors and he walked tiredly over to Lestock to point it out. But Mr Lestock, who had long ago been prejudiced against Mr Drinkwater’s methods of navigation, especially that of determining longitude by chronometer, merely curled his lip.
‘Perhaps, Mr Drinkwater, it would have been more prudent to have observed the phenomena before the loss of the ship . . .’ Lestock rose and cut him, leaving Drinkwater isolated as he stared after the retreating back of the retrospectively wise master whose fussing indecision seemed justified.
Mr Quilhampton appeared at his elbow. ‘Beg pardon, sir, Miss Best says you are to drink this and take some rest, sir.’ He took the tankard of blackstrap and felt it ease the tension from him. ‘I’m keeping the log going, sir, and the ship’s name, sir.’ Drinkwater looked at the boy. ‘Eh? Oh, oh, yes, quite, Mr Q, very well.’
Drinkwater looked at the sandy, scrub-covered island upon the flat top of which a dozen crude tents had been erected. Piles of casks of pork, powder and water were under guard of the master’s mates. So too were those of spirits and biscuit.
They had toiled to heave as much of the ship’s stores ashore as were available, rigging a stay from the stump of the mainmast to an anchorage ashore upon which rode a block to convey load after load. They had rigged shelter from spars and remnants of Hellebore’s sails; they had constructed a galley; they had tended the wounded and buried the dead; they had got the boats safely away from the wreck and into a small inlet that made a passable boat harbour on the lee side of the islet, and Drinkwater was pleased with their efforts and achievement. Perhaps he ought to be more charitable towards Lestock.
‘It is a little like Petersfield market, ain’t it Mr Q?’ he said, managing a grin. The boy smiled back. ‘Aye sir. A little.’
‘How’s your arm, Mr Q?’
‘Oh, well enough, sir. I can write, sir,’ he added eagerly, ‘so I’m keeping the logs, sir, and I saw the chronometer ashore safe, together with your quadrant and your books.’
‘You’re a capital fellow, Mr Q, I had not thought of them at all.’
‘Tregembo got your sword and uniforms.’ Drinkwater realised that he was surrounded by good fellows. Lestock could go hang. ‘Thank you, Mr Q.’
‘They’re all in the gunroom tent, sir.’
Drinkwater suppressed a smile. It was inconceivable that it should be otherwise, but every space on the islet already had its nautical name. The hold was where the stores were stowed, the gunroom tent where the officers were quartered, the berth deck where the forecourse was draped over its yard to accommodate the hands.
Drinkwater drained the blackstrap and handed the empty tankard back to Quilhampton. ‘I had better do as Mistress Best directed me,’ he said wrily.
‘Very well, sir. She’s a most remarkable woman,’ the boy added precociously.
‘She is indeed, Mr Q, she is indeed.’
In the two days that followed they added a quarterdeck to His Majesty’s stone sloop Hellebore, hoisting the ensign from a topgallant yard set and stayed vertically. They blasted a few coral heads out of the boat channel and surveyed another haven for the boats in case the wind changed. They tore the brig’s rails to pieces to provide firewood for cooking and built a beacon on the low summit of the reef to ignite if any passing ship was sighted, and they built a lookout tower from where a proper watch was maintained, with an officer, mate and petty officer in continual attendance. They dragged three guns ashore with plans to construct a proper battery in due course, for Drinkwater realised that the men must be kept busy, although he was equally worried about drinking water and the demand on their stocks that such a policy would entail. But morale was good, for Daedalus and Fox were expected south within the month. Drinkwater’s greatest worry was for Griffiths. The commander had suffered a severe shock over the loss of the brig. His malarial attack was, as he himself had predicted, a bad one, exacerbated by the wrecking. Appleby worried over him, but consoled Drinkwater, aware that the lieutenant had other things to worry about. That the old man was very ill was obvious, and the indisposed presence of Lieutenant Morris, who refused to exert himself beyond the self-preservation of his person and belongings, had all the appearance of a vulture waiting for his prey to die.
On the morning of the fourth day they saw a large dhow. The vessel sailed slowly in towards the reef, clearly curious as to the islet’s new inhabitants. But despite the firing of a gun and the friendly waves of a hundred arms it stood off to the eastwards. Spirits remained reasonably high, however, since it was confidently asserted that neither Fox nor Daedalus would miss them.
Then, at dawn, twelve days later, away to the south-east the square topsails of two frigates were discerned. Summoned from his bedroll Drinkwater ordered the beacon lit and climbed the lookout post. At the top he levelled his glass. He was looking at the after sides of mizzen topsails: Daedalus and Fox had passed them in the night.
For twenty-eight hours the Hellebores and their guests from the two now far distant frigates wallowed in the depths of despair. Even Drinkwater seemed exhausted of ideas but he eventually determined to fit out the Arab boat they had captured at Kosseir for a passage. The boat, too large to hoist aboard Hellebore, had been towing astern of the brig when she grounded. Although damaged she was repai
rable and the following morning Drinkwater had her beached and over-turned for repairs. The wrecked hull of Hellebore was once again resorted to for materials and by mid-afternoon a detectable lightening of spirits swept the camp.
As the men went to their evening meal a dhow was seen to the eastward. The beacon was lit and the dhow was still in sight as the sun set. At dawn the next day it stood purposefully inshore and Drinkwater put off in Hellebore’s gig. An hour later Mr Strangford Wrinch stood upon the sandy soil of Abu al Kizan.
He looked curiously about him, resplendant in yellow boots, a green galabiya and white head-dress. He smiled. ‘I learned of the presence of infidels upon this reef from a dhow that sighted you a fortnight ago. They spoke of many men waving and the wreck of a ship close by.’ He paused, his face more hawk-like than ever. ‘I also learned of another ship. A French ship . . .’
‘Santhonax?’ asked Drinkwater eagerly. Wrinch nodded.
‘In’sh Allah, my dear fellow, it is the will of Allah.’
Chapter Fifteen
Santhonax
September 1799
Drinkwater moved forward on the heeling deck of the sambuk cursing the restrictions of the galabiya. The head-dress he found even less easy to handle as it masked his vision. He resolved to dispense with it the instant he could and turned his attention to the men cleaning small arms and sharpening cutlasses. Yusuf ben Ibrahim’s Arab crew watched them with interest, shaking their heads over the crudity of the naval pattern sword.
The sambuk sliced across the sea, heading east with the wind on the larboard quarter, the great curved yards of the lateen sails straining to drag the slender hull along, as if as impatient as Drinkwater to put the present matter to the test. Strangford Wrinch came on deck, his green robe fluttering in the wind. He nodded to Drinkwater, then opened his hand in invitation as he squatted down on a square of carpet. Drinkwater joined him.
A Brig of War Page 18
