A Brig of War

'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?'