There followed a day of back-breaking endeavour in which Drinkwater, with an enthusiasm engendered in first lieutenants when storehouses are thrown open to them, replenished almost every want of the Hellebore. On the basis that there were no officers surviving to lay claim to her cabin stores, he judiciously appropriated a quantity of wine which brought a gleam to Trussel's eye comparable to that bestowed on the French powder. Trussel begged Drinkwater for a pair of fine brass chase guns but the condition of the boats and the state of the sea prevented their removal. The operation was carried out despite the sharks that were congregating astern, round the flotilla.
By nightfall, when Drinkwater's weary party finally returned to Hellebore, La Torride was stripped of useful moveables, an empty shell with smoke issuing from her hatchways and sufficient powder left aboard to dismember her. She blew up and sank an hour later but by then Hellebore with her attendant dhows was five miles to the southward, standing towards the Strait of Tiran and the Red Sea.
Leaving the deck to Lestock, Drinkwater stumbled wearily below, called for Merrick to pour him a glass of grog. He was relaxing as Dalziell entered, thrusting the French cadet before him with a vicious shove. He seemed slightly discomfited to find Drinkwater in the gunroom.
'Er, Mr Rogers's orders sir, the captain wants to interview him.' He jerked his head at the dishevelled French youth who looked terrified.
'You may leave him here, Mr Dalziell, and on your return to the deck acquaint Mr Rogers with my desire that he draws up a list of our casualties and brings it to me on completion.'
Dalziell took the muster book from Drinkwater's outstretched hand. Drinkwater motioned the French cadet to a seat and poured him some grog. He saw the boy gag on the spirit then swallow more. Gradually a little colour came to his cheeks.
'Nom, m'sieur?' asked Drinkwater in his barbarous French as kindly as he could manage.
'fe m'appelle Gaston, m'sieur, Gaston Bruilhac, Aspirant de la première classe.'
'Comprenez-vous anglais, Gaston?'
Bruilhac shook his head. Drinkwater grunted, finished the grog and made up his mind. He leaned across the table. 'Mon Capitaine, Gaston, il est très intrépide, n'est pas?'
Bruilhac nodded. Drinkwater went on, 'Bon. Mon Capitaine…' he struggled, failing to find the words for what he wished to convey. He picked up the pistol he had removed earlier from his belt and pulled back the hammer. Taking Bruilhac's hand he placed it palm down on the table and spread the fingers. 'Bang!' he said suddenly, pointing the weapon at the index finger. He repeated the melodrama for the other three. The colour drained from Bruilhac's face and Drinkwater refilled his grog. 'Courage, mon brave,' he said, then, as the boy stared wide-eyed over the shaking rim of the beaker, 'Ecoutez-moi, Gaston: vous parlez, eh? Vous parlez beaucoup.'
As if on cue Griffiths entered with Rogers behind him, bearing the muster book. Drinkwater stood up and snapped 'Attention!' Bruilhac sprang to his feet, rigidly obedient. 'I think he'll talk, sir,' said Drinkwater, quietly handing the pistol to Griffiths. 'Rum will loosen his tongue and I said you'd shoot each of his fingers off in turn if he did not speak.'
Griffiths's white eyebrows shot upwards and a wicked twinkle appeared in his eyes as he turned to the cadet, and the swinging lantern light caught his seamed face. To Bruilhac he seemed the very personification of Drinkwater's imminent threats.
Drinkwater motioned the boy to follow Griffiths into the after cabin. As he closed the door he heard Griffiths begin the interrogation. Words began to pour from the hapless boy. Drinkwater smiled; sometimes it was necessary to be cruel to be kind. He turned to Rogers.
'Well Rogers, what kind of a butcher's bill do we have?'
'Oh, not too bad, bloody shame we blew the prize up. I'd have made a comfortable purse from her.'
Drinkwater withheld a lecture on the impracticability of such a task as getting La Torride in order, and contented himself with saying, 'She was a wreck. Now, how many did we lose?'
'Only eleven dead.'
Drinkwater whistled. 'Only? For the love of God… what about the wounded?'
'Eighteen slight: flesh wounds, splinters, the usual. I caught a splinter in the cheek.' He turned so that the light caught the ugly jagged line, half bruise, half laceration, that was scabbing in a thick crust. 'You escaped unscathed, I see.'
Drinkwater looked Rogers full in the face, feeling again a strong dislike for the man. He found himself rubbing at a rough congealed mess in his right ear. 'Almost,' he said quietly, 'I was lucky. What about the serious cases?'
Rogers looked down at the muster book. 'Seven, six seamen and Quilhampton.'
'Quilhampton?' asked Drinkwater, a vision of the boy's pretty mother swimming accusingly into his mind's eye. 'What's the matter with him?'
'Oh, a ball took off his hand… hey what's the matter?'
Drinkwater scrambled below to where Appleby had his cockpit at the after end of the hold. Already the stench was noisome. To the creak of the hull and the turbid swirl of bilgewater were added the groans of the wounded and the ramblings of delirium. But it was not only this that made Drinkwater wish to void his stomach. There seemed some sickness in his fate that Providence could pull such an appalling jest upon him.
He paused to allow his eyes to become adjusted to the gloom. He could see the pale figure of Catherine Best straighten up, a beaker in her hand. She came aft, catching sight of the first lieutenant. 'Mr Drinkwater?' she said softly, and in the guttering lamplight her face was once again transfigured. But it was not a beauty that stirred him. He saw for the first time that whatever life had done to this woman, her eyes showed a quality of compassion caused by her suffering.
'Where is Mr Q?' he asked hoarsely. Catherine led him past Tyson who was bent over a man Drinkwater recognised as Gregory, the helmsman who had held the brig before the wind the night they struggled with the broken foreyard. Tyson was easing a tourniquet with a regretful shake of his head. The woman stepped delicately over the bodies that lay grotesquely about the small, low space.
Quilhampton lay on his cloak, his head pillowed on his broadcloth coat. His breeches stained dark with blood and urine. His left arm extended nine inches below his elbow and termined in a clumsy swathe of bloodstained bandages. His eyelids fluttered and he moved his head distressingly in a shallow delirium. Catherine Best bent to feel the pale sweating forehead. Drinkwater knelt beside the boy and put his hand on the maimed stump. It was very hot. He looked across the twitching body. Catherine's eyes were large with accusation.
Drinkwater rose and stumbled aft, suddenly desperate for the fresh air of the deck. At the ladder he ran into Appleby. The surgeon's apron was stiff with congealed blood. He was wiping his hands on a rag and he reeked of rum. He was quite sober.
'Another glorious victory for His Majesty's arms… you will have been to see Quilhampton?' Drinkwater nodded dumbly. 'I think he will live, if it does not rot.' Appleby spat the last word out, as if the words 'putrefy' or 'mortify' were too sophisticated to waste on a butcher like Drinkwater.
Nathaniel made to push past but Appleby stood his ground. 'Send two men to remove that… sir,' he said, pointing. Drinkwater turned. A large wooden tub lay in the shadows at the bottom of the ladder. Within it Drinkwater could see the mangled stumps and limbs amputated from Appleby's patients.