But sleep would not now come to Drinkwater. He rose and went below. The scratches of his wounds throbbed and in the gunroom he cleaned them with the remains of a bottle of rum. Above his head a guntruck squealed and the boom of the six-pounder split the night. Mr Rogers was clearly going to let the French know that he was on deck, middle watch or no. Drinkwater went forward to look at Quilhampton.
The apparently indefatigable Catherine Best still ministered to him, washing the small white body with wine and water so that evaporation might cool the boy.
'How is he?'
'A little cooler, but still fevered. You have been wounded, sir?'
'It is nothing at all.'
'But it will mortify in this climate.'
'No. I have washed it with rum. I shall survive.' He took the rag off her and gently pushed her aside. 'Get some rest. I shall sit with him a while.'
He eased himself down beside the midshipman and sniffed the bandages on the stump. Thank God there was no offensive taint to it, as yet. Presently his head dropped forward and he slept.
At five o'clock in the morning the three British cruisers reopened their cannonade on Kosseir. It was to last seven hours.
At noon when the bombardment halted, anxious gunners reported the serious depletion of their stocks of ammunition and Ball summoned his fellow captains. At four in the afternoon the boats of Daedalus succeeded in burning the two dhows that remained anchored in the inner roadstead.
As the day drew to a close a swell rolled into Kosseir Bay, setting the boats of the squadron bobbing and grinding one another as they assembled alongside Hellebore. The brig was the most southerly of the three British ships and a convenient starting place for the next phase of Captain Ball's questionable strategy. All the boats had their carronades mounted, those in the frigate's launches of eighteen pound calibre. The expedition was to land south of the town. Its object was to destroy the wells used by the French, located in the miserable oasis observed by Drinkwater earlier. About eighty seamen and marines were mustered for this purpose under the command of Captain Stuart of Fox. Seconding him were Lieutenants Morris, Hetherington and Drinkwater.
'Watch this swell upon the beach, bach,' said Griffiths at parting and Drinkwater nodded. Service in Kestrel and the buoy yachts of Trinity House had rendered him acutely conscious of sea state.
Night was again falling as they pulled away from the brig. Stuart's boat led, the others following. At the last moment Drinkwater had ordered Tregembo back on board with a message for Lestock. As soon as the Cornishman had disappeared Drinkwater pushed off.
Already the sun was touching the distant peaks of the Sharqiya, but in the gathering shadows troops could be seen hurrying along the road to the oasis. Drinkwater turned his boat, that captured from the French when the cutter had been lost, in the wake of Stuart's launch. As they approached the beach they could feel the swell humping up beneath them, see it rolling ahead of them to break in a heavy surf.
'Mr Brundell!' Drinkwater hailed the master's mate commanding the gig next astern. 'There's a surf. Do you use your anchor from forward, let go abreast of me!'
He saw Brundell wave acknowledgement. The gig did not mount a gun, was too light for the six-pounders lent to the boats that had no carronades. Thankful that there were old Kestrels in Hellebore's company who would appreciate the technique, Drinkwater watched with misgiving where, ahead of them he saw Stuart's boat anchor by the stern.
'Forrard there!' He stood up to command attention. The gunner's mate looked astern. 'Sir?'
'You will have time for only a single discharge. Make sure you fire on the upward pitch. Make ready!'
Drinkwater could see the beach, becoming monochromatic in the dusk. Troops were deploying on it, well back from the water's edge. Drinkwater put the tiller over and cast a single glance astern. The build up of the breakers was very noticeable. He straightened the boat for the beach. 'Oars!' The men ceased rowing. 'Fire!' The carronade barked. 'Hold water starboard!' The boat slewed. 'Let go!' The anchor splashed overboard and the boat drifted broadside. 'Backwater starboard! Backwater all!' The boat turned and from the corner of his eye he saw Brundell bring the gig round.
'Drinkwater! What the hell d'you think you're playing at?' Morris's voice cut across the roar of the breakers. Drinkwater ignored it. 'Check her forrard!' A twitch on the anchor warp told the anchor held. 'Backwater all!' Drinkwater repeated, his back to the beach, watching the boat's head rise to the surf which increased in sharpness as they drove into shallow water. They were surrounded by tumbling wave crests. He cast a single glance astern. 'Hold on! Boat oars!'
He nodded to the corporal of the marine detachment from Fox. Together the two men led the boat's crew over the transom. For a minute they floundered, found their footing and scrambled ashore. Drinkwater cast a single glance back at the boat to see the boat-keepers at their stations.
To right and left the British were coming ashore. Stuart's men were already deploying, the marine in the centre, but his boat was in trouble, her forefoot pounding on the hard sand, her flat transom presenting a greater impediment to the breakers than the sharp bows of the Hellebore's.
The marines had opened fire, a rolling volley designed to pin down any interference from the town while the seamen attacked the wells. The party began to advance up the beach as the last boats came in. Two had followed Drinkwater's example, the remainder had anchored by the stern, their carronades or borrowed long guns theoretically covering the landing. In the event the violence of the surf prevented more than an occasional lucky shot, while the gunners were bounced and shaken by the motion.
Drinkwater waved his detachment up on the flank of the marines. The men ran forward, their bare feet slapping on the sand, the cutlasses gleaming dully in their brawny hands.
The buzz of a thousand bees halted them. A company of French infantry occupied low scrub ahead of them, galling them with a furious musket fire. The seamen were in soft sand now. Several fired pistols while the officers cheered them forward. They could hardly see the enemy's dark uniform blending with the thorn scrub, the flashes of their muskets too brief to lay a pistol on. Men were falling and the forward rush was checked.
Then the French charged and a stumbling fight ensued, the seamen hacking with their clumsy weapons, glad of the proximity of their enemy, shaken by the earlier fire they had received on the open beach. Drinkwater thought they had a chance. He looked round hoping to find Morris's men coming up behind them. Morris and his men had halted seventy yards away. To his left Stuart was equally hard pressed. Hetherington's men seemed to be in support of the marines. Drinkwater's eye was caught by a movement at the water's edge. The stern line of one of the boats had parted. He saw her broach and roll over in the surf, saw her split like a melon. The moment's inattention was paid for as a Frenchman drove his musket butt into Drinkwater's guts. He gasped and retched, vaguely aware that Brundell's pistol butt caught the man's face, then he was on his knees fighting for breath.
He did not hear Stuart's order to retreat. A kind of obscurity was clouding his mind. He was not even aware that he was half crouched in a kind of stumbling run, with Brundell on one side of him and a seaman on the other. He did not feel the seaman fall, a musket ball in his heart, did not feel another's arm bear him up, nor hear the shouted instruction from Morris.
'I have him, Mister, he's an old friend. You take charge of the brig's detachment now.'