Faint sounds came to them; the myriad creaks of a ship at rest, a whistled snatch of the Ça Ira ended in mid-phrase. A muted burst of laughter and the low tone of conversation indicated where the watch on deck spun yarns and played cards. Once the coarse noise of hawking and a loud expectoration was followed by a plop in the water close to them.
The minutes dragged by and a man came forward to use the heads. The four men maintained a stoic silence beneath the arc of urine that pattered down beside them accompanied by the quiet humming of a man on his own.
As the man returned inboard Mr Trussel's rocket soared into the night and burst over Al Mukhra with a baleful blue light.
For what seemed an age total silence greeted the appearance of this spectral flare then above their heads the fo'c's'le of the frigate was crowded with men. They jabbered together and pointed ashore while Drinkwater made a motion of his hand to Barnes. They eased the dinghy further under the round bow of the frigate, slackening the long painter until level with the tack bumpkin. Now they would have to wait for Griffiths and the sambuk to divert the attention of the men above.
Drinkwater turned his attention ashore. A flash and bang told where Mr Trussel's six-pounders on their improvised carriages were going into action. The concussions increased the speculation and excitement on the deck above them and now the noise of whooping Arab horsemen could be heard, mingling with the shouts of surprised Frenchmen and the commands of officers. Flickering movements around the fires told their own story and on the fo'c's'le above them someone was giving orders too.
A terrific explosion shook the air, making Drinkwater's ears ring. The wave of reeking powder smoke that engulfed them a second later told that those on board had at least one gun mounted, a long bow chaser fired more for effect than anything, for no one could say where the fall of shot was. Two minutes later it boomed out again and Drinkwater wished he had a kerchief to wrap around his ears like the seamen were doing. But then there came another cry. A sharp 'Qui vive?' of alarm from amidships and suddenly the fo'c's'le was empty as the Frenchmen streamed away to repel the threat from the approaching dhow.
'Now lads!' Caution did not matter any more. With an effort Drinkwater swung himself upwards at the bumpkin, dangled a moment then felt Tregembo heave him upwards. The dinghy bobbed dangerously beneath the topman but Drinkwater scrambled upwards reaching the stinking gratings of the heads and covering himself with more filth. He wiped his hands on the gammoning of the bowsprit as his men joined him then they went over the bow on to the now deserted fo'c's'le.
'Is the boat all right?'
'Aye zur,' answered Tregembo's offended tone. Tregembo had been offended since the evening Drinkwater had left him behind at Kosseir, but that was of little moment now.
Coming round the foremast they could see the whole of the waist filling with men from the lower deck. The masts of the sambuk were visible alongside and already Drinkwater could see several Hellebores on the rail. Lieutenant Rogers was there, hacking downwards, one hand grasping a mainmast shroud. He saw the squat shapes of quarterdeck carronades then there were more figures on the rail, British and Arab. Drinkwater recognised Yusuf and his wicked scimitar.
'Up we go!' he called to the men behind him and flung himself in the larboard foremast rigging. He felt Tregembo beside him; Barnes and Kellet made for the opposite side. Drinkwater looked down once. The sambuk could be seen now, its deck empty. The waist of the frigate was a mass of heaving bodies, of dully flashing blades and the yellow spurts of pistol fire. Then, as he swung back downwards into the futtocks, he heard above the grunting, swearing, shouting men below the thunder of cannon and the blood curdling screams of Arab horsemen as they decimated the French camp at the head of the sharm.
Drinkwater reached the foretopsail yard and moved out along the footrope. He felt for the seaman's knife on its lanyard and began to slit the ties. At the bunt, having done the same thing, Tregembo was busy severing the bunt and clew lines. In heavy folds, flopping downwards by degrees the huge topsail fell from its stowed position and flattened itself against the mast, all aback.
Out on the other yardarm Kellett and Barnes completed their half of the task. In a few minutes they were in the top. Kellett and Tregembo ran out along the foreyard, whipping yarns from their belts and seizing the topsails clews to the sheet blocks. The sail secured, the four men scrambled to the deck. Amidships the struggle raged with unabated fury.
'Below lads!' he snapped pushing them towards the forward companionway. They descended to the gundeck. It was deserted and in the glimmering light of the lantern at the after companionway sixty feet astern of them, they could see the six guns that had been mounted. The empty gun carriages at the remaining gunports along the deck and the untidy raffle of ropes, blocks, tackles, spikes and ropeyarns bespoke a busy day tomorrow. 'Untidy bastards,' volunteered Barnes as he followed Drinkwater to where the lieutenant had already begun work on the cable.
'Not too much, Barnes,' Drinkwater said, 'there will be a fair weight on it with that topsail aback. It musn't part before we're ready.' Drinkwater ran aft with Tregembo and Kellett in his wake. It was obvious now why the boarding nettings were down. The encumbrance caused by them when hoisting in the guns would have combined with Santhonax's feeling of security to persuade him that they were unnecessary. Besides a further day's labour and the frigate would be ready for sea, ready to challenge any other vessel on the Red Sea. They had arrived only just in time. Above their heads the fight for the deck went on, a scuffing, stamping, shouting melee of men. The legs and waists of several Frenchmen below the level of the deck were temptingly exposed but the three men trotted past their undefended posteriors. Drinkwater swung below into the berth deck.
There was a whimpering and stifled cry from the dense shadows and Drinkwater picked up the single lantern allowed near the com-panionway after dark. Holding it before him he continued aft. They found the rudder and tiller lines abaft the cadet's cockpit. Sudden reminders of the hell-hole aboard Cyclops flooded his mind. He dreaded finding the tiller lines unrove but no, Santhonax had obligingly rigged new ones.
They cut them by the lead blocks to the deck above and hauled the tiller across to starboard, forcing the rudder over to port. 'You two remain here!' Leaving the lantern with Kellett and Tregembo, Drinkwater ran forward and up on to the gun deck, finally reaching Barnes after pushing through a number of wounded Frenchmen who stumbled about the gundeck tripping over their own breech-ings.
'Cut the bloody thing, Barnes!'
'Aye, aye, sir!' Drinkwater reached the upper deck via the forward companionway only to blunder into more Frenchmen. He drew his hanger and yelled, slashing wildly out to right and left. Like butter they parted before him and he was aware of the last remnants of French resistance crumbling. Against Griffiths, Rogers and their two score men the French had had an anchor watch of thirty-six under a lieutenant. The officer lay mortally wounded, having surrendered his sword to Commander Griffiths. Griffiths stood panting with his exertions, his white hair plastered to his skull by sweat, his sword blade dark. Behind Griffiths stood Yusuf ben Ibrahim, arms akimbo like a harem guard, his men about him daring the surprised Frenchmen to lift a further finger against their conquerors while their frigate was raped.
Barnes yelled triumphantly as the cable parted.
'Foretopsail halliards!' shouted Drinkwater, 'Forebraces there!' The special details of men ran to the pinrails.