Catherine smiled at him, a shy kind of happiness lighting her eyes while her right hand swirled the skirt of Arab cotton in a small coquettish movement.
'Indeed, Mr Drinkwater, it was not.' Drinkwater looked at Appleby, who was blushing furiously. He smiled, touched his hat again and turned to the quartermaster.
'Well bless my soul,' he muttered to himself, then, in a louder tone, 'call me if there's any wind.' The quartermaster acknowledged the first lieutenant and Drinkwater went below to change his shirt.
The meal, at which no others were present, was conducted in silence. Rattray padded behind their chairs and even with the after sashes lowered the air in the large cabin was stale and hot. When the dishes were cleared away a bottle of port was decanted in Santhonax's personal crystal and, Drinkwater noticed, circulation was slow. The decanter did duty at Morris's glass three times before being shoved reluctantly in his direction. Drinkwater drank sparingly, aware that Morris's appetite was gross.
'Have you seen that?' Morris pointed to where, half hidden behind the cabin door a woman's portrait hung on the white bulkhead. Already his voice was slurred. 'I presume it to be the Frog's whore.' Drinkwater found the portrait amazing. Hortense's grey eyes stared out of the canvas, her long neck bared and her flaming hair piled up above her head, wound with pearls. A wisp of gauze covered the swell of her breasts. He remembered the woman in the cabin of Kestrel and stumbling on the beach at Criel where they had let her go free. He found the portrait disquieting and turned back to Morris. The man was watching him from beneath his hooded eyelids.
'She's his wife,' said Drinkwater, returning Morris's stare.
'And what of Appleby's whore, Nathaniel? Is she what I am told she is, a convict?'
It was pointless to deny it, but then it was unnecessary to confirm it. 'I believe she has redeemed herself by her services to the ship. As to her status, I think you are mistaken.'
Morris waved aside Drinkwater's compassion, to him the pompous assertion of a liberal. 'Pah! She is Appleby's whore,' repeated Morris, slumping back into his chair.
Drinkwater shrugged, aware that Morris was wary, beating about the bush of his intention in asking Drinkwater to dine. He wished they might reach a truce, unaware that Morris had left him upon the beach at Kosseir. Their enmity aboard Cyclops was long past, they were grown men now. Whatever Morris's private desires were, they were not overt.
'You are wondering why I have asked you to dine with me, eh? You, who crossed me years ago, who saw to it that I was dismissed out of Cyclops…'
'I did no such thing, sir.'
'Don't haze me, damn you!' Morris restrained himself and Drinkwater was increasingly worried about the reason for this cosy chat. Drinkwater had played a small part in Morris's disgrace, which had largely been accomplished by his own character. The captain of the frigate was long dead; the first lieutenant, now Lord Dungarth, beyond Morris's vengeance. But Drinkwater was again at his mercy and Morris had intended his ruin, for he had nursed a longing for revenge for twenty years; twenty years that had twisted rejected desire into an obsession.
The pure, vindictive hatred that had made Morris drop the fainting Drinkwater on the beach at Kosseir had been thwarted in the latter's survival, but was now complicated by his reliance on the man he had tried to kill.
'I have my own command now, Drinkwater,' he said, his mouth slack, his chin on his chest, a sinister cartoon by Rowlandson. 'Do anything to prejudice me again and I'll see you in hell…'
'I shall do my duty, sir,' said Drinkwater cautiously, but too primly for Morris's liking.
'Aye by God you will!' Spittle shot from Morris's mouth.
'Then why should you suppose…'
'Because there is a damned rumour persisting in this ship that I have the swab,' he gestured at the damaged epaulette on his shoulders that he had rifled from Griffiths's belongings, 'that should have gone to you.' It was not the only reason but one on which Morris might draw a reaction from Drinkwater whom he now watched closely, his mind concentrated by alcohol on the focus of his obsession.
But Drinkwater did not perceive this, merely saw the matter as something to be raised between them, another ghost to be laid. 'I was given to understand Admiral Blankett desired I should command the prize, certainly. Whatever made him change his mind is no longer any concern of mine.' He paused, sitting up, hoping to terminate the interview. 'But in the meantime I shall do my duty as first lieutenant as I did for Commander Griffiths, sir.' Then he added, irritated at being catechised: 'Unless you have a notion to promote Mr Dalziell over my head.'
'What the hell d'you mean by that?' flared Morris, and Drinkwater sensed he had touched a nerve. Dalziell. The relative, quiescent of late. A catamite? Drinkwater looked sharply at Morris. The commander's glare was unchanged but a sheen of sweat had erupted across his face.
All was suddenly clear to Drinkwater. Morris had obtained his command at last. Unable to earn it by his own merits, a twist of fate had delivered it unexpectedly into his lap. A further helix in that turn of circumstances had made Drinkwater both his unwitting benefactor and first lieutenant on whose abilities he must rely to take advantage of this new opportunity. He would not sacrifice the possibility of a post-captaincy even for revenge on Drinkwater, but Drinkwater knew of his past and might know of his present. Morris, long driven by vengeance, could not imagine another dismissing such an opportunity with contempt. Even a sanctimonious liberal like Drinkwater. And Morris was guilty of unnatural crimes specifically proscribed by the Articles of War.
But this potential nemesis was of small apparent consolation to Nathaniel. He merely found it odd that that usurped tangle of gold wire could tame so disturbed a spirit as Augustus Morris's.
'It was a poor jest, sir. I am sure you will know how to keep Mr Dalziell in his proper place.' Drinkwater rose. It had not been a deliberate innuendo but Morris continued to stare suspiciously at him. 'Thank you for the courtesy of your invitation.' He turned for the door, his eye falling on the picture of Hortense. 'By the way sir, the surgeon tells me Santhonax would benefit from some fresh air. May I have permission to exercise him on deck tomorrow?'
'Solicitude for prisoners, eh?' slurred Morris, his eyes clouding, turning inwards. 'Do as you see fit…' He dismissed Drinkwater with a flick of his wrist, then reached for the decanter. Alone, he saw, with the perception of the drunk the pair of level grey eyes staring at him from the bulkhead. They seemed to accuse him with the whole mess of his life. Viciously his hand found a fork left on the table by the careless Rattray. With sudden venom he flung it at the canvas. The tines vibrated in the creamy shoulder, reminding Morris of the past, good old days when the senior midshipmen drove a fork into a deck beam as a signal to send their juniors to bed while they 'sported'. The euphemism covered many sins. Things had changed in His Majesty's navy since the mutinies of 1797. Now canting bastards like Drinkwater with their liberal ideas were ruining the Service, God damn them. He flung his head back and roared 'Rattray!'
'Sir?'
'Pass word for Mr Dalziell.'
Drinkwater drew the air into his lungs. After the calm the strengthening north-easter was like champagne. Above his head the watch had just taken in the royals and were descending via the backstays. Those to windward were taut and harping gently as a patter of spray came over the windward rail. He walked over to the binnacle. 'Steer small now, a good course will bring us home the sooner.'
He resumed his pacing, free of the effects of his bruising and the cauterised cut on his leg that would not even leave a scar worth mentioning. He passed along the squat black breeches of the quarterdeck carronades, as near content as his circumstances would permit. After the dinner with Morris he sensed an easing of tension between them, aware that his own duties preoccupied him while Morris, isolated in command, would brood in his cabin. Despite the promotion of Dalziell to acting lieutenant, Drinkwater had not relinquished his watch. He might have availed himself of big-ship tradition, had not the notion with so small a crew been a piece of conceit that ran contrary to his nature. In Dalziell's abilities he had no confidence whatsoever, regarding his elevation as a shameful abuse of the system, a blatant piece of influence that he thought unlikely to last long after their return home. For himself he kept the privacy of his morning and evening watches while the poor devils forward were compelled to work watch and watch. It could not be helped. It was the way of the world and the naval service in particular.