'All hands sir?' Quilhampton asked eagerly, 'Beat to quarters?'
'Not yet, Mr Q,' said Drinkwater looking aloft, 'we have no marine drummer to do the honours. Besides, one runs away with less ceremony' It occurred to Drinkwater that he had said something shaming to the boy, as if, occasionally even British tars may not run when probably outgunned and certainly outnumbered. 'Trice her up a little, there! Half a point to windward, damn you!' He looked aloft as the watch hauled the yards against the catharpings, each successively higher yard braced at a slightly more acute angle to the wind.
'Royals, sir?'
'Royals, Mr Q.'
The chase wore on into the afternoon and the wind became increasingly fluky. The quality of drama was absent from the desperate business with such a light breeze but it was replaced by a sense of the sinister. Drinkwater kept the deck, amazed at the dark looks of outrage cast by Acting Lieutenant Dalziell. Morris made several appearances on deck, borrowing Drinkwater's glass and mumbling approval at his conduct before slipping below to continue his debilitating flux.
Drinkwater wondered what Appleby had done with the news that he too had been sick, then realised that he was no longer so, merely hungry and that there was another matter to occupy his brain.
'Mr Dalziell, be so kind as to fetch my quadrant from my cabin.'
'Mr Drinkwater, may I remind you that I hold an acting…'
'You may stand upon the quarterdeck, devil take you, but not upon your festerin' dignity! Go sir, at once!' Dalziell fled. For the next half hour he carefully measured the angle subtended by the enemy's uppermost yard and the horizon. In that time it increased by some twelve minutes of are.
'I do not know if I might do that, sir.' He heard Quilhampton's voice and looked up to see the midshipman clasping the watch glass behind his back. He was withholding it from the outstretched hand of Capitaine Santhonax.
'Do you allow the captain the loan of your glass, Mr Q. Perhaps he will be courteous enough to oblige us with his opinion.' Santhonax grinned his predatory smile over Mr Quilhampton's head. 'Ah, Drinkwater, you would not neglect any opportunity to gain information, eh?'
'Your opinion, sir.' Santhonax took the glass and hoisted himself carefully into the lee mizen rigging. His wound had much improved in recent days and Drinkwater saw from the set of his mouth that his own fears were confirmed. Santhonax regained the deck. It is a French vessel, is it not captain?'
Santhonax favoured Drinkwater with a long penetrating look. 'Yes,' he said quietly, 'she is French. And from lie de France.'
Drinkwater nodded. 'Thank you, sir. Mr Quilhampton, pass word for the gunner.' He turned to Santhonax. 'Captain I regret the necessity that compels me to confine you but…' he shrugged.
'You will revoke my parole, please?'
Drinkwater nodded as the gunner arrived. 'Mr Trussel, Captain Santhonax and Cadet Bruilhac are to be confined in irons…'
'Merde!'
'My pardon, sir, but your character is too well-known,' he spun on his heel, 'pipe all hands, Mr Dalziell, and take the deck while I confer with the captain.'
Morris listened to what Drinkwater had to say, aware that he was powerless. A man who had never been troubled by moral constraints, who had managed his profession by a bullying authoritarianism and sought to excuse his failures upon others, found it easy to delegate to Drinkwater's competence. Although a bitter irony filled his mind it was not caused by the chance that Drinkwater might steal his thunder and fight a brilliant action. Whatever happened, a victory would be attributed to him as commander. What wormed in Morris's mind was that Drinkwater might botch it, perhaps deliberately.
'If you desert me, or disgrace me, as God is my witness I shall shoot you.'
There was no dissembling in Drinkwater's reply, uttered as it was over his shoulder. 'I should never do that, not in the face of the enemy.'
Drinkwater ran back on deck. One glance to leeward confirmed his worst fears. He could see the enemy hull now. Antigone was losing the race. He began to shout orders.
The burst of activity on deck was barely audible in the orlop. Inside the tiny dispensary, by the light of a guttering candle end Appleby looked from book to pot and back again. At last he sat back and stared at the jar, its glass greenish and clouded, and holding something given apparent life by the flame that flickered uncertainly in the foetid air.
He pulled the stopper from the jar and poured a trickle of white crystals into the palm of his hand. The potassium antimonyl tar-trate twinkled dully from the candle flame.
Appleby poured them back. A few adhered to his perspiring skin. He sighed. 'Tartar emetic,' he muttered to himself, replacing the jar in its rack, 'a sudorific promoting diaphoresis.' He sighed.
The sudden glare of a lantern through the louvred door made his hand shoot out and nip the candlewick. In the sudden close darkness he almost prayed that he might be mistaken, but he heard her indrawn and alarmed breath as she discovered the padlock hanging unlocked in the staple and the hasp free. She paused and he knew she was wondering whether anyone was within. Making up her mind she drew back the door and thrust her lantern into the tiny hutch.
He sat immobile, the trembling lantern throwing his face into sharp relief, its smooth rotundities lit, the shadows of his falling cheeks and dewlap etched black. She drew back a hand at her throat.
'Oh! Mr Appleby! Sir, how you did frighten me, sitting in the dark like that…'
'Come in and close the door.'
He watched her with such an intensity that she thought it was lust, not displeasure. Indeed she began to compose herself for his first embrace as he stood, stooped under the deckhead beams.
'What in the name of heaven are you up to?' Appleby's breath was hot with the passion of anger. She drew back. He picked up the lantern from where she had placed it on the bench and held it over the jar of Tartar Emetic.
'You are giving this to the captain,' he said it slowly, as a matter of fact.
'You know then…'
'I do. In his wine, though I have not yet discovered how you do it.'
For a long moment she said nothing. Appleby put the lantern down and sat again. He looked up at her. 'I am disappointed… I had hoped…'
She knelt at his knees and took his hands, her huge eyes staring up at him.
'I did not… I wished only to make him indisposed, too ill to command. You yourself suggested it in conversation with Mr Drinkwater…'
'I…?'
'Yes sir,' she had sown the seed of doubt now, caught him between her suppliant posture and her rapid city-bred quick wit-tedness. 'You see what he has done to the men, how he has flogged them without mercy or reason. Why look at the way he sent poor little Mr Q to the top of the mast, and him with one hand missing…' She appealed to his inherent kindness and felt him relax. 'We all know what Mr Rogers said about what happened at Mocha, how Mr Drinkwater should've been in command.'
'That is no reason to…'
'And the kind of man he is, sir…' But Appleby rallied.
'That is not for you to say,' he said vehemently, a trace of misogyny emerging, 'it does not justify poisoning…'
'But I gave him only a little, sir, enough to purge himself with a flux. Why 'twas little more than you gave the old Captain for his ague, sir. 'Twas not a lethal dose.'
Appleby knitted his brows in concentration. His professional sense warred with his curious regard for this woman kneeling in the stinking darkness. He would not call it love for he thought of himself as too old, too ugly and too much a man of science to be moved by love. This wish to defend her was aided by his dislike of Morris. He found he was no longer angry with her. He could understand her motives much as one does a child who misbehaves. It did not condone the crime.