A Brig of War Read Online Free PDF Page A

the royal halliards with uncommon haste.
    Hellebore
worked her way slowly south, past the islands of the Tyrrhenian Sea and through the narrow Straits of Messina; but there was no further news of Nelson or the French.
    On 16th July the convoy stood into the Bay of Syracuse to wood and water and to find a welcome for British ships. Through the good offices of the British Ambassador to the Court of the Two Sicilies, Sir William Hamilton, facilities were available to expedite the reprovisioning of units of the Royal Navy.
    â€˜It seems,’ Griffiths said to his assembled officers, ‘that Sir Horatio has considered the possibility of using Syracuse as a base. We must simply wait.’
    They waited three days. Shortly before noon on the 19th the British fleet was in the offing and with the
Leander
in the van, came into Syracuse Harbour. By three minutes past three in the afternoon the fourteen ships of the line under the command of Rear Admiral Sir Horatio Nelson had anchored. Within an hour their boats swarmed over the blue waters of the bay, their crews carrying off wood and water, their pursers haggling in the market place for vegetables and beef.
    Hellebore
’s boat pulled steadily through the throng of craft, augmented by local bumboats which traded hopefully with the fleet. Officers’ servants were buying chickens for their masters’ tables while a surreptitious trade in rot-gut liquor was being conducted through lower deck ports. The apparent confusion and bustle had an air of charged purpose about it and Drinkwater suppressed a feeling of almost childish excitement. Beside him Griffiths wore a stony expression, his leathery old face hanging in sad folds, the wisps of white hair escaping untidily from below the new, glazed cocked hat. Drinkwater felt a wave of sympathy for the old man with his one glittering epaulette. Griffiths had beenat sea half a century; he had served in slavers as a mate before being pressed as a naval seaman. He was old enough, experienced enough and able enough to have commanded this entire fleet, reflected Nathaniel, but the man who did so was only a few years older than Drinkwater himself.
    â€˜You had better attend on me,’ Griffiths had said, giving his first lieutenant permission to accompany him aboard
Vanguard
, ‘seeing that you are so damned eager to clap eyes on this Admiral Nelson.’
    Drinkwater looked at Quilhampton who shared his curiosity. Mr Q’s hand rested nervously on the boat’s tiller. The boy was concentrating, not daring to look round at the splendours of British naval might surrounding him. Drinkwater approved of his single-mindedness; Mr Q was developing into an asset.
    â€˜Boat ahoy!’ The hail came from the flagship looming ahead of them, her spars and rigging black against the brilliant sky, the blue rear-admiral’s flag at her mizen masthead. Drinkwater was about to prompt Quilhampton but the boy rose, cleared his throat and in a resonant treble called out ‘
Hellebore
!’ The indication of his commander’s presence thus conveyed to
Vanguard
, Quilhampton felt with pleasure the half smile bestowed on him by Mr Drinkwater.
    At the entry port four white gloved side-boys and a bosun’s mate greeted
Hellebore
’s captain and his lieutenant. The officer of the watch left them briefly on the quarterdeck while he reported their arrival to the demi-god who resided beneath the poop. Curiously Drinkwater looked round.
Vanguard
was smaller than
Victory
, a mere 74-gun two decker, but there was that same neatness about her, mixed with something else. He sensed it intuitively from the way her people went about their business. From the seamen amidships, rolling empty water casks to the gangway and from a quarter gunner changing the flints in the after carronades emanated a sense of single-minded purpose. He was always to remember this drive that superimposed their efforts as the ‘Nelson touch’, far more