A Brig of War nd-3

by Richard Woodman

  On the gun deck every man who could be spared was at work. Drinkwater had relinquished the upper deck to Dalziell with an admonition to the quartermaster that if he was a degree off the wind more than was necessary he would be flayed. The man grinned cheerfully and the first lieutenant went below to orchestrate the idea that was already causing a buzz of comment, much of it unfavourable.

  'Belay that damned Dover court and take heed of what I have to say…'

  The wind eased by the minute but it continued to blow down to leeward, conferring an advantage on the pursuer. She could be plainly seen from the deck now but Drinkwater no longer fretted over her approach. Instead he sweated and swore, admonished and encouraged, belaboured and bullied the tired Hellebores as they lugged the six larboard eighteen-pounders across the deck to assemble a battery of twelve in the vacant gunports on the starboard side.

  The deck was criss-crossed with tackles, bull ropes and preventers. After several hours employed in hauling first one and then another, of casting stoppers on and off, of wracking seizings and heaving on handspikes, Rogers, stripped to his shirt and mopping his florid face with a handkerchief, fought his way over the network of lines.

  'Christ alive, Drinkwater, this is a confounded risky trick, ain't it. Damn me if I can see the logic of putting all your eggs in one basket.' There was a murmur of agreement from several of the men.

  'Why, Mr Rogers,' said Drinkwater cheerfully, suddenly realising that his flux and nausea had vanished, and pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, 'the easier to hurl 'em at the French!'

  'So's they can make bleeding hommelettes…'

  'To go with their fucking frog's legs…' A burst of laughter greeted this sally while Mr Lestock, peering down from the deck, tut-tutted and went aft.

  'The captain is aware of our doin's, Mr Lestock,' called Drinkwater and another burst of laughter came from the men. It might be a dangerous indication of indiscipline but what the hell? They might all be dead in the coming hours. Or exchanging places with Santhonax. 'Right; a touch more on that tackle, Mr Brundell, if you please.'

  'Come then, lads,' roared the master's mate. The men spat on their hands and lay back. They broke out into the spontaneous cry they had evolved for concerted effort: 'Hellee-ee-bores… Bellee-ee-whores…!' The eighteen-pounder moved across the deck and Drinkwater thought Griffiths would have approved of that cry.

  Night found them almost becalmed but the whisper of wind remained constant in direction and Drinkwater held to his belief that they must not throw away their position to windward, that to attempt to run down past their enemy and escape only put the French between them and the Cape. But dawn found them to leeward, the wind backing and rising as, in growing daylight they were able to see the wind fill the enemy's sails before their own.

  But Drinkwater's chagrin was swiftly replaced by hope an hour after dawn. Without warning the wind chopped round to the southwest again and began to freshen, both ships leaned to it, Antigone less than usual since she carried all her artillery on her starboard, windward side.

  But the fluky quality of the wind had overnight brought their opponent almost within gunshot. At last Drinkwater was compelled to order his men to quarters.

  He had not done so earlier to preserve their energy but, hardly had he taken the decision and the watch below came tumbling sleepily on deck, than the first shot fell short upon their larboard quarter.

  The four-score Hellebores ran to their stations. Rogers came aft and received his instructions. When Drinkwater explained what he intended to do Rogers held out his hand.

  'I've misjudged you in the past, Nathaniel, and I'm sorry for it. I only hope my new-found confidence is not misplaced.'

  'Amen to that, Samuel,' replied Drinkwater, smiling ruefully. Appleby came on deck.

  'D'you have your saws and daviers at the ready, Harry?' jested Drinkwater hollowly, shuddering at the thought of being rendered limbless by such instruments.

  'Aye, Nat, and God help me,' he added with a significant stare at Drinkwater, 'Kate Best assists me.' He disappeared below, followed by Rogers en route to command the battery of eighteen-pounders. Lestock coughed beside him, affecting to study the enemy and remarking upon his shooting as the French bow chaser barked away at them. The tricolour could be seen trailing astern from her peak and mainmasthead. As yet no colours flew from Antigone's spars. Mr Dalziell strutted nervously along the line of larboard quarterdeck car-ronades. To starboard Mr Quilhampton was quietly pacing up and down, his stump behind his back, doing his best to ape Mr Drinkwater. At the mainmast Mr Brundell commanded the waisters to board or trim sail as the need arose while, legs apart on the fo'c's'le Mr Grey, his silver whistle about his neck commanded the head party.

  The person of Rattray appeared carrying a chair. He placed it upon the quarterdeck and Morris, pale and shaking, slumped into it. Drinkwater approached him.

  'I am glad to see you sir, your presence will encourage the hands.' Under the circumstances he could say no more. Morris's courage had surely been misjudged, perhaps the responsibility of command could yet temper the man just as culpability had changed Rogers.

  Morris stared up at Drinkwater and moved his hand from beneath the blanket. The lock of a pistol was visible in his lap.

  'Stuff your sanctimonious cant, Drinkwater. Fight my bloody ship or I'll blow you to hell.'

  Drinkwater opened his mouth in astonishment. Then he closed it as a thump hit the ship and a spatter of splinters flew from the larboard quarter rail. The action had begun.

  All on deck stared astern. In the full daylight the frigate foaming up looked glorious, her hull a rich brown, her gunstrake cream. She was a point upon their larboard quarter. Thank God for a strengthening wind, thought Drinkwater as he spoke to Lestock. 'Mr Lestock! Do you let her fall off a little, contrive it to look a trifle careless.'

  'D'you give away weather gauge, Mr Drinkwater?' contradicted Lestock with a look in Morris's direction.

  'Do as you are told, sir!' The quartermaster eased the helm up a couple of spokes and Antigone paid off the wind a few degrees. The gunfire ceased. Relative motion showed the Frenchman slowly crossing Antigone's stern. For the moment his bow chasers would not bear.

  'British colours, Mr Q.' Old Glory snapped out over their heads and almost immediately the enemy's larboard bow chaser opened fire. She had crossed their stern. Drinkwater had surrendered the weather gauge and still the Antigone had not fired a shot.

  Drinkwater walked forward and gripped the rail. 'Mr Brundell! Ease your foremast lee sheets a little!' A tiny tremble could be felt through the palms of his damp hands as he clasped the rail tightly. Antigone was losing power through those trembling foresails. He hoped the enemy could not see those fluttering clews behind the sails of the mainmast. The French ship began to draw ahead, overtaking them on their starboard side, a fine big ship, almost, now, they could see her in profile, identical to themselves. 'Are you ready, Mr Rogers?' Drinkwater hailed and the word was passed back that Samuel Rogers was ready. To vindicate his honour, Drinkwater guessed.

  'I hope you know what you are about Mr Drinkwater.' Morris's voice sounded stronger. 'So do I, sir,' replied Drinkwater swept by a sudden mood of exhilaration. If only the Frog would hold his broadside until all his guns would bear.

  'Stand by mizen braces, Mr Brundell,' he called in a sharp, clear voice.

  'What the bloody hell…?'

  'For what we are about to receive…'

  'Holy Mary, Mother of God…'

  A puff of smoke erupted from the forward larboard gun of the Ffench frigate. They were her lee guns, pointing downwards on a deck sloping towards the enemy. So much for the weather gauge once the manoeuvring was over.

  But it was not over: 'Mizen braces! Mr Rogers!'

  The lee mizen braces were flung from their pins, a man at each to see them free, with orders to cut them if a single turn jammed in a block. The faked ropes ran true as the weather braces were hauled under the vociferous direction of Br
undell. All along the starboard side the smoke and flame of the main-deck battery opened fire, the twelve eighteen-pounders rumbling back on their trucks to be sponged and reloaded. Drinkwater did not think they would manage more than a single shot at their adversary as, under the thundering backing of the mizen sails, Antigone slowed in the water, appeared to stop dead as the enemy stormed past, suddenly firing ahead of the British prize. Quilhampton was hauling the carronade slides round to get off a second shot, screaming at his gun crews like a regular Tarpaulin officer.

  'Come you sons of whores, move it up, lively with that sponge, God damn you…'

  Drinkwater looked for the fall of shot. At maximum elevation with the ship heeling away from the enemy they must have done some damage. Christ, they had hurled all the damned bar shot and chain shot they could cram in the guns, all the French dis-masting projectiles to give the Frogs a taste of their own medicine.

  And they had missed her. Mortified, Drinkwater's ever observant eye could already read the name of the passing frigate: Romaine. And now, by heaven, they must run.

  A cheer was breaking out on the fo'c's'le and he looked again. The enemy's maintopmast was tottering to leeward. It formed a graceful curve then fell in a splintering of spars and erratic descent as stays arrested it and parted under the weight.

  Relief flooded Drinkwater. There was cheering all along the upper deck and from down below. Rogers had come up and was pumping his hand. Even Lestock's face wore a sickly, condescending grin.

  'Sir! Sir!' Quilhampton was pointing.

  'God's bones!'

  The wreckage was slewing the Romaine sharply to larboard, across Antigone's bow. In the perfect position to rake. And men were working furiously at the wreckage with axes. Forward a man screamed as his leg flew off. It was Mr Brundell. 'Mr Grey! Back the yards on the foremast!' He turned, 'Mr Dalziell, back the yards on the main, lively now.'

  He waited impatiently. Antigone had hove herself to. Now they must make a stern board, to get out of trouble before…

  The raking broadside hit them, the balls whirling the length of the deck. Mr Quilhampton fell and beside Drinkwater Lestock went 'Urgh!' and a gout of blood appeared all over Drinkwater's breeches. Drinkwater stood stock still. On the fo'c's'le, legs still apart, stood Mr Grey. The two men stood numbed, one hundred feet apart, regarding each other over a human shambles. As if by magic figures stood up and the main yards groaned round in their parrels. They were followed by those on the foremast. Antigone began to gather sternway. The next broadside roared out. It had been fired on an upward roll. Antigone's foretopgallant mast went overboard.

  'Helm a weather! Hard a-starboard!' But Drinkwater's order was too late. The frigate was already paying off, her bows coming up into the wind, across the wind, until finally she wallowed with her unarmed larboard side facing the enemy.

  'Lee forebrace!' If he could trim the yards to the larboard tack they might yet escape. The third broadside brought the main topmast down, the mizen topgallant with it. No one stood alive at the wheel.

  Drinkwater looked at the Romaine. French cruisers, he knew, carried large crews. Now the advantages thus conferred upon them became apparent. Already the wreckage was cleared away and she was under control, setting down towards them.

  'Mr Dalziell, prepare your larboard carronades. Mr Grey! Larboard fo'c's'le carronades.' Bitterly Drinkwater strode forward and jerked one of the brass gangway swivels. He lined it up on the approaching frigate.

  'Mr Drinkwater!' He turned to find Morris pointing the pistol at him. 'You failed, Drinkwater…'

  'Not yet, by God, Morris, not yet!'

  'What else can you do, dog's turd, your cleverness has destroyed you.' Drinkwater's brain bridled at Morris's suggestion. True, a second earlier he himself had been on the verge of despair but the human mind trips and locks onto odd things under stress. It did not occur at that moment that Morris's action in pointing the gun at him was irrational; that Morris's apparent delight at his failure would also result in Morris's own capture. It was that old cockpit epithet that sparked his brain to greater endeavours.

  'No, sir. By God there's one card yet to play!' he shouted below for Mr Rogers even as Dalziell approached with a coloured bundle in his arms.

  'What the hell is that?' screamed Drinkwater.

  'I was ordered to strike,' said Dalziell.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  A Matter of Luck

  November-December 1799

  Drinkwater snatched the ensign from Dalziell's grasp. The red bunting spilled onto the deck. He turned to Morris, the question unasked on his lips. Morris inclined his head, implying his authority lay behind the surrender.

  The belief that he was dying had taken so sharp a hold upon his mind that he was sure surrender offered him survival. The enemy cruiser was from lie de France. As commander of such a well-fought prize he would be treated with respect, and removed from the source of his poisoning he would recover. Into Morris's mind came another reason, adding its own weight in favour of surrender. While he enjoyed an easy house arrest at Port Louis his officers would be incarcerated. Drinkwater would be mewed up for the duration of the war. It would finish the work he had failed to do at Kosseir.

  In the electric atmosphere that charged the quarterdeck all this was plain to them both. Their mutual antipathy had reached its crisis.

  'The French are sending a boat, sir,' said Dalziell, eyes darting from one to the other. Drinkwater turned and shoved the ensign back at Dalziell.

  'That is Hellebore's ensign, by God! I'll not see it struck yet!'

  Rogers arrived on the quarterdeck. He saw the ensign. 'Surely we haven't…?'

  'No, by Christ, we have not!' Dalziell was pushed towards the halliards as Drinkwater snapped to Rogers. 'Get Santhonax up here, and Bruilhac! Quick!'

  Drinkwater looked at the approaching boat, a launch packed with men, a cable from them.

  'I command, damn you!' Morris hissed furiously. Drinkwater turned and looked down the barrel of the pistol.

  He crossed the deck in two strides and wrenched the gun from his grasp. 'You may rot, Morris, but I am not through yet… get that ensign up, Dalziell, you lubber…'

  Drinkwater was aware that he was holding the pistol at the young man. Dalziell threw a final, failing glance at Morris then did as he was bid. He belayed the halliards as Santhonax came on deck. The Frenchman looked curiously about him, took in the fallen spars, the broken bodies and blood spattered across the deck. He saw too the ensign being belayed and his quick mind understood. A glance to windward showed him his countrymen, the gunports of Romaine, and the boat, almost alongside.

  'Get 'em up on the rail, Rogers, that Frog won't fire on his own boat.'

  But a gun did fire, the ball whistling overhead, a single discharge to recall the British to the etiquette of war.

  Drinkwater pointed the pistol at Santhonax. 'Captain, tell that boat to pull off. This ship has not surrendered. The ensign halliards were shot through. If the officer in the boat pulls off I will not open fire until he has regained his ship, otherwise I shall destroy him,' he paused, 'and you also, Captain.'

  The French boat was ten yards off, the officer standing in the stern, looking up in astonishment at the apparition of a Republican naval officer standing beneath the British ensign like Hector on the walls of Troy.

  Santhonax looked at Drinkwater. 'No,' he said simply. 'I leave it to the desperation of your plight and your conscience to shoot me.'

  Drinkwater's heart was thumping painfully and he could feel the sweat pouring out of him. He sensed Morris awaiting events. He swore beneath his breath.

  'Get up, Bruilhac!' The terrified boy climbed trembling on the rail as Drinkwater jerked his head at Rogers to pull Santhonax off the rail. Rogers leapt forward, together with Tregembo. But they were too late.

  Drinkwater was about to threaten Bruilhac with instant death if he did not do his bidding but he was spared this cruel necessity. A sudden eruption of cannon fire to the east of
them swung the focus of attention abruptly away from the wretched little drama on Antigone's rails. At first is seemed Romaine had fired a final shattering broadside to compel Antigone to strike. In their boat the French thought the same. There was a simultaneous ducking of heads. Bruilhac fainted through sheer terror while a similar reflex caused Santhonax to dive outboard.

  Even as Drinkwater registered Santhonax's escape and heard the howl of rage from Morris he had noticed there was no flame from Romaine's larboard broadside. The sun beat down through the clearing smoke of their earlier discharges as the wind shredded the last of it to leeward and there, in the bright path laid by the sun upon the sea, they saw the newcomer.

  'A British frigate, by all that's wonderful!' shouted Rogers, suddenly releasing them all from their suspended animation. Tregembo picked up two round-shot from the carronade garlands and tried to lob them into the French boat. The Frenchmen suddenly laid on their oars and spun her round just as Captain Santhonax's hand reached up for help. Drinkwater had a brief glimpse of his face, disfigured and distorted by the pain in his shoulder, his left arm trailing, his long legs kicking powerfully.

  Another thundering broadside, this time from Romaine, caused a second's pause. There was no fall of shot near Antigone; Romaine was bracing her yards round to fill her sails with wind.

  Drinkwater leapt to the deck. 'Rogers! Tregembo!'

  He picked up a cartridge and rammed it into the nearest carronade. Tregembo rolled a shot into the muzzle and joined Rogers on the tackles. Drinkwater spun the screw and watched the blunt barrel depress. He leant against the slide and felt it slew on its heavy caster. 'Secure!'

  Through the gunport he could see the boat, see the officer and a man hauling Santhonax over the transom. Rogers drove the priming quill into the touch-hole and blew powder into the groove. Still sighting along the barrel Drinkwater's right hand cocked the lock and his long fingers wound round the lanyard. The boat traversed the back-sight.