The Corvette nd-5

by Ричард Вудмен

  They went about again and rounded a headland of frowning black rocks. It was a salient of the mountains that rose peak above peak to the distant, glistening nunataks. Standing close in, the dark, deeply fissured rocks showed a variety of colours in the sunshine where lodes of quartz and growths of multi-hued lichens relieved the drabness. They were also made uncomfortably aware of the existence of mosquitos, a surprising discovery and one that made even the philosophical Singleton short tempered.

  Squatting on a carronade slide little Frey recorded the drab appearance of the rocks as a shrewdly observed mixture of greys, deep red and dark green. His brush and pencil had been busy since they had first sighted land and the active encouragement of the captain had silenced the jeers of Walmsley and Glencross, at least in public.

  Above them the cliff reared, precipitous to man, but composed of a million ledges where the stains of bird-lime indicated the nesting sites of kittiwakes and auks. A number still perched on these remote spots, together with the sea-parrots whose brilliant coloured beaks glowed like tiny jewels in the blazing sunshine.

  Alongside, an old bull seal rose, his nostrils pinching and opening, while two pale cubs, the year's progeny, dived as the shadow of the ship fell upon them. As they cleared the cape open water appeared to the westward, bounded to the northern shore by another distant headland. From forward came a howl of delight from Meetuck. He pointed west, down the channel where distant mountains rose blue against the sky.

  Singleton crossed the deck, his ear cocked to catch Meetuck's words.

  'It seems, sir, that the anchorage of Nagtoralik lies at the head of this fiord.'

  Drinkwater nodded. 'Let us hope that it is the providential refuge that we so desperately need, Mr Singleton.'

  'And where you can land me,' answered Singleton in a low voice, staring ahead.

  Daylight diminished to a luminous twilight for the six hours that the sun now dipped beneath the horizon. The brief arctic summer was fast fading and with its warmth gone the wind dropped and a dripping fog settled over the ship. Lines hung slack and the sails slatted impotently. After the warmth of the day the chill, grey midnight struck cold throughout the ship, though in fact the mercury in the thermometer had fallen far lower among the ice-bergs of the Greenland Sea.

  Shivering in his cabin Drinkwater wrote up his journal, expressing his anxiety over the state of Melusine's steering gear and his inability to find and rescue Sawyers.

  Assuming that we are able to effect repairs to the rudder by hauling down I am not optimistic of locating the Faithful. The lack of belligerence in Captain Sawyers made of him and his ship a gift to the marauding French and it is unlikely that we shall be of further use to him.

  He paused, unwilling to admit to himself the extent of his sense of failure in carrying out Earl St Vincent's orders. At the moment the very real anxieties of a safe haven, the possibility of carrying out effective repairs and of returning to join the whalers for the homeward convoy were more immediately demanding. With a sigh he turned to a more domestic matter.

  My desire to anchor will, of necessity, rob me of the services of Mr Singleton who is determined to pursue his mission among the eskimo tribes. I am torn between admiration and… He paused. He had been about to write 'contempt', but that would not be accurate, despite the fact that he considered Singleton a fool to think he could either convert the eskimos or survive himself. He did not doubt that men imbued with Singleton's religious zeal could endure incredible hardships, but his own years of seafaring had taught him never to gamble with fate, always to weigh the chances carefully before deciding upon a course of action. He had never seen himself as a dashing sea-officer of the damn-the-consequences type. Drinkwater sighed again. He admired Singleton for his fortitude and he was in awe of his faith. He scratched out his last sentence and wrote:

  I admire Singleton's courage at undertaking his mission, but I do not understand the power of his faith. His presence on board as a surgeon will be sorely missed, but I fear my remonstrances fall upon deaf ears and he is determined to remain upon this coast.

  Soon afterwards Drinkwater's head fell forward upon his chest and he dozed.

  'Captain, sir! Captain, sir!'

  'Eh? What is it?' Drinkwater woke with a start, cold and held in a rigor of stiff muscles.

  'Mr Quilhampton's compliments, sir, and there's a light easterly breeze, sir.'

  'Thank you, Mr Frey, I'll be up.'

  The boy disappeared and Drinkwater dragged himself painfully to his feet. On deck he found the fog as dense as ever, but above his head the squared yards spread canvas before the light wind. Quilhampton touched his hat.

  'Mornin' sir.'

  'Mornin' Mr Q.'

  'Wind's increasing sir. Course west by north. Beggin' your pardon sir, but d'you wish us to heave to, sir, or, if we stand on to sound minute guns?'

  'D'you sound minute guns, Mr Q, and post a midshipman forrard to sing out the instant he hears an echo. We will put the ship on the wind and the moment that occurs on a course of east-nor'-east. '

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Drinkwater fell to pacing the quarterdeck. Before the fog closed down they had seen the fiord open to the westward. They could stand down it with a reasonable degree of safety, provided of course that they heard no echoes close ahead from the towering cliffs in answer to their minute guns. Eight bells rang, the end of the middle watch, four o'clock in the morning and already the sun had risen. He longed for its warmth to penetrate the nacreous vapour, consume the fog and ease the pain in his shoulder.

  It was six hours later before the fog began to disperse. The wind had fallen light again and their progress had been slow, measured only by the anxious barking of the minute gun and the hushed silence that followed it. They saw distant mountain peaks at first and it became clear that they were reaching the head of the fiord for they lay ahead, on either bow and either beam. Snow gleamed as the sun seemed suddenly fierce and the fog changed from a pervasive cloud to dense wraiths and then drew back to reveal a little, misty circle of sea about them while the cliffs seemed to reach downwards from the sky.

  It was a fantastic effect, but their vision was still obscured at sea level, and for a further hour they moved slowly westward, Drinkwater still anxiously pacing the quarterdeck while on the knightheads Meetuck waited with the expectancy of a dog.

  And then, about five bells in the morning watch, the visibility suddenly cleared. Melusine was almost at the head of the fiord. To the south stretched the cliffs and mountains that culminated in the cape beneath whose fissured rocks they had tacked the previous afternoon. This wall of rock curved round to the west and north, bordering the fiord. The northern shore was comprised of mountains but these were less precipitous, the littoral formed of bays and inlets some of which were wooded with low conifers. At the head of the fiord, where once a mighty glacier had calved bergs into the sea, was a bay, backed by rising ground, an alpine meadow-land that turned to scree, then buttresses of dark rock rising to mountain peaks.

  On the fo'c's'le Meetuck pointed triumphantly, capering about and clapping his hands, his lined face creased with happiness.

  'My God!' exclaimed Drinkwater fishing for his glass. It was an anchorage without a doubt. Not a mile from them five ships lay tranquilly at anchor. One of them was the Requin, flying the tricolour of France.

  An instant later she opened fire.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nagtoralik Bay

  August 1803

  'Beat to quarters, Mr Bourne!'

  Drinkwater ignored the bedlam surrounding him while Melusine was put into a state to fight. He swept the anchorage, pausing only briefly on each ship to determine its force. But it occurred to him as he did so that there was something remarkable about three of the ships in the bay. Identification of the Recjuin was simple. She must have arrived off Cape Jervis well ahead of the Melusine and now she was swung, a spring on her cable, every gun pointing at the British ship which, by its minute guns, had warned
her of its approach.

  Drinkwater swore, for he realised that anchored to the south of the Requin was a large lugger, a chassé marée, and to the east of her, the unpierced topsides of the Faithful. To find Sawyers's ship in such circumstances was hardly reassuring, given that Melusine still laboured under her jury rudder.

  To the west of Requin two more vessels lay at anchor and Drinkwater knew them instantly for whale ships. They were not immediately familiar and as Bourne reported the sloop cleared for action, Drinkwater ordered the course altered to starboard, risking raking fire, but anxious to close the distance a little before responding to Requin's guns. Drinkwater began to calculate the odds. The big, French privateer made no obvious move to get under way. She would sit at anchor, in the centre of her captures, relying upon her superior weight of metal to keep Melusine at a distance. When she had driven off Melusine she would come in pursuit, to administer the coup de grâce.

  Drinkwater swore again. Their jury rudder and obvious reduction of rig bespoke their weakness. He looked again at the Requin for signs of damage to her bow. She had a bowsprit, perhaps a trifle shorter than when they had first met, and therefore a jury rig, but it looked perfectly serviceable.

  'That's the bloody Nimrod!' Hill called in astonishment, 'and the Conqueror!'

  Drinkwater swung his glass left. The extent of his own ineptness struck him like a blow even as Bourne replied to the sailing master.

  'They must have been taken off Spitzbergen, by God!'

  Was Bourne right? Had the Requin taken Nimrod and Conqueror off Spitzbergen and cruised with complete impunity throughout the Greenland Sea? If so, Melusine's presence had been a farce, a complete charade. Every exertion of her company a futile waste of time. He could see again the contempt for his own inexperience in Captain Ellerby's pale blue eyes. How mortifyingly justified that contempt was now proved. He had bungled his commission from Lord St Vincent and failure stared at him from every one of Requin's gun muzzles.

  Drinkwater swallowed hard. He felt as though he had received a physical blow.

  'Make ready the larboard battery, Mr Bourne. Put the ship on the wind, Mr Hill, starboard tack. We will open fire on the Requin, Mr Bourne, all guns to try for the base of her mainmast.' His voice sounded steady and assured despite his inner turmoil.

  He nodded as the two officers acknowledged their orders, then he raised his glass again, anxious to hide his face.

  Melusine headed inshore, her bowsprit pointing at the stern of the Faithful as Requin fired her second broadside. It was better pointed than the first as the British sloop stood well into range. Drinkwater felt shots go home, holes appeared in several sails and he felt acutely vulnerable with his clumsy jury steering gear. But a plan was formulating in his mind. If he could lay Melusine alongside the Faithful he might be able to launch a boat attack on the Requin while partially protecting Melusine's weak stern from the Requin's heavier guns.

  'Larboard battery ready, sir,' Bourne reported, and Drinkwater took his glass from his eye only long enough to acknowledge the readiness of the gunners.

  'Fire when you bear, Mr Bourne.'

  They were closing Faithful rapidly and more shots from Requin arrived, striking splinters from forward and sending Meetuck scampering aft and down the companionway like a scuttering rabbit. A roar of laughter ran along the deck and then Melusine's guns replied, the captains jerking their lanyards in a rolling broadside.

  'Mr Mount! Your men are to storm the whaler Faithful when I bring the ship under her lee. I doubt she has more than a prize crew aboard and…'

  'Bloody hell!' A heavy shot thumped into the quarter rail and smashed the timbers inboard. It was perilously close to Mr Hill as he stood by the big tiller and he swore in surprise. Drinkwater looked up to determine the source of the ball and another hit Melusine, dismounting an after larboard gun. It was carronade fire.

  'It's the fucking Nimrod, by God!' howled Hill, his face purple with rage as he capered to avoid the splinters. Whatever it was it was dangerous and Drinkwater decided to retire.

  'Larboard tack, Mr Hill, upon the instant!'

  Hill jumped to the order with alacrity and Drinkwater swung his glass onto the whaler Nimrod. Smoke drifted away from her side and he saw another stab of yellow fire and a second later was drenched in the spray from the water thrown up no more than five yards astern.

  'By Christ…' Drinkwater saw a black-bearded figure standing on the rail. There was no doubt about it being Jemmett Ellerby and he was waving his hat as yet another shot was fired from his carronades.

  Drinkwater's blood froze. He wanted to make sure of what he saw and studied the big figure intently. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. Nimrod flew no colours while above his own head the British ensign snapped out as Melusine lay over to the larboard tack, exposing her stern, but rapidly increasing her distance from the enemy.

  'Ship full and bye on the larboard tack, sir,' Hill reported. Drinkwater nodded, his brain still whirling with the evidence his senses presented him with. It seemed impossible, but then, as the ship stood out of danger to the eastward and he could order the gun crews stood easy, he gave himself time to think.

  'Beat to windward, Mr Hill. You may reduce sail and have the men served dinner at their guns…'

  'Look at that, sir! Do you see it?' Lieutenant Bourne cried incredulously. He pointed astern to where, beyond the anchored ships what looked like stone huts, low and almost part of the beach, showed beyond the anchored ships. There was a flagpole and from it flew the unmistakable colours of Republican France.

  Drinkwater attempted to make sense of the events of the forenoon. At first he was bewildered but after a while he set himself the task of assembling the evidence as he saw it. He retired to his cabin as Melusine stood eastward under easy sail, making short tacks. On a piece of paper he began to list the facts and as he wrote he felt a quickening of his pulse. Under the stimulus of a glass or two his memory threw up odd, remembered facts that began to slot neatly together. He was seized by the conviction that his reasoning was running true and he sent for Singleton, explaining that he would land the missionary as soon as it was safe to do so but what appeared to be Frenchmen held the post at Nagtoralik.

  'I want you to question Meetuck exhaustively, Mr Singleton. His attitude to the guns has been odd, so has his attitude to myself. You recollect he talked of "bad" white men,' Drinkwater explained and Singleton nodded.

  'I do not expect he is able to tell the difference between British, French, Dutch or Russians, all of whom have frequented these seas from time to time. He could not be expected to comprehend a state of war exists between us and the men occupying his village.'

  'You saw a village then?'

  Singleton nodded. 'I saw twenty or so topeks and a number of kayaks drawn up on the beach.'

  Drinkwater sighed, biting off a sarcasm that Singleton would have been better employed in the cockpit. The divine was no longer bound to serve there, he was free to go ashore when circumstances permitted, and, thank God, Melusine had suffered no casualties thanks to Drinkwater's timely withdrawal.

  'Very well. Be a good fellow and see what information you can extort from our eskimo friend. I am almost certain that Ellerby, the master of the Nimrod, is in league with whoever is ashore there. He opened fire on us.'

  Singleton nodded. 'I wish to land in a place untainted by such doings, Captain Drinkwater. I shall see what I can do.'

  After he had gone Drinkwater again gathered his thoughts. Of course St Vincent had not guessed that the French would attempt to make settlements in Greenland. Drinkwater could only imagine what privations the inhabitants endured during the Arctic winter. But since the loss of Canada forty years earlier France had held St Pierre and Miquelon and it was not inconceivable that now she dominated Denmark, the country that claimed sovereignty over these remote coasts, France might attempt such a thing. St Vincent had mentioned Canada and had seemed certain that some moves were being made by Bonaparte's government or its agen
ts, official or entrepreneurial, in these northern seas. 'This is no sinecure,' the Earl had said, 'and I charge you to remember that, in addition to protecting the northern whale-fleet you should destroy any attempt the French make to establish their own fishery…'

  Was that what they were doing? It seemed possible. The Portuguese hunted the whale from island bases and, although the winter ice would close the bay, the collusion of a traitor like Ellerby to supply whales, blubber, oil and baleen to them began to make a kind of sense. He began to consider Ellerby and as he did so the figure of Waller insinuated itself into his mind. Conqueror was the other ship in the anchorage. Was Waller tied up with Ellerby? Had Conqueror also fired into Melusine unobserved?

  Drinkwater thought back to Hull. Waller had seemed like Ellerby's familiar then. They had clearly acted together, Drinkwater concluded, as he recollected other things about the two men. Ellerby's hostility to Palgrave had resulted in a duel. It occurred to Drinkwater that whatever his prejudices against a man of Palgrave's stamp the quarrel might have been deliberately provoked. And there was Ellerby's affirmation at the Trinity House that he intended to fish for whales where the whim took him. 'Do not expect us to hang upon your skirts like frightened children,' he had said insolently. The recollection stimulated others. When Drinkwater had mentioned the menace of French privateers and the sailing of enemy ships for the Arctic seas he had intended a deliberate exaggeration, a hyperbole to claim attention. He remembered the look of surprise that the black-bearded Ellerby had exchanged with the master sitting next to him. That man had been Waller.

  Later, in Bressay Sound, Waller had shown considerable interest in Drinkwater's intentions. It was with some bitterness that Drinkwater realised he had taken little note of these events at the time and had been hoist by his own petard to some extent. And there was something else, something much more significant and, to a seaman much less circumstantial. Waller's attitude to Drinkwater's offer of protection had been dismissive. How dismissive and how ineffectual that offer had been, now burned him with shame; but that was not the point. Waller had stated that the masters of whalers resented interference and when Drinkwater had nominated the rendezvous position Waller had smoothed the chart out. He had been on the left of Drinkwater, looking at the west Greenland coast, yet he and Ellerby intended to hunt whales off Spitzbergen!