‘Thou hast competition in the matter of elegance, Captain.’
‘You object to elegance, Captain Sawyers?’
‘It is irrelevant to the true meaning of life, Captain.’
‘How will the Faithful fare with you piloting Melusine from the Humber?’ asked Drinkwater, changing the subject and feeling preached at for the second time in as many days.
‘My son is chief mate, Captain Drinkwater, a man as skilled as myself.’
‘Come, sir,’ put in Drinkwater grinning, ‘that is immodest!’
‘Not at all. Ability is a gift from God as manifest as physical strength or the fact that I have brown hair. I do not glory in it, merely state it.’
Drinkwater felt out-manoeuvred on his own quarterdeck and turned to look astern. Alone among the whale-ships foaming in their wake, Faithful was without a garland slung between fore and mainmasts. The ancient symbol of a Greenlander’s love-tokens was absent from her topgallant rigging, neither were there so many flags as were flying from the other ships. Drinkwater wondered how many of Sawyers’s crew shared his gentle and sober creed. Perhaps his rumoured success at the fishery reconciled them to a lack of ostentation as was customary on sailing day.
The other ships were under no such constraint. The otherwise dull appearance of the whale-ships was enlivened by streamers, ensigns and pendants bearing their names, lovingly fashioned by their wives and sweethearts whose fluttering handkerchiefs had long since vanished. The embroidered pendant that flew from Nimrod’s mainmasthead was fifty feet long, an oriflamme of scarlet, and Drinkwater could see the dominating figure of Jemmett Ellerby at the break of her poop.
Nimrod was crowding on sail and bid fair to pass Melusine as she slipped easily along at six knots, going large before the wind under her topsails and foretopmast staysail, leading the slower whalers towards the open waters of the North Sea.
‘He hath the pride of Goliath before the Philistine Host,’ Sawyers nodded in Ellerby’s direction. ‘He shall meet David at God’s will.’
Drinkwater looked at the Quaker. He was not surprised that there were divisions of opinion and rifts between a group of individuals as unique as the whale-captains. Once on the fishing grounds there would be a rivalry between them that Drinkwater foresaw would make his task almost impossible. But the remark had either a touch of the venom of jealousy or of a confidence. Given what he had seen of Sawyers he doubted the man was a hypocrite and marked the remark as a proof of the Quaker’s friendship. He responded.
‘I am most grateful, Captain Sawyers, for your kind offer to pilot us clear of the Humber. It is an intricate navigation, given to much change, but I had not supposed that a gentleman of your persuasion would countenance boarding a King’s ship.’ He gestured towards the lines of cannon housed against the rail.
‘Ah, but, thou hast also doubtless heard how those of my persuasion, as thou has it, are not averse to profit, eh?’ Sawyers smiled.
‘Indeed I have,’ replied Drinkwater smiling back.
‘Well I shall confess to thee a love of the fishery, both for its profits and its nearness to God. It seems that thy presence is indispensable this season and so,’ he shrugged, ‘in order to practise my calling, sir, I have needs to assist thee to sea. Now, thou must bring her to larboard two points and square the yards before that scoundrel Ellerby forces you ashore on the Burcom.’
Nimrod was foaming up on their quarter, a huge bow wave hissing at her forefoot.
‘May I give her the forecourse, sir?’ asked Germaney eagerly.
‘Aye, sir, he knows well enough to keep astern according to the order of sailing,’ added Hill indignantly.
Drinkwater shook his head. ‘This is not a race. Mr Q!’
‘Sir?’
‘Make to Nimrod “Keep proper station”.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater turned his full attention to the Nimrod. She was almost level with the Melusine’s mizen now, no more than a hundred feet off as she too swung to larboard.
In the waist of the sloop men milled about watching the whaler and looking aft to see the reaction of their new commander. Officers too, advised of the trial of strength taking place above, had come up from their watch below. Drinkwater saw Singleton’s sober black figure watching from the rail while Mr Gorton explained what was happening.
Drinkwater felt an icy determination fill him. After the days of being put upon, of being the victim of circumstance and not its master, he secretly thanked Ellerby for this public opportunity. By God, he was damned if he would crowd an inch of canvas on his ship.
Quilhampton and little Frey were sending up the signal. It was a simple numeral, one of two score of signals he had circulated to his charges the evening before. Mr Frey had even tinted the little squared flags drawn in the margins with the colours from his water-colour box. Drinkwater smiled at the boy’s keenness.
Amidships the newly joined Tregembo nudged the man next to him.
‘See that, mate. When he grins like that the sparks fly.’ There was renewed interest in the conduct of their captain, particularly as the Nimrod continued to surge past.
Drinkwater turned to his first lieutenant. ‘Give him the larboard bow chaser unshotted, if you please.’
‘Larbowlines! Spitfire battery stand by!’
It was all very modish, thought Drinkwater ruefully, the divisions told off by name as if Melusine had been a crack seventy-four. Still, the men jumped eagerly enough to their pieces. He could see the disappointment as Germaney arrived forward and stood all the gun-crews down except that at the long twelve pounder in the eyes.
Germaney looked aft and Drinkwater nodded.
The gun roared and Drinkwater saw the wadding drop right ahead of Nimrod’s bowsprit. But still she came on.
‘Mr Germaney! Come aft!’
Germaney walked aft. ‘Sir?’
‘Have your topmen aloft ready to let fall the forecourse, but not before I say. Mr Rispin!’ The junior lieutenant touched his hat. ‘Load that brass popgun with ball. Maximum elevation.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Do you purpose to fire on him, friend?’ There was anxiety in Sawyers’s voice.
‘Merely putting a stone in David’s sling,’ said Drinkwater raising his glass.
‘But I do not approve . . .’
Drinkwater ignored him. He was staring at Ellerby. The Greenlander was pointing to the men ascending Melusine’s foremast and spreading out along the foreyard, casting off alternate gaskets.
‘Pass me the trumpet, Mr Hill.’ He took the megaphone and clambered up into the mizen rigging.
‘Take station, Ellerby! do you hear me! Or take the consequences!’
He watched the big man leap into Nimrod’s mizen chains and they confronted one another across eighty feet of water that sloshed and hissed between them, confused by the wash of the two ships.
‘Consequences? What consequences, eh, Captain?’ There was a quite audible roar of laughter from Nimrod’s deck. Without climbing down Drinkwater turned his head.
‘When his mainmast bears, Mr Rispin, you may open fire.’
Drinkwater felt the wave of concussion from the brass carronade at the larboard hance. The hole that appeared in Nimrod’s main topsail must have opened a seam, for the sail split from head to foot. A cheer filled Melusine’s waist and Drinkwater leapt inboard. ‘Silence there!’ he bawled. ‘Give her the forecourse, Mr Germaney.’
The big sail fell in huge flogs of billowing canvas. In an instant the waisters had tailed on the sheets and hauled its clews hard down. Melusine seemed to lift in the water and start forward. Nimrod fell astern.
‘Tell me, Captain Sawyers,’ Drinkwater asked conversationally, ‘do you throw a harpoon in person?’
‘Aye, Captain, I do.’
‘And cause more harm than that ball, I dare say.’ Drinkwater was smiling but the Quaker’s eyes were filled with a strange look.
‘That was a massive pride that thou wounded, Captain
Drinkwater, greater than the greatest fish in the sea.’
But Drinkwater did not hear. He was sweeping the horizon ahead, beyond the low headland of Spurn and its slim lighthouse. There were no topsails to betray the presence of a frigate cruising for men.
‘Mr Hill, please to back the main topsail and heave the Faithful’s boat alongside. Captain Sawyers, I am obliged to you, sir, for your assistance, but I think you may return to your ship.’ He held out his hand and the Quaker shook it firmly.
‘Recollect what happened to David, sir. I give you God’s love.’
Chapter Four
June 1803
The Captain’s Cloak
Captain Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant. ‘Very well, Mr Germaney, you may secure the guns and pipe the hammocks down.’ He turned to the lieutenant of the watch. ‘Mr Rispin, shorten sail now and put the ship under easy canvas.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater paced aft, ignoring the stream of superfluous orders with which Mr Rispin conducted the affairs of the deck. He was tempted to conclude the young officer hid his lack of confidence beneath this apparent efficiency. It deceived no-one but himself. But in spite of misgivings about his lieutenants Drinkwater was well satisfied with the ship. Melusine handled like a yacht. He stared aft watching a fulmar quartering the wake, its sabre wings rigid as it moved with astonishing agility. He eased his shoulders beneath his coat aware that he could do with some exercise. There were other compensations besides the qualities of his former French corvette. Mr Hill, the master, had proved an able officer, explaining the measures taken in the matter of stores for the forthcoming voyage. Furthermore his two mates, Quilhampton and Gorton, seemed to be coming along well. Drinkwater was pleased with Hill’s efficiency. He seemed to have assumed the duties of both sailing master and executive officer, and not for the first time Drinkwater regretted the system of patronage that promoted a man like Germaney and denied a commission to Stephen Hill.
Drinkwater turned forward and began pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck. Since they had returned Sawyers to his ship off the Spurn lighthouse the wind had held at west-north-west and they had made good progress to the north. Four more whalers had joined them from Whitby and this evening they were well to the eastward of the Firth of Forth, the convoy close hauled on the larboard tack and heading due north.
Drinkwater stopped to regard the whalers as the sun westered behind him. He could see a solitary figure on the rail of Narwhal. Taking off his hat he waved it above his head. Jaybez Harvey returned the salute and a few seconds later Drinkwater saw the feather of foam in the whaler’s wake jerk closer to her stern as Harvey’s men pulled in the cask at which Melusine’s gunners had been firing.
It had been a good idea to practise shooting in this manner. He had been able to manoeuvre up to, cross astern of and range alongside the cask, making and taking in sail for a full six hours while Harvey maintained his course. Finally to test both their accuracy and their mettle after so protracted an exercise, he had hauled off and let the hands fire three rounds from every gun, before each battery loosed off a final, concussive broadside.
The Melusines were clearly pleased with themselves and their afternoon’s work. There was nothing like firing guns to satisfy a British seaman, Drinkwater reflected, watching the usual polyglot crowd coiling the train tackles and passing the breechings. He took a final look at the convoy. One or two of the whalers had loosed off their own cannon by way of competition and Drinkwater sensed a change of mood among the whale-ship masters. It was clear that preparations were under way for the arrival at the fishing grounds and he fervently hoped the differences between them were finally sunk under a sense of unanimous purpose.
He had stationed the Hudson Bay Ships at the van and rear of the convoy where, with their unusual ensigns, they gave the impression of being additional escorts, while Melusine occupied a windward station, ready to cover any part of the convoy and from where all her signals could be seen by each ship. He turned forward and looked aloft. The topmen were securing the topgallants and he could see the midshipmen in the fore and main tops watching over the furling of the courses. He considered himself a fortunate man in having such a proficient crew. Convoy escort could frustrate a sloop captain beyond endurance but the whalers, used to sailing in company and manoeuvring with only a handful of men upon the deck while the remainder were out in the boats after whales, behaved with commendable discipline. They were clearly all determined to reach the fishing grounds without delay. Even Ellerby seemed to have accepted his humiliation off the Spurn in a good grace, although it was at Nimrod that Drinkwater first looked whenever he came on deck.
‘Beg pardon, sir.’
‘Mr Mount, what is it?’
‘I should like to try my men at a mark, sir, when it is convenient.’
‘By all means. May I suggest you retain the gunroom’s empty bottles and we’ll haul ’em out to the lee foreyard arm tomorrow forenoon, eh?’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘Have the live marines fire at the dead ’uns,* eh?’ Mr Mount’s laughter was unfeigned and, like Hill, he too inspired confidence.
‘Are there any fencers in the gunroom? Mr Quilhampton and I have foils and masks and I am not averse to going a bout with a worthy challenger.’
The light of interest kindled in Mount’s eye. ‘Indeed, yes, sir. I should be pleased to go to the best of . . .’
A scream interrupted Mount and both men looked aloft as the flailing body of a seaman fell. He smacked into the water alongside. Drinkwater’s reaction was instantaneous.
‘Helm a-lee! Main braces there! Starboard quarter-boat away! Move God damn you! Man overboard, Mr Rispin!’ Mount and Drinkwater ran aft, straining to see where the hapless topman surfaced.
‘Where’s your damned sentry, Mount?’
‘Here, sir.’ The man appeared carrying a chicken coop. He hove it astern to the fluttering, squawking protest of its occupants.
‘Good man.’ The three men peered astern.
‘I see him, sir.’ The marine pointed.
‘Don’t take your eyes off him and point him out to the boat.’
Melusine was swinging up into the wind like a reined horse. Men were leaping into the quarter-boat and the knock of oars told where they prepared to pull like devils the instant the boat hit the water. Mr Quilhampton, holding his wooden hand out of the way as he vaulted nimbly over the rail, grabbed the tiller.
‘Lower away there, lower away lively!’
The davits jerked the mizen rigging and the boat hit the water with a flat splash.
‘Come up!’ The falls ran slack, the boat unhooked and swung away from the ship, turning under her stern.
‘Hoist Princess Charlotte’s number and “Man overboard”.’ Drinkwater heard little Frey acknowledge the order and hoped that Captain Learmouth would see it in time to wear his ship round into Melusine’s wake. The marine was up on the taffrail, one hand gripping a spanker vang, the other pointing in the direction of the drowning man. He must remember to ask Mount the marine’s name, his initiative had been commendable.
‘Ship’s hove to, sir,’ Rispin reported unnecessarily.
‘Very well. Send a midshipman to warn the surgeon that his services will be required to revive a drowning man.’
‘You think there’s a chance, sir . . . Aye, aye, sir.’ Rispin blushed crimson at the look in Drinkwater’s eye.
Everyone on the upper deck was watching the boat. Men were aloft, anxiety plain upon their faces. They could see the boat circling, disappearing in the wave-troughs.
‘Can you still see him, soldier?’
‘No sir, but the boat is near where I last saw ’im, sir.’
‘God’s bones.’ Drinkwater swore softly to himself.
‘Have faith, sir.’ The even features of Obadiah Singleton glowed in the sunset as he stopped alongside the captain. The pious sentiment annoyed Drinkwater but he ignored it.
‘Do you see the coop,
soldier?’
‘Aye, sir, ’tis about a pistol shot short of the boat . . . there, sir!’
Drinkwater caught sight of a hard edged object on a wave crest before it disappeared again.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Polesworth, sir.’
‘Oh! May God be praised!’ Singleton clasped his hands on his breast as a cheer went up from the Melusines. A man, presumably the bowman, had dived from the boat and could be seen dragging the body of his shipmate back to the boat. The boat rocked dangerously as willing hands dragged rescued and rescuer inboard over the transom. Then there was a mad scramble for oars and the boat darted forward. Drinkwater could see Quilhampton urging the oarsmen and beating the time on the gunwhale with his wooden hand.
The boat surged under the falls and hooked on. Drinkwater looked at the inert body in the bottom of the boat.
‘Now is the time for piety, Mr Singleton,’ he snapped at the missionary as the latter stared downwards.
‘Heave up!’ The two lines of men ranged along the deck ran away with the falls and held the boat at the davit heads while the body was lifted inboard. The blue pallor of death was visible to all.
‘Where’s Macpherson?’
‘Below, sir,’ squeaked Mr Frey.
‘God damn the man. Get him to the surgeon and lively there!’ Men hurried to carry the dripping body below. Drinkwater felt the sudden anger of exasperation fill him yet again. He was damned if he wanted to lose a man like this!
‘Mr Rispin! Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Clap stoppers on those falls and secure that boat, then put the ship on the wind.’ The boat’s bowman slopped past, his ducks flapping wetly about his legs, his knuckle respectfully at his forehead as he crossed the hallowed planking of the quarterdeck.
The Corvette Page 6