‘Good heavens, and the line is able to take this strain?’
‘Aye. The line is of the very best hemp and the finest manufacture. I have seen a boat pulled under when a fish dives and towed along underwater until the fish surfaced exhausted.’
‘And you recovered the boat?’
‘Yes. It does not always occur and here is an axe with which the harpooner can, at any time, cut free. But once a boat is fast, the harpooner is reluctant to let it go and he may, as we say, give the fish the boat, to induce fatigue or drown it.’
‘Drown it? I do not understand.’
‘The fish breathes air, respiring on the surface. He is able, however, to sustain energetic swimming for many minutes before nature compels him to return to the surface for more air. Should he dive too deep, as is often the case with young fish, he may gasp many fathoms down and thus drown.’
‘I see,’ said Drinkwater wondering. ‘It must be of the first importance to ensure that the line is properly coiled and does not foul.’ The man in the boat grinned and nodded.
‘Aye, Cap’n, for if it fouls and the line-tender or harpooner don’t cut it through quick enough, it may capsize the boat and take a man down in its ’tanglement.’
‘Thou hast seen that, Elijah, hast thou not?’
‘Aye, Cap’n. Once in the Davis Strait and once off Hackluyt’s Head.’
Drinkwater shook his head in admiration. ‘I do not see a harpoon, Captain Sawyers, and am curious to do so.’
‘Ah.’ Sawyers regained the deck and led Drinkwater forward. Three men sat upon a hatch, each carefully filing the head of a harpoon. A forge was set up on deck, with bellows and anvil at which a fourth man was fashioning another.
‘The harpoon is made of malleable iron allowing it to twist but not to break. Here, Matthew, pray show Captain Drinkwater what I mean.’
A huge man rose from the hatch and grasped the harpoon he was sharpening, holding it at each end of the shank. Drinkwater noted the narrow shank which terminated at one end in the barbed head and at the other in a hollow socket intended to take the wooden stock used by the harpooner to throw the deadly weapon.
The man Matthew walked to the rail and hooked the shank round a belaying pin. With a grunt he bent and then twisted it several times.
‘The devil!’
‘Old horseshoe nails, Captain, that is what the finest harpoons are made from.’
‘And the barbs on the harpoon’s head are sufficient to secure it in the flesh of the fish enough to tow a boat?’ Drinkwater asked uncertainly.
‘Aye, Friend. The mouth, or head as thou calls’t it, has withered barbs as you see. The barbs become entangled in the immensely strong ligamentous fibres of the blubber and the very action of the fish in swimming away increases this. The reverse barb, or stop-wither, collects a number of the reticulated sinews which are very numerous near the skin and once well fast, it is unusual to draw it.’
They passed on along the deck. Sawyers pointed out the various instruments used to flens a whale. They were razor sharp and gleaming with oil as each was inspected.
‘They are cleaner than my surgeon’s catling.’
The two men peered into the hold where, Sawyers explained, the ‘whale-bone’ and casks of blubber would be stowed, ‘If God willed it that they had a good season.’
Drinkwater followed Sawyers into his quarters. It was a plain cabin, well lit by stern lights through which Drinkwater could see Melusine.
‘I see you have struck your main topgallant mast, Friend.’
‘I took your advice.’ Drinkwater took the offered glass of fine port, ‘To the mortification of several officers, I am amputating the upper twelve feet.’
‘You will not regret it.’
‘Thank you for your hospitality, Captain Sawyers. I have to admit to being impressed.’
Sawyers smiled with evident pleasure. ‘The ship is but a piece of man’s ingenuity, Captain Drinkwater. You have yet to see the wonders of the Almighty in the Arctic Seas.’
PART TWO
The Greenland Sea
‘Oh Greenland is a cold country,
And seldom is seen the sun;
The keen frost and snow continually blow,
And the daylight never is done,
Brave boys!
And the daylight never is done.’
Sea-song, The Man O’ War’s Man
Chapter Six
June 1803
The Matter of a Surgeon
‘You are entirely to blame, Mr Singleton,’ shouted Drinkwater above the howl of the wind in the rigging. He stood at the windward rail, holding a backstay and staring down at the missionary who leaned into the gale on the canting deck.
‘For what, sir?’ Singleton clasped the borrowed tarpaulins tightly, aware that they were billowing dangerously. In an instant they were as wet with rain and spray as the captain’s.
‘For the gale!’
‘The gale? I am to blame?’ Singleton made a grab for a rope as Melusine gave a lee lurch. ‘But that is preposterous . . .’
Drinkwater smiled, Singleton’s colour was a singular, pallid green. ‘Breathe deeply through the nose, you’ll find it revivifying.’
Singleton did as he was bid and a little shudder passed through him. ‘That is a ridiculous superstition, Captain Drinkwater. Surely you do not encourage superstition?’
‘It don’t matter what I think, Mr Singleton. The people believe a parson brings bad weather and you cannot deny it’s blowing.’
‘It is blowing exceedingly hard, sir.’ Singleton looked to windward as a wave top reared above the horizon. Melusine dropped into the trough and it seemed to Singleton that the wave crest, rolling over in an avalanche of foam, would descend onto Melusine’s exposed side. Singleton’s mouth opened as Melusine felt the sudden lift of the advancing sea imparted to her quarter. The horizon disappeared and Singleton’s stomach seemed far beneath the soles of his feet. He gasped with surprise as the breaking crest crashed with a judder against Melusine’s spirketting and shot a column of spray into the air. As Melusine felt the full force of the wind on the wave-crest she leaned to leeward and dropped into the next trough. Singleton’s stomach seemed to pass his eyes as the wind whipped the spray horizontally over the rail with a spiteful patter. Beside him an apparently heartless Captain Drinkwater raised his speaking trumpet.
‘Mr Rispin, you must clear that raffle away properly before starting the fid or you will lose gear.’ He turned to the missionary, ‘It is an article of faith to a seaman, Mr Singleton,’ he grinned, ‘but it is, I agree, both superstitious and preposterous. As for the wind I must disagree, if only to prepare you for what may yet come. It blows hard, but not exceedingly hard. This is what we term a whole gale. It is quite distinct from a storm. The wind-note in the rigging will rise another octave in a storm.’
‘Mr Bourne sent below to the cockpit to turn the young gentlemen out to strike the topgallant masts,’ Singleton said, the colour creeping back into his cheeks and checking the corpse-like blue of his jaw. ‘I had supposed the term to apply to some form of capitulation to the elements.’
Drinkwater smiled and shook his head. ‘Not at all. The ship will ride easier from a reduction in her top hamper. It will lower her centre of gravity and reduce windage, thus rendering her both more comfortable and more manageable.’ He pointed to leeward. ‘Besides we do not want to outrun our charges.’ Singleton stared into the murk to starboard and caught the pale glimpse of sails above the harder solidity of wallowing hulls that first showed a dull gleam of copper and then seemed to disappear altogether.
‘And this,’ Singleton said, feeling better and aware that any distraction, even that of watching the sailors, was better than the eternal preoccupation with his guts, ‘is what Rispin is presently engaged upon?’
‘Aye, Mr Singleton, that was my intention,’ the speaking trumpet came up again. ‘Have a care there, sir! Watch the roll of the ship, God damn it!’ The trumpet was lowered. ‘Saving yo
ur cloth, Mr Singleton.’
‘I begin to see a certain necessity for strong expressions, sir.’
Drinkwater grinned again. ‘A harsh environment engenders a vocabulary to match, Mr Singleton. This ain’t a drawing-room at Tunbridge nor, for that matter, rooms at . . . at, er at whatever college you were at.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Jesus College, Oxford University.’ There was a second’s pause and both men laughed.
‘Ah. I’m afraid I graduated from the cockpit of a man o’ war.’
‘Not an alma mater to be recommended, sir, if my own experiences . . .’
‘A cesspit, sir,’ said Drinkwater with sudden asperity, ‘but I do assure you that England has been saved by its products more than by all the professors in history . . .’
‘I did not mean to . . .’
‘No matter, no matter.’ Drinkwater instantly regretted his intemperance. But the moment had passed and it was not what he had summoned Singleton for. Such levity ill became the captain of a man o’ war. ‘We were talking of the wind, Mr Singleton, and the noise made by a storm, beside which this present gale is nothing. I believe, Mr Singleton, that the wind in Greenland is commonly at storm force, that the particles of ice carried in it can wound the flesh like buckshot and that a man cannot exist for more than a few minutes in such conditions.’
‘Sir, the eskimos manage . . .’
‘Mr Singleton,’ Drinkwater hurried on, ‘what I am trying to say is that I need your services here. On this ship, God damn it. If the eskimos manage so well without you, Mr Singleton, cannot you leave them in their primitive state of savagery? What benefits can you confer . . .?’
‘Captain Drinkwater! You amaze me! What are you saying? Surely you do not deny the unfortunate natives the benefits of Christianity?’
‘There are those who consider your religion to be as superstitious in its tenets as the people’s belief that you can raise a gale, Mr Singleton.’
‘Only a Jacobin Frenchman, sir! Not a British naval captain!’ Singleton’s outrage was so fervent that Drinkwater could not resist laughing at him any more than he could resist baiting him.
‘Sir, I, I protest . . .’ Drinkwater mastered his amusement.
‘Mr Singleton, you may rest easy. The solitude of command compels me to take the occasional advantage . . . But I am in desperate need of a surgeon. Macpherson has, as you know, been in a strait-jacket for three days . . .’
‘The balance of his mind is quite upset, sir, and the delirium tremens will take some time to subside. Peripheral neuritis, the symptom of chronic alcoholic poisoning . . .’
‘I am aware that he is a rum-sodden wreck, devil-take it! That is why I need your knowledge as a physician.’
Melusine’s motion eased as Rispin came across the deck and knuckled his hatbrim to report the topgallant masts struck. ‘Very well, Mr Rispin. You may pipe the watch below.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And send Mr Quilhampton to me.’ He dismissed Rispin and turned to Singleton. ‘Very well, Mr Singleton. I admire your sense of vocation. It would be an unwarranted abuse of my powers to compel you to do anything.’ He paused and fixed Singleton with his grey eyes. ‘But I shall expect you to volunteer to stand in for Macpherson until such time as we land you upon the coast of Greenland. Ah, Mr Q, will you attend the quarterdeck with your quadrant and bring up my sextant. Have Frey bring up the chronometer . . .’
Singleton turned to windward as the captain left him. The wind and sea struck him full in the face and he gasped with the shock.
Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley nodded at the messman. The grubby cloth was drawn from the makeshift table and the messman placed the rosewood box in front of his lordship. Drawing a key from his pocket Lord Walmsley unlocked and lifted the lid. He took out the two glasses from their baize-lined sockets and placed one in front of himself and one in front of Mr Midshipman the Honourable Alexander Glencross whose hands shot out to preserve both glasses from rolling off the table.
‘Cognac, Glencross?’
‘If you please, my Lord.’
Walmsley filled both glasses to capacity, replaced the decanter and locking the box placed it for safety between his feet. He then took hold of his glass and raised it.
‘The fork, Mr Dutfield.’
‘Aye, aye, my Lord.’ Dutfield picked up the remaining fork that lay on the table for the purpose and stuck it vigorously into the deck beam. The dim lighting of the cockpit struck dully offit and Walmsley and Glencross swigged their brandy.
‘Damn fine brandy, Walmsley.’
‘Ah,’ said his lordship from the ascendancy of his position and his seventeen years, ‘the advantages of peace, don’t you know.’ He frowned and stared at the two midshipmen at the forward end of the table then, catching Dutfield’s eye raised his own to the fork above their heads. ‘The fork, Mr Dutfield.’
Mr Frey looked hurriedly up from his book and then snapped it shut, hurrying away while Dutfield’s face wrinkled with an expression of resentment and pleading. ‘But mayn’t I . . .?’
‘You know damn well you mayn’t. You are a youngster and when the fork is in the deck beam your business is to make yourself scarce. Now turn in!’
Mumbling, Dutfield turned away.
‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
Walmsley grinned imperiously. ‘Dutfield you have forgot your manners. I could have sworn he said “good night”, couldn’t you, Glencross?’
‘Oh, indeed, yes.’
Dutfield began to unlash his hammock. ‘Well, Dutfield, where are your manners? You know, just because The Great Democrat has forbidden any thrashing in the cockpit does not prevent me from having your hammock cut down in the middle watch. Now where are your manners?’
‘Good night,’ muttered Dutfield.
‘Speak up damn you!’
‘Good night! There, does that satisfy you?’
Walmsley shook his head. ‘No, Dutfield,’ said his lordship refilling his glass, ‘it does not. Now what have I told you, Dutfield, about manners, eh? The hallmark of a gentleman, eh?’
‘Good night, my Lord.’
‘Ah . . .’ His lordship leaned back with an air of satisfaction. ‘You see, Glencross, he isn’t such a guttersnipe as his pimples proclaim . . .’
‘Are you bullying again?’ Quilhampton entered the cockpit. ‘Since when did you take over the mess, Walmsley?’
‘Ah, the harmless Mr Q, together with his usual ineffable charm . . .’ Walmsley rocked with his own wit and Glencross sniggered with him.
‘Go to the devil, Walmsley. If you take my advice you’d stop drinking that stuff at sea. Have you seen the state of the surgeon?’
‘Macpherson couldn’t hold his liquor like a gentleman . . .’
‘God, Walmsley, what rubbish you do talk. Macpherson drinks from idleness or disappointment and has addled his brain. Rum has rotted him as surely as the lues, and the same will happen to you, you’ve the stamp of idleness about you.’
‘How dare you . . .!’
‘Pipe down, Walmsley. You would best address the evening to consulting Hamilton Moore. I am instructed by the captain that he wishes to see your journals together with an essay upon the “Solution of the longitude problem by the Chronometer”.’
‘Bloody hell!’
‘Where’s Mr Frey?’
‘Crept away to his hammock like a good little child.’
‘Good. Be so kind as to tell him to present his journal to the captain tomorrow. Good night.’ Quilhampton swung round to return to the deck, bumping into Singleton who entered the cockpit with evident reluctance.
‘Cheer up, sir!’ he said looking back into the gloom, ‘I believe the interior of an igloo to be similar but without some of the inconveniences . . .’ Chuckling to himself Quilhampton ran up the ladder.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Singleton’s remark was made with great forbearance and he moved stealthi
ly as Melusine continued to buck and swoop through the gale.
He managed to seat himself and open the book of sermons, ignoring the curious and hostile silence of Walmsley and Glencross who were already into their third glass of brandy. They began to tell each other exaggerated stories of sexual adventure which, Singleton knew, were intended to discomfit him.
‘. . . and then, my dear Glencross, I took her like an animal. My, there was a bucking and a fucking the like of which would have made you envious. And to think that little witch had looked at me as coy as a virgin not an hour since. What a ride!’
‘Ah, I had Susie like that. I told you of Susie, my mother’s maid. She taught me all I know, including the French way . . .’ Glencross rolled his eyes in recollection and was only prevented from resuming his reminiscence by Midshipman Wickham calling the first watch. The two half-drunk midshipmen staggered into their tarpaulins.
Singleton sighed with relief. He had long ago learned that to remonstrate with either Walmsley or Glencross only increased their insolence. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. But the vision of Susie’s French loving would not go.
Eight bells rang and Walmsley and Glencross staggered out of the cockpit. As he passed Dutfield’s hammock, his lordship nudged it with his shoulder.
‘Stop that at once, Dutfield,’ deplored Walmsley in a matriarchal voice, ‘or you will go blind!’
Captain Drinkwater looked from one journal to another. Mr Frey’s was a delight. The boy’s hand was bold and it was illustrated by tiny sketches of the coastline of east Scotland and the Shetlands. There were some neat drawings of the instruments and weapons used in the whale-fishery and a fine watercolour of Melusine leading the whalers out of the Humber past the Spurn Head lighthouse. The others lacked any kind of redeeming feature. Wickham’s did show a little promise from the literary point of view but that of Lord Walmsley was clearly a hurried crib of the master’s log. Walmsley disappointed him. After the business of Leek, Drinkwater had thought some appeal had been made to the young man’s better feelings. He was clearly intelligent and led Glencross about like a puppy. And now this disturbing story about the pair of them being drunk during the first watch. Drinkwater swore. If only Rispin had done something himself, or called for Drinkwater to witness the matter, but Drinkwater had not gone on deck until midnight, having some paperwork to attend to. One thing was certain and that was that unpunished and drunken midshipmen could quickly destroy discipline. Men under threat of the lash for the least sign of insobriety would not thank their captain for letting two boys get drunk on the pretext of high spirits. And, thought Drinkwater with increasing anger, it would be concluded that Walmsley and Glencross were allowed the liberty because of their social stations.
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