As they gathered in Drinkwater’s cabin sipping from tankards of mimbo, a hot rum punch that Cawkwell concocted out of unlikely materials, their elation was clear. So great had been their success that the customary jealousy of one whaler who had done less well than his more fortunate colleague was absent. It was true that Harvey’s harpoon gun had proved its value, netting him the largest number of whales, but he endured only mild rebukes from Sawyers who claimed the method un-Godly.
‘Never a season like it, Captain,’ Renaudson said, his face red from the heat in the cabin and the effects of the mimbo. ‘Abel bleats about God like your black-coated parson,’ he nodded in Singleton’s direction, ‘but ’tis luck, really. A man may fish the Greenland Seas for a lifetime, like, then, ee,’ he shook his head slightly, a small grin of disbelief in his good fortune crossing his broad, sweating features, ‘his luck changes like this.’ He became suddenly serious. ‘Mind you, Captain, it’ll not happen again. No. Not in my lifetime, any road. I’ve seen the best and quickest catch I’m ever likely to make and I doubt my son’ll see owt like it himself, not if he fishes for twenty year’n more. Abel’s lucky there, both him and his son together in one great hunt.’ He drained the tankard. ‘I see tha’s children of thee own, Captain.’ He nodded at the portraits on the bulkhead, his accent thickening as he drank.
‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater, sipping the mimbo more cautiously. It was not a drink he greatly cared for, but his stocks of good wine were almost exhausted and Cawkwell had suggested that he served a rum punch to warm his guests. Harvey joined them.
‘Ee, Captain, your guns weren’t as much good as mine.’ He grinned, clearly happy that his beloved harpoon gun had established its reputation for the swift murder of mysticetae. ‘I shall patent the modifications I’ve made and make my fortune twice over from this voyage.’ He nudged Renaudson. ‘Get th’self a Harvey’s patent harpoon gun for next season, Thomas, then th’can shoot whales instead of farting at them.’ The dialect was thick between them and Drinkwater turned away, nodding to Atkinson, a small, active man with a lick of dark hair over his forehead, who was talking to Mr Gorton. Drinkwater had invited only Hill, Singleton and the lieutenants to the meal, there was insufficient room for midshipmen. Besides, he knew the whalemen would not want the intrusion of young gentlemen at their celebrations.
He found himself confronted by Singleton’s blue jaw. His sobriety was disquieting amongst all the merriment. ‘Good evening, Mr Singleton.’
‘Good evening, sir. A word if you please?’
‘Of course.’
‘I deduce this gathering to mark the successful conclusion of the fishery.’
‘So it would appear. Is that not so, Captain Sawyers?’ He turned to the Quaker who had, as a mark of the relaxation of the occasion, removed his hat.
‘Indeed it is, although a few of us have an empty cask or two left. The Lord has provided of his bounty . . .’
‘Amen,’ broke in Singleton, who seemed to have some purpose in his abruptness. ‘Then may I ask, sir, when you intend landing me?’
‘Landing thee . . .?’ Sawyers seemed astonished and Drinkwater again explained for Sawyers’s benefit.
‘It seems the Almighty smiles upon all our endeavours then, Friend,’ he said addressing Singleton, ‘and perhaps thine own more than ours.’ He smiled. ‘This lead towards the south-west will bring you close to the coast of East Greenland, somewhere about latitude seventy. I have heard the coast is ice-free thereabouts, although I have never seen it close-to myself. You may see the mountain peaks in clear weather for a good distance. Nunataks, the eskimos call them . . .’
‘Then we had better land you,’ Drinkwater said to Singleton, ‘but I am still uncertain of the wisdom of following this lead into the ice shelf. Do you not think it might prove a cul-de-sac?’
Sawyers shook his head. ‘No, the fish would not have entered it if some instinct had not told them that the krill upon which they feed were rich here, and that open water did not exist ahead of them . . .’
‘But surely,’ Singleton put in, his scientific mind engaged now, ‘the whales may dive beneath the ice. My observations while you have been hunting them show they can go prodigious deep.’
‘No, Friend,’ Sawyers smiled, ‘their need of air and their instinct will not pursuade them to dive beneath such an ice shelf as we have about us now. Surely,’ he said with a touch of irony, the dissenter gently teasing the man of established religion, ‘surely thou sawest how, even in their terror, they made no attempt to swim under the ice?’
Singleton flushed at the mocking of his intelligence. Sawyers mollified him. ‘But perhaps in the confusion of the gun smoke thine eyes were misled. No, mysticetus will dive only under floes in the open sea and beneath bay ice through which he breaks to inhale . . .’
‘Bay ice?’ queried Drinkwater.
‘A first freezing of the sea, Captain, through which he may appear with a sudden and majestic entrance . . .’
They sat to dinner, cod, and whale meat steaks with dried peas and a little sour-krout for those who wanted it, all washed down with the last bottles of half-decent claret that Tregembo had warmed slightly in the galley. As was usual in the gloom of the cabin despite the low sunshine outside, Drinkwater had had the candles lit and the spectacle of such a meal etched itself indelibly upon his mind. Alternating round the table the whale-ship masters and the naval officers made an incongruous group. In eccentric varieties of their official uniform the lieutenant and the master agreed only in their coats. Beneath these they wore mufflers, guernseys and an assortment of odd shirts. Gorton, presumably slightly over-awed to be included in the company, wore shirt and stock in the prescribed manner, but this was clearly over some woollen garment of indeterminate shape and he presented the appearance of a pouter pigeon. The whale-captains were more fantastic, their garb a mixture of formality, practicality and individual choice.
Sawyers, with the rigidity of his sect, appeared the most formal, clearly possessing a thick set of undergarments. His waistcoat and coat were of the heaviest broadcloth and he wore a woollen muffler. Renaudson, on the other hand, marked the perigee of Arctic elegance, in seal-skin breeches over yellow stockings, a stained mustard waistcoat and a greasy jacket, cut short at the waist and made of some nondescript fur that might once have been a seal or a walrus. Atkinson was similarly equipped, although his clothes seemed a little cleaner and he had put on fresh neck-linen for the occasion, while Harvey, his neckerchief filthy, sported a brass-buttoned pilot jacket. Drinkwater himself wore two shirts over woollen underwear, his undress uniform coat almost as salt-stained as Harvey’s pilot jacket. But he was pleased with the evening. The conviviality was infectious, the wine warming and the steaks without equal to an appetite sharpened by cold.
The conversation was of whales, of whale-ships and captains, of harpooners and speksioneers and the profits of owners. There were brief, good-natured arguments as one challenged the claims of another. For the most part the whalers dominated the conversation, the young naval officers, under the eye of their commander and overwhelmed by the ebullience of their guests, playing a passive part. But Drinkwater did hear Singleton exchanging stories of the eskimos with Atkinson who seemed to have met them whilst sealing, and they were debating the reasons why they took their meat raw, when methods of cooking it had been shown to them on many occasions. Thus preoccupied he was suddenly recalled by Sawyers on his right. Above the din Sawyers had been shouting at him to catch his attention.
‘I beg your pardon, Captain, I was distracted. What was it you were saying?’
‘That thy guns were of little use, Friend.’
‘In the matter of stopping the whales? Oh, no . . . very little, but it allowed my people to share the excitement a little, although,’ he recollected with the boyish grin that countered the serious cast to his cock-headed features, ‘I think that my order to secure the starboard guns without them being fired, near sparked a mutiny.’
‘That was not quite w
hat I meant, Friend. I had said that we had no need of thy guns, that thy presence here has proved unnecessary. Oh, I mean no offence, but whatever hobgoblins the enemy were supposed to have in the Arctic seas have proved imaginary.’
Drinkwater smiled over the rim of his glass as he drained it, leaning back so that Cawkwell could refill it. ‘So it would seem . . .’
‘Sir! Sir!’ Midshipman Frey’s face appeared at the opposite end of the table and the conversation died away.
‘Narwhal, sir! Narwhal’s taken fire . . .!’
Chapter Twelve
July 1803
Fortune’s Sharp Adversity
From Melusine’s deck they saw Narwhal already blazing like a torch. Great gouts of flame bellied from her hold and tongues of fire leapt into the rigging. She was moored beyond Truelove, ahead of the sloop, and her crew could be seen rushing down upon the ice. For a second the diners stood as though stunned, then they made for the gangplank onto the ice, led by Harvey.
Pausing only to call for all hands and the preparation of the ship’s fire-engine, Drinkwater followed, impelled by some irrational force that caused him to do anything but stand in idleness. Men were pouring down Truelove’s gangplank unrolling a canvas hose that was obviously too short to reach much beyond the barque’s bowsprit. As he came abreast of Narwhal’s stern and among the milling of her crew, Drinkwater realised they were mostly drunk. Harvey was roaring abuse at them, his face demonic in his rage, lit by a blaze that spewed huge gobbets of flame into the sky as casks of whale kreng exploded. Harvey struck two men in his agony before he turned to his ship. He staggered forward into the orange circle of heat where the ice gleamed as it melted, holding his arms up before his face. He was still shouting, something more persistent than abuse, and Drinkwater was about to start after him when Bourne and Quilhampton arrived with a party of marines and seamen lugging the fire-engine.
‘Just coming, sir!’
‘Suction into the sea, Mr Q! And get two jets playing on the gangplank . . .’
To save the ship was clearly impossible, but there seemed some doubt among the men assembled on the ice as to the whereabouts of two or three of Narwhal’s company.
Harvey had already reached the gangplank and edged cautiously forward. Above his head the mainyard was ablaze, the furled canvas of the sail burning furiously. Ahead of him the main hatchway vented flame like a perpetually firing mortar and the deck planks could be seen lifting and curling back. The bulwarks had yet to catch and Harvey reached their shelter, hanging outboard of them and peering over the rail. Drinkwater stepped forward and the heat hit him, searing his eyes so that he stopped in his tracks. It was intense and the roaring of the fire deafening.
A man was crouching beside Drinkwater and he turned to see the marine Polesworth pointing the nozzle of the hose and shouting behind him to the men at the handles. The gurgle of the pump was inaudible and the jet, when it came in spurts to start with, quite inadequate. He felt Quilhampton pulling his left arm.
‘Come back, sir, come back!’
‘But Harvey, James, what the hell does he think he’s doing?’
‘They say there’s a boy still aboard . . .’
‘My God! But no-one could live in that inferno!’
Quilhampton shook his head, his face scarlet in the reflection of the flames. Their feet were sinking into the melting ice as they stared at Harvey. He was attempting to make his way aft outside the hull, by way of the main chains, but the hand by which he clutched the rail was continually seared and he was making painfully slow progress. And then Drinkwater saw the object of Harvey’s foolhardy rescue attempt. The figure was lit from within the cabin where the bulkheads were already burning, silhouetted against the leaded glass of the larboard quarter-gallery. By contrast to the conflagration above, Narwhal’s hull was dark as lamp-black but as their eyes adjusted, the pale face with its gaping mouth pressed against the glass in a silent scream, riveted their attention.
‘Polesworth! Direct your hose upon the quarter-gallery!’ The marine obeyed and Drinkwater hoped he might thereby delay the fire spreading to the place. Harvey had scrambled the length of the main chains and was feeling for a footing to cross twenty feet of hull to the mizen chains. He found some plank land, a perilous footing, but he kept moving steadily aft.
‘Rope, we need rope. From Truelove, Mr Q!’ He saw Renaudson among the appalled crowd. ‘Rope, Captain, rope from your ship!’
There was a hurried exchange of orders and men began to run towards Truelove.
Harvey gained the mizen chains and had leant outboard from their after end to find a footing on the leaded top of the quarter-gallery. But he was too late.
With a roar an explosion shook Narwhal’s stern, the windows of the gallery shattered outwards and a small rag of humanity was ejected into the blackness. Harvey was blown off into the water.
As the explosion died away Drinkwater heard several voices shout that Narwhal’s small powder magazine was beneath the cabin aft, and then their attention was claimed by a great cracking and splitting of wood as the mainmast, closest to the origin of the fire, burnt through and toppled slowly over onto the ice, bringing the fore and mizen masts with it. The crowd of men moved backwards in fear and when the rope arrived, Renaudson, Quilhampton and Drinkwater made their way to the edge of the ice amid burning spars. Their footing was treacherous. The surface ice was reduced to slush, slush that had no longer the sharp edge of the ice shelf. It now formed a lethal declivity into the freezing black waters of the sea.
They looked down upon Harvey’s pale face, curiously blotched and appearing like the head of John the Baptist upon Salome’s salver. ‘Quick! The rope!’
It snaked over Drinkwater and fell alongside Harvey, but his eyes closed and he did not seem to have seen it.
‘God’s bones!’ Drinkwater began to struggle out of his coat but Quilhampton was quicker, splashing into the water as soon as he saw what the matter was. Drinkwater hesitated a second, concerned that Quilhampton’s wooden hand might hamper him, remembering his own pathetic attempts to make a bowline.
But Quilhampton needed no help. He shouted to the men on the ice and Drinkwater stumbled back up the ice-slope to get men to tail onto the line and drag Harvey and Quilhampton to safety, while Narwhal’s hull finally erupted, splitting open along her topsides as the fire consumed her.
Despite the fierce heat both rescued and rescuer were shivering. Blankets miraculously appeared and Singleton arrived with an improvised stretcher and the surgeons of the Truelove and the Narwhal herself.
In seconds Harvey and Quilhampton were on their way back to Melusine and in their wake men followed, drifting away from the fire now that there was no longer anything that could be done.
‘Captain Renaudson, ah, and you, Captain Sawyers. A word if you please . . .’ The two men approached, sober faces reflecting the glare of the fire, even though it was the midnight of an arctic summer and quite light.
‘What do we do with these men, gentlemen?’ Drinkwater asked.
‘Hang the lubbers, God blast their bloody stupidity.’ Renaudson turned on the shifty eyed and shamefaced Narwhals as they stood on the ice disconsolately, ‘You should starve here, if I had my way . . . drunken bastards!’ he said with venom.
‘Steady, Friend . . .’ put in Sawyers, putting out a restraining arm.
‘A pox on your damned cant, Abel. These harlots’ spawn deserve nothing . . .’
‘You do not know that they all . . .’
‘I do not need to know more than that Jaybez Harvey will not live to see his wife again, nay, them art shit,’ and he spat for emphasis and turned away.
Drinkwater looked at the crowd of men. ‘Which of you is the chief officer?’
The mate stepped forward. ‘I’m the mate, Captain, John Akeroyd.’
‘How did the ship catch fire?’
‘I’m not certain, sir, I was below, turned in.’
‘Who had the watch?’ Drinkwater addressed the questi
on to the huddle of men. There seemed to be some shoving and then a man came forward.
‘Me.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Peter Norris, third mate . . . men got among the spirits, sir, there was some sort o’fight over a game o’cards . . . tried to stop it but it was too late . . .’
Drinkwater saw the raw bruising round Norris’s left eye which indicated he spoke the truth. ‘Hhmmm . . .’
‘There is a custom, Friend, in the fishery,’ offered Sawyers helpfully, ‘that when a disaster such as this occurs the crew of the vessel lost is split up among the other vessels. Perhaps, Mr Akeroyd, thou would’st care to divide the men.’ Sawyers caught Drinkwater’s arm and turned him away. ‘Come, Friend, this is not a naval matter.’
‘But there is some degree of culpability . . . if Harvey should die . . .’
‘The fishery has its own ways, Captain Drinkwater.’ Sawyers was tugging him as he tried to turn back, ‘Come away, they have lost everything and will go home as beggars . . .’
‘But, damn it, Sawyers, Harvey is like to die and that boy . . .’
‘Aye, Friend, thou mayst be right, but thou cannot flog them and they will be penitent ere long. Come.’ And Drinkwater returned reluctantly to Melusine.
Rispin met him formally at the side. ‘I beg pardon sir, the sideboys are . . .’
‘Oh, damn the sideboys, Mr Rispin, where is Mr Singleton?’
‘He took the injured man below, sir, with the surgeons from two of the whaling vessels, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And sir, the wind’s freshening.’
The Corvette Page 17