He lay perspiring, despite the fact that his exposed feet were registering air at a temperature well below the freezing of water. He began to relax as he heard the rudder grind. It had been grinding so long now with so little apparent ill-effect that he had almost ceased to worry about it. Was he being cautioned by fate to pay it more attention? He tossed aside the blankets and with them such a childish notion. He was about to call the sentry to pass word for Tregembo when he considered it was probably still night, despite the light that came through the cabin windows.
He had almost forgotten the dream as he ascended to the deck. But its superstitious hold was once more thrown over him as he stepped clear of the ladder.
Meetuck turned from the rail where he seemed to have been looking at something, and his almond eyes fell upon Drinkwater with an almost hostile glare. The eskimo, whom Drinkwater had not seen for several days, took a step towards him. Meetuck was muttering something: then he halted, looked at his arm, which was still splinted, shrugged and turned forward.
Mystified by this pantomime Drinkwater nodded to Mr Bourne, who had the deck, and swung himself into the main rigging, reaching the crow’s nest and ousting Glencross who appeared to have made himself comfortable with a small flask of rum and a bag of biscuit.
‘You may leave that there, Mr Glencross. I doubt you’ll be requiring them on deck.’ The midshipman cast a rueful glance at the rum and mumbled, ‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘I shall return the flask, Mr Glencross, in due course.’
Drinkwater settled himself down with the telescope. In five minutes all thoughts of dreams or eskimos had been driven from his mind. The wind had held steady from the north and they sailed through an almost clear sea, the bergs within five miles being largely decayed and eroded into soft outlines. More distant bergs presented a fantastic picture which increased in its improbability as he watched. Munching his way through Glencross’s biscuit and warmed by the rum, he had been aloft for over an hour, enjoying the spectacle of increasing refraction as the sun climbed. The distant icebergs, floes and hummocks seemed cast into every possible shape the imagination could devise. He sighted a number of polar bears and numerous seals lay basking upon low ice. Once the ship passed through a school of narwhals, the males with their curious twisted swords. He saw, too, a number of grampuses, their black and livid white skin a brilliant contrast to the sea as they gambolled like huge dolphins in Melusine’s wake as she pressed south-west. Drinkwater was reminded of Sawyers and the whale-captain’s regard for the works of God in Arctic waters. He was also reminded of Sawyers’s present plight.
It was four bells into the morning watch before Drinkwater saw what he had been looking for, amid the ice pinnacles on their starboard bow, almost indistinguishable from them except to one who had a hunter’s keenness of purpose. The edges of sails, betrayed by the inverted image of two ships, their waterlines uppermost, jutted dark into the glare of the sky. They were perhaps thirty miles away and the easing of the wind and the comparative simplicity of navigation through such loose ice suited the slight and slender Melusine.
Descending to the deck, Drinkwater passed orders for the course to be amended three points closer to the wind and the corvette to hoist a press of sail. He doubted if Melusine presented such a conspicuous picture to the enemy, given her relative position to the sun, but if they were spotted he felt sure the ship’s speed would close the gap between them and the distant Faithful, whose sea-keeping qualities were far superior to her speed.
At noon the distance between them had closed appreciably and at the end of the first dog-watch the enemy could be clearly seen from the head of the lower masts.
Drinkwater dined with Singleton and Bourne, remarking on the way the eskimo had startled him that morning.
‘You mean you thought he had some hostile intent, sir?’ asked Singleton.
‘Oh, I conceived that impression for a second or two. His appearance was aggressive, but he seemed suddenly to recall some obligation relative to his arm.’
‘So he damned well should,’ said Bourne.
‘Can you recall what he said to you, Captain?’ asked Singleton, ignoring Bourne.
Drinkwater swallowed his wine and frowned. ‘Not perfectly, but I recall something like “gavloonack” . . .’
‘Gavdlunaq?’
‘Yes, I think that was it. Why? Does it signify to you?’
‘It means “white man”. Was there anything else?’
Drinkwater thought again. ‘Yes, nothing I could repeat though. Oh, he mentioned that place he said he came from . . .’
‘Nagtoralik?’
‘Aye, that was it, Nagtoralik.’ Drinkwater experimented with the strange word. ‘A place with eagles, didn’t you say?’
‘Yes, that’s right, but I don’t recall eagles being mentioned by Egedé . . .’
Drinkwater threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oh, come, Mr Singleton, you academics! If a thing ain’t in print in some dusty library it don’t signify that it don’t exist.’ Bourne joined in the laughter and Singleton flushed.
‘There is a Greenland Falcon, the Falco Rusticolus Candicans of Gmelin which the innuits, in their unfamiliarity with the order Aves, may mistake for eagles. It is possible that an error in nomenclature took place in translation . . .’ Bourne chuckled at Singleton’s seriousness as Drinkwater said, somewhat archly, ‘Indeed that may be the case, Mr Singleton.’
A silence filled the cabin. Singleton frowned ‘To return to Meetuck, sir. You can recall nothing further, nothing specific, I mean?’
Drinkwater shook his head. ‘No. He was looking over the side, saw me, turned and advanced, uttered this imprecation, looked at his arm and went off forward. I can scarcely expect anything better from a savage.’ Then Drinkwater became aware of something preoccupied about Singleton. ‘What is it, Mr Singleton? Why are you so interested in an incident of no importance?’
Singleton leaned back in his chair. ‘Because I believe it may indeed be of some significance, sir. I understand you are chasing to the south-west, chasing an enemy ship, a French ship perhaps?’
Drinkwater looked at Bourne enquiringly. The first lieutenant shrugged. ‘Yes,’ said Drinkwater, ‘that is correct.’
‘Why do you think this ship is running south-west, sir?’
‘Well, Mr Singleton, the wind is favourable, she is luring us away from our other charges and the sea is less encumbered by ice in this direction.’
‘It is also in the direction of the coast, sir.’
‘And . . .?’
‘And I believe Meetuck, though he is not very intelligent, even for an eskimo, has seen white men before, white men who have been hostile to him. I believe that before setting out on the ice he may have come from the Greenland coast where white men were . . .’
‘Frenchmen?’ broke in Bourne.
‘It is possible,’ said Singleton, turning to the lieutenant.
‘It is indeed,’ said Drinkwater thoughtfully, remembering the cautionary words of Lord Dungarth in his room at the Admiralty.
‘You have some information upon that point, Captain?’ asked Singleton shrewdly, but before Drinkwater could reply the cabin door burst open. Midshipman Lord Walmsley stood in the doorway. His usual look of studied contempt was replaced by alarm.
‘An enemy, sir, to windward a bare league . . .’
Drinkwater rose. ‘Beat to quarters, damn it!’
Mr Rispin had been caught out again. The enemy ship had clearly sighted the pursuing sloop and whether she knew Melusine for a naval ship or took her for a whaler, she had left Faithful to head west-south-west alone and doubled back unobserved, to lurk behind a berg until Melusine came up. Drinkwater reached the quarterdeck as the marine drummer beat the rafale.
‘Who was your masthead lookout, Mr Rispin?’ he asked venomously, casting round for the enemy. He saw the Frenchman immediately, frigate-built and with the tricolour flying from her peak.
‘As bold as bloody brass,’ said Hill, taking up
his station on the quarterdeck alongside the captain.
‘Well sir?’ Drinkwater stared unblinkingly at Rispin.
‘Lord Walmsley, sir.’
‘God damn and blast his lordship!’
‘D’you wish me to take in sail, sir?’
‘Aye, Mr Hill, turn down-wind and get the stuns’ls in. Mr Bourne, don’t show our teeth yet, all guns load canister and ball but hold ’em inboard with closed ports.’
Hill altered course and Drinkwater watched the yards squared and the topmen work aloft, stiff monkeys in the frozen air as the studding sails fluttered on deck. He looked astern. A dozen burgomaster gulls flew in their wake and a few fulmars swept the sea to starboard but he no longer had time for such natural wonders. He was studying the strange ship coming up on their starboard quarter.
She was bigger than themselves, a frigate of twenty-eight guns, he reckoned, more than a match for the Melusine and wearing French colours.
A shot plunged into the water just astern of them. A second following a minute later struck the hull beneath his feet. Drinkwater hoped Cawkwell had lowered the window sashes. A third ball plunged under their stern. Her guns were well served and there was no doubt that, whether a national frigate or a well-appointed corsair, she was determined upon making a prize of the Melusine.
Drinkwater set his mouth in a grim line. He had fought the Romaine off the Cape of Good Hope from a position of disadvantage, but now there were no British cruisers in the offing to rescue him.
‘Ship’s cleared for action, sir.’ Bourne touched his hat. Drinkwater turned forward and looked along the deck. The gun crews were kneeling at their posts, the midshipmen with their parties in the fore and main tops, two men at each topgallant crossing and marines aloft in the mizen top. The sail trimmers were at the rails and pins; on the fo’c’s’le the bosun stood, his silver whistle about his neck. The helm was in the hands of the two quartermasters with Mr Quilhampton standing casually alongside, his wooden hand holding the log slate. Gorton and Rispin commanded the two batteries, seconded by Glencross and Walmsley, while Mr Frey attended the quarterdeck, with Drinkwater, Hill, Bourne and Lieutenant Mount, whose marines lined the hammock nettings.
‘Very well, Mr Bourne.’ He raised his voice. ‘Starboard battery make ready. I intend to haul our wind and rake from forward.’ He paused as another enemy ball found their stern. ‘You may fire as you bear, Mr Rispin, but take your time, my lads, and reload as if the devil was on your tail.’ He nodded to Hill, ‘Very well, Mr Hill, starboard tack, if you please.’
Melusine began to turn, heeling over as she brought the wind round on her beam. Gun captains pulled up their ports and drove home more quoins to counter-act the heel. Rispin, leaped from gun to gun, his hanger drawn.
‘God damn! Mr Frey, pass word to Tregembo to get my sword . . . Where the devil have you been, Tregembo?’
‘Sharpening your skewer, zur, ’twas as rusty as a church door knocker . . .’ Tregembo buckled on the sword and handed Drinkwater a pair of pistols. ‘An’ I took down the portraits, zur.’ He reproached Drinkwater, his old face wrinkling with a kind of rough affection.
Drinkwater managed a half smile and then turned his attention to the ship. Above their heads the braces were swinging the yards. From forward he heard the report of the first gun and watched the enemy for the fall of shot. He saw splinters fly from the vessel’s knightheads. Each gun fired in turn as Melusine crossed the stranger’s bow, and although one or two holes appeared in the Frenchman’s fore course and several spouts of water showed on either bow, most seemed to strike home. But as Melusine stretched out on the starboard tack she too exposed her stern to the enemy. They fired a broadside and several balls furrowed the deck, one wounded the mizen topmast and holes opened in the spanker. Somewhere below there rose the most horrible howl of agony and Drinkwater was aware of little Frey shaking beside him.
‘Mr Frey,’ said Drinkwater kindly, ‘I don’t believe anyone has loaded Captain Palgrave’s fancy carronades. Would you and your two yeomen attend to it, canister might be useful later in the action, wouldn’t you say?’
Frey focussed his eyes on the two brass carronades that Captain Palgrave’s vanity had had installed at the hances. They still slumbered beneath oiled canvas covers. Frey nodded uncertainly and then with more vigour. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’ It would be good for the child to have something to do.
Astern of them the enemy hauled into their wake. The Melusine’s French build began to take effect. She started to open the distance between them.
‘Mr Bourne, pass word for the gunner to report to me.’
The gunner was called for at the hatchways and made his appearance a moment or two later, his felt slippers sliding incongruously upon the planking.
‘Ah, Mr Meggs, I want a caulked keg of powder with a three-minute fuse sealed up in canvas soon as you are able to arrange it.’
The gunner frowned, raised an eyebrow and compressed his toothless mouth. Then, without a word, knuckled his forehead and waddled below. Drinkwater turned to Bourne.
‘Well, Mr Bourne, whatever our friend is, he’ll not get a gun to bear at the moment.’
Hill came up. ‘D’you intend to mine him, sir?’
Drinkwater grinned. ‘We’ll try. It’s a long shot, but I’m not certain that he’s a national frigate. I have an idea that he may be a letter-of-marque, in which case he’ll be stuffed full of men and we cannot risk him boarding.’
‘I am of the same opinion, sir. There’s something about him that marks him as a corsair.’
‘Yes. Now, we don’t want him to see the keg dragging down on him so we will put it over forrard and lead the line out of a forrard port. That way he will not observe any activity around the stern here . . .’
‘Use the log-line, sir? It’s handy and long enough,’ asked Hill.
‘Very well. Do that if you please.’ Drinkwater looked forward. ‘But first, I think you had better luff, Mr Hill.’
‘Jesus!’ Hill’s jaw dropped in alarm as the berg reared over them. Drinkwater held his breath lest Melusine struck some underwater projection from the icy mass that towered over the mastheads. ‘Down helm!’
Melusine swooped into the wind, her sails shivering, then paid off again as the berg drew astern. Their pursuer, his attention focussed ahead, had laid a course to pass almost as clear as his quarry. That the Melusine could shave the berg indicated that it was safe for him to do so, and Drinkwater remarked to Hill on the skill of their enemy.
‘Aye, sir, and that argues strongly that he’s a letter-of-marque.’
Drinkwater nodded. ‘And he’ll be able to read our name across our stern and know all about our being a French prize.’
Hill nodded and Bourne rejoined them. ‘Meggs says he’ll be a further ten minutes, sir, before the keg is ready.’
‘Very good, Mr Bourne. Will you direct Rispin to take watch on the fo’c’sle and warn us of any ice ahead. Take over the starboard battery yourself.’
Bourne looked crestfallen but acknowledged the order and moved forward to the waist.
Meggs brought the wrapped keg to the quarterdeck in person.
‘Three-minute fuse, sir,’ he said, handing over the keg to Hill who had mustered three sail-trimmers to carry the thing forward, together with the log-line tub. Five minutes later Drinkwater saw him straighten up and look expectantly aft. Drinkwater nodded and leaned over the side. The keg drifted astern as Melusine rushed past, the log-line paying out. Snatching up his glass Drinkwater knelt and focussed his telescope, levelling it on the taffrail and shouting for Quilhampton.
‘Mr Q! The instant I say, you are to tell Hill to hold on.’
‘Hold on, aye, aye, sir.’
Drinkwater could see the canvas sack lying in the water. It jerked a few times, sending up little spurts of water as the ship dragged it along when the line became tight, but in the main it drifted astern without appreciably disturbing the wake. He wondered if his opponent would have a vigilant lookout at
the knightheads. He did not seem a man to underestimate.
Suddenly in the image glass he saw not only the keg, but the stem of the advancing ship. The bow wave washed the keg to one side.
‘Hold on!’
‘Hold on!’ repeated Quilhampton and Drinkwater saw the line jerk tight and then the persistent feather of water as Melusine dragged the keg astern, right under the larboard bow of the pursuing Frenchman.
He wondered how long it had taken to veer the thing astern. Perhaps no more than a minute or a minute and a half. He wondered, too, how good a fuse Meggs had set. It was quite likely that the damned thing would be extinguished by now. It was, as he had admitted to Hill, a long shot.
‘Stand by to tack ship, Mr Q!’
Quilhampton passed the order and Drinkwater stood up. He could do no more, and his shoulder hurt from the awkward position it was necessary to assume to stare with such concentration at the enemy’s bow. The keg blew apart as he bent to rub his knees.
‘Larboard tack!’
He felt the deck cant as the helm went down and Hill ran aft telling his men to haul in the log-line. Struggling down on his knees again he levelled his glass. At first he thought they had achieved nothing and then he saw the Frenchman’s bowsprit slowly rise. The bobstay at least had suffered and, deprived of its downward pull the jibs and staysails set on the forestays above combined with the leeward pull of the foremast to crack the big spar. He saw it splinter and the sails pull it in two. There was a mass of men upon the enemy fo’c’s’le.
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