Drinkwater lowered this formidable document in admiration. Young Mr Q had hit upon some interesting points, particularly that of Masters and Commanders. He knew that many young and ambitious lieutenants had objected to submitting themselves for the navigational examination at the Trinity House to give them the full claim to the title, and that the many promotions on foreign stations that answered the exigencies of war had made the system impracticable. The regulation of having a midshipman pass for master’s mate before he could be sent away in a prize was also one observed more in the breach than otherwise. As a result the Admiralty had seen fit to appoint masters or acting masters to most brigs to avoid losses by faulty navigation. In Mr Lestock’s case Drinkwater was apt to think the appointment more of a burden to the ship than a safeguard.
Quilhampton’s essay echoed the gunroom debate as to the armament of brigs, repeating the carronade versus long gun argument and concluding in didactic vein, . . . whatever the main armament of the deck, the eighteen-gun brig-of-war is, under the regulation of 1795, the smallest class of vessel to carry a boat carronade.
Drinkwater was folding the papers away when a cry sent him hurrying on deck.
‘Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!’
He drew back from the ladder to allow Griffiths, limping painfully but in obvious haste, to precede him up the ladder. As the two men emerged on deck the pipes were shrieking at the hatchways. Lestock jumped down from the weather rail and offered his glass to Griffiths. ‘French cruiser, by my judgement.’
Griffiths swore while Drinkwater reached in his pocket for his own glass. It was a frigate beyond doubt and a fast one judging by the speed with which her image grew. She was certainly French built and here, south of Ascension Island in the path of homecoming Indiamen, probably still in French hands.
‘All hands have been called, sir,’ said Lestock primly.
‘Then put the ship before the wind and set everything she’ll carry.’ It was clear Griffiths was taking no chances. The importance of their mission was too great to jeopardise it by the slightest hesitation.
‘Mr Drinkwater, have the mast wedges knocked out and I want preventer backstays rigged to t’gallant mast caps!’
‘Aye, aye, sir!’ Lestock was already bawling orders through the speaking trumpet and the topmen were racing aloft to rig out the stunsail booms. Drinkwater slipped forward to where Johnson, the carpenter, was tending the headsails, hoisting a flying jib and tending its sheet to catch any wind left in the lee of the foresails as their yards were braced square across the hull.
‘Mr Johnson, get your mates and knock the mast wedges out, give the masts some play: we want every fraction of a knot out of her. Then have the bilges pumped dry and kept dry for as long as this goes on.’ Drinkwater jerked his head astern.
Johnson acknowledged the order and sung out for his two mates in inimitable crudity. Drinkwater turned away and sought out Grey, the bosun.
‘Mr Grey, I want two four-inch ropes rigged as preventer backstays. Use the cable springs out of an after port. Get ’em up to the t’gallant mastcaps and secured. We’ll bowse ’em tight with a gun tackle at the rail.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘And Mr Grey . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘I don’t want any chafing at the port. See to it if you please.’ It was stating the obvious to an experienced man, but in the excitement of the moment it was no good relying on experience that could be lost in distraction.
As he went aft again Drinkwater was aware of the lessening of the wind noise in the rigging. Running free cut it to a minimum, while the hull sat more upright in the sea and it was necessary to look to the horizon to see the wave caps still tumbling before the strong breeze to convince oneself that the weather had not suddenly moderated. Already the stunsails were being hoisted from their stowage in the tops, billowing forward and bowing their thin booms. Lestock was bawling abuse at the foretopmen who had failed in the delicate business of seeing one of them clear of the spider’s web of ropes between the top and its upper and lower booms. A man was scrambling out along the topgallant yard and leaning outwards at the peril of his life to clear the tangle.
Lestock’s voice rose to a shrill squeal and Drinkwater knew that on many ships men would be flogged for such clumsiness. Lestock’s vitriolic diatribe vexed him.
‘Belay that, Mr Lestock, you’ll only fluster the man, ’twill not set the sail a whit faster.’
Lestock turned, white with anger. ‘I’ll trouble you to hold your tongue, damn it, I still have the deck and that whoreson captain of the foretop’ll have a checked shirt at the gangway, by God!’
Drinkwater ignored the master. The distraction had silenced Lestock for long enough to ensure the stunsail was set and he was far too eager to get aft and study the chase.
He joined Griffiths by the taffrail, saying nothing but levelling his glass.
‘He’s gaining on us, bach. I dare not sacrifice water, nor guns . . . not yet . . .’
‘We could haul the forward guns aft, sir. Lift her bow a little, she’s burying it at the moment . . .’ Both men spoke without removing the glasses from their eyes.
‘Indeed, yes. See to it, and drop the sterns of the quarterboats to catch a little wind.’ Drinkwater snapped the glass shut and caught Quilhampton’s eye.
‘Mr Q, do you see to lowering the after falls on each of the quarter boats. Not far enough to scoop up water but to act as sails.’ He left Quilhampton in puzzled acknowledgement and noted with satisfaction the speed with which Grey’s party had hauled the four inch manila hemp springs aloft. The gun tackles were already rigged and being sweated tight.
‘Mr Rogers!’
‘Yes? What is it?’
Drinkwater explained about the guns. ‘We’ll start with the forward two and get a log reading at intervals of half an hour to check her best performance.’
Rogers nodded. ‘She’s gaining is she?’
‘Yes.’
‘D’you think the old bastard’s lost his nerve,’ he paused then saw the anger in Drinkwater’s face. ‘I mean she might be British . . .’
‘And she might not! You may wish to rot in a French fortress but I do not. I suggest we attend to our order.’
Drinkwater turned away from Rogers, contempt flooding through him that a man could allow himself the liberty of such petty considerations. Although the stranger was still well out of gunshot it would need only one lucky ball to halt their flight. And the fortress of Bitche waited impassively for them. Drinkwater stopped his mind from wandering and began to organise the hauling aft of the forward guns.
In the waist the noise of the sea hissing alongside was soon augmented by the orchestrated grunts of men laying on tackles and gingerly hauling the brig’s unwieldy artillery aft. Two heavy sets of blocks led forward and two aft, to control the progress of the guns as the ship moved under them. From time to time Grey’s party of men with handspikes eased the awkward carriage wheels over a ringbolt. After four hours of labour they had four guns abaft the mainmast and successive streaming of the log indicated an increase of speed of one and a half knots. But that movement of guns aft had not only deprived Hellebore of four of her teeth, it had seriously impeded the working of her after cannon since the forward guns now occupied their recoil space.
When the fourth gun had been lashed the two lieutenants straightened up from their exertions. Drinkwater had long forgotten Rogers’s earlier attitude.
‘I hope the bastard does not catch us now or it’ll be abject bloody surrender, superior goddam force or not,’ Rogers muttered morosely.
‘Stow it, Rogers, it’s well past noon, we might yet hang on until dark.’
‘You’re a bloody optimist, Drinkwater.’
‘I’ve little choice; besides faith is said to move mountains.’
‘Shit!’
Drinkwater shrugged and went aft again. Despite the work of the past hours it was as if he had left Griffiths a few moments earlier. The old Welshma
n appeared not to have moved, to have shrunk in on himself, almost half-asleep until one saw those hawkish eyes, staring relentlessly astern.
There was no doubt that they were losing the race. The big frigate was clearly visible, hull-up from the deck and already trying ranging shots. As yet these fell harmlessly astern. Drinkwater expressed surprise as a white plume showed in their wake eight cables away.
‘He’s been doing that for the past half hour,’ said Griffiths. ‘I think we have about two hours before we will feel the spray of those fountains upon our face and perhaps a further hour before they are striking splinters from the rail. His hands clenched the taffrail tighter as if they could protect the timber from the inevitable.
‘We could swing one of the bow chasers directly astern, sir,’ volunteered Drinkwater. Griffiths nodded.
‘Like that cythral Santhonax did the day he shot Kestrel’s topmast out of her, is it?’
‘Aye.’
‘We’ll see. It will be no use for a while. Did Lestock in his zeal douse the galley fire?’
‘I’ve really no idea, sir.’ At the mention of the galley Drinkwater was suddenly reminded of how hungry he was.
‘Well see what you can do, bach. Get some dinner into the hands. Whatever the outcome it will be the better faced on full bellies.’
Half an hour later Drinkwater was wolfing a bowl of burgoo. There was an unreal atmosphere prevailing in the gunroom where he, Lestock and Appleby were having a makeshift meal. Throughout the ship men moved with a quiet expectancy, both fearful of capture and hopeful of escape. To what degree they inclined to the one or to the other depended greatly upon temperament, and there were those lugubrious souls who had already given up all hope of the latter.
Drinkwater could not allow himself to dwell over much on defeat. Both his private fears and his professional pride demanded that he appeared confident of ultimate salvation.
‘I tell you, Appleby, if those blackguards had not fouled up the starboard fore t’gallant stunsail we’d have been half a mile ahead of ourselves,’ spluttered Lestock through the porridge, his nerves showing badly.
‘That’s rubbish, Mr Lestock,’ Drinkwater said soothingly, unwilling to revive the matter. ‘On occasions like this small things frequently go wrong, if it had not been the stunsail it would likely have been some other matter. Perhaps something has gone wrong on the chase to delay him a minute or two. Either way ’tis no good fretting over it.’
‘It could be the horseshoe nail, nevertheless, Nat, eh?’ put in Appleby, further irritating Drinkwater.
‘What are you driving at?’
‘On account of which the battle was lost, I paraphrase . . .’
‘I’m well acquainted with the nursery rhyme . . .’
‘And so you should be, my dear fellow, you are closer to ’em than I myself . . .’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Harry, don’t you start. There’s Mr Lestock here like Job on a dung heap, Rogers on deck with a face as long as the galley funnel . . .’
‘Then what do we do, dear boy?’
‘Hope we can hold on until darkness,’ said Drinkwater rising.
‘Ah,’ Appleby raised his hands in a gesture of mock revelation, ‘the crepuscular hour . . .’
‘And have a little faith in Madoc Griffiths, for God’s sake,’ snapped Drinkwater angrily.
‘Ah, the Welsh wizard.’
Drinkwater left the gunroom with Lestock’s jittery cackling in his ears. There were moments when Harry Appleby was infuriatingly facetious. Drinkwater knew it stemmed from Appleby’s inherent disapproval of bloodshed and the illusions of glory. But at the moment he felt no tolerance for the surgeon’s high-flown sentiments and realised that he shared with Rogers an abhorrence of abject surrender.
He returned to the deck to find the chasing frigate perceptibly nearer. He swore under his breath and approached Griffiths.
‘Have you eaten, sir?’
‘I’ve no stomach for food, bach.’ Griffiths swivelled round, a look of pain crossing his face as the movement restored circulation to his limbs. His gouty foot struck the deck harder than he intended as he caught his balance and a torrent of Welsh invective flowed from him. Drinkwater lent him some support.
‘I’m all right. Du, but ’tis a dreadful thing, old age. Take the deck for a while, I’ve need to clasp the neck of a little green friend.’
He was on deck ten minutes later, smelling of sercial but with more colour in his cheeks. He cast a critical eye over the sails and nodded his satisfaction.
‘It may be that the wind will drop towards sunset. That could confer a slight advantage upon us.’
It could, thought Drinkwater, but it was by no means certain. An hour later they could feel the spray upon their faces from the ranging shots that plummetted in their wake.
And the wind showed no sign of dropping.
Appleby’s crepuscular hour approached at last and with it the first sign that perhaps all was not yet lost. Sunset was accompanied by rolls of cloud from the west that promised to shorten the twilight period and foretold a worsening of the weather. The brig still raced on under a press of canvas and Lestock, earlier so anxious to hoist the stunsails was now worried about furling them, rightly concluding that such an operation carried out in the dark was fraught with dreadful possibilities. The fouling of ropes at such a moment could spell disaster and Lestock voiced his misgivings to Griffiths.
‘I agree with you, Mr Lestock, but I’m not concerned with stunsails.’ Griffiths called Drinkwater and Rogers to him. The two lieutenants and the master joined him in staring astern.
‘He will see us against the afterglow of sunset for a while yet. He’ll also be expecting us to do something. I’m going back on him . . .’ He paused, letting the import sink in. Rogers whistled quietly, Drinkwater smiled, partly out of relief that the hours of passivity were over and partly at the look of horror just visible on Lestock’s face.
‘Mr Lestock is quite correct about the stunsails. With the preventer backstays I’ve no fear for the masts. If the booms part or the sails blow out, to the devil with them, at least we’ve all our water and all our guns . . . As to the latter, Mr Rogers, I want whatever waist guns we can work double shotted at maximum elevation. You will not fire without my order upon pain of death. That will be only, I repeat only, if I suspect we have been seen. Mr Drinkwater, I want absolute silence throughout the ship. I shall flog any man who so much as breaks wind. And the topmen are to have their knives handy to cut loose anything that goes adrift or fouls aloft. Is that understood, gentlemen?’
The three officers muttered their acknowledgement. A ball struck the quarter and sent up a shower of splinters. ‘Very well,’ said Griffiths impassively, ‘let us hope that in forty minutes he will not be able to see us. Make your preparations, please.’
‘Down helm!’
The brig began to turn to larboard, the yards swinging round as she came on the wind. The strength of the wind was immediately apparent and sheets of stinging spray began to whip over the weather bow as she drove to windward.
‘Full an’ bye, larboard tack, sir,’ Lestock reported, steadying himself in the darkness as Hellebore lay over under a press of canvas.
Drinkwater joined Griffiths at the rail, staring into the darkness broad on the larboard bow where the frigate must soon be visible.
‘There she is, sir,’ he hissed after a moment’s pause, ‘and by God she’s turning . . .’
‘Myndiawl!’ Drinkwater was aware of the electric tension in the commander as Griffiths peered into the gloom. ‘She’s coming onto the wind too; d’you think she’s tumbled us?’
Drinkwater did not answer. It was impossible to tell, though it seemed likely that the stranger had anticipated Griffiths’s manoeuvre even if he was unable to see them.
‘He must see us . . .’
The two vessels surged along some nine cables apart, running on near parallel courses. Drinkwater was studying the enemy, for he was now convinced the frig
ate was a Frenchman. Two things were apparent from the inverted image in the night glass. Hellebore had the advantage in speed, for the other was taking in his stunsails. The confusion inherent in the operation had, for the moment, slowed her. She was also growing larger, indicating she did not lie as close to the wind as her quarry. If Hellebore could cross her bow she might yet escape and such a course seemed to indicate the French captain was cautious. And then several ideas occurred to Drinkwater simultaneously. He could imagine the scene on the French cruiser’s deck. The stunsails would be handled with care, men’s attention would be inboard for perhaps ten minutes. And the Frenchman was going to reach across the wind and reduce sail until daylight, reckoning that whatever Hellebore did she would still be visible at daylight with hours to complete what had been started today.
He muttered his conclusions to Griffiths who pondered them for what seemed an age. ‘If that is the case we would do best to wear round his stern . . .’
‘But that means we might still encounter him tomorrow since we will be making northing,’ added Drinkwater, ‘whereas if we hold on we might slip to windward of him and escape.’
He heard Griffiths exhale. ‘Very well,’ he said at last.
A Brig of War Page 6