A Brig of War

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 quarterboats. 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 Welshman 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 bungoo. 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?'