A Brig of War

'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. Duw, 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 on to 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 frigate 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.

There was half a mile between the two ships and still the distance lessened. At any moment they must be observed. Drinkwater looked anxiously aloft and he caught sight of a white blur that was Lestock's face. Nearby stood Dalziell and Mr Q.

Hellebore's mainmast was drawing ahead of the frigate's stem and Drinkwater could see her topgallants bunching up where the sheets were started and the buntlines gathered them up prior to furling. He was certain that his assumption was correct. But another thought struck him: one of the topmen out on those yards could not fail to see the brig close to leeward of them.

A minute later the cry of alarm was clearly heard across the three hundred yards of water that separated the two ships. Drinkwater tried to see if her lee ports were open and waited with beating heart for a wild broadside. He doubted that any of their own guns would bear. He could see Rogers looking aft, itching to give the order to fire. Lestock's fidgetting was growing unbearable while all along the deck the hands peered silently at the ghostly black and grey shape that was the enemy.

There were several shouts from the stranger and they were unmistakably French. A low murmur ran along Hellebore's deck.

'Silence there!' Drinkwater called in a low voice, trusting in their leeward position not to carry his words to the frigate. 'Mr Q. See to the hoisting of a Dutch ensign.'

A hail came over the water followed by a gunshot that whistled overhead, putting a hole in the leeward lower stunsail. A second later it tore and blew out of the bolt ropes.

The horizontal stripes of the Dutch colour caused a small delay, a moment of indecision on the enemy quarterdeck but it was not for long. The unmistakable vertical bands of the French tricolour jerked to her peak and her forward guns barked from her starboard bow. Three of the balls struck home, tearing into the hull beneath the quarterdeck making a shambles of Rogers's cabin, but not one was hit and then the brig had driven too far ahead so the enemy guns no longer bore. Eighty yards on the beam Hellebore drove past the cruiser's bowsprit.

'He's luffing, sir…'

'To give us a broadside, the bastard.' Griffiths looked along his own deck. 'Keep her full and bye Mr Lestock,