The Bomb Vessel

'Anchor's aweigh!'

'Topsail halliards, away lively there… haul away larboard braces, lively now! Ease away that starboard mainbrace damn you…!' The backed topsails filled with wind even before their yards had reached their proper elevation. Virago began to make a stern board.

'Foretopmast staysail, aback to larboard Mr Matchett.' The ship began to swing. 'Helm a-lee!'

'Helium's a-leek, zur.'

'Larboard tack, Mr Rogers, course nor' nor' east.'

He left Rogers to haul the yards again and steady Virago on her new course. They would be safely anchored in Yarmouth Roads before another midnight had passed. Around him the noises of the ship, the clatter of blocks, the grind of the rudder, the flog of canvas and creak of parrels, told him Rogers was steadying Virago on her northward course. He wondered how the other members of the squadron had fared during the night and considered that 'commodore' Martin might be an anxious and exasperated man this morning. The thought amused him, although it was immediately countered by the image of Martin and the other ships sitting in Yarmouth Roads awaiting the arrival of Virago.

The ship heeled and beneath him the wake began to bubble out from under her stern as she gathered headway. Instinctively he threw his weight on one hip, then turned and began pacing the windward side of the poop. The afterguard padded aft and slackened the spanker brails, four men swigging the clew out to the end of the long boom by the double outhauls.

'Course, nor' nor' east, sir.'

'Very well, Sam. You have the deck, carry on.'

Rogers called Matchett to pipe up hammocks. The routine of Virago's day had begun in earnest. Drinkwater walked forward again and halted by the larboard mizzen rigging at the break of the poop. He searched for a glimpse of Orfordness lighthouse but his attention was suddenly attracted by something else, an irregularity in the almost indistinguishable meeting of sea and sky to the north of them. He fished in his tail pocket for the Dolland glass.

'Mr Rogers!'

'Sir?'

'What d'you make of those sails,' said Drinkwater without lowering his glass, 'there, half a point on the larboard bow?'

Rogers lifted his own glass and was silent for a moment. 'High peaks,' he muttered, 'could be bawleys out of Harwich, but not one of the squadron, if that's what you're thinking.'

'That ain't what I'm thinking Sam. Take another look, a good long look.'

Rogers whistled. One of the approaching sails had altered course, slightly more to the east and they were both growing larger by the second.

'Luggers, by God!'

'And if I'm not mistaken they're in chase, Sam. French chasse-marées taking us for a fat wallowing merchantman. I'll wager they've been lying under the Ness all night.'

'They'll eat the logline off this tub, God damn it, and be chock full of men.'

'And as handy as yachts', added Drinkwater, remembering the two stern chasers in his cabin and his untried crew. He would be compelled to fight for he could not outrun such swift enemies.

'Wear ship, Sam, upon the instant. Don't be silly man, we're no match for two Dunkirkers, we'll make the tail of the bank and beat up for Harwich.'

Rogers shut his gaping mouth and turned to bawl abusively at the hands milling in the waist as they carried the hammocks up and stowed them in the nettings. The first lieutenant scattered them like a fox among chickens.

Drinkwater considered his situation. To stand on would invite being out-manoeuvred, while by running he would not only have his longest range guns bearing on the enemy, but might entice the luggers close enough to pound them with his carronades. If he could outrun them long enough to make up for the Sunk and Harwich they might abandon the chase, privateers were unwilling to fight if the odds were too great and there was a guardship in Harwich harbour.

The spanker was brailed up again as Virago's stern passed through the wind. Drinkwater tried to conceal the trembling of his hand, which was as much due to his fever as his apprehension, while he tried to hold the images of the approaching luggers in the circle of the glass. Thanks to the twilight they had been close enough when first spotted. They were scarcely a mile distant as Rogers shrieked at topmen too tardily loosing the topgallants for his liking.

'Look lively you damned scabs, you've a French hulk awaiting you if you don't stop frigging about…'

'Beg pardon, sir.'

Drinkwater bumped into a crouching seaman scattering sand on the deck. He abandoned a further study of the enemy and looked to the trim of the sails. Easton was at the con now, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

'We'll make up for Harwich as soon as we're clear of the Shipwash Sand, Mr Easton. Do you attend to the bearing of the alarm vessel.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Daylight was increasing by the minute and Drinkwater looked astern again. He could see the long, low hulls, the oddly raked masts and the huge spread of canvas set by the luggers. He was by no means confident of the outcome, and both of the pursuing sea-wolves were coming up fast.

Drinkwater walked forward again. Rogers reported the ship cleared for action.

'Very well. Mr Rogers, you are to command the two chasers in the cabin. We will do what damage we can before they close on us. They will likely take a quarter each and try to board.' Rogers and Easton nodded.

'Mr Easton, you have the con. From time to time I may desire you to ease away a little or to luff half a point to enable Mr Rogers to point better.'

'Aye, sir, I understand.'

'Mr Mason the larboard battery, Mr Q the starboard. Rapid fire as soon as you've loosed your first broadside. For that await the command. Mr Rogers you may fire at will.'

'And the sooner the better.'

Drinkwater ignored Rogers's interruption. 'Is that clear gentlemen?'

There was a succession of 'ayes' and nods and nervous grins.

Drinkwater stood at the break of the low poop. The waisters were grouped amidships, the gun crews kneeling at their carronades. They all looked expectantly aft. They had had little practice at gunnery since leaving Chatham and Drinkwater was acutely conscious of their unpreparedness. He looked now at the experienced men to do their best.

'My lads, there are two French privateers coming up astern hand over fist. They've the heels of us. Give 'em as much iron as they can stomach before they close us. A Frog with a bellyful of iron can't jump a ditch…' He paused and was gratified by a dutiful ripple of nervous laughter at the poor jest. 'But if they do board I want to see you busy with those pikes and cutlasses…' He broke off and gave them what he thought was a confident, bloodthirsty grin. He was again relieved to see a few leers and hear the beginnings of a feeble cheer.

He nodded. 'Do your duty, lads.' He turned to the officers, 'Take post gentlemen.'

It suddenly occurred to him that he was unarmed. 'Tregembo, my sword and pistols from the cabin if you please.'

He looked aft and with a sudden shock saw the two luggers were very much closer. The nearer was making for Virago's lee quarter, the larboard.

'God's bones,' muttered Drinkwater to himself, trying to fend off a violent spasm of shivering that he did not want to be taken for fear.

'Here zur,' Tregembo held out the battered French hanger and Drinkwater unhooked the boat cloak from his throat and draped it over Tregembo's outstretched arm. He buckled on the sword then took the pistols.

'I've looked to the priming, zur, and put a new flint in that 'un, zur.'

'Thank you, Tregembo. And good luck.'

'Aye, zur.' The man hurried away with the cloak and reappeared on deck at the tiller almost at once.

A fountain of water sprung up alongside them, another rose ahead.