The Corvette

Undeterred by his ducking, Elijah Pucill was already wielding his flensing iron as the try-tackles began to strip the blanket-piece from the carcase.

'By God, sir,' remarked Quilhampton as he settled himself in the stern sheets of the gig, 'they don't work Tom Cox's traverse aboard there.'[3]

'Indeed not, Mr Q.'

'The ship bore east-nor'-east from the whaler's mizen top, sir, about two leagues distant.'

'Very well, Mr Q, carry on.'

'Wind's freshening all the time, Mr Hill.'

'And backing Mr Gorton, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye, and inclined to be a trifle warmer I think, not that there's much comfort to be derived from that.'

'Ah, but what should you deduce from that observation, Mr Gorton?'

Gorton frowned and shook his head.

'Fog, Mr Gorton, fog and a whole gale before the day is out or you may rate me a Dutchman. You had better inform Mr Bourne and then hoist yourself aloft and see if you can spot the captain's boat.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bourne came on deck, anxiety plain on his face. 'Have you news of the Captain, Mr Hill?'

'No, Mr Bourne, but Gorton's going aloft with a glass.'

Bourne looked aloft. Melusine lay under her spanker and fore-topmast staysail, her reefed maintopsail aback. Hove-to she drifted slowly to leeward, ready to fill her topsail and work to windward. Bourne looked to starboard. The nearest ice lay a league under the sloop's lee.

'D'you know the bearing of the nearest whaler, Mr Hill?'

'Faithful's west-sou'-west with the Narwhal and Truelove further to the west among heavier ice.'

'Very well. Fill the main tops'l, we'll work the ship towards the ice to windward. That will be…' he looked at the compass.

'West-sou'-west,' offered Hill.

'Very well.' Bourne clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the windward rail. Standing at the larboard hance by Captain Palgrave's fussy brass carronade now covered in oiled canvas, Lieutenant Bourne felt terribly lonely. He began to worry over the rising wind while Hill had the watch brace the mainyards round. The last few days had demonstrated the dangers of the ice floes to a ship of Melusine's light build. The speed with which the ice moved had amazed them and all their skill had been needed to manoeuvre the ship clear of the danger. Captain Drinkwater's written orders to his watch-keeping officers had been specific: At all costs close proximity with the ice is to be avoided and offing is to be made even at the prospect of losing contact with the whalers. To move Melusine to safety now meant that the captain might be unable to relocate them and with fog coming on there was no longer the refuge contained in Captain Drinkwater's order book: If in any doubt whatsoever, do not hesitate to inform me.

In a moment of angry uncertainty Bourne damned Germaney for his insanity. Then worry reasserted itself, worming in the pit of his stomach like some huge parasite. He looked again and looked in vain for the ice edge. Already a white fog was swirling towards them. He ran forward and lifted the speaking trumpet.

'Masthead there!'

'Sir?' Gorton leaned from the crow's nest.

'D'you see anything of the gig?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'God damn and blast it!' He thought for a moment longer and then made up his mind, hoping that Captain Drinkwater had remained safe aboard one of the whalers.

'Mr Hill! Put the ship about, course south, clear of this damned ice.'

Like the good sailing master he was, Hill obeyed the order of the young commissioned officer and brought Melusine onto the starboard tack. Then he crossed the deck and addressed Bourne.

'Mr Bourne, if the captain's adrift in this fog he'll lose the ship. My advice is to give him minute guns and heave to again after you've run a league to the southward.'

Bourne looked at the older man and Hill saw the relief plain in his eyes.

'Very well, Mr Hill, will you see to it.'

Already the white wraiths curled across the deck and the next instant every rope began to drip moisture and the damp chill of a dense fog isolated the ship.

Chapter Nine The Mercy of God

 June-July 1803

It was intuition that told Drinkwater a change in the weather was imminent, intuition and a nervous awareness of altering circumstances. He was slowly awakened to a growing ache in his neck and a dimming of the brilliance of the ice which combined with a softening of its shadows. The day lost its colour and the atmosphere began to feel oddly hostile. The birds were landing on the sea and were airborne in fewer numbers.

He touched Quilhampton's arm as the boat ran between two ice floes some seven or eight feet tall. The lead through which they were running was some hundred yards across, with a patch of open sea visible ahead of them from which, when they reached it, they hoped to catch sight of Melusine. Quilhampton turned. 'Sir?'

'Fog, Mr Q, fog and wind,' he said in a low voice.

Their eyes met and Quilhampton replied, 'Pray God we make the ship, sir.'

'Amen to that, Mr Q.'

Quilhampton, who had been dreaming again of Catriona, pulled himself together and concentrated on working the gig even faster through the lead to reach the open water before the fog closed over them.

Drinkwater ordered Frey to pass another issue of rum to the men who sat shivering in the bottom of the boat. The warmth had gone out of the sun and the approaching fog made the air damp. He heard Quilhampton swear and looked up. The lead between the floes was narrowing as they spun slowly in the wind. He was conscious of a strong and unpleasant smell from the algae on the closing ice.

'Get the oars to work, Tregembo!' Drinkwater snapped and the men, looking round and grasping the situation at a glance, were quick to obey. Already the lead had diminished by half.

'Pull, damn you!'

The boat headed for the narrowing gap with perhaps a cable to run before reaching the open water. The men grunted with effort as they tugged the gig forwards while in the stern Drinkwater and Quilhampton watched anxiously. The gap ahead was down to twenty yards. The sail flapped uselessly as the wind died in the lee of the converging ice. Drinkwater looked anxiously on either side of them, seeking some ledge on the ice upon which they could scramble when the floes ground together and crushed the boat like an eggshell. But both floes were in an advanced state of melting, their waterlines eroded, their surfaces overhanging in an exaggerated fashion. In a minute or two the oars would be useless as there would be insufficient room to extend them either side of the boat. He wished he had a steering oar with which to give the boat a little more chance.

'Keep pulling, men, then trail oars as soon as you feel the blades touch the ice. Mr Frey, get that damned mast down.' He tried to keep his voice level but apprehension and a sudden bitter chill from the proximity of the ice made it shake. The floes had almost met overhead so that they pulled in a partial tunnel. Then there was a crash astern. Drinkwater looked round. The lead had closed behind them and a wave of water was rushing towards the gig's transom.

'Pull!' he shouted, turning forward to urge the men, but as he did so he saw them leaning backwards, the looms of their oars sweeping over their heads as they allowed them to trail. They tensed for the impact of the ice when the wave hit them. The boat was thrust abruptly forward as the ice met overhead. Lumps of it dropped into