The Corvette

the boat and there were muttered curses as the midshipman, helped now by idle oarsmen got the mast into the boat not an instant too soon.

Suddenly they were in open water and, a moment later in a dense fog.

'Did anyone see the ship?' Drinkwater asked sharply.

There was a negative muttering.

'We have exchanged the frying pan for the fire, Mr Q.'

'Aye, sir.' Quilhampton sat glumly. The heart-thumping excitement of the race against the closure of the ice had had at least the advantage of swift resolution. Catriona might one day learn he had died crushed in Arctic ice and it seemed to him a preferable death to freezing and starving in an open boat. He was about to ask how long Captain Drinkwater thought they could survive when he saw the men exchange glances and Midshipman Frey looked aft, his face pale with anxiety. He pulled himself together. He was in command of the boat, damn it, despite the fact that Melusine's captain sat beside him.

'Permission to re-ship the mast, sir.'

Drinkwater nodded. He looked astern. They were well clear of the ice and already feeling the effect of the wind. 'Aye, but do not hoist the sail.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Quilhampton nodded at the junior midshipman. 'Step that mast forrard!'

There was a scrambling and a knocking as the stumpy spar with its iron traveller and single halliard was relocated in the hole in the thwart. The men assisted willingly, glad of something to do. When it was done they subsided onto the thwarts and again looked aft.

'Have all the oars secured inboard and two watches told off. You will take one and I the other. Tregembo pick the hands in Mr Quilhampton's watch and Mr Frey you will pick those in mine. I will take the tiller, Mr Q, whilst you make an issue of grog and biscuit. We will then set the watches and heave the gig to. At regular intervals the bowman will holloa and listen for the echo of his voice. If he hears it we may reasonably expect that ice is close but from what we saw there is little ice to leeward, though some may drift that way at a greater speed than ourselves. In this case we have only to put up the helm and run away from it while its protection to windward will reduce the violence of the sea. The watch below will huddle together to get what warmth it can. Captain Sawyers was only just relating many whaleboat crews have survived such circumstances so there is little to be alarmed about.'

The last sentence was a bare-faced lie, but it had its effect in cheering the men and they went about their tasks with a show of willingness.

With greater misgivings and the pain in his shoulder nagging at him appallingly, Drinkwater sat hunched in the stern-sheets.

Singleton looked at the blade of the catling as the loblolly boy held the lantern close. There was no trace of mist upon it. Francis Germaney had breathed his last.

'One for the sail-maker, eh sir?' The loblolly boy's grin was wolfish. It was always good to bury an officer, especially one who had the sense to blow his brains out. Or make a mess of it, the man thought, thereby casting doubts on whether he had them in the first place.

Singleton looked coldly at Skeete who stared back.

'I'll plug his arse and lay him out for the sail-maker, sir.'

'Be silent, Skeete, you blackguard!' snapped Singleton impatiently, rising and for the hundredth time cracking his head on the deckbeam above. He left the first lieutenant's cabin hurriedly to the accompaniment of Skeete's diabolical laughter. A loblolly 'boy' of some twenty years experience and some fifty years of age, Skeete was enjoying himself. To the added pleasure of witnessing the demise of an officer, a circumstance which in Skeete's opinion was all too rare an occurrence, he derived a degree of satisfaction from the office he was about to perform upon such an august corpse as that of Lieutenant Francis Germaney, Royal Navy. Further, since ridding themselves of the drunken oppression of Macpherson, Skeete and his mate had enjoyed an autonomy previously unknown to them. Mr Singleton's remarkable ability in reviving Leek had impressed the surgeon's assistants less than the rest of the crew. To Skeete and his mate, Singleton was not a proper ship's officer and, being a damned parson with pronounced views upon flogging and the Articles of War, could be insulted with a fair degree of impunity. Skeete could not remember enjoying himself so much since he last visited Diamond Lil's at Portsmouth Point.

In search of Drinkwater Singleton arrived on deck to be knocked to his knees by a seaman jumping clear as Number Nine gun fired and recoiled.

'Mind you f… Oh, beg pardon, sir,' the man grinned sheepishly and helped the surgeon to his feet. Somewhat shaken and uncertain as to the cause of the noise and apparent confusion as the gun crew reloaded and hauled up the piece, Singleton made his way aft.

'Is something the matter, Mr Hill?' he asked the master.

'Bosun's mate, take that man's name and tell him I'll give him a check shirt at the gangway the next time he forgets to swab his gun… matter, Mr Singleton? Merely that there is a fog and the captain has yet to return.'

'Fog?' Singleton turned and noticed the shroud that covered the ship for the first time. He looked sharply at Hill. 'You mean that the captain's lost in this fog? In that little boat?'

'So it would seem, Mr Singleton. And the little boat is his gig… now if you will excuse me… Mackman, you Godforsaken whoreson, coil that fall the other way, God damn you bloody landsmen!'

Singleton pressed aft aware that not only was the Melusine shrouded in dense fog but that the wind was piping in the rigging and that the ship was beginning to lift to an increasingly rough sea as she came clear of the ice.

Mr Bourne, now in command, stood miserably at the windward rail with a worried looking Rispin, promoted abruptly and unwilling to first lieutenant. It was clear, even to Singleton's untutored eye, that Stephen Hill was in real command. Although he realised with a pang that he felt very uneasy without Drinkwater's cock-headed presence on the quarterdeck, he felt a measure of reassurance in Hill's competence. Knowing something of the promotion-hungry desires of lieutenants and midshipmen Singleton wondered to what extent efforts were being made to recover the captain, then he recollected his duty and struggled across the deck towards Bourne.

A patter of spray flew aft and drove the breath from his body as he reached the anxious lieutenant. 'Mr Bourne!'

'Eh? Singleton, what is it?'

Bourne's cloak blew round him and his uncertainty seemed epitomised by the way he clutched the fore-cock of his hat to prevent it blowing away.

'Mr Germaney has expired.'

'Oh.' There seemed little else to say except, 'Thank you, Mr Singleton.'

Frozen to the marrow Singleton made his way to the compan-ionway. As he swung himself down a second dollop of spray caught him and Number Nine gun roared again. Reaching the sanctuary of his cabin he flung himself on his knees.

Afterwards Drinkwater was uncertain how long they nursed the gig through that desperate night, for night it must have been. Certainly the fog obscured much of the sunlight and prevented even a glimpse of the sun itself so that it became almost dark. After the twists and turns of their passage through the ice, and his preoccupation in avoiding damage to the boat, Drinkwater had to admit to being lost. The pain in his neck and the growing numbness of his extremities seemed to dull his brain so that his mental efforts were reduced to the sole consideration of keeping the boat reasonably dry and as close to the wind as they were able. He dare not run off before it for, although its effect would be less chilling, he feared far more the prospect of being utterly lost, while every effort he made to retain his position increased his chances of being not too far distant from the whalers or the Melusine when the fog lifted.

The boat's crew spent a miserable night and at one point he recovered sufficient awareness to realise he had his arm round the shoulders of little Frey who was shuddering uncontrollably and trying desperately to muffle the chattering of his teeth and the sobbing of his breath. Tregembo and Quilhampton huddled together, their familiarity readily breaking down the barriers of rank, while further forward the other men groaned, swore and crouched equally frozen.

Occasionally Drinkwater rallied, awakened to full consciousness by a sudden, agonising spasm in his shoulder, only to curse the self-indulgence that had led to this folly and probable death. He realised with a shock that he was not much moved by the contemplation of death, and with it came the realisation that his hands and feet felt warmer. For a second sleep threatened to overwhelm him and he knew it was the kiss of approaching death. A picture of Charlotte Amelia and Richard Madoc swam before his eyes, he tried to conjure up Elizabeth but