The Corvette

With a roar an explosion shook Narwhal's stern, the windows of the gallery shattered outwards and a small rag of humanity was ejected into the blackness. Harvey was blown off into the water.

As the explosion died away Drinkwater heard several voices shout that Narwhal's small powder magazine was beneath the cabin aft, and then their attention was claimed by a great cracking and splitting of wood as the mainmast, closest to the origin of the fire, burnt through and toppled slowly over onto the ice, bringing the fore and mizen masts with it. The crowd of men moved backwards in fear and when the rope arrived, Renaudson, Quilhampton and Drinkwater made their way to the edge of the ice amid burning spars. Their footing was treacherous. The surface ice was reduced to slush, slush that had no longer the sharp edge of the ice shelf. It now formed a lethal declivity into the freezing black waters of the sea.

They looked down upon Harvey's pale face, curiously blotched and appearing like the head of John the Baptist upon Salome's salver. 'Quick! The rope!'

It snaked over Drinkwater and fell alongside Harvey, but his eyes closed and he did not seem to have seen it.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater began to struggle out of his coat but Quilhampton was quicker, splashing into the water as soon as he saw what the matter was. Drinkwater hesitated a second, concerned that Quilhampton's wooden hand might hamper him, remembering his own pathetic attempts to make a bowline.

But Quilhampton needed no help. He shouted to the men on the ice and Drinkwater stumbled back up the ice-slope to get men to tail onto the line and drag Harvey and Quilhampton to safety, while Narwhal's hull finally erupted, splitting open along her top-sides as the fire consumed her.

Despite the fierce heat both rescued and rescuer were shivering. Blankets miraculously appeared and Singleton arrived with an improvised stretcher and the surgeons of the Truelove and the Narwhal herself.

In seconds Harvey and Quilhampton were on their way back to Melusine and in their wake men followed, drifting away from the fire now that there was no longer anything that could be done.

'Captain Renaudson, ah, and you, Captain Sawyers. A word if you please…' The two men approached, sober faces reflecting the glare of the fire, even though it was the midnight of an arctic summer and quite light.

'What do we do with these men, gentlemen?' Drinkwater asked.

'Hang the lubbers, God blast their bloody stupidity.' Renaudson turned on the shifty eyed and shamefaced Narwhals as they stood on the ice disconsolately, 'You should starve here, if I had my way… drunken bastards!' he said with venom.

'Steady, Friend…' put in Sawyers, putting out a restraining arm.

'A pox on your damned cant, Abel. These harlots' spawn deserve nothing…'

'You do not know that they all…'

'I do not need to know more than that Jaybez Harvey will not live to see his wife again, nay, them art shit,' and he spat for emphasis and turned away.

Drinkwater looked at the crowd of men. 'Which of you is the chief officer?'

The mate stepped forward. 'I'm the mate, Captain, John Akeroyd.'

'How did the ship catch fire?'

'I'm not certain, sir, I was below, turned in.'

'Who had the watch?' Drinkwater addressed the question to the huddle of men. There seemed to be some shoving and then a man came forward.

'Me.'

'What is your name?'

'Peter Norris, third mate… men got among the spirits, sir, there was some sort o'fight over a game o'cards… tried to stop it but it was too late…'

Drinkwater saw the raw bruising round Norris's left eye which indicated he spoke the truth. 'Hhmmm…'

'There is a custom, Friend, in the fishery,' offered Sawyers helpfully, 'that when a disaster such as this occurs the crew of the vessel lost is split up among the other vessels. Perhaps, Mr Akeroyd, thou would'st care to divide the men.' Sawyers caught Drinkwater's arm and turned him away. 'Come, Friend, this is not a naval matter.'

'But there is some degree of culpability… if Harvey should die…'

'The fishery has its own ways, Captain Drinkwater.' Sawyers was tugging him as he tried to turn back, 'Come away, they have lost everything and will go home as beggars…'

'But, damn it, Sawyers, Harvey is like to die and that boy…'

'Aye, Friend, thou mayst be right, but thou cannot flog them and they will be penitent ere long. Come.' And Drinkwater returned reluctantly to Melusine.

Rispin met him formally at the side. 'I beg pardon sir, the side-boys are…'

'Oh, damn the sideboys, Mr Rispin, where is Mr Singleton?'

'He took the injured man below, sir, with the surgeons from two of the whaling vessels, sir.'

'Thank you.'

'And sir, the wind's freshening.'

'And damn the wind too!'

Drinkwater found Quilhampton in the cockpit, a mug of mimbo before him and blankets and midshipmen close about him. He was recovering in good company and although the midshipmen drew deferentially aside Drinkwater offered Quilhampton no more than a nod and the terse observation that he had 'Done very well.'

'Bit tight with the compliments, Q, old chap,' muttered Lord Walmsley as Drinkwater moved forward to where the midshipmen's chests had been dragged into a makeshift table.

'How is he?' The three surgeons turned, grunted and bent over Harvey. The pock-marked face was crusted with burnt flesh, the beard singed and smelling foully. Alongside lay the roll of Singleton's instruments, the demi- lunes, daviers and curettes gleaming in the light of the two battle lanterns suspended from the low beams. Drinkwater looked at the palms of the hands. They were black and swollen.

Singleton straightened. 'How is he?' Drinkwater repeated the question.

'We have administered laudanum as an anodyne, Captain Drinkwater, and I am of the opinion that the wounds must be debrided without delay.'

'If you cannot agree, gentlemen,' said Drinkwater with a sudden edge to his voice addressing the whale- ships' surgeons, 'then you may leave the patient to my doctor.' The surgeon of the Narwhal looked up angrily. He was a man of nearer seventy years than sixty, Drinkwater judged.

'I've been with Cap'n Harvey these last twenty-six years, Cap'n, an' I'll not leave him…'

'Then you will hold your tongue, sir; since you have nowhere else to go, you may remain. As for you,' he turned to the other man, 'I suggest you return and offer Captain Renaudson what assistance he requires in the matter of examining those of Narwhal's crew that join Truelove.' He ignored the sullen glares in the two men's eyes. 'Now, Singleton, how is he?'

'We will debride the wounds, sir, while he is still in a state of shock, those about the face particularly, but…'

'Well…'

'Well what?'

'I have auscultated the pulmonary region and,' he paused, shaking his head, 'the trachea, the bronchia and larynx, indeed it appears the lungs themselves have been seared severely, by the intake of such hot air, sir.'

'Then there is little hope?'

'I fear not, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the Narwhal's surgeon. 'Who was the boy?'

'Cap'n Harvey's sister's son.'

Drinkwater sighed. His eye caught the edge of the circle of lamplight. A face, disembodied in the darkness of the cockpit, seemed to leer at him and for a second Drinkwater imagined himself in the presence of the personification of death. But it was only the loblolly 'boy', Skeete.

He turned in search of the fresh air of the deck, pausing at the foot of the ladder. 'You had better lie him in my cot. And you would best do your curettage in the cabin. There is more light.'