The Corvette

towards a berg, the swirl of undertow suggesting the submerged presence of a growler or the catspaw of a squall from the turbulent lee of a large ice hummock. And it was Drinkwater who first suspected there might be something wrong with the rudder. It was nothing serious, a suspicious creaking when he listened from the privacy of the quarter-gallery latrine, a certain sluggishness as Melusine came to starboard. In fact it was at first only a suspicion, a figment, he thought, of an over-anxious mind. In the face of more pressing problems he tended to dismiss it. When he came below at the end of his three-day vigil as they drifted into the 'open' water and the wind, perversely, fell to a dead calm, he flung himself across his cot in grateful oblivion.

But when he woke, with Melusine rolling gently on a long, low swell, he heard again the creak from the rudder stock below.

Wearily he came on deck to find Hill on watch.

'What time is it, Mr Hill?'

'Six bells in the afternoon watch, sir.'

'I have slept the clock round… tell me, do the quartermasters complain of the steering?'

'No, sir.' Drinkwater looked at the two men at the wheel.

'How does she steer?'

'She seems to drag a little, sir, a coming to 'midships.'

'When you've had helm which way?'

'Larboard, I think, sir.'

'Why didn't you report it?'

The man shrugged. 'Only noticed it today, sir, while we've bin tryin' to catch this fluky wind, sir.'

'Very well.' He turned to Hill. 'I'm mystified, Mr Hill, but we'll keep an eye on it. Damned if I don't think there's something amiss, but what, I'm at a loss to know.'

'Aye, aye, sir, I'll take a look in the steerage if you wish.' Drinkwater nodded and Hill slipped below to return a few minutes later shaking his head.

'Nothing wrong, sir. Not that I can see.'

'Very well.'

'That whale hit the rudder, sir, and we've had a fair number of these damned ice floes…'

'Deck there!' They both looked aloft. 'Deck there! Think I can see gun-fire three points to starboard!'

The two officers looked at each other, then Drinkwater shouted, 'silence there!' They stood listening. A faint boom came rolling over the limpid water. 'That's gun-fire, by God!' Drinkwater ran forward and swung himself up into the main rigging. As he climbed he stared about him, trying to locate the whalers, aware that they had become widely dispersed in their struggle through the ice. He could see Diana, about five miles away to the eastward and ahead of them eight, perhaps ten miles distant was Truelove. Yes, her barque rig could be plainly seen beneath the curved foot of the main topgallant. Earl Percy and Provident were also to the east. He struggled up into the crow's nest as Leek slid agilely down.

'Where away?' gasped Drinkwater with the effort of his climb.

'Four points now, sir. I think it's where I last saw Faithful, sir, lost her behind a berg.'

'Very well.' He picked up the glass and stared to the south-west. He could see nothing. 'Leek!'

'Sir?'

'Away to Mr Hill, ask him to rig out the booms and set stun's'ls aloft and alow.'

'Stun's'ls aloft 'n' alow, aye, sir.' He watched Leek reach out like a monkey, over one hundred feet above the deck, and casually grab a backstay. The man diminished in size as he descended and Drinkwater levelled his glass once more. He felt the mast tremble as the topmen mounted the shrouds, he heard the mates and midshipmen as they supervised the rigging of the booms and the leading of outhauls and downhauls, heel-ropes and sheets. And then, as his patience was running out, he felt Melusine heel as she increased her speed. Five minutes later he located the Faithful.

She was fifteen or twenty miles away, perhaps more, for it was hard to judge. Her shape was vertically attenuated by refraction. She seemed to float slightly above the surface of the sea amid a city of the most fantastic minarets, a fairy-tale picture reminiscent of the Arabian Nights displaced to a polar latitude. But Drinkwater's interest was diverted from the extraordinary appearance of refracted icebergs by the unusual shape alongside the Faithful. At first he took it for a mirror image of the whaler. But then he saw the little points of yellow light between the ships. Sawyers was a Quaker and carried no guns. The second image was a hostile ship; an enemy engaging Faithful. Drinkwater swore; he was seven leagues away in light airs at the very moment Earl St Vincent had foreseen his presence would be required to protect the whalers.

'An enemy sir?'

'Yes, Mr Bourne, at a guess twenty miles distant and already with a prize crew on board the Faithful, damn it… Mr Hill, bear up, bear up! D'you not see the growler on the starboard bow…' Drinkwater broke off to cough painfully. His throat was rasped raw by the persistent demands made on him to shout orders, but he felt an overwhelming desire to press after the ship that had taken one of his charges from under his very nose.

'I have a midshipman at the masthead and want a pair of young eyes kept on the enemy and prize until they're both under our lee. The midshipman that loses sight of them will marry the gunner's daughter!' He coughed again. 'Now double the watches, Mr Bourne, this may prove a long chase.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Bourne hesitated, unwilling to provoke a captain whom he knew to be short-tempered if his orders were not attended to without delay. 'Beg pardon, sir, but what about the other ships?'

'I have made them a signal to the effect that I am chasing an enemy to the south-west. My orders to them oblige them to close together. Let us hope they do what they are told, Mr Bourne.'

Bourne took the hint, touched the fore-cock of his hat and hurried off. Drinkwater swallowed with difficulty, swore, and set himself to pace the quarterdeck, leaving the business of working the ship through the ice to Hill until he was relieved by Bourne himself at eight bells. He was beyond shouting orders, feeling a mild fever coming on and worrying over the loss of the Faithful and the ominous creaking that came from the rudder. But Melusine handled well enough and after another hour Tregembo appeared to announce Drinkwater's dinner, served late, as had become his custom in high latitudes to try and differentiate between day and night in the perpetual light.

It was while he was eating that Mr Frey came below to report they had lost the wind and the enemy.

'What…?' His voice whispered and he tried to clear his throat. 'Upon what point of sailing was the enemy and prize when last seen, Mr Frey?'

'Both ships were close hauled on the starboard tack, sir. They had a fair breeze before the fog closed in.'

'And their heading?'

'South-west, sir.'

'Very well. Tell Mr Bourne to strike the stun's'ls, and reduce to all plain sail. Double the forward lookouts and make a good course towards the south-west. A man to go to the mainmast head every hour to see if the enemy masts are above the fog. Kindly call me in two hours time.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Frey hesitated in the doorway.

'Well, what is it?'

'If you please, sir, Mr Bourne said I was to ask you if you wanted Mr Singleton to attend you?'

'Damn Mr Bourne's impertinence, Mr Frey, you've your orders to attend to…' The boy fled and, rolling himself in his cloak, Drinkwater flung himself across his cot shivering.

Two hours later Mr Frey called him. Staggering to his feet, his head spinning, Drinkwater ascended to the quarterdeck. Although the thermometer registered some 36° Fahrenheit it seemed colder. Every rope and spar dripped with moisture and the decks were dark with it. Mr Bourne touched his hat and vacated his side of the quarterdeck. It could not by any stretch of the imagination be described as the 'windward side' for Melusine lay wallowing in a calm. Almost alongside her a ridge of ice, hummocked and cracked with apparent age gleamed wetly in the greyness. It was not daylight, neither was it night. The ship might have been the only living thing in an eternity of primordial mist, an atmosphere at once eerie and oppressive through which each