The Corvette

of policing the whole Greenland Sea.

'What about the Spitzbergen ships, sir?'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'One can only be in one place at one time, Mr Hill. Besides I believe that the capture of Faithful at least argues to our being in the right area, if not in the right position to prevent the capture. At all events, now it is our duty to reverse that. Do you have any more questions?'

First lieutenant and master shook their heads.

'Very well, gentlemen. In the meantime there is no need to impress upon you the necessity of keeping a sharp lookout.'

Chapter Fourteen The Corsair

 July 1803

Drinkwater awoke from a dream that had not disturbed him for many months since the nightmares of his delirium following the wounding he had received off Boulogne. But it terrified him as much as upon the first occasion he had experienced it, as a callow and frightened midshipman on the frigate Cyclops. Again the terrifying inability to move laid him supine beneath the advance of the ghastly white lady who over-rode his body to the accompanying clanking of chains. Over the years the white lady had assumed different guises. She had appeared to him with the face of Hortense Santhonax, sister to one of the French Republic's most daring frigate captains and secret agents, or as the sodomite tyrant of Cyclops's cockpit, the unspeakably evil Augustus Morris. Now she had a visage as cold as the icebergs that had given him so many nightmares of a more tangible nature in recent weeks. Her eyes had been of that piercing and translucent blue he had noticed forming in the shadows of pinnacles and spires. Although she changed her appearance Drinkwater knew the white lady had not lost the power to awake in him a strong feeling of presentiment.

He lay perspiring, despite the fact that his exposed feet were registering air at a temperature well below the freezing of water. He began to relax as he heard the rudder grind. It had been grinding so long now with so little apparent ill-effect that he had almost ceased to worry about it. Was he being cautioned by fate to pay it more attention? He tossed aside the blankets and with them such a childish notion. He was about to call the sentry to pass word for Tregembo when he considered it was probably still night, despite the light that came through the cabin windows.

He had almost forgotten the dream as he ascended to the deck. But its superstitious hold was once more thrown over him as he stepped clear of the ladder.

Meetuck turned from the rail where he seemed to have been looking at something, and his almond eyes fell upon Drinkwater with an almost hostile glare. The eskimo, whom Drinkwater had not seen for several days, took a step towards him. Meetuck was muttering something: then he halted, looked at his arm, which was still splinted, shrugged and turned forward.

Mystified by this pantomime Drinkwater nodded to Mr Bourne, who had the deck, and swung himself into the main rigging, reaching the crow's nest and ousting Glencross who appeared to have made himself comfortable with a small flask of rum and a bag of biscuit.

'You may leave that there, Mr Glencross. I doubt you'll be requiring them on deck.' The midshipman cast a rueful glance at the rum and mumbled, 'Aye, aye, sir.'

'I shall return the flask, Mr Glencross, in due course.'

Drinkwater settled himself down with the telescope. In five minutes all thoughts of dreams or eskimos had been driven from his mind. The wind had held steady from the north and they sailed through an almost clear sea, the bergs within five miles being largely decayed and eroded into soft outlines. More distant bergs presented a fantastic picture which increased in its improbability as he watched. Munching his way through Glencross's biscuit and warmed by the rum, he had been aloft for over an hour, enjoying the spectacle of increasing refraction as the sun climbed. The distant icebergs, floes and hummocks seemed cast into every possible shape the imagination could devise. He sighted a number of polar bears and numerous seals lay basking upon low ice. Once the ship passed through a school of narwhals, the males with their curious twisted swords. He saw, too, a number of grampuses, their black and livid white skin a brilliant contrast to the sea as they gambolled like huge dolphins in Melusine's wake as she pressed south-west. Drinkwater was reminded of Sawyers and the whale-captain's regard for the works of God in Arctic waters. He was also reminded of Sawyers's present plight.

It was four bells into the morning watch before Drinkwater saw what he had been looking for, amid the ice pinnacles on their starboard bow, almost indistinguishable from them except to one who had a hunter's keenness of purpose. The edges of sails, betrayed by the inverted image of two ships, their waterlines uppermost, jutted dark into the glare of the sky. They were perhaps thirty miles away and the easing of the wind and the comparative simplicity of navigation through such loose ice suited the slight and slender Melusine.

Descending to the deck, Drinkwater passed orders for the course to be amended three points closer to the wind and the corvette to hoist a press of sail. He doubted if Melusine presented such a conspicuous picture to the enemy, given her relative position to the sun, but if they were spotted he felt sure the ship's speed would close the gap between them and the distant Faithful, whose sea- keeping qualities were far superior to her speed.

At noon the distance between them had closed appreciably and at the end of the first dog-watch the enemy could be clearly seen from the head of the lower masts.

Drinkwater dined with Singleton and Bourne, remarking on the way the eskimo had startled him that morning.

'You mean you thought he had some hostile intent, sir?' asked Singleton.

'Oh, I conceived that impression for a second or two. His appearance was aggressive, but he seemed suddenly to recall some obligation relative to his arm.'

'So he damned well should,' said Bourne.

'Can you recall what he said to you, Captain?' asked Singleton, ignoring Bourne.

Drinkwater swallowed his wine and frowned. 'Not perfectly, but I recall something like 'gavloonack'…'

'Gavdlunaq?'

'Yes, I think that was it. Why? Does it signify to you?'

'It means 'white man'. Was there anything else?'

Drinkwater thought again. 'Yes, nothing I could repeat though. Oh, he mentioned that place he said he came from…'

'Nagtoralik?'

'Aye, that was it, Nagtoralik.' Drinkwater experimented with the strange word. 'A place with eagles, didn't you say?'

'Yes, that's right, but I don't recall eagles being mentioned by Egede…'

Drinkwater threw back his head and laughed. 'Oh, come, Mr Singleton, you academics! If a thing ain't in print in some dusty library it don't signify that it don't exist.' Bourne joined in the laughter and Singleton flushed.

'There is a Greenland Falcon, the Falco Rusticolus Candicans of Gmelin which the innuits, in their unfamiliarity with the order Aves, may mistake for eagles. It is possible that an error in nomenclature took place in translation…' Bourne chuckled at Singleton's seriousness as Drinkwater said, somewhat archly, 'Indeed that may be the case, Mr Singleton.'

A silence filled the cabin. Singleton frowned. 'To return to Meetuck, sir. You can recall nothing further, nothing specific, I mean?'

Drinkwater shook his head. 'No. He was looking over the side, saw me, turned and advanced, uttered this imprecation, looked at his arm and went off forward. I can scarcely expect anything better from a savage.' Then Drinkwater became aware of something preoccupied about Singleton. 'What is it, Mr Singleton? Why are you so interested in an incident of no importance?'

Singleton leaned back in his chair. 'Because I believe it may indeed be of some significance, sir. I understand