The Corvette

both ships forward so that their range increased from their tormentor.

But it was a momentary advantage for, hove to, the Requin increased her leeway until the strain on her own tophamper proved too much. Already damaged by Melusine's gunfire, her wounded foremast went by the board. Dragged head to wind and with her backed main yards now assisting her leeward drift, Requin presented her stern to Drinkwater and he was not slow to appreciate his change of fortune. A quick glance at Nimrod's sails and he saw immediately that he might swiftly reverse their turning movement and bring Melusine's battered larboard broadside to bear on that exposed stern.

'Belay that Hill!' He indicated the spanker. 'Brail up the spanker! Forrard there! Mr Comley! Foretopmast staysail sheets to windward…' His voice cracked with shouting but he hailed Nimrod.

'Nimrod! Nimrod 'hoy! Back your main and mizen tops'ls, Mr Walmsley, those whalemen that help you to be pardoned…' It was a crazy, desperate idea and relied for its success on a swifter reaction than the Requin's captain could command. Drinkwater waited in anxious impatience, his temper becoming worse by the second. He raised his glass several times and studied the Requin, each time expecting to see something different but all he could distinguish with certainty was that the big privateer was drifting down on them. And then Melusine and her prize began to turn again, swinging slowly round, rolling and grinding together as the continuing wind built up the sea.

The katabatic squall had steadied to a near gale and swept the smoke away. The sun still shone from a cloudless sky although its setting could not be far distant. The altered attitude of the ships had silenced their gunfire and the air was filled now with the scream of wind in rigging and the groaning of the locked ships.

Drinkwater shook his head to clear it of the persistent ringing that the recent concussion of the guns had induced and raised his speaking trumpet again.

'Larboard guns! Gun captains to lay their pieces at the centre window of the enemy's stern. Load canister on ball. Fire on the command and then independently!'

He saw Quilhampton in the waist acknowledge and wondered what had become of Gorton. He raised his glass, aware that Mount was still beside him awaiting the instructions he was in the process of giving when the squall hit them.

'Any orders, sir?' Mount prompted.

Drinkwater did not hear him. He was watching Melusine's swing and waiting for the raised arms that told him his cannon were ready. The last gun captain raised his hand. He waited a little longer. A quick glance along the gun breeches showed them at level elevation. They traversed with infinite slowness as Nimrod and Melusine cartwheeled… Now, by God!

'Fire!'

Noise, smoke and fire spewed from the ten six-pounders as sixty pounds of iron and ten pounds of small ball hit Requin's stern. Drinkwater was engulfed in the huge cloud of smoke which was as quickly rent aside by the wind. Then the six-pounders began independent fire, each captain laying his gun with care. Requin's stern began to cave in, beaten into a gaping wound, her carved gingerbread-work exploding in splinters.

'Sir! Sir!' Mr Frey was dancing up and down beside him.

'What the devil is it, Mr Frey?' Drinkwater suddenly felt anxious for the boy whose presence on the quarterdeck he had quite forgotten.

'She strikes, sir! She strikes!'

Drinkwater elevated his glance. The tricolour was descending from the gaff in hasty jerks.

'Upon my soul, Mr Frey, you're right!'

'Any orders, sir,' repeated the hopeful Mount.

'Indeed, Mr Mount. You and Frey take possession!'

Drinkwater jerked himself awake with a start. The short Arctic night was already over. His wound, pronounced superficial by an exhausted Singleton, throbbed painfully and his whole body ached in the chill of dawn. He rose and stared through the stern windows. Melusine and her assorted prizes lay at anchor in Nagtoralik Bay, the battered British sloop to seaward, a spring on her cable, covering any signs of trouble in the other ships. He had prize crews aboard the lugger Aurore, the Requin and the Nimrod, although the Nimrod had assumed the character of consort, having towed the helpless Melusine into the anchorage.

They had been met by boats from the whalers Conqueror and Faithful as the last of the daylight faded from the sky and the wounded ships had come to their anchors. It was clear from the expression of Captain Waller of the Conqueror that he had put an entirely different interpretation on the sight of Melusine towing in astern of Nimrod than was the case. His false effusions of congratulation had been cut short by Drinkwater arresting him and having him placed in the bilboes.

'Thou hast done right, Friend,' said Sawyers, holding out his hand. But Drinkwater gently dismissed the Quaker, pleading tiredness and military expediency for his bad manners. There would be time enough for explanations later, for the while it was enough that Faithful was recaptured and Requin a prize.

Drinkwater turned from the stern windows and slumped back in his chair. The low candle-flame in the lantern fell upon the muster book. In the two actions with the Requin he had lost a third of his ship's company. They were terrible losses and he mourned Lieutenant Bourne who had died of head wounds shortly after the Requin surrendered.

Hardly a man had not collected a scratch or a splinter wound. Little Frey had received a sword cut on his forearm which he had bravely bandaged until Singleton spotted the filthy linen and ordered the boy below. Tregembo had been knocked senseless and of the quarterdeck officers only Mount and Hill were unscathed.

He blew the sand off the muster book and closed it. Amid all the tasks that awaited him this morning he must bury the dead. His eyelids dropped. On deck Mr Quilhampton paced up and down, the watch ready at the guns. Mount was aboard Requin with a strong detachment of marines; Lord Walmsley commanded Nimrod and the Honourable Alexander Glencross the Conqueror.

He could allow himself an hour's sleep. He was aware that providence had chastened him but that luck had saved him. His head fell forward onto his breast and his ears ceased to ring from the concussion of guns.

'Will you receive the deputation now, sir?' Drinkwater nodded at Mr Frey's figure standing in the cabin doorway. It was frightening how fast the maturing process could work. Frey stood aside and half a dozen whale- men came awkwardly into the cabin under the escort of Mount's sergeant and two private marines.

'Well,' said Drinkwater coldly, 'who is to speak for you?'

A man was pushed forward and turned a greasy sealskin hat nervously in his hands. Addressing the deck he began to speak, prompted by shamefaced shipmates.

'B… beg pardon, yer honour…'

'What is your name?'

The man looked about him, as if afraid to confess to an identity that separated him from the anonymous group of whale-men.

'Give an answer to the captain!' Frey snapped with a sudden, surprising venom.

'…Jack Love, sir, beggin' yer pardon. Carpenter of the Nimrod, sir…'

'Go on, Love. Tell me what you have to say.'

'Well sir, we went along of Cap'n Ellerby, sir…'

'An' of Cap'n Waller, sir…' another piped up to a shuffling chorus of agreement.

'Pray go on.'

'Well sir, there was a fair profit to be made, sir, during the peace like…' He trailed off, implying that trade with the French under those circumstances was not illegal.

'In what did you trade, Love? Be so good as to tell me.'

'We brought out necessaries, sir… comestibles and took home furs…'