'Ah, Stokeley, get everybody mustered abaft the boats, if that lot comes down it'll likely take someone with it. Who's on the fo'c's'le?'
'Davies, sir.'
'Right, Mr Lestock, Mr Lestock!'
'What is it?'
'Pass me the speaking trumpet.' He took the trumpet and held it up. 'Fo'c's'le there! Davies! Come aft here at once!' The wind carried his voice and the man came aft. Drinkwater left the explanations to Stokeley and joined the men assembling at the mainmast.
'Listen carefully, my lads. The foreyard has broken. We must start the sheets and clew up the topsail as quickly as possible. Then I want four volunteers to come aloft with me and pass a rope round the broken end of the yard, to lash it against the top until daylight.'
The men moved forward. Rogers emerged from the after companionway, he could see the two midshipmen. 'Be ready to tail on as required.' He gave his orders to have the men stationed to take in the topsail but as soon as they eased the sheets he could see it would not work. The eagerness with which the men sought to quell the flogging topsail by heaving on the clew and buntlines only added to the weight of wind in the sail, forcing it upwards like washing on a clothesline. The topsail sheets tugged the fore-yardarms upwards, twisting the furled course below. Perhaps the broken wood severed the first gasket that restrained the huge sail but suddenly three or four gaskets parted and the forecourse blew out in a vast pale billow. There was a crack like a gun and it disintegrated into a thousand streaming ribbons fluttering along the broken yard. The sail had blown clean out of the bolt ropes and the extent of the wounded yard could now be seen. It was a view that all contemplated for a split second. Then with a juddering crash the whole starboard half of the yard came down, the topsail stretched flat before splitting and tearing loose then blew off to leeward in an instant. The larboard half of the yard trailed its outboard extremity in the water, crashing downwards parting lifts, halliards and buntlines which fell in entangling coils, snaking across the deck to be torn overside by the wind then dragged aft past Hellebore's onrushing hull. What Drinkwater had intended to be the ordered application of manpower turned into a confused bedlam of shouts, curses and orders.
Drinkwater swore deeply and began to shout. At all costs those spars should be saved, not for their own sake but for the iron fittings that they would be unable to replace. 'Mr Lestock! Keep the ship off before the wind! Mr Rogers! A party to secure that starboard yardarm before we lose it!'
Rogers gathered men about him. He was not argumentative thought Nathaniel, terrible circumstances and the assertion of discipline drove the men in their common necessity. Drinkwater turned forward with his volunteers.
Gathering up a long length of manila hemp that had previously been part of the yard lifts he dragged it into the rigging, the men assisting. The inner broken end of the larboard half of the yard had come up under the forward edge of the top, the wooden platform round the join of the lower and topmasts. Beneath the top the jeers, a big tackle that held the yard aloft by its slings, was chafed as the whole thing twisted and turned, its splintered end grinding and splitting the top so that the structure bucked under the forces playing on it.
The outboard edges of the top supported the shrouds of the topmast. If it was weakened the whole topmast was in jeopardy and at present the only thing that kept Hellebore manageable was the fore-topmast staysail below them, its stay secured round the mast just above the damaged jeers. That too was in imminent danger of parting under the relentless grinding of the broken yard.
Drinkwater leant over the forward edge of the top, his tarpaulin blowing up over his head. The men crouched close by awaiting his orders. Beneath his belly he could feel the heavy timbers of the platform bucking and straining. The kick of the butt end of the yard was enormous, close to. Even in the dark he could see the chafe in the jeers and his extended fingers confirmed his worst fears.
He wriggled round and looked at the men. Tregembo was there, and Stokeley and Kellet. Mr Quilhampton too, his small face a blur with two dark patches where his eyes were wide with the wild excitement of the night. It crossed Drinkwater's mind inconsequentially to wonder if the boy knew the danger they were in: that to broach in such a sea meant death for them all. Mr Quilhampton had a very pretty mother, Drinkwater remembered, she would weep for the loss of her son. He shook his head clear of such irrelevant thoughts, aware that they were a symptom of his indecision.
'Mr Q!'
'Sir?'
'Descend to the deck and have Mr Lestock get a turn of something strong round the yard in the vicinity of the rail, get one of the loose gun tackles on it and bowse it tight. Then lash it to the chess tree. Tell him to let me know when he's done it and that the yard must come down to the deck but the jeers are enfeebled. Do you understand?'
Quilhampton repeated the instruction. 'Good. Off you go.'
'D'you wish me to return to the top, sir?'
'No.' He could do that much for a pretty widow. The midshipman's acknowledgement was crestfallen. 'Oh damn it, yes. But hurry; and find out how Mr Rogers is doing.' Quilhampton disappeared over the futtocks and Drinkwater turned his attention to the yard.
'We will have to pass the bight of this rope,' he indicated the manila, 'round the yard so that it will render. Tregembo, get that lead block up there,' he pointed to one of the blocks, vacated by the broken lift, banging against the upper ironwork of the doubling. Pulling his spike out Tregembo scrambled up to loosen the shackle .
'Stokeley, cut off a couple of fathoms and make up a strop.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater looked over the forward edge of the top as he waited for the men to finish their tasks. The chafing was worse. They had very little time before the heavy yard crashed below. He looked down. Rogers's party was a confused huddle of men pulling, cutting and struggling but he could see the dull line of the starboard yard-arm. He wondered what damage it had done in its descent, at least it was the smaller section and devoid of the heavy gear attached to the slings.
'Here, sir,' Stokeley had the strop and Tregembo the block. Drinkwater began to ease himself over the rim of the platform. 'Here zur, I'll do that,' said Tregembo indignantly. Drinkwater ignored him. It was his job. Maybe if he had joined the ship weeks before she sailed, as a good first lieutenant should, he would have spotted the defect in the spar. It had not been fair to suppose that Griffiths could do the work as efficiently as himself. Tonight he would pay Providence the debt he owed for that extra time with Elizabeth.
He lowered his weight gently on to the moving spar, gradually transferring his grip. He had hold of the lower jeers block and the movement of the whole thing was alarming now that his life depended on it. Reaching up he took the end of the strop and began to crouch, easing himself down until he was astride the yard, his legs wrapped round it. He let go of the jeers block to have both hands for the strop. His whole body was now transferred to the yard at its alarmingly cockbilled angle. Now the movement was exaggerated, swinging him from side to side with a twitch at the end of each oscillation that threatened to throw him off.
It gave a sudden violent jerk. Drinkwater flung his arms about the spar, retaining sufficient presence of mind not to let go of the strop. For a second the absence of further movement convinced him he was in wild descent.
Then from the deck came a hail: 'End's secure, sir!' The jerk had been Lestock's men bowsing the lower end down, unable to see their first lieutenant clinging to its upper extremity. Drinkwater passed the strop round the spar, pulled it tight through its own part and held it up. Stokeley grabbed it and, as Drinkwater scrambled back into the top, secured the block to it. Tregembo had rove the rope through the block and secured one end round the topmast. All that remained to do was to reeve the hauling part through another vacant block. Tregembo had brought a buntline block and shackled it to give a clear lead to the deck and it was the work of only a few minutes to prepare their extempore double whip.
Mr Quilhampton reappeared. 'Mr Rogers has secu
red the starboard piece, sir.'
'Right. All go below. I'll remain here. Have Mr Lestock man the jeers and beg to lower handsomely on them. Desire him to take the weight on this manila inch. Make sure he has caught a turn with it.'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Drinkwater watched them go, leaning back against the topmast doubling, feeling hot and mad as the gale howled about him. His mouth was dry and he knew he would start shaking from the reaction of his exertions. Thank God they had a good man at the helm, the ship had not slewed from her course once. He must remember to find out who it was; the fellow was deserving of praise.
'Ready masthead there!' came the shout from below.
'Set tight the whip!' he bawled back, lowering himself on to his belly to watch progress. The strop drew tight.
'Ee-ease the jeers!'
The platform beneath him trembled. As Hellebore pitched forward and scended the yard moved down a foot, forward six inches. As the wave passed under her the bowsprit stabbed at the sky and the spar swung aft, hitting the mast with a judder. Damn! He should have thought of that! They needed a downhaul.
'Belay there! 'Vast lowering!' He peered down while the yard swung forward and back. Again the jarring shot through his body. Then he had it. He reached down. One of the clew garnet lead blocks had a trailing rope through it. If he could just reach it…
His fingers missed it by an inch. He thought of getting the hands to haul upon the whip but that might put too great a load on it. He wriggled over the top, turning so that his legs dangled over the edge. With one leg he hooked a trailing end of the line over his foot, bent his leg and, reaching down with one hand grabbed it, heaving himself back into the top. Quickly he fashioned a figure of eight knot in its end and let it go.
'Mr Lestock! Get the starboard clew garnet, it's trailing round the fiferail, pull it tight and lead it forward to the cathead. Use it as a downhaul to keep the yard off the mast!'
'Aye, aye!'
There was an interminable pause while Lestock sorted out the tangle of ropes. Then a shout that all was ready. Drinkwater peered once more over the edge of the top. His knot had drawn tight against the block and the rope led downwards.
'Lower away handsomely and keep the downhaul tight!'
The yard began its descent. The jeers parted, whirling to leeward in a cloud of dust causing confusion as the men on deck, suddenly relieved of the weight, fell over. The oscillations of the yard grew greater as it was lowered but the clew garnet, stretched like a thread, prevented its contact with the mast. As the yard's angle lessened the men at the chess tree slackened their lashings and there was a dull thud as the broken yard's second part finally lay across the deck. As if angry with a wild beast the men leapt upon it and threw lashings round it. Drinkwater climbed wearily down. Scrambling aft he joined the master. 'Well done Mr Lestock. Whom did you have on the wheel?'
'Gregory, sir.'
'Give him my compliments for keeping the ship so steady. When all the gear is secure you may send the watches below. What time is it?'
'Two bells in the middle watch.'
'Good God, I'd no idea…'
Their exertions had taken three hours. If he had been asked Drinkwater would have imagined no more than an hour had elapsed. Wearily he went below to find Appleby sitting in the gunroom, a baleful look upon his face and a jug of blackstrap before him.
'Couldn't you sleep, Harry? Did we poor jacks make too much noise banging about aloft?' His tone was ironic for he was too tired for sarcasm. 'If that's blackstrap for God's sake give me some. Harry? What's the matter?'
Appleby looked up at Drinkwater as though seeing him for the first time.
'Women,' he said in a low voice. 'We've got a festering bitch of a woman on board.'
Chapter Seven
Vanderdecken's Curse
November 1798
Closing his mind to one problem Drinkwater was unwilling to face another. He was very tired and the implications of Appleby's remark took several seconds to penetrate his brain. The blackstrap coiled round his belly and radiated its warmth through him so that stiff muscles relaxed. But it stimulated his mind and he turned to Appleby. 'Woman? What the devil d'you mean? We landed 'em all at the Cape.'
Appleby shook his head, his jowls flapping lugubriously. 'You thought you did.'
Drinkwater swung his legs round and put both elbows on the table. 'Look man, I saw the bloody boat away from the ship's side. Big Meg actually smiled at me and I footed a bow at Miss Mary. Your wench was already in the boat when I reached the rail.'
'Exactly! Did she look up?'
'No. Why should she? She wasn't exactly undergoing a pleasure cruise. I daresay they put gyves on 'em as soon as they got ashore.'
'I don't doubt it, cully, but that is not the point. Who wrote out the receipt?'
'I did,' said Drinkwater rising to reach down the ship's letter book. He flicked over the pages. 'There!' He spun the book to face Appleby. The pasted in receipt bore the words 'Three convicts, ex Mistress Shore, Government Transport, female.'
'So?'
'Oh, for God's sake Harry, quit hazing me. If you've a woman on board let's see her.' But Appleby, angry and dismayed by the turn of events would not yet produce his evidence.
'That proves nothing, any fool can squiggle a signature and pretend it's that of a garrison subaltern. All one does is draw up a second one and throw it overboard on the way back to the ship.'
'But that indicates a conspiracy. Damn it, Griffiths would have reported three female convicts to the Governor; Torrington or his men knew there were three of 'em. Come on bring the woman in, I'm tired of fencing with words.' He swallowed the blackstrap.
'Look, Nat, I don't suppose Torrington gave it a second thought and I daresay the soldiers were a party to it. As for the Governor, who knows what our captain said to him? The Old Man was already feverish and we know His Excellency was annoyed that Griffiths had not called immediately upon arrival… who knows what either of them remembered to say during or after their interview? I daresay H.E. was obsessed with Griffiths's lack of protocol before worrying about whether he had reported two or three convicts. We sailed the following day… but one last question. Who took the boat ashore to see those trollops off?'
Drinkwater's argument was merely a symptom of his fatigue. Both of them knew Appleby was not lying but Drinkwater was trying to delay the inevitable with logic. It was a spurious argument. 'Rogers,' he said resignedly.
'Huh! Now, to reward your exemplary patience I will produce the evidence.' Appleby rose and left the gunroom. Drinkwater emptied the jug of blackstrap into his mug. The door opened and Appleby returned. Drinkwater looked up. Leaning against the closed door was Catherine Best. Her pinched face was almost attractive, half shadowed in the swaying lantern light. An insolent half-smile curled her mouth while a provocative hip was thrust out in allurement.
Drinkwater closed his mouth, aware that he had flushed. He was aware too that she knew well the hold she had over them all. It was not difficult to imagine a conspiracy among the hands, an easy woman amongst them would seem like the answer to a seaman's prayer.
'Where have you been living?'
'She's been in the cable tier,' volunteered Appleby.
'That is Lestock's province.'
'He delegates his rounds of the hold to one of his mates.'
'But I myself was there yesterday… no, no, the day before…'
'Efficient though you are, Nathaniel, you are an officer of regular habits. It is easy enough to give warning of your coming.'
Drinkwater nodded. It was all too true, a dreadful nightmare. He looked at the woman and was suddenly furious. 'I shall have you flogged!' he snapped vindictively. 'Turn Dalziell out of his cabin again and lock this trollop in for the night!' Appleby turned to take the woman out. She remained for a moment resisting the hand upon her arm, looked fixedly at Drinkwater. He felt again the colour mounting to his cheeks.
'Get out, damn you!' he roared, angry at his own
weakness. As usual Drinkwater had the morning watch, from four until eight a.m. He woke with the realisation that something was very wrong and the bare two hours sleep that he had enjoyed left him in a foul temper when he reached the deck and realised the nature of his problems. Quilhampton brought him coffee but it did nothing to lighten his mood. The men avoided him, all knowing the mad scheme to carry their own doxy had been discovered by the surgeon and Mr Drinkwater.
Whilst the watch below melted away and the unhappy culprits in Mr Drinkwater's watch busied themselves about the decks, the first lieutenant paced up and down. An hour passed before he realised that daylight was upon them, that the sun was above the horizon, revealing a grey-white sea, furrowed and torn by the ferocity of the gale the night before. The wave crests, half a mile apart were already losing their anger as the gale abated, to turn them slowly from breaking seas to crested swells.
He swept his glance over the shambles of the deck. Luck had been with them again last night. Later he hoped he would find Griffiths surfacing for a lucid moment and could tell him what they had been through. But then he would also have to tell him about the woman Catherine Best, and he was not looking forward to that. He swore to himself. He could not flog the woman alone since all were guilty, all these sheepish seamen who crept round the deck pretending to check the lashings on the pieces of yard. Tregembo passed him and Drinkwater was struck by a feeling of abandonment.
'Tregembo!'
'Zur?'
'Did you know about this woman?' he asked in a low voice.
'Aye zur.'
'And you didn't tell me?'
Tregembo looked up agonised. 'I couldn't zur, couldn't welsh on my mates… besides, zur, there was officers involved.'
A Brig of War nd-3 Page 8
