The Corvette nd-5

by Ричард Вудмен

  Drinkwater felt an icy determination fill him. After the days of being put upon, of being the victim of circumstance and not its master, he secretly thanked Ellerby for this public opportunity. By God, he was damned if he would crowd an inch of canvas on his ship.

  Quilhampton and little Frey were sending up the signal. It was a simple numeral, one of two score of signals he had circulated to his charges the evening before. Mr Frey had even tinted the little squared flags drawn in the margins with the colours from his water-colour box. Drinkwater smiled at the boy's keenness.

  Amidships the newly joined Tregembo nudged the man next to him.

  'See that, mate. When he grins like that the sparks fly.' There was renewed interest in the conduct of their captain, particularly as the Nimrod continued to surge past.

  Drinkwater turned to his first lieutenant. 'Give him the larboard bow chaser unshotted, if you please.'

  'Larbowlines! Spitfire battery stand by!'

  It was all very modish, thought Drinkwater ruefully, the divisions told off by name as if Melusine had been a crack seventy-four. Still, the men jumped eagerly enough to their pieces. He could see the disappointment as Germaney arrived forward and stood all the guncrews down except that at the long twelve pounder in the eyes.

  Germaney looked aft and Drinkwater nodded.

  The gun roared and Drinkwater saw the wadding drop right ahead of Nimrod's bowsprit. But still she came on.

  'Mr Germaney! Come aft!'

  Germaney walked aft. 'Sir?'

  'Have your topmen aloft ready to let fall the forecourse, but not before I say. Mr Rispin!' The junior lieutenant touched his hat. 'Load that brass popgun with ball. Maximum elevation.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'Do you propose to fire on him, friend?' There was anxiety in Sawyers's voice.

  'Merely putting a stone in David's sling,' said Drinkwater raising his glass.

  'But I do not approve…'

  Drinkwater ignored him. He was staring at Ellerby. The Greenlander was pointing to the men ascending Melusine's foremast and spreading out along the foreyard, casting off alternate gaskets.

  'Pass me the trumpet, Mr Hill.' He took the megaphone and clambered up into the mizen rigging.

  'Take station, Ellerby! do you hear me! Or take the consequences!'

  He watched the big man leap into Nimrod's mizen chains and they confronted one another across eighty feet of water that sloshed and hissed between them, confused by the wash of the two ships.

  'Consequences? What consequences, eh, Captain?' There was a quite audible roar of laughter from Nimrod's deck. Without climbing down Drinkwater turned his head.

  'When his mainmast bears, Mr Rispin, you may open fire.'

  Drinkwater felt the wave of concussion from the brass carronade at the larboard hance. The hole that appeared in Nimrod's main topsail must have opened a seam, for the sail split from head to foot. A cheer filled Melusine's waist and Drinkwater leapt inboard. 'Silence there!' he bawled. 'Give her the forecourse, Mr Germaney.'

  The big sail fell in huge flogs of billowing canvas. In an instant the waisters had tailed on the sheets and hauled its clews hard down. Melusine seemed to lift in the water and start forward. Nimrod fell astern.

  'Tell me, Captain Sawyers,' Drinkwater asked conversationally, 'do you throw a harpoon in person?'

  'Aye, Captain, I do.'

  'And cause more harm than that ball, I dare say.' Drinkwater was smiling but the Quaker's eyes were filled with a strange look.

  'That was a massive pride that thou wounded, Captain Drinkwater, greater than the greatest fish in the sea.'

  But Drinkwater did not hear. He was sweeping the horizon ahead, beyond the low headland of Spurn and its slim lighthouse. There were no topsails to betray the presence of a frigate cruising for men.

  'Mr Hill, please to back the main topsail and heave the Faithful's boat alongside. Captain Sawyers, I am obliged to you, sir, for your assistance, but I think you may return to your ship.' He held out his hand and the Quaker shook it firmly.

  'Recollect what happened to David, sir. I give you God's love.'

  Chapter Four

  The Captain's Cloak

  June 1803

  Captain Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant. 'Very well, Mr Germaney, you may secure the guns and pipe the hammocks down.' He turned to the lieutenant of the watch. 'Mr Rispin, shorten sail now and put the ship under easy canvas.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Drinkwater paced aft, ignoring the stream of superfluous orders with which Mr Rispin conducted the affairs of the deck. He was tempted to conclude the young officer hid his lack of confidence beneath this apparent efficiency. It deceived no-one but himself. But in spite of misgivings about his lieutenants Drinkwater was well satisfied with the ship. Melusine handled like a yacht. He stared aft watching a fulmar quartering the wake, its sabre wings rigid as it moved with astonishing agility. He eased his shoulders beneath his coat aware that he could do with some exercise. There were other compensations besides the qualities of his former French corvette. Mr Hill, the master, had proved an able officer, explaining the measures taken in the matter of stores for the forthcoming voyage. Furthermore his two mates, Quilhampton and Gorton, seemed to be coming along well. Drinkwater was pleased with Hill's efficiency. He seemed to have assumed the duties of both sailing master and executive officer, and not for the first time Drinkwater regretted the system of patronage that promoted a man like Germaney and denied a commission to Stephen Hill.

  Drinkwater turned forward and began pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck. Since they had returned Sawyers to his ship off the Spurn lighthouse the wind had held at west-northwest and they had made good progress to the north. Four more whalers had joined them from Whitby and this evening they were well to the eastward of the Firth of Forth, the convoy close hauled on the larboard tack and heading due north.

  Drinkwater stopped to regard the whalers as the sun westered behind him. He could see a solitary figure on the rail of Narwhal. Taking off his hat he waved it above his head. Jaybez Harvey returned the salute and a few seconds later Drinkwater saw the feather of foam in the whaler's wake jerk closer to her stern as Harvey's men pulled in the cask at which Melusine's gunners had been firing.

  It had been a good idea to practise shooting in this manner. He had been able to manoeuvre up to, cross astern of and range alongside the cask, making and taking in sail for a full six hours while Harvey maintained his course. Finally to test both their accuracy and their mettle after so protracted an exercise, he had hauled off and let the hands fire three rounds from every gun, before each battery loosed off a final, concussive broadside.

  The Melusines were clearly pleased with themselves and their afternoon's work. There was nothing like firing guns to satisfy a British seaman, Drinkwater reflected, watching the usual polyglot crowd coiling the train tackles and passing the breechings. He took a final look at the convoy. One or two of the whalers had loosed off their own cannon by way of competition and Drinkwater sensed a change of mood among the whale-ship masters. It was clear that preparations were under way for the arrival at the fishing grounds and he fervently hoped the differences between them were finally sunk under a sense of unanimous purpose.

  He had stationed the Hudson Bay Ships at the van and rear of the convoy where, with their unusual ensigns, they gave the impression of being additional escorts, while Melusine occupied a windward station, ready to cover any part of the convoy and from where all her signals could be seen by each ship. He turned forward and looked aloft. The topmen were securing the topgallants and he could see the midshipmen in the fore and main tops watching over the furling of the courses. He considered himself a fortunate man in having such a proficient crew. Convoy escort could frustrate a sloop captain beyond endurance but the whalers, used to sailing in company and manoeuvring with only a handful of men upon the deck while the remainder were out in the boats after whales, behaved with commendable discipline. They were c
learly all determined to reach the fishing grounds without delay. Even Ellerby seemed to have accepted his humiliation off the Spurn in a good grace, although it was at Nimrod that Drinkwater first looked whenever he came on deck.

  'Beg pardon, sir.'

  'Mr Mount, what is it?'

  'I should like to try my men at a mark, sir, when it is convenient.'

  'By all means. May I suggest you retain the gunroom's empty bottles and we'll haul 'em out to the lee foreyard arm tomorrow forenoon, eh?'

  'Very good, sir.'

  'Have the live marines fire at the dead 'uns,[1] eh?' Mr Mount's laughter was unfeigned and, like Hill, he too inspired confidence.

  'Are there any fencers in the gunroom? Mr Quilhampton and I have foils and masks and I am not averse to going a bout with a worthy challenger.'

  The light of interest kindled in Mount's eye. 'Indeed, yes, sir. I should be pleased to go to the best of…'

  A scream interrupted Mount and both men looked aloft as the flailing body of a seaman fell. He smacked into the water alongside. Drinkwater's reaction was instantaneous.

  'Helm a-lee! Main braces there! Starboard quarterboat away! Move God damn you! Man overboard, Mr Rispin!' Mount and Drinkwater ran aft, straining to see where the hapless topman surfaced.

  'Where's your damned sentry, Mount?'

  'Here, sir.' The man appeared carrying a chicken coop. He hove it astern to the fluttering, squawking protest of its occupants.

  'Good man.' The three men peered astern.

  'I see him, sir.' The marine pointed.

  'Don't take your eyes off him and point him out to the boat.'

  Melusine was swinging up into the wind like a reined horse. Men were leaping into the quarter-boat and the knock of oars told where they prepared to pull like devils the instant the boat hit the water. Mr Quilhampton, holding his wooden hand out of the way as he vaulted nimbly over the rail, grabbed the tiller.

  'Lower away there, lower away lively!'

  The davits jerked the mizen rigging and the boat hit the water with a flat splash.

  'Come up!' The falls ran slack, the boat unhooked and swung away from the ship, turning under her stern.

  'Hoist Princess Charlotte's number and "Man overboard".' Drinkwater heard little Frey acknowledge the order and hoped that Captain Learmouth would see it in time to wear his ship round into Melusine's wake. The marine was up on the taffrail, one hand gripping a spanker vang, the other pointing in the direction of the drowning man. He must remember to ask Mount the marine's name, his initiative had been commendable.

  'Ship's hove to, sir,' Rispin reported unnecessarily.

  'Very well. Send a midshipman to warn the surgeon that his services will be required to revive a drowning man.'

  'You think there's a chance, sir… Aye, aye, sir.' Rispin blushed crimson at the look in Drinkwater's eye.

  Everyone on the upper deck was watching the boat. Men were aloft, anxiety plain upon their faces. They could see the boat circling, disappearing in the wavetroughs.

  'Can you still see him, soldier?'

  'No sir, but the boat is near where I last saw 'im, sir.'

  'God's bones.' Drinkwater swore softly to himself.

  'Have faith, sir.' The even features of Obadiah Singleton glowed in the sunset as he stopped alongside the captain. The pious sentiment annoyed Drinkwater but he ignored it.

  'Do you see the coop, soldier?'

  'Aye, sir, 'tis about a pistol shot short of the boat… there, sir!'

  Drinkwater caught sight of a hard edged object on a wave crest before it disappeared again.

  'What's your name?'

  'Polesworth, sir.'

  'Oh! May God be praised!' Singleton clasped his hands on his breast as a cheer went up from the Melusines. A man, presumably the bowman, had dived from the boat and could be seen dragging the body of his shipmate back to the boat. The boat rocked dangerously as willing hands dragged rescued and rescuer inboard over the transom. Then there was a mad scramble for oars and the boat darted forward. Drinkwater could see Quilhampton urging the oarsmen and beating the time on the gunwhale with his wooden hand.

  The boat surged under the falls and hooked on. Drinkwater looked at the inert body in the bottom of the boat.

  'Now is the time for piety, Mr Singleton,' he snapped at the missionary as the latter stared downwards.

  'Heave up!' The two lines of men ranged along the deck ran away with the falls and held the boat at the davit heads while the body was lifted inboard. The blue pallor of death was visible to all.

  'Where's Macpherson?'

  'Below, sir,' squeaked Mr Frey.

  'God damn the man. Get him to the surgeon and lively there!' Men hurried to carry the dripping body below. Drinkwater felt the sudden anger of exasperation fill him yet again. He was damned if he wanted to lose a man like this!

  'Mr Rispin! Don't stand there with your mouth open. Clap stoppers on those falls and secure that boat, then put the ship on the wind.' The boat's bowman slopped past, his ducks flapping wetly about his legs, his knuckle respectfully at his forehead as he crossed the hallowed planking of the quarterdeck.

  'What's your name?'

  'Mullack, sir.'

  'That was well done, Mullack, I'll not forget it. Who was the victim?'

  'Jim Leek, sir, foretopman.'

  'A messmate of yours?' Mullack nodded. 'Did you see what happened?' The seaman met Drinkwater's eyes then studied the deck again. 'No, sir.' He was lying, Drinkwater knew, but that was nothing to hold against him in the circumstances.

  'Very well, Mullack, cut along now.' Drinkwater watched for a second as Melusine paid off to steady on her course again.

  'Begging your pardon, sir,' offered Lord Walmsley, stepping forward, 'but the man was only skylarking, sir. Leek was dancing on the yardarm when he missed his footing.'

  'Thank you, Mr Walmsley. He is in your division ain't he?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Kindly inform the midshipmen that they will be put over a gunbreech every time they permit a man in their division to fool about aloft… and Mr Rispin! Set the main t'gallant again, we are three miles astern of our station.'

  The smell of tobacco smoke filled the dimly lit cockpit which housed the midshipmen. For a second Drinkwater was a 'young gentleman' again, transported back to an afternoon in Gibraltar Bay when he had caught a messmate in the throes of sodomy. As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust he took in the scene before him.

  Leek's body was thrown over a chest, his buttocks bared while a loblolly boy held his abdomen face downwards. Behind him Surgeon Macpherson stood with a bellows inserted into Leek's anus. The clack-hole was connected to a small box in which tobacco was burning and, in addition to the aroma of the plug and the stink of bilge, the smell of rum was heavy in the foetid air.

  'He's ejecting water,' said the loblolly boy. Drinkwater felt himself pushed aside in the darkness and looked round sharply as Singleton elbowed his way into the cockpit.

  'What diabolical nonsense is this?' he snapped with uncommon force, opening a black bag. Macpherson looked up and his eyes narrowed, gleaming wetly in the flickering light of the two lanterns.

  'The Cullenian cure,' he sneered, 'by the acrimony of the tobacco the intestines will be stimulated and the action of the moving fibres thus restored…'

  'Get that thing out of his arse!' Macpherson and the loblolly boys stared at Singleton in astonishment as the missionary completed his preparations and pushed the drunken surgeon to one side.

  Drinkwater had recovered from his shock. He was remembering something in Singleton's letter of introduction; the two letters 'M.D.'.

  'Do as he says, Macpherson!' The voice of the captain cut through the gloom and Macpherson stepped back, his rum-sodden brain uncomprehending.

  'By my oath… here, on his back and quickly now or we'll have lost him…'

  Singleton waved two onlookers, Midshipmen Glencross and Gorton, to assist. Leek was laid face up on the deck and Singleton k
nelt at his head and shoved a short brass tube into his mouth. Pinching Leek's nose Singleton began to blow into the tube. After a while he looked at Gorton.

  'Sit astride him and push down hard on his chest when I take my mouth away'

  They continued thus for some ten minutes, alternately blowing and punching down while the watchers waited in silence. About them Melusine creaked and groaned, her bilge slopping beneath them, but in the cockpit a diminishing hiatus of hope suspended them. Even Macpherson watched, befuddled and bewildered by what he was seeing.

  Suddenly there was a contraction in Leek's throat. Singleton leapt up and pushed Gorton to one side, rolling Leek roughly over and slapping him hard between the shoulder blades. There was a massive eructation and Leek's chest heaved and continued to heave of its own accord. A quantity of viscid fluid ran from his mouth.

  Singleton stood up and fixed Macpherson with a glare. 'I suggest you forget about Cullen, sir. The Royal Humane Society has advocated resuscitation since seventy-four.' He bumped into Drinkwater. 'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.'

  'That is quite all right, Mr Singleton. Thank you. Have that man conveyed to his hammock and excused watches until noon tomorrow, Mr Gorton.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.'

  Lieutenant Germaney leant on the rail and endeavoured to distract his preoccupied mind by concentrating upon the wine bottle at the yard arm. The pain was constant now and he thought his bowels were on fire and melting away.

  The snap of a musket called his attention momentarily. The bottle swung intact, a green pinpoint at the extremity of the yard, catching the morning sun and twinkling defiantly.

  A second musket spat and the bottle shattered. The marines were forbidden to cheer but there were congratulatory grins and one or two sullen faces. Mount was not under the same constraint.

  'Ho! Good shooting, Polesworth. Next man, fire!' Mount's voice was bright with exhilaration and Germaney cursed him for his cheerfulness, seeing in the merriment of others a barometer of his own despair. Since the ship was witness to the remarkable medical talents of the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, Germaney had seen an opportunity to end his suffering. But fate had dealt him a mean trick, providing him with the means of a cure but entailing him in the awkward business of a confession before a gentleman of the cloth. Germaney writhed with indecision, an indecision made worse by the sudden popularity of Mr Singleton and the fact that he was seldom alone, was universally courted by all sections of the ship's company and encouraged in it by the captain, having seen the disgusting state of Melusine's own surgeon.