A Brig of War (34 page)

The wind eased by the minute but it continued to blow down to leeward, conferring an advantage on the pursuer. She could be plainly seen from the deck now but Drinkwater no longer fretted over her approach. Instead he sweated and swore, admonished and encouraged, belaboured and bullied the tired Hellebores as they lugged the six larboard eighteen pounders across the deck to assemble a battery of twelve in the vacant gun-ports on the starboard side.

The deck was criss-crossed with tackles, bull ropes and preventers. After several hours employed in hauling first one and then another, of casting stoppers on and off, of wracking seizings and heaving on handspikes Rogers, stripped to his shirt and mopping his florid face with a handkerchief, fought his way over the network of lines.

‘Christ alive, Drinkwater, this is a confounded risky trick, ain't
it. Damn me if I can see the logic of putting all your eggs in one basket.' There was a murmur of agreement from several of the men.

‘Why, Mr Rogers,' said Drinkwater cheerfully, suddenly realising that his flux and nausea had vanished, and pitching his voice loud enough for all to hear, ‘the easier to hurl ‘em at the French!'

‘So's they can make bleeding hommelettes . . .'

‘To go with their fucking frog's legs . . .'A burst of laughter greeted this sally while Mr Lestock, peering down from the deck, tut-tutted and went aft.

‘The captain is aware of our doin's, Mr Lestock,' called Drink-water and another burst of laughter came from the men. It might be a dangerous indication of indiscipline but what the hell? They might all be dead in the coming hours. Or exchanging places with Santhonax. ‘Right; a touch more on that tackle, Mr Brundell, if you please.'

‘Come then, lads,' roared the master's mate. The men spat on their hands and lay back. They broke out into the spontaneous cry they had evolved for concerted effort: ‘Hellee-ee-bores . . . Bellee-ee-whores . . . !' The eighteen-pounder moved across the deck and Drinkwater thought Griffiths would have approved of that cry.

Night found them almost becalmed but the whisper of wind remained constant in direction and Drinkwater held to his belief that they must not throw away their position to windward, that to attempt to run down past their enemy and escape only put the French between them and the Cape. But dawn found them to leeward, the wind backing and rising as, in growing daylight they were able to see the wind fill the enemy's sails before their own.

But Drinkwater's chagrin was swiftly replaced by hope an hour after dawn. Without warning the wind chopped round to the south-west again and began to freshen, both ships leaned to it,
Antigone
less than usual since she carried all her artillery on her starboard, windward side.

But the fluky quality of the wind had overnight brought their opponent almost within gunshot. At last Drinkwater was compelled to order his men to quarters.

He had not done so earlier to preserve their energy but, hardly had he taken the decision and the watch below came tumbling
sleepily on deck, than the first shot fell short upon their larboard quarter.

The four-score Hellebores ran to their stations. Rogers came aft and received his instructions. When Drinkwater explained what he intended to do Rogers held out his hand.

‘I've misjudged you in the past, Nathaniel, and I'm sorry for it. I only hope my new-found confidence is not misplaced.'

‘Amen to that, Samuel,' replied Drinkwater, smiling ruefully. Appleby came on deck.

‘D'you have your saws and daviers at the ready, Harry?' jested Drinkwater hollowly, shuddering at the thought of being rendered limbless by such instruments.

‘Aye, Nat, and God help me,' he added with a significant stare at Drinkwater, ‘Kate Best assists me.' He disappeared below, followed by Rogers en route to command the battery of eighteen-pounders. Lestock coughed beside him, affecting to study the enemy and remarking upon his shooting as the French bow-chaser barked away at them. The tricolour could be seen trailing astern from her peak and mainmasthead. As yet no colours flew from
Antigone's
spars. Mr Dalziell strutted nervously along the line of larboard quarterdeck carronades. To starboard Mr Quilhampton was quietly pacing up and down, his stump behind his back, doing his best to ape Mr Drinkwater. At the mainmast Mr Brundell commanded the waisters to board or trim sail as the need arose while, legs apart on the fo'c's'le Mr Grey, his silver whistle about his neck commanded the head party.

The person of Rattray appeared carrying a chair. He placed it upon the quarterdeck and Morris, pale and shaking, slumped into it. Drinkwater approached him.

‘I am glad to see you sir, your presence will encourage the hands.' Under the circumstances he could say no more. Morris's courage had surely been misjudged, perhaps the responsibility of command could yet temper the man just as culpability had changed Rogers.

Morris stared up at Drinkwater and moved his hand from beneath the blanket. The lock of a pistol was visible in his lap.

‘Stuff your sanctimonious cant, Drinkwater. Fight my bloody ship or I'll blow you to hell.'

Drinkwater opened his mouth in astonishment. Then he closed it as a thump hit the ship and a spatter of splinters flew from the larboard quarter rail. The action had begun.

All on deck stared astern. In the full daylight the frigate foaming up looked glorious, her hull a rich brown, her gunstrake cream. She was a point upon their larboard quarter. Thank God for a strengthening wind, thought Drinkwater as he spoke to Lestock. ‘Mr Lestock! Do you let her fall off a little, contrive it to look a trifle careless.'

‘D'you give away weather gauge, Mr Drinkwater?' contradicted Lestock with a look in Morris's direction.

‘Do as you are told, sir!' The quartermaster eased the helm up a couple of spokes and
Antigone
paid off the wind a few degrees. The gunfire ceased. Relative motion showed the Frenchman slowly crossing
Antigone
‘s stern. For the moment his bow chasers would not bear.

‘British colours, Mr Q.' Old Glory snapped out over their heads and almost immediately the enemy's larboard bow chaser opened fire. She had crossed their stern. Drinkwater had surrendered the weather gauge and still the
Antigone
had not fired a shot.

Drinkwater walked forward and gripped the rail. ‘Mr Brun-dell! Ease your foremast lee sheets a little!' A tiny tremble could be felt through the palms of his damp hands as he clasped the rail tightly.
Antigone
was losing power through those trembling foresails. He hoped the enemy could not see those fluttering clews behind the sails of the mainmast. The French ship began to draw ahead, overtaking them on their starboard side, a fine big ship, almost, now, they could see her in profile, identical to themselves. ‘Are you ready, Mr Rogers?' Drinkwater hailed and the word was passed back that Samuel Rogers was ready. To vindicate his honour, Drinkwater guessed.

‘I hope you know what you are about Mr Drinkwater.' Morris's voice sounded stronger. ‘So do I, sir,' replied Drinkwater swept by a sudden mood of exhilaration. If only the Frog would hold his broadside until all his guns would bear.

‘Stand by mizen braces, Mr Brundell,' he called in a sharp, clear voice.

‘What the bloody hell . . . ?'

‘For what we are about to receive . . .'

‘Holy Mary, Mother of God . . .'

A puff of smoke erupted from the forward larboard gun of the French frigate. They were her lee guns, pointing downwards on a deck sloping towards the enemy. So much for the weather gauge once the manoeuvring was over.

But it was not over: ‘Mizen braces! Mr Rogers!'

The lee mizen braces were flung from their pins, a man at each to see them free, with orders to cut them if a single turn jammed in a block. The faked ropes ran true as the weather braces were hauled under the vociferous direction of Brundell. All along the starboard side the smoke and flame of the main-deck battery opened fire, the twelve eighteen-pounders rumbling back on their trucks to be sponged and reloaded. Drinkwater did not think they would manage more than a single shot at their adversary as, under the thundering backing of the mizen sails,
Antigone
slowed in the water, appeared to stop dead as the enemy stormed past, suddenly firing ahead of the British prize. Quilhampton was hauling the carronade slides round to get off a second shot, screaming at his gun crews like a regular Tarpaulin officer.

‘Come you sons of whores, move it up, lively with that sponge, God damn you . . .'

Drinkwater looked for the fall of shot. At maximum elevation with the ship heeling
away
from the enemy they must have done some damage. Christ, they had hurled all the damned bar shot and chain shot they could cram in the guns, all the French dismasting projectiles to give the Frogs a taste of their own medicine.

And they had missed her. Mortified, Drinkwater's ever observant eye could already read the name of the passing frigate:
Romaine
. And now, by heaven, they
must
run.

A cheer was breaking out on the fo'c's'le and he looked again. The enemy's maintopmast was tottering to leeward. It formed a graceful curve then fell in a splintering of spars and erratic descent as stays arrested it and parted under the weight.

Relief flooded Drinkwater. There was cheering all along the upper deck and from down below. Rogers had come up and was pumping his hand. Even Lestock's face wore a sickly, condescending grin.

‘Sir! Sir!' Quilhampton was pointing.

‘God's bones!'

The wreckage was slewing the
Romaine
sharply to larboard, across
Antigone
's bow. In the perfect position to rake. And men were working furiously at the wreckage with axes. Forward a man screamed as his leg flew off. It was Mr Brundell. ‘Mr Grey! Back the yards on the foremast!' He turned, ‘Mr Dalziell, back the yards on the main, lively now.'

He waited impatiently.
Antigone
had hove herself to. Now they must make a stern board, to get out of trouble before . . .

The raking broadside hit them, the balls whirling the length of the deck. Mr Quilhampton fell and beside Drinkwater Lestock went ‘Urgh!' and a gout of blood appeared all over Drinkwater's breeches. Drinkwater stood stock still. On the fo'c's'le, legs still apart, stood Mr Grey. The two men stood numbed, one hundred feet apart, regarding each other over a human shambles. As if by magic figures stood up and the main yards groaned round in their parrels. They were followed by those on the foremast.
Antigone
began to gather sternway. The next broadside roared out. It had been fired on an upward roll.
Antigone
's foretopgallant mast went overboard.

‘Helm a weather! Hard a-starboard!' But Drinkwater's order was too late. The frigate was already paying off, her bow coming up into the wind, across the wind, until finally she wallowed with her unarmed larboard side facing the enemy.

‘Lee forebrace!' If he could trim the yards to the larboard tack they might yet escape. The third broadside brought the main topmast down, the mizen topgallant with it. No one stood alive at the wheel.

Drinkwater looked at the
Romaine
. French cruisers, he knew, carried large crews. Now the advantages thus conferred upon them became apparent. Already the wreckage was cleared away and she was under control, setting down towards them.

‘Mr Dalziell, prepare your larboard carronades. Mr Grey! Larboard fo'c's'le carronades.' Bitterly Drinkwater strode forward and jerked one of the brass gangway swivels. He lined it up on the approaching frigate.

‘Mr Drinkwater!' He turned to find Morris pointing the pistol at him. ‘You failed, Drinkwater . . .'

‘Not yet, by God, Morris, not yet!'

‘What else can you do, dog's turd, your cleverness has destroyed you.' Drinkwater's brain bridled at Morris's suggestion. True, a second earlier he himself had been on the verge of despair but the human mind trips and locks onto odd things under stress. It did not occur at that moment that Morris's action in pointing the gun at him was irrational; that Morris's apparent delight at his failure would also result in Morris's own capture. It was that old cockpit epithet that sparked his brain to greater endeavours.

‘No, sir. By God there's one card yet to play!' he shouted below for Mr Rogers even as Dalziell approached with a coloured bundle in his arms.

‘What the hell is that?' screamed Drinkwater.

‘I was ordered to strike,' said Dalziell.

Drinkwater snatched the ensign from Dalziell's grasp. The red bunting spilled onto the deck. He turned to Morris, the question unasked on his lips. Morris inclined his head, implying his authority lay behind the surrender.

The belief that he was dying had taken so sharp a hold upon his mind that he was sure surrender offered him survival. The enemy cruiser was from Ile de France. As commander of such a well-fought prize he would be treated with respect, and removed from the source of his poisoning he would recover. Into Morris's mind came another reason, adding its own weight in favour of surrender. While he enjoyed an easy house arrest at Port Louis his officers would be incarcerated. Drinkwater would be mewed up for the duration of the war. It would finish the work he had failed to do at Kosseir.