A Brig of War (8 page)

‘Then get below and compose your essay.' Drinkwater turned away and fell to pacing the deck, forgetting about the topgallant
buntlines. He hated the precocity of Dalziell and his ilk. The day was ruined for him, the whole voyage of the
Hellebore
poisoned by Dalziell, a living reminder of the horrors of the frigate
Cyclops
and Morris, the sodomite tyrant of the midshipman's mess. Many years before, during the American war, Drinkwater had been instrumental in having Morris turned out of the frigate. Morris was lucky to have escaped with his life: an Article of War punished his crime with the noose. Now a drunken threat, uttered by Morris before he left the frigate, was recalled to mind. It seemed Morris had kept in touch with his career, might have been behind Dungarth's request that Dalziell be found a place, though it was certain the earl knew nothing of it. Something about Dalziell's demeanour seemed to confirm this suspicion. For half an hour Drinkwater paced furiously from the poop ladder to the mainmast and back. His mind was filled with dark and irrational fears, fears for Elizabeth and her unborn child far behind in England, for long ago Morris had discovered his love for her and had threatened her. Gradually he calmed himself, forced his mind into a more logical track. Despite the influence he once appeared to wield at the Admiralty through the carnal talents of his sister, he had risen no further than lieutenant and many years had passed since that encounter in New York. Perhaps, whatever Dalziell knew of the events aboard
Cyclops
, it would be no more than that he and Morris were enemies. Surely Morris would have concealed the reason for their enmity. Strange that he had planted in the midshipman's mind the notion that Drinkwater indulged in the practices that had come close to breaking Morris himself. Or perhaps it was not so strange. Evil was rightly represented as a serpent and the twists of the human mind to justify its most outrageous conduct were, when viewed objectively, almost past belief.

Nevertheless, two hours passed before Drinkwater remembered the topgallant buntlines. He found Mr Quilhampton had already attended to them.

The following morning Drinkwater found a moment to study the literary efforts of the two midshipmen. It was clear that Mr Dalziell's essay had suffered from being written after that by Mr Quilhampton. True the penmanship was neater and better formed than the awkward, blotchy script of Mr Q, but the information contained in the composition was a crib from Falconer's
Marine Dictionary
with a few embellishments in what Mr Dalziell clearly considered was literary style.

. . . 
And so the Brig-Sloop, so named to indicate that she was commanded by a Commander or Sloop-Captain, as opposed to a Gun-Brig, merely the command of a Lieutenant, arrived to take its place in the lists of the Fleet and perform the duties of a small Cruizer to the no small satisfaction of Admiralty
 . . . Was there a sneer within the lengthy sentence? Or was Drinkwater unduly prejudiced? Certainly there was little information.

By contrast Mr Quilhampton's erratic, speckled contribution, untidy though it was, demonstrated his enthusiasm.

. . . 
The naval Brig was developed from the merchant Snow and Brig, both two-masted vessels. In the former the mainmast carried both a square course and a fore and aft spanker which was usually loose footed. Its luff was secured to a small mast, or horse, set close abaft the lower main-mast. The merchant Brig did not carry the maincourse, the maintopsail sheeting to a lower yard of smaller dimensions, not unlike the cross-jack yard. The mainsail was usually designated to be the fore and aft spanker which was larger than that of the snow and furnished with a boom, extending its parts well aft and making it an effective driver for a vessel on the wind
 . . .

Drinkwater nodded, well satisfied with the clarity of Mr Quilhampton's drift, but the boy was in full flood now and did not baulk at attempting to untangle that other piece of etymological and naval confusion.

The naval brig is divided into two classes, the gun-vessel, usually of shallow draft and commanded by a Lieutenant, and the brig-sloop, under a Commander. The term ‘sloop' in this context (as with the ship-sloop or corvette) indicates its status as the command of Captain or Commander, the ship-sloop of twenty guns being the smallest vessel commanded by a
Post-Captain. The Captain of a brig-sloop, (sometimes known, more particularly in foreign navies, as a brig-corvette) is always addressed as ‘Captain' by courtesy but is in reality called Master and Commander since at one time no master was carried to attend to the vessel's navigation. The term ‘sloop' used in these contexts, should not be confused with the one-masted vessel that has the superficial
[there were several attempts to spell this word]
appearance of a cutter. These type of sloops are rarely used now in naval service, having been replaced by the faster cutter. They differ from the cutter in having less sail area, a standing bowsprit and a beakhead
 . . .

Drinkwater lowered this formidable document in admiration. Young Mr Q had hit upon some interesting points, particularly that of Masters and Commanders. He knew that many young and ambitious lieutenants had objected to submitting themselves for the navigational examination at the Trinity House to give them the full claim to the title, and that the many promotions on foreign stations that answered the exigencies of war had made the system impracticable. The regulation of having a midshipman pass for master's mate before he could be sent away in a prize was also one observed more in the breach than otherwise. As a result the Admiralty had seen fit to appoint masters or acting masters to most brigs to avoid losses by faulty navigation. In Mr Lestock's case Drinkwater was apt to think the appointment more of a burden to the ship than a safeguard.

Quilhampton's essay echoed the gunroom debate as to the armament of brigs, repeating the carronade versus long gun argument and concluding in didactic vein, . . . 
whatever the main armament of the deck, the eighteen-gun brig-of-war is, under the regulation of 1795, the smallest class of vessel to carry a boat carronade
.

Drinkwater was folding the papers away when a cry sent him hurrying on deck.

‘Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

He drew back from the ladder to allow Griffiths, limping painfully but in obvious haste, to precede him up the ladder. As the two men emerged on deck the pipes were shrieking at the hatchways. Lestock jumped down from the weather rail and offered his glass to Griffiths. ‘French cruiser, by my judgement.'

Griffiths swore while Drinkwater reached in his pocket for his own glass. It was a frigate beyond doubt and a fast one judging by the speed with which her image grew. She was certainly French built and here, south of Ascension Island in the path of homecoming
Indiamen, probably still in French hands.

‘All hands have been called, sir,' said Lestock primly.

‘Then put the ship before the wind and set everything she'll carry.' It was clear Griffiths was taking no chances. The importance of their mission was too great to jeopardise it by the slightest hesitation.

‘Mr Drinkwater, have the mast wedges knocked out and I want preventer backstays rigged to t'gallant mast caps!'

‘Aye, aye, sir!' Lestock was already bawling orders through the speaking trumpet and the topmen were racing aloft to rig out the stunsail booms. Drinkwater slipped forward to where Johnson, the carpenter, was tending the headsails, hoisting a flying jib and tending its sheet to catch any wind left in the lee of the foresails as their yards were braced square across the hull.

‘Mr Johnson, get your mates and knock the mast wedges out, give the masts some play: we want every fraction of a knot out of her. Then have the bilges pumped dry and kept dry for as long as this goes on.' Drinkwater jerked his head astern.

Johnson acknowledged the order and sung out for his two mates in inimitable crudity. Drinkwater turned away and sought out Grey, the bosun.

‘Mr Grey, I want two four-inch ropes rigged as preventer backstays. Use the cable springs out of an after port. Get 'em up to the t'gallant mastcaps and secured. We'll bowse 'em tight with a gun tackle at the rail.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

‘And Mr Grey . . .'

‘Sir?'

‘I don't want any chafing at the port. See to it if you please.' It was stating the obvious to an experienced man, but in the excitement of the moment it was no good relying on experience that could be lost in distraction.

As he went aft again Drinkwater was aware of the lessening of the wind noise in the rigging. Running free cut it to a minimum, while the hull sat more upright in the sea and it was necessary to look to the horizon to see the wave caps still tumbling before the strong breeze to convince oneself that the weather had not suddenly moderated. Already the stunsails were being hoisted from their stowage in the tops, billowing forward and bowing their thin booms. Lestock was bawling abuse at the foretopmen who had failed in the delicate business of seeing one of them clear
of the spider's web of ropes between the top and its upper and lower booms. A man was scrambling out along the topgallant yard and leaning outwards at the peril of his life to clear the tangle.

Lestock's voice rose to a shrill squeal and Drinkwater knew that on many ships men would be flogged for such clumsiness. Lestock's vitriolic diatribe vexed him.

‘Belay that, Mr Lestock, you'll only fluster the man, 'twill not set the sail a whit faster.'

Lestock turned, white with anger. ‘I'll trouble you to hold your tongue, damn it, I still have the deck and that whoreson captain of the foretop'll have a checked shirt at the gangway, by God!'

Drinkwater ignored the master. The distraction had silenced Lestock for long enough to ensure the stunsail was set and he was far too eager to get aft and study the chase.

He joined Griffiths by the taffrail, saying nothing but levelling his glass.

‘He's gaining on us,
bach
. I dare not sacrifice water, nor guns . . . not yet . . .'

‘We could haul the forward guns aft, sir. Lift her bow a little, she's burying it at the moment . . .' Both men spoke without removing the glasses from their eyes.

‘Indeed, yes. See to it, and drop the sterns of the quarterboats to catch a little wind.' Drinkwater snapped the glass shut and caught Quilhampton's eye.

‘Mr Q, do you see to lowering the after falls on each of the quarter boats. Not far enough to scoop up water but to act as sails.' He left Quilhampton in puzzled acknowledgement and noted with satisfaction the speed with which Grey's party had hauled the four inch manila hemp springs aloft. The gun tackles were already rigged and being sweated tight.

‘Mr Rogers!'

‘Yes? What is it?'

Drinkwater explained about the guns. ‘We'll start with the forward two and get a log reading at intervals of half an hour to check her best performance.'

Rogers nodded. ‘She's gaining is she?'

‘Yes.'

‘D'you think the old bastard's lost his nerve,' he paused then saw the anger in Drinkwater's face. ‘I mean she might be British . . .'

‘And she might not! You may wish to rot in a French fortress
but I do not. I suggest we attend to our order.'

Drinkwater turned away from Rogers, contempt flooding through him that a man could allow himself the liberty of such petty considerations. Although the stranger was still well out of gunshot it would need only one lucky ball to halt their flight. And the fortress of Bitche waited impassively for them. Drinkwater stopped his mind from wandering and began to organise the hauling aft of the forward guns.

In the waist the noise of the sea hissing alongside was soon augmented by the orchestrated grunts of men laying on tackles and gingerly hauling the brig's unwieldy artillery aft. Two heavy sets of blocks led forward and two aft, to control the progress of the guns as the ship moved under them. From time to time Grey's party of men with handspikes eased the awkward carriage wheels over a ringbolt. After four hours of labour they had four guns abaft the mainmast and successive streaming of the log indicated an increase of speed of one and a half knots. But that movement of guns aft had not only deprived
Hellebore
of four of her teeth, it had seriously impeded the working of her after cannon since the forward guns now occupied their recoil space.

When the fourth gun had been lashed the two lieutenants straightened up from their exertions. Drinkwater had long forgotten Rogers's earlier attitude.

‘I hope the bastard does not catch us now or it'll be abject bloody surrender, superior goddam force or not,' Rogers muttered morosely.

‘Stow it, Rogers, it's well past noon, we might yet hang on until dark.'

‘You're a bloody optimist, Drinkwater.'