A Brig of War Read Free Page B

watched the excited Quilhampton race below. Like the midshipman he was curious about Nelson, a man whose name was known to every schoolboy in England since his daring manoeuvre at the battle of Cape St Vincent. Not that his conduct had been put at risk by the enemy so much as by those in high places at the Admiralty. Drinkwater knew there were those who considered he would be shot for disobedience before long, just as there were those who complained he was no seaman. Certainly he did not possess the abilities of a Pellew or a Keats, and although he enjoyed the confidence of St Vincent he had been involved in the fiasco at Santa Cruz. Perhaps, thought Drinkwater, he was a man like the restless Smith, with whom he had served briefly in the Channel, a man of dynamic force whose deficiencies could be forgiven in a kind of emulative love. But, he concluded, pacing the deck in the gathering darkness, whatever White said on the subject, it did not alter the fact that
Hellebore
was but a brig and fitted for little more than her present duties.

Chapter Two
Nelson
July 1798
    â€˜She hasn’t acknowledged, sir. Shall I fire a gun to loo’ard?’
    Griffiths stared astern to where
Hecuba
, her jury rigged foremast a mute testimony to the violence of the weather, was struggling into the bay.
    â€˜No, Mr Drinkwater. Don’t forget she’s a merchantman with a quarter of our complement and right now,
bach
, every man-jack aboard her will be busy.’
    Drinkwater felt irritated by the mild rebuke, but he held his tongue. The week of anxiety must surely soon be over. South of Minorca, beating up for Toulon the northerly mistral had hit the little convoy with unusual violence.
Hecuba
’s foremast had gone by the board and they had been obliged to run off to the eastward and the shelter of Corsica. Drinkwater stared ahead at the looming coastline of the island, the sharp peaked mountains reaching up dark against the glow of dawn. To larboard Cape Morsetta slowly extended its shelter as they limped eastward into Crovani Bay.
    â€˜Deck there! Sail dead ahead, sir!’
    The cry from the masthead brought the glasses of the two men up simultaneously. In the shadows of the shoreline lay a three-masted vessel, her spars bare of canvas as she lay wind-rode at anchor.
    â€˜A polaccra,’ muttered Griffiths. ‘We’ll investigate her when we’ve brought this lame duck to her anchor,’ he jerked his head over his shoulder.
    The convoy stood on into the bay. Soon they were able to discern the individual pine trees that grew straight and tall enough to furnish fine masts.
    â€˜Bring the ship to the wind Mr Lestock,’ Griffiths addressed the master, a small, fussy little man with a permanent air of being put upon. ‘You may fire your gun when we let the bower go, Mr Drinkwater.’
    â€˜Aye, aye, sir.’ Lestock was shouting through the speaking trumpet as men ran to the braces, thankful to be in the lee of land where
Hellebore
’s deck approximated the horizontal. The maintopsail slapped back against the mast and redistributed its thrust through the standing rigging to the hull below.
Hellebore
lost forward motion and began to gather sternway.
    â€˜Let go!’
    The carpenter’s topmaul swung once, then the brig’s bow kicked slightly as the bower anchor’s weight was released. The splash was lost in the bark of the six pounder. While Lestock and his mates had the canvas taken off the ship, Drinkwater swung his glass round the bay.
Molly
was making sternway and he saw the splash under her bluff, north-country bow where her anchor was let go. But
Hecuba
still stood inshore while her hands struggled to clew up her forecourse. Unable to manoeuvre under her topsails due to her damaged foremast, her master had been obliged to hold onto the big sail until the last moment, now something had fouled.
    â€˜Why don’t he back the damned thing,’ Drinkwater muttered to