The Corvette

Chapter Six The Matter of a Surgeon

'You are entirely to blame, Mr Singleton,' shouted Drinkwater above the howl of the wind in the rigging. He stood at the windward rail, holding a backstay and staring down at the missionary who leaned into the gale on the canting deck.

'For what, sir?' Singleton clasped the borrowed tarpaulins tightly, aware that they were billowing dangerously. In an instant they were as wet with rain and spray as the captain's.

'For the gale!'

'The gale? I am to blame?' Singleton made a grab for a rope as Melusine gave a lee lurch. 'But that is preposterous…'

Drinkwater smiled, Singleton's colour was a singular, pallid green. 'Breathe deeply through the nose, you'll find it revivifying.'

Singleton did as he was bid and a little shudder passed through him. 'That is a ridiculous superstition, Captain Drinkwater. Surely you do not encourage superstition?'

'It don't matter what I think, Mr Singleton. The people believe a parson brings bad weather and you cannot deny it's blowing.'

'It is blowing exceedingly hard, sir.' Singleton looked to windward as a wave top reared above the horizon. Melusine dropped into the trough and it seemed to Singleton that the wave crest, rolling over in an avalanche of foam, would descend onto Melusine's exposed side. Singleton's mouth opened as Melusine felt the sudden lift of the advancing sea imparted to her quarter. The horizon disappeared and Singleton's stomach seemed far beneath the soles of his feet. He gasped with surprise as the breaking crest crashed with a judder against Melusine's spirketting and shot a column of spray into the air. As Melusine felt the full force of the wind on the wave-crest she leaned to leeward and dropped into the next trough. Singleton's stomach seemed to pass his eyes as the wind whipped the spray horizontally over the rail with a spiteful patter. Beside him an apparently heartless Captain Drinkwater raised his speaking trumpet.

'Mr Rispin, you must clear that raffle away properly before starting the fid or you will lose gear.' He turned to the missionary, 'It is an article of faith to a seaman, Mr Singleton,' he grinned, 'but it is, I agree, both superstitious and preposterous. As for the wind I must disagree, if only to prepare you for what may yet come. It blows hard, but not exceedingly hard. This is what we term a whole gale. It is quite distinct from a storm. The wind-note in the rigging will rise another octave in a storm.'

'Mr Bourne sent below to the cockpit to turn the young gentlemen out to strike the topgallant masts,' Singleton said, the colour creeping back into his cheeks and checking the corpse-like blue of his jaw. 'I had supposed the term to apply to some form of capitulation to the elements.'

Drinkwater smiled and shook his head. 'Not at all. The ship will ride easier from a reduction in her top hamper. It will lower her centre of gravity and reduce windage, thus rendering her both more comfortable and more manageable.' He pointed to leeward. 'Besides we do not want to outrun our charges.' Singleton stared into the murk to starboard and caught the pale glimpse of sails above the harder solidity of wallowing hulls that first showed a dull gleam of copper and then seemed to disappear altogether.

'And this,' Singleton said, feeling better and aware that any distraction, even that of watching the sailors, was better than the eternal preoccupation with his guts, 'is what Rispin is presently engaged upon?'

'Aye, Mr Singleton, that was my intention,' the speaking trumpet came up again. 'Have a care there, sir! Watch the roll of the ship, God damn it!' The trumpet was lowered. 'Saving your cloth, Mr Singleton.'

'I begin to see a certain necessity for strong expressions, sir.'

Drinkwater grinned again. 'A harsh environment engenders a vocabulary to match, Mr Singleton. This ain't a drawing-room at Tunbridge nor, for that matter, rooms at… at, er at whatever college you were at.'

'Jesus.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Jesus College, Oxford University.' There was a second's pause and both men laughed.

'Ah. I'm afraid I graduated from the cockpit of a man o'war.'

'Not an alma mater to be recommended, sir, if my own experiences…'

'A cesspit, sir,' said Drinkwater with sudden asperity,'but I do assure you that England has been saved by its products more than by all the professors in history…'

'I did not mean to…'

'No matter, no matter.' Drinkwater instantly regretted his intemperance. But the moment had passed and it was not what he had summoned Singleton for. Such levity ill became the captain of a man o'war. 'We were talking of the wind, Mr Singleton, and the noise made by a storm, beside which this present gale is nothing. I believe, Mr Singleton, that the wind in Greenland is commonly at storm force, that the particles of ice carried in it can wound the flesh like buckshot and that a man cannot exist for more than a few minutes in such conditions.'

'Sir, the eskimos manage…'

'Mr Singleton,' Drinkwater hurried on, 'what I am trying to say is that I need your services here. On this ship, God damn it. If the eskimos manage so well without you, Mr Singleton, cannot you leave them in their primitive state of savagery? What benefits can you confer…?'

'Captain Drinkwater! You amaze me! What are you saying? Surely you do not deny the unfortunate natives the benefits of Christianity?'

'There are those who consider your religion to be as superstitious in its tenets as the people's belief that you can raise a gale, Mr Singleton.'

'Only a Jacobin Frenchman, sir! Not a British naval captain!' Singleton's outrage was so fervent that Drinkwater could not resist laughing at him any more than he could resist baiting him.

'Sir, I, I protest…' Drinkwater mastered his amusement.

'Mr Singleton, you may rest easy. The solitude of command compels me to take the occasional advantage… But I am in desperate need of a surgeon. Macpherson has, as you know, been in a straitjacket for three days…'

'The balance of his mind is quite upset, sir, and the delirium tremens will take some time to subside. Peripheral neuritis, the symptom of chronic alcoholic poisoning…'

'I am aware that he is a rum-sodden wreck, devil-take it! That is why I need your knowledge as a physician.'

Melusine's motion eased as Rispin came across the deck and knuckled his hatbrim to report the topgallant masts struck. 'Very well, Mr Rispin. You may pipe the watch below.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And send Mr Quilhampton to me.' He dismissed Rispin and turned to Singleton. 'Very well, Mr Singleton. I admire your sense of vocation. It would be an unwarranted abuse of my powers to compel you to do anything.' He paused and fixed Singleton with his grey eyes. 'But I shall expect you to volunteer to stand in for Macpherson until such time as we land you upon the coast of Greenland. Ah, Mr Q, will you attend the quarterdeck with your quadrant and bring up my sextant. Have Frey bring up the chronometer…'

Singleton turned to windward as the captain left him. The wind and sea struck him full in the face and he gasped with the shock.

Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley nodded at the messman. The grubby cloth was drawn from the makeshift table and the messman placed the rosewood box in front of his lordship. Drawing a key from his pocket Lord Walmsley unlocked and lifted the lid. He took out the two glasses from their baize-lined sockets and placed one in front of himself and one in front of Mr Midshipman the Honourable Alexander Glencross whose hands shot out to preserve both glasses from rolling off the table.

'Cognac, Glencross?'

'If you please, my Lord.'

Walmsley filled both glasses to capacity, replaced the decanter and locking the box placed it for safety between his feet. He then took hold of his glass and raised it.

'The fork, Mr Dutfield.'

'Aye, aye, my Lord.' Dutfield picked up the remaining fork that lay on the table for the purpose and stuck it vigorously into the deck beam. The dim lighting of the cockpit struck dully off it and Walmsley and Glencross swigged their brandy.

'Damn fine brandy, Walmsley.'

'Ah,' said his lordship from the ascendancy of his position and his seventeen years, 'the advantages of peace, don't you know.' He frowned and stared at the two midshipmen at the forward end of the table then, catching Dutfield's eye raised his own to the fork above their heads. 'The fork, Mr Dutfield.'

Mr Frey looked hurriedly up from his book and then snapped it shut, hurrying away while Dutfield's face wrinkled with an expression of resentment and pleading. 'But mayn't I…?'

'You know damn well you mayn't. You are a youngster and when the fork is in the deck beam your business is to make yourself scarce. Now turn in!'

Mumbling, Dutfield turned away.

'What did you say?'

'Nothing.'

Walmsley grinned imperiously. 'Dutfield you have forgot your manners. I could have sworn he said "good night", couldn't you, Glencross?'

'Oh, indeed, yes.'

Dutfield began to unlash his hammock. 'Well, Dutfield, where are your manners? You know, just because The Great Democrat has forbidden any thrashing in the cockpit does not prevent me from having your hammock cut down in the middle watch. Now where are your manners?'

'Good night,' muttered Dutfield.

'Speak up damn you!'

'Good night! There, does that satisfy you?'

Walmsley shook his head. 'No, Dutfield,' said his lordship refilling his glass, 'it does not. Now what have I told you, Dutfield, about manners, eh? The hallmark of a gentleman, eh?'

'Good night, my Lord.'

'Ah…' His lordship leaned back with an air of satisfaction. 'You see, Glencross, he isn't such a guttersnipe as his pimples proclaim…'

'Are you bullying again?' Quilhampton entered the cockpit. 'Since when did you take over the mess, Walmsley?'

'Ah, the harmless Mr Q, together with his usual ineffable charm…' Walmsley rocked with his own wit and Glencross sniggered with him.

'Go to the devil, Walmsley. If you take my advice you'd stop drinking that stuff at sea. Have you seen the state of the surgeon?'

'Macpherson couldn't hold his liquor like a gentleman…'

'God, Walmsley, what rubbish you do talk. Macpherson drinks from idleness or disappointment and has addled his brain. Rum has rotted him as surely as the lues, and the same will happen to you, you've the stamp of idleness about you.'

'How dare you…!'

'Pipe down, Walmsley. You would best address the evening to consulting Hamilton Moore. I am instructed by the captain that he wishes to see your journals together with an essay upon the "Solution of the longitude problem by the Chronometer".'

'Bloody hell!'

'Where's Mr Frey?'

'Crept away to his hammock like a good little child.'

'Good. Be so kind as to tell him to present his journal to the captain tomorrow. Good night.' Quilhampton swung round to return to the deck, bumping into Singleton who entered the cockpit with evident reluctance.

'Cheer up, sir!' he said looking back into the gloom, 'I believe the interior of an igloo to be similar but without some of the inconveniences…' Chuckling to himself Quilhampton ran up the ladder.

'Good evening, gentlemen.' Singleton's remark was made with great forbearance and he moved stealthily as Melusine continued to buck and swoop through the gale.

He managed to seat himself and open the book of sermons, ignoring the curious and hostile silence of Walmsley and Glencross who were already into their third glass of brandy. They began to tell each other exaggerated stories of sexual adventure which, Singleton knew, were intended to discomfit him.

'… and then, my dear Glencross, I took her like an animal. My, there was a bucking and a fucking the like of which would have made you envious. And to think that little witch had looked at me as coy as a virgin not an hour since. What a ride!'

'Ah, I had Susie like that. I told you of Susie, my mother's maid. She taught me all I know, including the French way…' Glencross rolled his eyes in recollection and was only prevented from resuming his reminiscence by Midshipman Wickham calling the first watch. The two half-drunk midshipmen staggered into their tarpaulins.

Singleton sighed with relief. He had long ago learned that to remonstrate with either Walmsley or Glencross only increased their insolence. He put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. But the vision of Susie's French loving would not go.

Eight bells rang and Walmsley and Glencross staggered out of the cockpit. As he passed Dutfield's hammock, his lordship nudged it with his shoulder.

'Stop that at once, Dutfield,' deplored Walmsley in a matriarchal voice, 'or you will go blind!'

Captain Drinkwater looked from one journal to another. Mr Frey's was a delight. The boy's hand was bold and it was illustrated by tiny sketches of the coastline of east Scotland and the Shetlands. There were some neat drawings of the instruments and weapons used in the whale-fishery and a fine watercolour of Melusine leading the whalers out of the Humber past the Spurn Head lighthouse. The others lacked any kind of redeeming feature. Wickham's did show a little promise from the literary point of view but that of Lord Walmsley was clearly a hurried crib of the master's log. Walmsley disappointed him. After the business of Leek, Drinkwater had thought some appeal had been made to the young man's better feelings. He was clearly intelligent and led Glencross about like a puppy. And now this disturbing story about the pair of them being drunk during the first watch. Drinkwater swore. If only Rispin had done something himself, or called for Drinkwater to witness the matter, but Drinkwater had not gone on deck until midnight, having some paperwork to attend to. One thing was certain and that was that unpunished and drunken midshipmen could quickly destroy discipline. Men under threat of the lash for the least sign of insobriety would not thank their captain for letting two boys get drunk on the pretext of high spirits. And, thought Drinkwater with increasing anger, it would be concluded that Walmsley and Glencross were allowed the liberty because of their social stations.

He was on the point of sending for the pair when he decided that, last night's episode having gone unpunished though not unpublicised, he must make an example as public as the offence. And it was damned chilly aloft in these latitudes, he reflected grimly.

'Mistah Singleton, sah!' The marine sentry announced.

'Come in! Ah, Mr Singleton, please take a seat. What can I do for you?'

'First a message from Mr Bourne, sir, he says to tell you, with his compliments, that he has sighted the Earl Percy about three leagues to leeward but there is still no sign of the Provident.'

'Thank you. I had thought we might have lost contact with more ships during the gale but these whaling fellows are superb seamen. Now, sir. What can I do for you? It was in my mind that you might like to address the men with a short sermon on Sunday. Nothing too prolix, you understand, but something appropriate to our present situation. Well, what d'you say?'

'With pleasure, sir. Er, the other matter which I came about, sir, was the matter of the surgeon.'

'Ahhh…'

'Sir, Macpherson is reduced to a state of anorexy. I do not pretend that there is very much that can be done to save him. Already his groans are disturbing the men and he is given to almost constant ramblings and the occasional ravings of a lunatic'

'You have been to see him?'

Singleton sighed. 'It seems you have carried the day, sir.'

Drinkwater smiled. 'Don't be down-hearted, Mr Singleton. I am sure that you would not wish to spend all your days aboard Melusine in idleness. If my gratitude is any consolation you have it in full measure.'

'Thank you, sir. After you have landed me you will find that the whalers each have a surgeon, should you require one. I shall endeavour to instruct the aptest of my two mates.'

'That is excellent. I shall make the adjustments necessary in the ship's books and transfer the emoluments due to Macpherson…'

'No, sir. I believe he has a daughter living. I shall have no need of money in Greenland and the daughter may as well have the benefit…'

'That's very handsome of you.'

'There is one thing that I would ask, Captain Drinkwater.'

'What is that?'

'That we transfer Macpherson to the hold and that I be permitted to use his cabin.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Of course, Mr Singleton, and I'm obliged to you.'

The gale increased again with nightfall and Drinkwater waited until two bells in the first watch. An advocate of Middleton's three watch system he liked to know who had the deck at any time during the twenty-four hours without the wearisome business of recollecting who had been the officer of the watch on his last visit to the quarterdeck. He wrapped his cloak about him and stepped out onto the berth deck. The marine sentry snapped to attention. Drinkwater ran up the ladder.

Melusine buried her lee rail and water rolled into the waist. The air was damp and cold, the clouds pressed down on the mastheads, obscuring the sky but not the persistent daylight of an Arctic summer. It was past nine in the evening, ship's time, and in these latitudes the sun would not set for some weeks.

Drinkwater made for the lee rail, took a look at the convoy, remarked the position of the Nimrod as sagging off to leeward.

'Mr Rispin, have the midshipmen of the watch make Nimrod's number and order that he closes the commodore.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater took himself across the deck to the weather rail where the vertical side of the ship deflected the approaching wind up and over his head, leaving its turbulence to irritate those less fortunate to leeward. He began to pace ruminatively up and down, feigning concentration upon some obtuse problem while he watched the two midshipmen carry out the simple order. After a little he called the lieutenant of the watch.

'Mr Rispin, I desired you that the midshipmen of the watch hoisted the signal. Send that yeoman forward. How else do you expect the young gentlemen to learn without the occasional advantage of practical experience?'

The wind was strong enough to require a practised hand at the flag halliards.

Expecting a fouled line or even the loss of one end of the halliard Drinkwater was secretly delighted when he observed Number Five flag rise upside down from the deck.

'Mr Rispin!'

'Sir?'

'Have that yeoman called aft and instruct the young gentlemen in the correct manner to hoist numerals.' The exchange was publicly aired for the benefit of the watch on deck. There were a number of grins visible.

When the signal had been hoisted and Nimrod's attention been called to it by the firing of a gun, Drinkwater called the two midshipmen to him.

'Well, gentlemen. What is your explanation of this abysmal ignorance?'

'An error, sir,' said Walmsley. Drinkwater leaned forward.

'I detect, sir,' he said, 'that you have been drinking. What about you, Mr Glencross?'

'Beg pardon, sir.'

'We are not drunk, sir,' added Walmsley.

'Of course not, Mr Walmsley. A gentleman does not get drunk, does he now, eh?'

The midshipmen shook their contrite heads. Experience had taught them that submission would purchase them a quick release.

'The problem is that I am not greatly interested in your qualities as gentlemen. You will find gentlemen forward among the lord mayor's men, you will find gentlemen lolling at Bath or Tunbridge, you will find gentlemen aplenty in the messes of His Majesty's regiments of foot and horse. Those are places proper to gentlemen with no other abilities to support them beyond a capacity for brandy.

'You may, perhaps, also find gentlemen upon the quarterdeck of a British man-o'-war, but they have no right there unless they are first and foremost seamen and secondly officers, capable of setting a good example to their men.

'In a few years you will be bringing men to the gratings for a check-shirt for the offence your gentility has led you into. Now, Mr Glencross, the fore topmasthead for you; and Mr Walmsley the main. There you may reflect upon the wisdom of what I have just told you.'

He watched the two young men begin to ascend the rigging. 'Mr Rispin, bring them down at eight bells. And not a moment earlier.'

Chapter Seven The First Whales

Drinkwater turned from the stern window and seated himself at the table. He drew the opened journal towards him. The brilliant sunlight that reflected from the sea onto the deckhead of the cabin was again reflected onto his desk and the page before him. He picked up his pen and began to write.

The ships favouring the Spitzbergen grounds left us in latitude 72 ° North and 8° Easily longitude. Among those left under my convoy are Faithful, Capt. Sawyers, and Narwhal, Capt. Harvey. Their appearance much changed as they disdain to shave north of the Arctic Circle. It fell calm the next morning and the air had a crystal purity. Towards evening I detected a curious luminosity to the northward, lying low across the horizon. This the whale-fishers denominate 'ice blink'. Towards midnight, if such it can be described with no need to light the binnacle lamps, a steady breeze got up, whereupon the ships crowded on sail and stood to the northwards. At morning the 'ice-blink' was more pronounced and accompanied by a strange viscid appearance of the sea. There was also an eerie and subtle change in the atmosphere that seemed most detectable by the olfactory senses and yet could not be called a smell. By noon the reason for these strange phenomenae was apparent. A line of ice visible to the north and west. I perceived immediately the advantages of a 'crow's nest'. All are well on board…

He was interrupted by a loud and distant howl. It seemed to come from the hold and reminded Drinkwater of the unfortunate and now insane Macpherson.

… except for the surgeon, whose condition by its very nature, disturbs the peace of the ship.

But it was not Macpherson. The knock at the door was peremptory and Quilhampton's eager face filled with excitement. 'Whales, sir, they've lowered boats in chase!'

'Very well, Mr Q. I'll be up directly.'

At a more sedate pace Drinkwater followed him on deck. He saw the whales almost immediately, three dark humps, moving slowly through the water towards the Melusine. In the calm sea they left a gentle wake trailing astern of their bluff heads, only a few whirls visible from the effort of their mighty tails. One of them humped its back and seemed to accelerate. A fine jet of steamy spray spouted from its spiracle. They crossed Melusine's stern not one hundred feet away, their backs marked by some form of wart-like growths. From the rail Drinkwater could clearly see the sphinctal contractions of the blow-hole as the mighty creature spouted.

The watch, scattered at the rails and in the lower rigging were silent. There was something profoundly awe-inspiring in the progress of the three great humps, as they moved with a ponderous innocence through the plankton-rich water. But then the boats passed in energetic pursuit and Melusine's people began to cheer. Drinkwater marked Sawyers Junior, pulling the bow oar of Faithful's number two boat. He wore a sleeveless jerkin and a small brimmed hat. In the stern stood the boat-steerer, leaning on the long steering oar, the coloured flag attached to a staff with which they signalled their ship fluttered like an ensign.

Drinkwater also noticed Elijah Pucill sweep past in Faithful's number one boat. There were more than a dozen boats engaged in the pursuit now, their crews pulling at their oar looms until they bent, springing from the water to whip back ready for the next stroke. Already the whalers were swinging their yards, to catch what breeze there was and work up in support of their boats.

'Don't impede the whalers, Mr Hill, let them pass before you trim the yards to follow.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

He looked again at the whales and saw they had disappeared. The boats slowed and Drinkwater watched a few kittiwakes wheel to the south and wondered if they could see the whales. Within a few minutes the boats were under way again, following the kittiwakes. But two boats had veered away at a right angle and Drinkwater noticed with sudden interest that they were from Faithful. He hauled himself up on the rail and, leaning against the mizen backstays, pulled out his Dollond glass.

There was a flurry of activity among the boats to the south. One had struck and its flag was up as the whale began to tow it. The other boats set off in pursuit. Drinkwater swung his glass back towards Sawyers and Pucill. They were no more than eight cables away and Drinkwater could see both men standing up in the bows of their boats while the crews did no more than paddle them steadily forward.

Then there was a faint shout and Drinkwater saw the whale. He saw a harpoon fly and Sawyers's boat steerer throw up the flag. Pucill had dropped his harpoon and jumped back to his oar as Sawyers's boat began to slide forward. A faint cloud of smoke enveloped the harpoon and Drinkwater remembered the bollard and a snaking line. He could see the splash of water from the piggin and then the rushing advance of the whale stopped abruptly and it sounded. Pucill's boat came up alongside Sawyers's and lay on its oars. Through the glass Drinkwater could see Pucill stand up again, both he and Sawyers hefting their lances. They stayed in this position for several minutes, like two sculptures and Drinkwater began to tire of trying to hold the glass steady. He lowered it and rubbed his eye. He was aware now of a cloud of seabirds, gathered as if from nowhere over this spot in the ocean. He could hear their cries and suddenly the whale breached. For a split second he saw its huge, ugly head with its wide, shiny portcullis of a mouth and the splashes of whitened skin beneath the lower lip that curled like a grotesque of a negro's. The lances darted as the boats advanced and there was a splashing of foam and lashing of fins as the head submerged again and the back seemed to roll over. Then the tail emerged, huge, horizontally-fluked and menacing the boats as they back-watered. The crack as it slapped the water sounded like artillery, clearly audible to the watching Melusines. They saw the pale shape of a belly and the brief outline of a fin as the boats closed for the kill. The lances flashed in the sun and the beast seemed to ripple in its death flurry. Then Drinkwater was aware that the sea around the boats was turning red. Mysticetus had given up the ghost.

We passed into open pack ice, Drinkwater wrote, shortly before noon on 13th June 1803, in Latitude 74° 25' North 2° 50' East. We have sighted whales daily and taken many. The masters speak of a good year which pleases me after our previous melancholy expectations. In light winds the watch are much employed in working the ship through the ice. The officers have greatly benefitted from this experience and I have fewer qualms about their abilities than formerly. Mr Q. continues to justify my confidence in him while I find Mr Hill's services as master indispensable. I believe Mr Germaney to be unwell, suffering from some torpor of the spirits. Singleton will say little beyond the fact that he suspects Germaney of suffering from the blue devils, which I conceive to be a piece of nautical conceit upon his part to deceive me as to the real nature of G's complaint.

The people have been exercised at cutlass and small arms drill by Mr Mount and recently, when we had occasion, in the manner of the whale-ships, to moor to a large icefloe, they played a game of football.

There has been a plentiful supply of meat for the table, duck in particular being very fine. Seal and walrus have also been taken. While flensing, the carcases of the whales are frequently attacked by the Greenland Shark, a brown or grey fish some twenty odd feet in length. It is distinguished by a curious appendage from the iris of its eye. It makes good eating.

We have observed some fully developed icebergs. Their shapes are fantastical and almost magical and beggar description. In sunlight their colours range from brilliant white to a blue of…

Drinkwater paused. The strange and awesome sight of his first iceberg had both impressed and disquieted him for some reason that he could not fathom. Then it came to him. That pale ice-cold blue had been the colour of Ellerby's eyes. He shook his head, as though clearing his mind of an unpleasant dream. Ellerby was two hundred and fifty miles to the north-east and could be forgotten. He resumed his journal: …impressive beauty. We have used them as a mark for exercising the guns which delights the people who love to see great lumps of ice flying from their frozen ramparts.

Drinkwater laid down his pen and rubbed his shoulder. Frequent exercise with the foil had undoubtedly eased it, but the cold became penetrating in close promixity to the ice and his shoulder sometimes ached intolerably. Palgrave's decanter beckoned, but he resisted the temptation. Better to divert his mind by a brisk climb to his new-fangled crow's nest. He pulled the greygoe on and stepped out of the cabin. As he came on deck his nostrils quivered to the stimulating effect of the cold air. Swinging himself into the main shrouds he began to ascend the mainmast.

The crow's nest had been built by the carpenter and his mate. It was a deep box, bound with iron and having a trap in its base through which to enter. Inside was a hook for a speaking trumpet and a rest for a long-glass. Turning the seaman on duty out of it from the top gallant mast cross trees, Drinkwater ascended the final few feet and wriggled up inside.

'Nothink unusual, yer honour,' the lookout had reported as they passed in the rigging. Settling himself on the closed trap Drinkwater swept the horizon. He could see open water to the south and a whaler which he recognised as one of the Whitby ships. The drift ice closed to open pack within a mile of them and he counted the whalers still inside the ice within sight of the ship. Reckoning on visibility of some forty miles, he was pleased to identify all his charges and to note that most had boats out among the floes. One ship's boats were engaged in towing a whale, tail first, back to their ship while two vessels were engaged in flensing.

A number of tall, pinnacled bergs could be seen three or four miles away, while one huge castellated monster lay some ten miles off to the north-north-eastward.

Satisfied he lifted the trap with his toe by the rope grommet provided and eased himself down. Nodding to the waiting seaman at the cross trees. 'Very well, Appleyard, up you go again.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' The man scrambled up to the relative warmth of the nest and Drinkwater noted the scantiness of his clothing. He descended to the deck where Bourne, the officer of the watch, saluted him. Drinkwater was warmed by the climb and in a good humour. 'Mr Bourne, I'd be obliged if you and your midshipmen would join me for dinner.'

He went below and sent for the purser. When Mr Pater arrived Drinkwater ordered an issue of additional warm clothing at his own expense to be made to topmen. Then he sent for Mr Mount.

'Sir?' Mount stood rigidly to attention, promptly attentive to Drinkwater's summons.

'Ah, Mr Mount, I wish you to take advantage of every opportunity of taking seal and any bears to fabricate some additional warm clothing. Mr Pater informs me our stocks are barely adequate and I rely upon your talents with a musket to rectify the situation. See Mr Germaney and take a boat this afternoon. The signal for recall will be three guns.'

'Yes, sir, with pleasure.'

'I perceived a few seals basking about two miles to the east.'

'Thank you, sir. I'll take a party and see what we can accomplish.'

Drinkwater watched the hunting party leave. Fitting out the cutter for the expedition as if for a picnic Mount, Bourne, Quilhampton and Frey had been joined at the last minute by Lord Walmsley and Alexander Glencross. Mr Germaney had relieved Bourne of the deck and Mount had ensured the seamen at the oars each took a cutlass as a skillet for butchering the meat. Drinkwater toyed with the idea of watching their progress from the crow's nest but rejected it as a pointless waste of time and advised Germaney to keep a sharp watch for the onset of a fog and fire the recall the moment he thought it possible.

In the still air he heard an occasional pop through the open window of his stern lights as he recorded the air temperature and dipped a thermometer into the sea. Closing the sash frame he sat, blew on his hands and wrote:

Sawyers sends to me that he is confident this will be a good season. The sea is of a rich, greenish hue which he says indicates a plentitude of plankton and krill, tiny forms of life upon which Mysticetus feeds. He states that his men took a Razorback, an inferior species offish which contains little oil and sinks on dying. There is a strange remote beauty about these regions and they seem far from the realities of war. I begin to think my Lord St Vincent too sanguine in his expectations.

Drinkwater snapped the inkwell shut and leaned back in his chair. Five minutes later he was asleep. He was woken by a confused bedlam of shouts that persuaded him they were attacked. He had slept for several hours and was stiff and uncomfortable. The sudden awakening alarmed him to the extent of reaching the door before he heard the halloos and the laughter. Muttering about the confounded hunting party he slumped back into his chair, rubbing his shoulder.

'Pass word for my coxswain!' he bawled at the sentry, listening to the order reverberate forward. Tregembo knocked and entered with the familiarity of a favoured servant. 'Coffee, zur?'

'Aye, and a bath.'

'A bath, zur?'

'Yes, God damn it! A bath, a cold bath of sea-water! You've seen three boats of whale-fishers upset in it and it'll not kill me.'

'Aye, aye, zur.' Tregembo's tone was disapproving.

'And find out what happened to Mr Mount's huntin' party.'

Despite his desire for invigoration the bath was unbelievably cold. But in the flush of blood as he towelled himself and put on the clean under-drawers laid out by Tregembo, he felt a renewal of spirits. What he had not written in his journal but which had taken root in his mind and filled it upon waking in such discomfort, was the growing conviction that Melusine's services in the Arctic were going to be purely formal. The strange beauty of the ice and sea did not blind him to the dangers that a fog or storm could summon up, but the necessity of endangering his ship for such a needless cause, for working his crew hard to maintain their martial valour to no purpose, set a problematical task for their captain.

He drew the clean shirt over his head as his steward brought in the coffee.

'Thank you, Cawkwell, on the table if you please, and pass word to Mr Mount to come and see me.'

'Sir,' whispered Cawkwell, a shadow of a man who seemed in constant awe of everybody. Drinkwater suspected Tregembo of specially selecting Cawkwell as his servant so that his own ascendant position was not undermined.

'I told Mr Mount to wait until you'd had your bath, zur,' he waited until Cawkwell had left the cabin, 'when you was less megrimish.'

Drinkwater looked up. 'Damn you for your insolence, Tregembo,' Tregembo grinned, 'you should try a bath, yourself.' Tregembo sniffed with disapproval and the knock of Mr Mount put an end to the familiarities.

'Enter!'

Mount, wrapped in his great-coat, stepped into the cabin. 'Ah, Mr Mount, what success did you have, eh?'

'A magnificent haul, sir, eleven seals and,' Mount's eyes were gleaming with triumph, 'a polar bear, sir!'

'A polar bear?'

'Yes, sir. Mr Frey discovered him asleep alongside a seal that he had partly eaten. He got the scent of us and made off into the water but, I suppose conceiving himself safe after putting a distance between us, clambered up onto another floe. Quilhampton and I both hit him and he made off, but we called up the boat and I got a second ball into his brain at about sixty paces.'

Drinkwater raised his eyebrows. 'A triumph indeed, Mr Mount, my congratulations.'

'Thank you, sir.'

'Now we will butcher the seals but have a party skin them and scrape the inside of the skins. I asked Mr Germaney to determine whether any of the people were conversant with tanning.'

'Yes, sir. Er, there's one thing, sir.'

'Yes? What is it?'

'We brought back an eskimo, sir.'

'You did what?'

'Brought back an eskimo.'

'God bless my soul!'

After this revelation Drinkwater could no longer resist inspecting the trophies. The eskimo proved to be a young male, who appeared to have broken his arm. He was dressed in skins and had a wind-tanned face. His dark almond eyes were clouded with fear and pain and he held his left arm with his right hand. Mr Singleton was examining him with professional interest.

'A fine specimen of an innuit, Captain, about twenty years of age but with a compound fracture of the left ulna and considerable bruising. I understand he resisted the help of Mount and his party.'

'I see. What do you propose to do with him Mr Singleton? We can hardly turn him loose with his arm in such a state, yet to detain him seems equally unjust. Perhaps his family or huntin' party are not far away.' Drinkwater turned to Mount. 'Did you see any evidence of other eskimos?'

'No, sir. Mr Frey ascended an eminence and searched the horizon but nothing could be seen. He is very lucky, sir, we were some way from the ship and returning when we happened to see him. If he had not moved we would have passed him by'

'And left him to the polar bears, eh?'

'Exactly so, sir.'

Singleton had reached under the man's jerkin and was palpating the stomach. Curiously the eskimo did not seem to mind but began to point to his mouth.

'He's had little to eat, sir, for some time,' Singleton stood back, 'and I doubt whether soap has ever touched him.' Several noses wrinkled in disgust.

'Very well. Take him below and get that arm dressed. Give the poor devil some laudanum, Mr Singleton. As for the rest of you, you may give me a full account of your adventure at dinner.' He turned aft and nearly bumped into little Frey. 'Ah, Mr Frey…'

'Sir?'

'Do you think you could execute a small sketch of our friend?'

'Of course sir.'

'Very good, I thank you.'

The meal itself proved a great success. The trestle table borrowed from the wardroom groaned under the weight of fresh meat, an unusual circumstance of a man-of-war. In an ill-disguised attempt to placate his commander Lord Walmsley had offered Drinkwater two bottles of brandy which the latter did not refuse. The conversation was naturally about the afternoon's adventure and Drinkwater learnt of little Frey's sudden, frightening discovery of the sleeping polar bear which the boy re-told, his eyes alight with wine and the excitement of recollected fear. He heard again how Quilhampton, his musket resting in his wooden hand, had struck the animal in the shoulder and how Mount had established his military superiority by lodging a ball in the bear's skull.

'By comparison Bourne's triumph over the seals was of no account, sir, ain't that so, Bourne?' Mount said teasing his young colleague.

'That is an impertinence, Mount, if I had not had to secure the boat while you all raced in pursuit of quarry I should have downed the beast with a single shot.'

'Pah!' said Mount grinning, 'you should have left the boat to Walmsley or Glencross. I conceive it that you were hanging back from the ferocity of those somnolent seals.'

'Come, sir,' said Bourne with mock affront, 'd'you insinuate that I was frightened of an old bear who ran away at the approach of Mr Frey…'

Drinkwater looked at Frey. The boy coloured scarlet, uncertain how to take this banter from his seniors. Was Bourne implying the bear was scared by his own size or his own courage? Or that polar bears really were timid and his moment of triumph was thereby diminished?

Drinkwater felt for the boy, particularly as Walmsley and Glencross joined the raillery. 'Oh, Mr Bourne, the bear was absolutely terrified of Frey, why I saw him positively roll his eyes in terror at the way Frey hefted his musket. Did you not see that, Glencross?' asked Lord Walmsley mischievously.

'Indeed I did, why I thought he was loading with his mouth and firing with his knees…' There was a roar of laughter from the members of the hunting party who had witnessed the excited midshipman ascend an ice hummock with a Tower musket bigger than himself. He had stumbled over the butt, tripped and fallen headlong over the hummock, discharging the gun almost in the ear of the recumbent bear.

Poor Frey was in no doubt now, as to the purpose of his seniors' intentions. Drinkwater divined something of the boy's wretchedness.

'Come, gentlemen, there is no need to make Mr Frey the butt of your jest…'

There was further laughter, some strangled murmurs of 'Butt… butt… oh, very good, sir… very apt' and eventual restoration of some kind of order.

'Well, Mr Singleton,' said Drinkwater to change the subject and addressing the sober cleric, 'what d'you make of our eskimo friend?'

'He is named Meetuck, sir and is clearly frightened of white men, although he seems to have reconciled himself to us after he was offered meat…'

'Which he ate raw, sir,' put in Frey eagerly.

''Pon my soul, Mr Frey, raw, eh? Pray continue, Mr Singleton.'

'He claims to come from a place called Nagtoralik, meaning a place with eagles, though this may mean nothing as a location as we understand it, for these people are nomadic and follow their food sources. He says…'

'Pardon my interruption, Mr Singleton but do I understand that you converse with him?'

Singleton smiled his rare, dark smile. 'Well not converse, sir, but there are words that I comprehend which, mixed with gesture, mime and some of Mr Frey's quick drawings, enabled us to learn that he had found a putulik, a place with a hole in the ice through which he was presumably catching fish when he was attacked by a bear. He made his escape but in doing so fell and injured himself, breaking his arm. I think that scuppers the arguments of Mr Frey's persecutors, sir, that even an experienced hunter may fall in such terrain and also that the polar bear is capable of great ferocity.'

'Indeed, Mr Singleton, I believe it does,' replied Drinkwater drily. Cawkwell drew the cloth in his silent ghost-like way and the decanters began to circulate.

'Tell us, Mr Singleton how you came to learn eskimo,' asked Mount, suddenly serious in the silence following the loyal toast.

Singleton leaned forward with something of the proselytiser, and the midshipmen groaned inaudibly, but sat quiet, gulping their brandy avidly.

'The Scandinavians were the first Europeans to make contact with the coast of Greenland sometime in the tenth century. Their settlements lasted for many years before being destroyed by the eskimos in the middle of the fourteenth century. When the Englishman John Davis rediscovered the coast in 1585 he found only eskimos. Davis,' Singleton turned his gaze on the midshipmen with a pedagogic air, 'gave his name to the strait between Greenland and North America… The Danish Lutheran Hans Egede was able to study the innuit tongue before embarking with his family and some forty other souls to establish a permanent colony on the West Coast of Greenland. When he returned to Copenhagen on the death of his wife he wrote a book about his work with the eskimos among whom he preached and taught for some fifteen years. His son Povel remained in Greenland and completed a translation of Our Lord's Testament, a catechism and a prayer book in eskimo. Povel Egede died in Copenhagen in '89 and I studied there under one of his assistants.' Singleton paused again and this time it was Drinkwater upon whose face his gaze fixed.

'I refused to leave during the late hostilities and was in the city when Lord Nelson bombarded it.'

'That,' replied Drinkwater meeting Singleton's eyes, 'must have been an interesting experience.'

'Indeed, Captain Drinkwater, it persuaded me that no useful purpose can be served by armed force.'

A sense of affront stiffened the relaxing diners. To a man their eyes watched Drinkwater to see what reply their commander would make to this insult to their profession. From little Frey, ablaze with brandy and bravado; the arrogant insensitivity of Walmsley and Glencross and the puzzlement of Mr Quilhampton, to the testy irritation of a silent Mr Hill and the colouring anger of Mr Mount, the table seethed with a sudden unanimous indignation. Drinkwater smiled inwardly and looked at his first lieutenant. Mr Germaney had said not a word throughout the entire meal, declined the brandy and merely toyed with his food.

'That, Mr Singleton, is an interesting and contentious point. For my own part, and were the world as perfect as perhaps its maker intended, I should like nothing better than to agree with you. But since the French do not seem to be of your opinion the matter seems likely to remain one for academic debate, eh? Well, Mr Germaney, what do you think of Mr Singleton's proposition?'

The first lieutenant seemed at first not to have heard Drinkwater. Hill's nudge was far from surreptitious and Germaney surfaced unsure of what was required of him.

'I… er, I have no great opinion on the matter, sir,' he said hurriedly, hoping the reply sufficient. Remarking the enormity of Germaney's abstraction with some interest Drinkwater turned to the bristling marine officer.

'Mr Mount?'

'Singleton's proposition is preposterous, sir. The Bible is full of allusions to the use of violence, Christ's own eviction of the moneylenders from the Temple notwithstanding. Had he argued the wisdom of bombarding a civilian population I might have had some sympathy with his argument for it is precisely to preserve our homes that we serve here, but the application of force is far from useless…'

'But might it not become an end, rather than a means, Mr Mount?' asked Singleton, 'and therefore to be discouraged lest its use be undertaken for the wrong motives.'

'Well a man does not stop taking a little wine in case he becomes roaring drunk and commits some felonious act, does he?'

'Perhaps he should, Mr Mount,' said Singleton icily, raising a glass of water to his lips.

'I don't understand you, Mr Singleton,' said Hill at last. 'I can see you may argue that if Cain had never slain Abel the world might have been a better place but given that it is not paradise, do you advocate that we simply lie down and invite our enemies to trample over us?'

'To turn the other cheek and beat our swords into ploughshares?' added Mount incredulously.

'Why not?' asked Singleton with impressive simplicity. There was a stunned silence while they assimilated the preposterous nature of this suggestion. Then the table erupted as the officers leaned forward with their own reasons for the impossibility of such a course of action. The candle flames guttered under the discharge of air from several mouths. In the ensuing babel Drinkwater heard such expressions as 'march unchecked on London… dishonour our women… destroy our institutions… rape… loot… national honour…'

He allowed the reaction to continue for some seconds before banging sharply on the table.

'Gentlemen, please!' They subsided into silence. 'Gentlemen, you must have some regard for Mr Singleton's cloth. Preposterous as his ideas sound to you, your own conversations have disturbed him these past weeks. He doubtless finds equally odd your own assertions that you will "thrash Johnny Crapaud", "cut the throats of every damned frog" you encounter not to mention "flog any man that transgresses the Articles of War or the common usages of the service". Yet you appear devout enough when Divine Service is read, an act which Mr Singleton may regard as something close to hypocrisy… eh?' He looked round at them, his eyes twinkling as he encountered mystification or downright astonishment.

'Now, if you ignore abstract considerations and deal with the pragmatic you will see that we have all chosen professions which require zeal. In Mr Singleton's case religious zeal and in your case, gentlemen, the professional zeal of strict adherence to duty. Zeal is not something that admits of much prevarication or equivocation and since argument and debate might be said to be synonyms for quibbling, your two positions are quite irreconcilable. And if two opposing propositions are irreconcilable I would suggest the arguing of them a fatuous waste of time.'

Drinkwater finished his speech with his eyes on Singleton. The man appeared disappointed, as though expecting unreserved support from Drinkwater. He felt slightly guilty towards Singleton, as though owing him some explanation.

'I believe in providence, Mr Singleton, which you might interpret as God's will. To me it incorporates all the forces that you theologists claim as evoked by "God" whilst satisfactorily explaining those you do not. It is a creed much favoured by sea-officers.'

'Then you do not believe in God, Captain Drinkwater,' pronounced Singleton dolefully, 'and the power of your intellect prevents you from spiritual conversion.'

Drinkwater inclined his head. 'Perhaps.'

'Then I find that a matter of the profoundest sadness, sir,' Singleton replied quietly. The silence in the cabin was touching; even Walmsley and Glencross had ceased to wriggle, though their condition was more attributable to the brandy they had consumed than interest in polemics.

'So do I, Mr Singleton, so do I. But the moment when a man has to say whether God, as you theologists conceive him, exists or not is a profound one, not to be taken lightly. We cannot conceive of any form of existence that does not entail physical entity, witness your own archangels. Indeed even a devout man may imagine eternal life as some sort of transmigration of our corporeal selves during which all disabilities, uglinesses, warts and ill-disposed temperaments disappear. This is surely understandable, though not much above the primitive, something which our eskimo friend would comprehend.

'Now I ask you, as rational beings living in an age of scientific discovery and more particularly being seamen observing the varied phenomena of atmosphereology can you convince me of the whereabouts of these masses of corporeal souls? Of course not…'

'You deny the Resurrection, sir!'

Drinkwater shrugged. 'I have seen too much of death and too little of resurrection to place much faith in it applying to common seamen like ourselves.'

'But you are without faith!' Singleton cried.

'Not at all, sir!' Drinkwater refilled his glass. 'Belief in atheism surrenders everything too much to hazard. I cannot believe that. I see only purpose in all things, a purpose that is made evident by science and manifests itself in the divine working of providence. As for the corporeal self why Quilhampton, Hill and I hold together like a trio of doubled frigates. If the enemy gets a further shot at our carcases there will likely be little left to refurbish for the life hereafter.'

The facetious jest raised a little laughter round the table and revealed that all three midshipmen were asleep.

'I agree with the Captain,' said Germaney suddenly. 'I recollect something Herrick wrote. Er,' he thought for a moment and then sat up and quoted: '"Putrefaction is the end, of all that nature doth intend." There is great truth in that remark, great truth…'

Drinkwater looked sharply at his first lieutenant. Germaney's silence had seemed as uncharacteristic as his sobriety and now this sudden quotation seemed to be significant. It appeared that Singleton considered it so, for he seemed disinclined to pursue the discussion and Drinkwater himself fell silent. Mount rose and thanked him for his hospitality and the hint was taken up by the others. As the chairs scraped back the midshipmen awoke and guiltily made their apologies. Drinkwater waved them indulgently aside.

As he watched them leave the cabin he called Singleton back. 'A moment, Mr Singleton, if you please.'

Drinkwater blew out the candles that had illuminated the table. The cabin was thrown into penumbral gloom from the midnight daylight of the Arctic summer.

'You must not think that I wish to ridicule your calling. In my convalescence I met a priest of your persuasion possessed of the most enormous spiritual arrogance. I found it most distasteful. It is not that I disbelieve, it is simply that I cannot believe as you do. After the birth of my children I had the curious natural feeling that I had outlived my usefulness. My liberal ideals were in conflict with this, but I could not deny the emotion. It seemed that all thereafter was merely vanity.'

Singleton coughed awkwardly. 'Sir, I…'

'Do not trouble yourself on my account, Mr Singleton, I beg you. I hear that Leek is a faithful convert and protests not only the existence of God but can vouch for his very appearance.'

'Leek was very close to death by drowning, sir, perhaps a little of the great mystery was unfolded to him.' Singleton was deadly serious.

'But the intervention of science prevented it: your knowledge, Mr Singleton.'

'Now you do ridicule me.'

Drinkwater laughed. 'Not at all. Perhaps we are, as you said earlier, too well-informed for our own good, as it says in the Bible, "unless ye be as little children…"'

'That is perhaps the wisest thing you have said, sir,' Singleton at last smiled back.

'Touché. And good night to you.'

'Good night, sir.'

Drinkwater went on deck. Mr Rispin had the watch and pointed out the closer drift ice and identified the whalers in sight. There was scarcely a breath of wind and Melusine lay upon a sea that only moved slightly from the ground swell. Rispin's unconfident, fussy manner irritated Drinkwater until he reflected that he had been particularly lugubrious this evening and dominated the conversation. Well, damn it, it was a captain's privilege to talk nonsense.

Lieutenant Germaney sat in his hutch of a cabin contemplating the bundle of scented paper tied with a blue ribbon. After a while he opened the lantern and removed the candle tray. He began to burn the letters, a little pile of ash mounting up and spilling onto the deck.

When he had completed his task he turned to his cot and lifted the lid of the walnut case that lay upon it. Taking out one of the pair of pistols it contained, he checked its priming. Turning again to the candle he carefully replaced the tray inside the lantern and closed it, returning the thing to its hook in the deck-head.

Reseating himself he lifted the pistol, placed its muzzle in his mouth. For a moment he sat quite still then, with the cold steel barrel knocking his teeth he said, 'Putrefaction!'

And pulled the trigger.

Chapter Eight Balaena Mysticetus

'Why in God's name was I not told of this?'

'The confidentiality which exists between a patient and his physician…'

'God's bones, Singleton, I will not bandy words with you. The man should have been on the sick book, along with the others that have lues and clap.' Drinkwater swore again in self reproach and added, 'I remarked some morbid humour in him.'

'I am not the ship's surgeon, Captain Drinkwater, a fact which you seem to have lost sight of…'

'Have a care, sir, have a care!' Both men glared angrily at each other across the cabin table. At last Singleton said, 'It seems we have adopted irreconcilable positions which, by your own account are a waste of time trying to harmonise.' The ghost of a smile crossed Singleton's dark features. Drinkwater sighed as the tension ebbed. He gestured to a chair and both men sat, thinking of the broken body of Lieutenant Francis Germaney lying on its cot. Melusine lay becalmed, rolling easily in a growing swell among the loose drift ice. On deck the watch fended off the larger floes while the sun shone brilliantly, dancing in coruscating glory from several fantastically shaped bergs to the north. Within the cabin the gloom of death hung like a stink.

'How long will he live?'

'Not very long. The condylar process of the left mandible is shattered, the squamous part of the temporal bone is severely damaged and there is extensive haemorrhaging from the ascending pharyngeal artery. How the internal carotid and the associated veins were not ruptured I do not know but a portion of the left lower lobe of the cortex is penetrated by pieces of bone.'

Drinkwater sighed. 'I marked some preoccupation in him from our first acquaintance, but I never guessed its origin,' he said at last. 'Might you have achieved a cure?'

Singleton shrugged. 'I believed that I might have achieved a clinical cure, he was receiving intra-urethral injections of caustic alkali and a solution of ammoniated mercury with opium. His progress was encouraging but I fear that his humour was morbid and the balance of his mind affected. He confided in me that he was affianced; I think it was this that drove him to such an extremity as to attempt his own life.'

Drinkwater shuddered, feeling a sudden guilt for his unsympathetic attitude to Germaney. 'Poor devil,' he said, adding 'you have him under sedation?'

Singleton nodded, 'Laudanum, sir.'

'Very well. And what of our other lost cause, Macpherson?'

'He will not last the week either.'

After Singleton had left the cabin Drinkwater sat for some minutes recollecting the numbers of men he had seen die. Of those to whom he had been close he remembered Madoc Griffiths, Master and Commander of the brig Hellebore who had died on the quarterdeck of a French frigate in the Red Sea; Blackmore, the elderly sailing master of the frigate Cyclops worn out by the cares and ill usage of the service. Major Brown of the Lifeguards had been executed as a spy and hung on a gibbet above the battery at Kijkduin as a warning to the British cutters blockading the Texel. More recently he thought of Mason, master's mate of the bomb vessel Virago who had died after the surgeon had failed to extract a splinter, of Easton, Virago's sailing master, who had fallen at Copenhagen during a supposed 'truce'. And Matchett who had died in his arms. Now Germaney, a colleague who might, in time, have been a friend.

A sudden world-weariness overcame him and he was filled with a poignant longing to return home. To lie with Elizabeth would be bliss, to angle for minnows in the Tilbrook with his children charming beyond all reason.

But it was impossible. All about him Melusine, with her manifold responsibilities, creaked and groaned as the swell rolled her easily and the rudder bumped gently. He suddenly needed the refreshment of occupation and stood up. Flinging on his greygoe he went on deck.

A light breeze had sprung up from the westward and he received Bourne's report with sudden interest. Most of the whalers were flensing their catches, rolling the great carcases over as the masthead tackles lifted strips of pale blubber from the dead whales whose corpses were further despoiled by scores of Greenland sharks. Flocks of screaming and hungry gulls filled the air alongside each of the whalers and only one had her boats out in search of further prey.

'Very well, Mr Bourne, be so kind as to rig out the gig immediately. I shall require a day's provisions and, tell Mr Pater, two kegs of rum, a breaker of water well wrapped in canvas. One of the young gentlemen may accompany me and Mr Quilhampton is to command the boat. They may bring muskets. You will command in my absence.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater watched Bourne react to this news by swallowing hard.

He turned away to pace the quarterdeck while the boat was being prepared. A day out of the ship would do him good. He had a notion to cruise towards the Faithful or the Narwhal and renew his acquaintance with Sawyers or Harvey. The expedition promised well and already he felt less oppressed.

It was so very easy to forget Germaney dying in his cot. The wind steadied at a light and invigorating breeze which set the green sea dancing in the sunlight. The ice shone with quite remarkable colours which little Frey identified as varying tints of violet, cerulean blue and viridian. The larger bergs towered over the gig in wonderful minarets, towers and spires, appearing like the fantastic palaces of fairy folk and even the edges of the ice floes were eroded in their melting by the warmer sea into picturesque overhangs and strange shapes that changed in their suggestion of something else as the boat swept past.

Somehow Drinkwater had imagined the Arctic as a vast area of icy desert and the proliferation and variety of the fauna astonished him. Quilhampton suggested taking potshots at every seal they saw but Drinkwater forbade it, preferring to encourage Mr Frey's talents with his pencil. It seemed there was scarcely a floe that did not possess at least one seal. They saw several walruses while the air was filled with gulls, ivory gulls, burgomaster gulls, the sabre winged fulmar petrels and the pretty little kittiwakes with their chevron-winged young. The rapid wing beats of the auks as they lifted hurriedly from the boat's bow seemed ludicrous until they spotted a pair swimming beneath the water. The razorbills raced after their invisible prey with the agility of tiny dolphins.

Under her lugsail the gig raced across the water, Quilhampton's ingenious wooden hand on the tiller impervious to the cold.

'She goes well, Mr Q.'

'Aye, sir, but not as fast as the Edinburgh Mail,' Mr Q gazed dreamily to windward his thoughts far from the natural wonders surrounding him and filled only with the remembered image of Catriona MacEwan.

Shooting between two ice floes they came upon the Faithful in the very act of lowering after a whale. Captain Sawyers hailed them and Drinkwater stood up in the boat to show himself.

'I give you God's love, Captain, follow us by all means but I beseech thee to lower thy sail or the fish will see it and sound,' the Quaker called from his quarterdeck through a trumpet. 'Thou seest now the wonders of God, Captain…' Drinkwater recollected their valedictory remarks in Bressay Sound and waved acknowledgement.

'Douse the sail, Mr Q, let us warm the hands at the oars and, Tregembo, do you show these whale-men how they are not the only seamen who can pull a boat.'

'Aye, zur.'

Melusine's gig took station astern of Faithful's Number One boat with the redoubtable Elijah Pucill at her bow oar. The gig's crew did their best, but their boat was heavier and it was not long before they were overtaken by young Sawyers and then left astern as a third boat from the whaler, her crew grinning at the out-paced naval officers as they sat glumly regarding the sterns of the racing whale-boats.

There were two spare oars in the boat and Drinkwater touched Quilhampton's arm and nodded at them. Quilhampton took the hint.

'Mr Frey, do you ship an oar and lay your back into it eh? Better than looking so damned chilly,' he added with rasping kindness. The men lost stroke as Frey shipped an oar forward, but the boat was soon under way again and began to close upon the whalers.

'Come lads, pull there! We gain on them!' There were grins in the boat but Drinkwater, who had been studying events ahead cooled them.

'I fear, Mr Q, that you are not gaining. The others have stopped. I suspect the whale has sounded… there, see that flock of birds, the gulls that hover above the boats…'

'Oars!' ordered Quilhampton and the blades came up horizontally. The men panted over their looms, their breath cloudy and their faces flushed with effort. The boat lost way and they lay about half a cable from the whale-boats.

Carefully Drinkwater stood as Quilhampton ordered the oars across the boat.

'Issue a tot of grog, Mr Q,' said Drinkwater without taking his eyes from the patch of swirling water that lay between the whale-boats. In each of them the harpooners were up in their bows, weapons at the ready, while at the stern each boat-steerer seemed coiled over his steering oar. Drinkwater was aware of a fierce expectancy about the scene and while in his own boat a mood of mild levity accompanied the circulation of the beaker, the whale-boat crews were tense with the expectation of a sudden order.

Just ahead of them the Faithful's third boat lay, with Pucill's slightly broader on the starboard bow and Sawyers's to larboard.

Suddenly it seemed to Drinkwater that the circling gulls ceased their aimless fluttering. He noted some arm movements in the boat ahead, then it began to backwater fast. The gulls were suddenly overhead, screaming and mewing.

'Give way, helm hard a-starboard!'

Even as he shouted the instruction it seemed the sea not ten yards away disappeared and was replaced by the surfacing leviathan. The great jaw with its livid lower lip covered by strange growths seemed to tower over them. Then the blue-black expanse of the creature's back rolled into view as it spouted, covering them with a warm, foetid-smelling mist. The oar looms bent as the men pulled the boat clear and Quilhampton held the tiller over to bring the gig round onto a course parallel with that of the whale.

As the sea subsided round the breaching monster they caught a glimpse of its huge tail just breaking the surface. From somewhere Pucill's boat appeared and they saw the other two beyond the cetacean. The whale did not seem to have taken alarm and, pulling steadily, they managed to keep pace as Pucill raced past them. Drinkwater saw the speksioneer raise his harpoon as his boat drew level with the whale's hump and it spouted again.

The weapon struck the whale and for a second the monster seemed not to have felt it. Then it increased speed. Drinkwater could see the harpoon line snaking round the loggerhead and the faint wisp of smoke from the burning wood as Pucill paid it out. But the whale began to tow Pucill's boat. Already it was leaving Melusine's gig behind and its flag was up to signal to the Faithful and the other boats on the far side of the whale that he was fast to a fish.

Then mysticetus lifted his mighty tail and sounded again. Pucill paid out line and Drinkwater judged the whale's dive to be almost vertical, as though the great animal sought safety in depth. Pucill's boat ceased its forward rush and the others, including the gig closed on him. Drinkwater saw frantic signals being made and Sawyers's boat ran alongside Pucill's to pass him more line. The speksioneer's boat began to move forward again, indicating the whale had levelled off and was swimming horizontally. Both the speksioneer's and the mate's boats were now in tandem, Sawyers's astern of Pucill's and Drinkwater bade Quilhampton follow as the third of Faithful's boats was also doing.

Although they had no real part in the chase it seemed to every man in the gig that it was now a matter not only of honour but of intense interest to keep up with the frightened and wounded whale. But it was back-breaking work and soon clearly a vain effort, for the towed boats swung north and headed inexorably for the ice edge where a large floe blocked their passage.

They could hear faint shouts. 'Cut! Cut!' and 'Give her the boat, Elijah! Give her the boat!' There was a scrambling of bodies from the speksioneer's boat into that of the young mate then the latter was cut and free and swung aside. Pucill's boat was smashed against the edge of the floe under which the whale had passed yet the two remaining boats seemed to disregard this unhappy circumstance. Their courses diverging, they each headed for opposite extremities of the floe.

'I think, Mr Q, that it is time we set our sail again, I believe the wind to have strengthened.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Taking the nearer gap in the ice Quilhampton gave chase the instant the sail was sheeted home. Both the remaining whale-boats had hoisted flags and from occasional glimpses of these over the lower floes they were able to keep in touch. However it was soon apparent that the freshening of the wind was now to their advantage and they made gains on the nearer whale-boat as they wove between the ice. It was an exhilarating experience, for in the narrow leads the water was smooth yet the wind was strong as it blew over the flatter floes or funnelled violently between those with steeper sides. It seemed the whale was working to leeward. Unaware of the dangers of unseen underwater ledges of ice they were fortunate to escape with only a slight scraping of the boat as they rounded a small promontory of rotten ice from which half a dozen surprised seals plopped hurriedly into the sea, surfacing alongside to peer curiously at the passing gig-Then, quite suddenly they came upon the death throes of the whale. Sawyers's boat was already alongside as the beast rolled and thrashed with its huge flukes. They let fly the sheets and watched as the unbarbed lances were driven into the fish again and again in an attempt to strike its heart. After a few minutes of agony it seemed to lie still and Quilhampton pointed to the approach of the second boat. Of the wrecked boat there was no sign, though the drag it had imposed upon the whale had clearly exhausted it. There was suddenly a boiling of the sea and a noise like gunfire. The whale's flukes struck the surface of the water with an explosive smack several times and then, as Sawyers continued to probe for its life, it twisted over and brought those huge flukes down upon the stern of its tormentor's boat. The Melusines watched in stupefied horror as the boat's bow flew into the air and her crew tumbled out and splashed into the sea.

But leviathan was dead. His heart had burst from the deadly incisions of Sawyers's lance and the muscle-rending effort of his dying act. The open water between the floes was red with its blood.

'Get that sail down, Tregembo! Give way and pick those men out of the water. Mr Frey, have the rum ready, the poor devils are going to need it.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'I thank thee for thy assistance, Friend.' Captain Sawyers raised his glass and Drinkwater savoured the richness of the Quaker's excellent port. A bogie stove in Faithful's cabin burned cheerfully and Drinkwater felt warmed within and without. There remained only the ache in his neck and shoulder which he had come almost to disregard now. The sodden whale-boat's crew had been rolled in hot blankets and seemed little the worse for their experience, though Drinkwater had been chilled to the very marrow from a partial wetting in getting the hapless seamen out of the water. He remarked upon this to Sawyers.

'Aye, 'tis often to be wondered at. We have found men die of the cold long after being chafed with spirits and warmed with blankets. But the over-setting of a boat, whilst not common, is not unusual. Whalers are naturally hardy and wear many woollen undergarments, also the nature of their trade and the almost natural expectation of mishap, leads them to suffer less shock from the experience. These factors and a prompt rescue, Friend, I believe has preserved the life of many an immersed whale-man.'

'It was fortunate the fish turned down-wind or we could not have followed with such speed.'

'Aye, 'tis true that mysticetus will commonly run to windward but he sensed dense ice in that direction and from the exertions necessary to his escape had, perforce, to turn towards open water where he might breathe. Also friend, the wind freshened, which reminds me that if it backs another point or two thou shoulds't expect a gale of wind. For your assistance in rescuing my men I thank you as I do also for thy assistance in towing the fish alongside; there cannot be many who command King's ships who engage in such practices.' Sawyers smiled wryly.

Drinkwater tossed off his glass and picked up his hat. He grinned at the older man. 'The advantages of being a Tarpaulin officer, Captain, are better employed in the Arctic than in Whitehall.'

They shook hands and Drinkwater took his departure. Scrambling down the Faithful's easy tumble-home he was aware that the cutting-in of the whale had already begun. Undeterred by his ducking, Elijah Pucill was already wielding his flensing iron as the try-tackles began to strip the blanket-piece from the carcase.

'By God, sir,' remarked Quilhampton as he settled himself in the stern sheets of the gig, 'they don't work Tom Cox's traverse aboard there.'[3]

'Indeed not, Mr Q.'

'The ship bore east-nor'-east from the whaler's mizen top, sir, about two leagues distant.'

'Very well, Mr Q, carry on.'

'Wind's freshening all the time, Mr Hill.'

'And backing Mr Gorton, wouldn't you say?'

'Aye, and inclined to be a trifle warmer I think, not that there's much comfort to be derived from that.'

'Ah, but what should you deduce from that observation, Mr Gorton?'

Gorton frowned and shook his head.

'Fog, Mr Gorton, fog and a whole gale before the day is out or you may rate me a Dutchman. You had better inform Mr Bourne and then hoist yourself aloft and see if you can spot the captain's boat.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bourne came on deck, anxiety plain on his face. 'Have you news of the Captain, Mr Hill?'

'No, Mr Bourne, but Gorton's going aloft with a glass.'

Bourne looked aloft. Melusine lay under her spanker and fore-topmast staysail, her reefed maintopsail aback. Hove-to she drifted slowly to leeward, ready to fill her topsail and work to windward. Bourne looked to starboard. The nearest ice lay a league under the sloop's lee.

'D'you know the bearing of the nearest whaler, Mr Hill?'

'Faithful's west-sou'-west with the Narwhal and Truelove further to the west among heavier ice.'

'Very well. Fill the main tops'l, we'll work the ship towards the ice to windward. That will be…' he looked at the compass.

'West-sou'-west,' offered Hill.

'Very well.' Bourne clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the windward rail. Standing at the larboard hance by Captain Palgrave's fussy brass carronade now covered in oiled canvas, Lieutenant Bourne felt terribly lonely. He began to worry over the rising wind while Hill had the watch brace the mainyards round. The last few days had demonstrated the dangers of the ice floes to a ship of Melusine's light build. The speed with which the ice moved had amazed them and all their skill had been needed to manoeuvre the ship clear of the danger. Captain Drinkwater's written orders to his watch-keeping officers had been specific: At all costs close proximity with the ice is to be avoided and offing is to be made even at the prospect of losing contact with the whalers. To move Melusine to safety now meant that the captain might be unable to relocate them and with fog coming on there was no longer the refuge contained in Captain Drinkwater's order book: If in any doubt whatsoever, do not hesitate to inform me.

In a moment of angry uncertainty Bourne damned Germaney for his insanity. Then worry reasserted itself, worming in the pit of his stomach like some huge parasite. He looked again and looked in vain for the ice edge. Already a white fog was swirling towards them. He ran forward and lifted the speaking trumpet.

'Masthead there!'

'Sir?' Gorton leaned from the crow's nest.

'D'you see anything of the gig?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'God damn and blast it!' He thought for a moment longer and then made up his mind, hoping that Captain Drinkwater had remained safe aboard one of the whalers.

'Mr Hill! Put the ship about, course south, clear of this damned ice.'

Like the good sailing master he was, Hill obeyed the order of the young commissioned officer and brought Melusine onto the starboard tack. Then he crossed the deck and addressed Bourne.

'Mr Bourne, if the captain's adrift in this fog he'll lose the ship. My advice is to give him minute guns and heave to again after you've run a league to the southward.'

Bourne looked at the older man and Hill saw the relief plain in his eyes.

'Very well, Mr Hill, will you see to it.'

Already the white wraiths curled across the deck and the next instant every rope began to drip moisture and the damp chill of a dense fog isolated the ship.

Chapter Nine The Mercy of God

It was intuition that told Drinkwater a change in the weather was imminent, intuition and a nervous awareness of altering circumstances. He was slowly awakened to a growing ache in his neck and a dimming of the brilliance of the ice which combined with a softening of its shadows. The day lost its colour and the atmosphere began to feel oddly hostile. The birds were landing on the sea and were airborne in fewer numbers.

He touched Quilhampton's arm as the boat ran between two ice floes some seven or eight feet tall. The lead through which they were running was some hundred yards across, with a patch of open sea visible ahead of them from which, when they reached it, they hoped to catch sight of Melusine. Quilhampton turned. 'Sir?'

'Fog, Mr Q, fog and wind,' he said in a low voice.

Their eyes met and Quilhampton replied, 'Pray God we make the ship, sir.'

'Amen to that, Mr Q.'

Quilhampton, who had been dreaming again of Catriona, pulled himself together and concentrated on working the gig even faster through the lead to reach the open water before the fog closed over them.

Drinkwater ordered Frey to pass another issue of rum to the men who sat shivering in the bottom of the boat. The warmth had gone out of the sun and the approaching fog made the air damp. He heard Quilhampton swear and looked up. The lead between the floes was narrowing as they spun slowly in the wind. He was conscious of a strong and unpleasant smell from the algae on the closing ice.

'Get the oars to work, Tregembo!' Drinkwater snapped and the men, looking round and grasping the situation at a glance, were quick to obey. Already the lead had diminished by half.

'Pull, damn you!'

The boat headed for the narrowing gap with perhaps a cable to run before reaching the open water. The men grunted with effort as they tugged the gig forwards while in the stern Drinkwater and Quilhampton watched anxiously. The gap ahead was down to twenty yards. The sail flapped uselessly as the wind died in the lee of the converging ice. Drinkwater looked anxiously on either side of them, seeking some ledge on the ice upon which they could scramble when the floes ground together and crushed the boat like an eggshell. But both floes were in an advanced state of melting, their waterlines eroded, their surfaces overhanging in an exaggerated fashion. In a minute or two the oars would be useless as there would be insufficient room to extend them either side of the boat. He wished he had a steering oar with which to give the boat a little more chance.

'Keep pulling, men, then trail oars as soon as you feel the blades touch the ice. Mr Frey, get that damned mast down.' He tried to keep his voice level but apprehension and a sudden bitter chill from the proximity of the ice made it shake. The floes had almost met overhead so that they pulled in a partial tunnel. Then there was a crash astern. Drinkwater looked round. The lead had closed behind them and a wave of water was rushing towards the gig's transom.

'Pull!' he shouted, turning forward to urge the men, but as he did so he saw them leaning backwards, the looms of their oars sweeping over their heads as they allowed them to trail. They tensed for the impact of the ice when the wave hit them. The boat was thrust abruptly forward as the ice met overhead. Lumps of it dropped into the boat and there were muttered curses as the midshipman, helped now by idle oarsmen got the mast into the boat not an instant too soon.

Suddenly they were in open water and, a moment later in a dense fog.

'Did anyone see the ship?' Drinkwater asked sharply.

There was a negative muttering.

'We have exchanged the frying pan for the fire, Mr Q.'

'Aye, sir.' Quilhampton sat glumly. The heart-thumping excitement of the race against the closure of the ice had had at least the advantage of swift resolution. Catriona might one day learn he had died crushed in Arctic ice and it seemed to him a preferable death to freezing and starving in an open boat. He was about to ask how long Captain Drinkwater thought they could survive when he saw the men exchange glances and Midshipman Frey looked aft, his face pale with anxiety. He pulled himself together. He was in command of the boat, damn it, despite the fact that Melusine's captain sat beside him.

'Permission to re-ship the mast, sir.'

Drinkwater nodded. He looked astern. They were well clear of the ice and already feeling the effect of the wind. 'Aye, but do not hoist the sail.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Quilhampton nodded at the junior midshipman. 'Step that mast forrard!'

There was a scrambling and a knocking as the stumpy spar with its iron traveller and single halliard was relocated in the hole in the thwart. The men assisted willingly, glad of something to do. When it was done they subsided onto the thwarts and again looked aft.

'Have all the oars secured inboard and two watches told off. You will take one and I the other. Tregembo pick the hands in Mr Quilhampton's watch and Mr Frey you will pick those in mine. I will take the tiller, Mr Q, whilst you make an issue of grog and biscuit. We will then set the watches and heave the gig to. At regular intervals the bowman will holloa and listen for the echo of his voice. If he hears it we may reasonably expect that ice is close but from what we saw there is little ice to leeward, though some may drift that way at a greater speed than ourselves. In this case we have only to put up the helm and run away from it while its protection to windward will reduce the violence of the sea. The watch below will huddle together to get what warmth it can. Captain Sawyers was only just relating many whaleboat crews have survived such circumstances so there is little to be alarmed about.'

The last sentence was a bare-faced lie, but it had its effect in cheering the men and they went about their tasks with a show of willingness.

With greater misgivings and the pain in his shoulder nagging at him appallingly, Drinkwater sat hunched in the stern-sheets.

Singleton looked at the blade of the catling as the loblolly boy held the lantern close. There was no trace of mist upon it. Francis Germaney had breathed his last.

'One for the sail-maker, eh sir?' The loblolly boy's grin was wolfish. It was always good to bury an officer, especially one who had the sense to blow his brains out. Or make a mess of it, the man thought, thereby casting doubts on whether he had them in the first place.

Singleton looked coldly at Skeete who stared back.

'I'll plug his arse and lay him out for the sail-maker, sir.'

'Be silent, Skeete, you blackguard!' snapped Singleton impatiently, rising and for the hundredth time cracking his head on the deckbeam above. He left the first lieutenant's cabin hurriedly to the accompaniment of Skeete's diabolical laughter. A loblolly 'boy' of some twenty years experience and some fifty years of age, Skeete was enjoying himself. To the added pleasure of witnessing the demise of an officer, a circumstance which in Skeete's opinion was all too rare an occurrence, he derived a degree of satisfaction from the office he was about to perform upon such an august corpse as that of Lieutenant Francis Germaney, Royal Navy. Further, since ridding themselves of the drunken oppression of Macpherson, Skeete and his mate had enjoyed an autonomy previously unknown to them. Mr Singleton's remarkable ability in reviving Leek had impressed the surgeon's assistants less than the rest of the crew. To Skeete and his mate, Singleton was not a proper ship's officer and, being a damned parson with pronounced views upon flogging and the Articles of War, could be insulted with a fair degree of impunity. Skeete could not remember enjoying himself so much since he last visited Diamond Lil's at Portsmouth Point.

In search of Drinkwater Singleton arrived on deck to be knocked to his knees by a seaman jumping clear as Number Nine gun fired and recoiled.

'Mind you f… Oh, beg pardon, sir,' the man grinned sheepishly and helped the surgeon to his feet. Somewhat shaken and uncertain as to the cause of the noise and apparent confusion as the gun crew reloaded and hauled up the piece, Singleton made his way aft.

'Is something the matter, Mr Hill?' he asked the master.

'Bosun's mate, take that man's name and tell him I'll give him a check shirt at the gangway the next time he forgets to swab his gun… matter, Mr Singleton? Merely that there is a fog and the captain has yet to return.'

'Fog?' Singleton turned and noticed the shroud that covered the ship for the first time. He looked sharply at Hill. 'You mean that the captain's lost in this fog? In that little boat?'

'So it would seem, Mr Singleton. And the little boat is his gig… now if you will excuse me… Mackman, you Godforsaken whoreson, coil that fall the other way, God damn you bloody landsmen!'

Singleton pressed aft aware that not only was the Melusine shrouded in dense fog but that the wind was piping in the rigging and that the ship was beginning to lift to an increasingly rough sea as she came clear of the ice.

Mr Bourne, now in command, stood miserably at the windward rail with a worried looking Rispin, promoted abruptly and unwilling to first lieutenant. It was clear, even to Singleton's untutored eye, that Stephen Hill was in real command. Although he realised with a pang that he felt very uneasy without Drinkwater's cock-headed presence on the quarterdeck, he felt a measure of reassurance in Hill's competence. Knowing something of the promotion-hungry desires of lieutenants and midshipmen Singleton wondered to what extent efforts were being made to recover the captain, then he recollected his duty and struggled across the deck towards Bourne.

A patter of spray flew aft and drove the breath from his body as he reached the anxious lieutenant. 'Mr Bourne!'

'Eh? Singleton, what is it?'

Bourne's cloak blew round him and his uncertainty seemed epitomised by the way he clutched the fore-cock of his hat to prevent it blowing away.

'Mr Germaney has expired.'

'Oh.' There seemed little else to say except, 'Thank you, Mr Singleton.'

Frozen to the marrow Singleton made his way to the compan-ionway. As he swung himself down a second dollop of spray caught him and Number Nine gun roared again. Reaching the sanctuary of his cabin he flung himself on his knees.

Afterwards Drinkwater was uncertain how long they nursed the gig through that desperate night, for night it must have been. Certainly the fog obscured much of the sunlight and prevented even a glimpse of the sun itself so that it became almost dark. After the twists and turns of their passage through the ice, and his preoccupation in avoiding damage to the boat, Drinkwater had to admit to being lost. The pain in his neck and the growing numbness of his extremities seemed to dull his brain so that his mental efforts were reduced to the sole consideration of keeping the boat reasonably dry and as close to the wind as they were able. He dare not run off before it for, although its effect would be less chilling, he feared far more the prospect of being utterly lost, while every effort he made to retain his position increased his chances of being not too far distant from the whalers or the Melusine when the fog lifted.

The boat's crew spent a miserable night and at one point he recovered sufficient awareness to realise he had his arm round the shoulders of little Frey who was shuddering uncontrollably and trying desperately to muffle the chattering of his teeth and the sobbing of his breath. Tregembo and Quilhampton huddled together, their familiarity readily breaking down the barriers of rank, while further forward the other men groaned, swore and crouched equally frozen.

Occasionally Drinkwater rallied, awakened to full consciousness by a sudden, agonising spasm in his shoulder, only to curse the self-indulgence that had led to this folly and probable death. He realised with a shock that he was not much moved by the contemplation of death, and with it came the realisation that his hands and feet felt warmer. For a second sleep threatened to overwhelm him and he knew it was the kiss of approaching death. A picture of Charlotte Amelia and Richard Madoc swam before his eyes, he tried to conjure up Elizabeth but found it impossible. Then he became acutely aware that the boy beside him was his son, not the baby he had left behind, but Richard at ten or eleven years. The boy's face was glowing, his full lips sweet and his eyes the deep brown of his mother's.

'Farewell, father,' the boy was saying, 'farewell, for we shall never meet again…'

'No, stay…!' Drinkwater was fully conscious, his mind filled with the departing vision of his son. A seaman whose name he could not remember looked aft from the bow. Drinkwater came suddenly to himself, aware that the extremities of his limbs were lifeless. He tried to move the midshipman. Mr Frey was asleep.

'Mr Frey! Mr Frey! Wake up! Wake up, all of you! Wake up, God damn it… and you, forrard, why ain't you holloaing like you were ordered… Come on holloa! All of you holloa and sing! Sing God damn and blast you, clap your hands! Stamp your feet! Mr Frey give 'em grog and make the bastards sing…'

'Sing, sir?' Frey awoke as though recalled from a distant place.

'Aye, Mr Frey, sing!'

Realisation awoke slowly in the boat and men groaned with the agony of moving. But Frey passed the keg of grog and they drained it greedily, the raw spirit quickening their hearts and circulation so that they at last broke into a cracked and imperfect chorus of 'Spanish Ladies'.

And just as suddenly as Drinkwater had roused them to sing, he commanded them to silence. They sat, even more dejected now that the howl of the wind reasserted itself and the boat bucked up and down and water slopped inboard over them.

The minute gun sounded again.

'A six-pounder, by God!'

'M'loosine, zur,' said Tregembo grinning.

'Listen for the next to determine whether the distance increases.' They sat silent for what seemed an age. The concussion came again.

''Tis nearer, zur.'

'Further away…'

They sat through a further period of tense silence. The gun sounded yet again.

Three voices answered at once. They were unanimous, 'Nearer!'

'Let us bear off a little, Mr Q. Remain silent there and listen for the guns, but each man is to chafe his legs… Mr Frey perhaps you would oblige me by checking the priming of those muskets. Then you had better rub Mr Q's calves. His hand may be impervious to the cold but his legs ain't.'

Half an hour later they were quite sure the Melusine's guns were louder, but the sea was rising and water entering the boat in increasing amounts. The hands were employed baling and Drinkwater decided it was time they discharged the muskets. They waited for the sound of the guns. The boom seemed slightly fainter.

The muskets cracked and they waited for some response. Nothing came. The next time the minute gun fired it was quite definitely further away.

The fog lifted a little towards dawn. Those on Melusine's quarterdeck could see a circle of tossing and streaked water some five cables in radius about them.

'With this increase in visibility, Mr Bourne, I think we can afford to take a chance. I suggest we put the ship about and stand back to the northward for a couple of hours.'

Bourne considered the proposition. 'Very well, Mr Hill, see to it.'

Melusine jibbed at coming into the wind under such reduced canvas as she was carrying and Hill wore her round. She steadied on the larboard tack, head once more to the north and Hill transferred the duty gun-crew to a larboard gun. It was pointless firing to windward. After a pause the cannon, Number Ten, roared out. Melusine groaned as she rose and fell, occasionally shuddering as a sea broke against her side and sent the spray across her rail.

'Sir! Sir!' Midshipman Gorton was coming aft from the foremast where he had been supervising the coiling of the braces.

'What is it?'

'I'm certain I heard something ahead, sir…'

'In this wind?…'

'A moment, Mr Rispin, what did you hear?'

'Well sir, it sounded like muskets, sir…'

The quarterdeck officers strained their eyes forward.

'Fo'c's'le there!' roared Hill. 'Keep your eyes open, there!'

'There sir! There!' Midshipman Gorton was crouching, his arm and index finger extended over the starboard bow.

'Mark it, Mr Gorton, mark it. Leggo lee mizen braces, there! Mizen yards aback!'

'Thank God,' breathed Mr Rispin.

'Thank Hill and Gorton, Mr Rispin,' said Lieutenant Bourne.

Mr Frey saw the ship a full minute before Mr Gorton heard the muskets.

'Drop the sail, Mr Q! Man the oars my lads, your lives depend upon it!'

They were clumsy getting the oars out, their tired and aching muscles refusing to obey, but Tregembo cursed them from the after thwart and set the stroke.

Drinkwater took them across Melusine's bow to pull up from leeward. He could see the sloop was hove-to and making little headway but he felt easier when he saw the mizen topsail backed.

As they approached it was clear that even on her leeward side it was going to be impossible to recover the boat. He watched as several ropes' ends were flung over the side and men climbed into the chains to assist. The painter was caught at the third and increasingly feeble throw and the gig was dashed against Melusine's spirketting and then her chains. The tie-rods extending below the heavy timbers of the channels smashed the gunwhale of the boat, but as the gig dropped into the hollow of the sea Drinkwater saw one pair of legs left dangling over the ledge of the chains where willing hands reached down. It was not a time for prerogative and Drinkwater refused to leave the boat until all the others were safe. He had little fear for the seamen, for all were fit, agile and used to scrambling about. But Frey was very cold and his limbs were cramped. Drinkwater called for a line and a rope snaked down into the boat. He passed a bowline round Frey's waist as the men scrambled out of the boat. As the gig rose and the rope was hauled tight, Drinkwater tried to support the boy. Suddenly the boat fell, half rolling over as the inboard gunwhale caught again and threatened to overset it. Frey dangled ten feet overhead, the line rigged from the cro'jack yardarm had plucked him from the boat. One of his shoes fell past Drinkwater as he grabbed a handhold. He looked down to find the gig half full of water. The mizen whip was already being pulled inboard and Drinkwater shouted.

'Mr Q! Up you go!' Quilhampton waited his moment. As the boat rose he leapt, holding his wooden left hand clear and extending his right. He missed his footing but someone grabbed his extended arm and his abdomen caught on the edge of the channel. Hands grabbed the seat of his trousers and he was dragged inboard winded and gagging.

Only Drinkwater was left. He felt impossibly weak. Above him the whole ship's company watched. He was aware of Tregembo, wet to the skin and frozen after his ordeal, leaning outboard from the main chains. One hand was extended.

'Come on, zur!' he shouted, a trace of his truculent, Cornish independence clear in his eyes.

Drinkwater felt the boat rise sluggishly beneath him. She would not swim for many more minutes. He leaped upwards, aware that his outstretched arm was only inches from Tregembo's hand, but the boat fell away and he with it, suddenly up to his waist in water as the gig sank under him.

'Here, zur, here!'

He felt the rope across his shoulders and with a mighty effort passed a bight about his waist, holding the rope with his left hand and the loose end with his right. He felt himself jar against the barnacled spirketting and the weight on his left arm told where he hung suspended by its feeble grip, then that too began to slide while he tried to remember how to make a one-handed bowline with his right hand. Then Melusine gave a lee roll and a sea reached up under his shoulders. He was suddenly level with the rail, could see the faces lining the hammock nettings. In an instant the sea would drop away again as the sloop rolled to windward. He felt the support of the water begin to fall yet he was quite unable to remember how to make that first loop.

Then hands reached out for him. He was grabbed unceremoniously. The sea dropped away and he was pulled over the nettings and laid with gentle respect upon the deck. He looked up to see the face of Singleton.

'The mercy of God, Captain Drinkwater,' he said, 'has been extended to us all this day…'

And the fervent chorus of 'Amens' surprised even the semiconscious Drinkwater.

Chapter Ten The Seventy-second Parallel

'Sir! Sir!'

Drinkwater swam upwards from a great depth and was aware that Midshipman Wickham was shaking him. 'Eh? What is it?'

'Mr Rispin's compliments, sir, but would you come on deck.'

'What time is it?'

'Nearly eight bells in the morning watch, sir.'

'Very well.' He longed to fling himself back into his cot for he had been asleep no more than three or four hours and every muscle in his body ached. He idled for a moment and heard a sudden wail of pipes at the companionways and the cry for all hands as Melusine's helm went down and she came up into the wind. Two minutes later, in a coat and greygoe that were still wet under his tarpaulin, he was on deck.

'The smell made me suspicious, sir,' cried Rispin, his voice high with anxiety, 'then the wind fell away and then we saw it…' He pointed.

Drinkwater's tired eyes focussed. Half a mile away, rearing into the sky and looming over their mastheads the iceberg seemed insubstantial in the grey light. But the smell, like the stink he had noticed in the ice lead, was strongly algaic and the loss of wind was evidence of its reality. Melusine seemed to wallow helplessly and, although Rispin had succeeded in driving her round onto the larboard tack, there seemed scarcely enough wind now to move her as the mass of ice loomed closer.

Drinkwater stood stupefied for a moment or two, trying to remember what he had learned from fragments of conversation with the whale-ship captains. It was little enough, and he felt the gaps in his knowledge like physical wounds at such a moment.

He had read of the submerged properties of icebergs, that far more of them existed below the level of the sea than above. Part of the monster that threatened them might already be beneath them.

'A cast of the lead, Mr Rispin, and look lively about it!'

Above his head Melusine's canvas slatted idly. 'T'gallant halliards there, topman aloft and let fall the t'gallants! Fo'c's'le head there! Set both jibs!' The waist burst into life as every man sought occupation. Drinkwater was left to reflect on Newton's observations upon the attraction of masses. Ship and iceberg seemed to be drawn inexorably together.

'By the mark seven, sir!'

'That'll be ice, sir,' Hill remarked, echoing his own thoughts.

'Aye.'

'Let fall! Let fall!' Lieutenant Bourne had taken the deck from Rispin and the topgallants hung in folds from their lowered yards.

'Hoist away!' The yards rose slowly, their parrels creaking up the slushed f gallant masts as the topmen slid down the backstays.

'Sheet home!'

'Belay!'

Amidships the braces were ready manned as the halliards stretched the sails. Watching anxiously Drinkwater thought he saw the upper canvas belly a little.

'By the mark five, sir!' The nearest visible part of the iceberg was half a musket shot away to starboard. Drinkwater sensed Melusine's deck cant slightly beneath his feet. He was so tense that for a moment he thought they had touched a spur of ice but suddenly Melusine caught the wind eddying round the southern extremity of the berg. Her upper sails filled, then her topsails; she began to move with gathering swiftness through the water.

'By the deep nine, sir!'

Drinkwater began to breathe again. Melusine came clear of the iceberg and the wind laid her on her beam ends. Just as suddenly as it had come the fog lifted. The wind swung to the north-northwest and blew with greater violence, but the sudden shift reduced the lift of the sea, chopping up a confused tossing of wave crests in which Melusine pitched wildly while her shivering topmen lay aloft again to claw in the topgallants they had so recently set.

As the visibility cleared it became apparent that the gale had dispersed the ice floes and they were surrounded by pieces of ice of every conceivable shape and size. Realising that he could not keep the deck forever, Drinkwater despatched first Bourne and then Rispin aloft to the crow's nest from where they shouted down directions to the doubled watches under Drinkwater and Hill, and for three days, while the gale blew itself out from the north they laboured through this vast and treacherous waste.

The huge bergs were easy to avoid, now that clear weather held, but the smaller bergs and broken floes of hummocked ice frequently required booming off from either bow with the spare topgallant yards. Worst of all were the 'growlers', low, almost melted lumps of ice the greater part of whose bulk lay treacherously below water. Several of these were struck and Melusine's spirketting began to assume a hairy appearance, the timber being so persistently scuffed by ice.

Drinkwater perceived the wisdom of a rig that was easily handled by a handful of men as Sawyers had claimed at Shetland. He also wished he had the old bomb vessel Virago beneath his feet, a thought which made him recollect his interview with Earl St Vincent. It seemed so very far distant now and he had given little thought to his responsibilities during the last few days, let alone the possibility of French privateers being in these frozen seas. He wished St Vincent had had a better knowledge of the problems of navigation in high latitudes and given him a more substantial vessel than the corvette. Lovely she might be and fast she might be, but the Greenland Sea was no place for such a thoroughbred.

They buried Germaney the day following Drinkwater's return to Melusine. It was a bleak little ceremony that had broken up in confusion at a cry for all hands to wear ship and avoid a growler of rotten ice. Singleton's other major patient, the now insane Macpherson, lay inert under massive doses of laudanum to prevent his ravings from disturbing the watch below.

On the fifth day of the gale they sighted Truelove and made signals to her across eight miles of tossing ice and grey sea. She was snugged down under her lower sails and appeared as steady as a rock amid the turmoil about her. A day later they closed Diana, then Narwhal, Provident and Earl Percy hove in sight, both making the signal that all was well. On the morning that the wind died away there seemed less ice about and once again Faithful was sighted, about ten miles to the north-west and making the signal that whales were in sight.

Greatly refreshed from an uninterrupted sleep of almost twelve hours, wrote Drinkwater in his journal, I woke to the strong impression that my life had been spared by providence … He paused. The vision of Midshipman Frey as his son had been a vivid one and he was certain that had he not awakened to full consciousness at the time he would not have survived the ordeal in the open boat. The consequences of his folly in leaving the ship struck him very forcibly and he resolved never to act so rashly again. In his absence Germaney had died and he still felt pangs of conscience over his former first lieutenant. He shook off the 'blue devils' and his eye fell upon the portraits upon the cabin bulkhead, and particularly that of his little son. He dipped his pen in the ink-well.

The conviction that I was awoken in the boat by the spirit of my son is almost impossible to shake off, so fast has it battened upon my imagination, I am persuaded that we were past saving at that moment and would have perished had I not been revived by the apparition. He paused again and scratched out the word apparition substituting visitation. He continued writing and ended: the sighting of Faithful reassured me that my charges had made lighter of the gale than ourselves, for though nothing carried away aloft Melusine is making more water than formerly. Faithful made the signal for whales almost immediately upon our coming up and the whale ships stood north where, inexplicably, there seems to be less ice. The cold seems more intense.

He laid his pen down, closed his journal and slipped it into the table drawer.

'Pass word for Mr Hill!'

He heard the marine sentry's response passed along and rose, pulling out the decanter and two glasses from the locker where Cawkwell had secured them.

'Come in,' he called as Hill knocked and entered the cabin. 'Ah, take a seat, Mr Hill, I am sure you will not refuse a glass on such a raw morning.'

'Indeed not, sir… thank you.'

Drinkwater sipped the blackstrap and re-seated himself.

'Mr Hill, we have known each other a long time and now that Germaney is dead I have a vacancy for a lieutenant… no, hear me out. I can think of no more deserving officer on this ship. I will give you an acting commission and believe I possess sufficient influence to have it ratified on our return. Now, what d'you say, eh?'

'That's considerate of you, sir, but no, I…'

'Damn it, Bourne's told me that without you he'd have been hard pushed to work the ship through the fog, he's a good fellow and does you the credit you deserve. With a master's warrant you'll never get command and the advancement you should have. Recollect old James Bowen, Earl Howe's Master of the Fleet, when asked what he would most desire for his services at the First of June, asked for a commission.'

'Aye, sir, that's true, but Bowen was made prize agent for the fleet, he'd no need to worry about the loss of pay. I've no private income and have a family to support. Besides, Bowen still had the earl's patronage whilst I, with all due respect to yourself, sir, would likely remain a junior lieutenant for the rest of my service. At least now I receive ninety-one pounds per annum, which even less five guineas for the income tax, is more than a junior lieutenant's pay. In addition, sir, with my warrant I'm a standing officer and even if the ship is laid up I still receive pay. Thank you all the same, sir.'

Drinkwater refilled Hill's glass. It was no less than he expected Hill to say and he reflected upon the stupidity of a system which denied men of Hill's ability proper recognition.

'Very well then. Whom do you think I should promote? Gorton has his six years almost in and is the senior, Quilhampton is but a few months his junior but holds a certificate from the Trinity House as master's mate. I am faced with a dilemma in that my natural inclination is to favour Quilhampton because he is known to me. I would welcome your advice.'

Hill sighed and crossed his legs. 'I have seen neither of them in action, sir, but I would rate both equally.'

'The decision is invidious, but you incline to neither…?'

'Sir, if I may be frank…?'

'Of course.'

'Then I should favour Mr Gorton, sir. Mr Quilhampton is both junior and a mite younger, I believe. Your favouring him would seem like patronage and I think that his hand might prove a handicap.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Very well, Mr Hill. I do not approve of your pun but your reasoning is sound enough. Be so kind as to have a quiet word with Mr Q, that his disappointment is tempered by the reflection that he has not lost my confidence.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Hill rose.

'One other thing…'

'Sir?'

'Do not mention the matter of the hand as deciding one way or another. I do not really think it a great disadvantage. It is quite impervious to cold, d'you know.'

Singleton looked with distaste at what had once been the person of Mr Macpherson the surgeon. He lay stupefied under ten grains of laudanum, his face grey, the cheeks cadaverous and pallid with a sheen of sweat that gleamed like condensation on a lead pipe under the lantern light.

He could almost feel Skeete grinning in the shadows next to him. Singleton thought a very un-Christian thought, and was mortified by the ferocity of it. Why, why did Macpherson not die? Rum had long since destroyed his brain and now deprivation of it had turned him into a thrashing maniac. Yet his punished organs refused to capitulate to the inevitable, and he came out of his stupor to roll and rave in his own stink until Skeete cleaned him up and Singleton sedated him once more.

Singleton forbore to hate what Drinkwater had trapped him into accepting. He saw it as a God-given challenge that he must overcome his revolted instincts. This was a testing for the future and the squalor of life among the eskimos. He tried to thank God for the opportunity to harden himself for his coming ordeal. Attending Macpherson was as logical a piece of divine intervention as was the discovery of Meetuck, and Singleton knew he had been right, that men's cleverness did indeed obscure the obvious. Was it not crystal clear that God himself had intervened in thus providing him with a means of preparing himself for the future?

There was also the matter of Drinkwater's survival in the gig. It appalled Singleton that the matter was taken so lightly on board. It struck Singleton as a kind of blasphemy. He was not used to the thousand tricks that fate may play a seaman in the course of a few days. He could not lie down and forget how close he had been to death a few hours ago, and worse, he could not forget how the ship had missed the steadying presence of her commander. There had been no doubt as to Hill's competence, indeed it was enhanced by the lower deck opinions he had heard about the other officers, but Hill had been alone and his isolation emphasised the loss of Drinkwater.

From the rough, untutored tarpaulin of first impression, Singleton had come to like the sea-officer with the cock-headed figure and the lined face. The mane of brown hair pulled impa-tiently behind his head in a black-ribboned queue told of a still youthful man, a man in his prime, a man of implicit reliability. Singleton began to lose his unfortunate prejudice against the profession of arms, though his own principles remained admirably steadfast. They might appear impractical to the world of sophistry, the world in which Drinkwater was enmeshed, but Singleton was bound upon a mission inspired by the Son of God. Among the primitive peoples of the earth he would prove a theory practical, a theory more shattering in its simplicity than the prolix vapourings of the Revolutionary pedagogues that had apostrophised the French Revolution. He would prove practical the Gospel of Christ.

But although he was motivated by the spirit, Singleton was unable to ignore reality, and he had become aware that without Drinkwater he would be unlikely to find the kind of co-operation he required to land upon the coast of Greenland. He began to be obsessed with the preservation of Drinkwater's health, particularly since the ordeal in the open boat, after which the captain had become thin and drawn. Looking down on the inert body of the cidevant surgeon he decided there were more pressing things for him to attend to.

'Try and get some portable soup into him,' he said dismissively to Skeete, and turned in search of the companionway and the freezing freshness of the upper deck.

And there Singleton found further evidence of the beneficence of the Almighty in the person of Meetuck engaged, with two seamen as his assistants to supplement his broken arm, in completing the preparations of the bear and seal skins. Meetuck's conversation had enabled Singleton to turn the theoretical knowledge he had acquired at Copenhagen into a practical instrument and already Meetuck had submitted himself to baptism.

But in his eagerness to converse colloquially, to perfect his knowledge of the eskimo tongue and to test his ability to spread the gospel of Christ, Singleton had paid little attention to those things he might have learned from the eskimo. Beyond the knowledge that Meetuck had lost touch with his companions in a fog, fallen and injured himself, losing his kayak in the process, Singleton learned only that he came from a place called Nagtoralik, and called his people the Ikermiut, the people of the Strait. Some prompting from a more curious, though preoccupied Drinkwater, elicited the information that this 'strait' was far to the westward, and thus, by deduction, on the coast of Greenland. In his heart Singleton believed that it was where he would establish his mission on behalf of the Church Missionary Society. Eager to convert Meetuck it never occurred to Singleton that a male of Meetuck's maturity ought to have survived better on the ice, and the eskimo's lack of intelligence never prompted him to volunteer information he was not specifically asked for. All Meetuck knew was that Singleton was a gavdlunaq, a white man, and that he seemed to be a good one. In his simple mind Meetuck strove to please the men that had rescued him and fed him so well.

Seeing Singleton, Meetuck looked up and smiled, his thin lips puckering the wind-burned cheeks and his mongol eyes became dark slits. He said something and indicated the skins, particularly that of the polar bear, which he gently smoothed.

'It was a great bear,' Singleton translated for the puzzled seamen, 'and he who killed it was a mighty hunter…' The two men seemed to think this a quaint turn of phrase and giggled, having been much amused by Meetuck's antics and incomprehension at their inability to speak as did Singleton. Singleton was affronted by their attitude, his almost humourless disposition unable to see the amusement caused by the eskimo. 'Like Nimrod…' His voice trailed away and he turned aft to see the captain coming on deck, his boat cloak over the greygoe in the intense cold. It struck him that Drinkwater would benefit himself from warmer clothing and he turned below again in search of Mount.

The marine lieutenant was dicing with Rispin when he entered the gunroom.

'Ho, there, Singleton, d'you come to taste the delights of damnation then?' Mount grinned at the sober missionary whose disapproval extended to almost all the leisure activities of both officers and midshipmen, especially, as was now the case, it was accompanied by the drinking of alcohol. Singleton swallowed his disapproval and gave one of his rare, dry smiles.

'Ah, Mount, I wish you to prove that you deceive my eyes and are not yet sunk to a depravity that is beyond redemption.'

Mount rolled his eyes at Rispin, 'Lo, Rispin, I do believe I am being granted a little Christian forbearance. What is it you want?'

'Your polar bear's hide.'

'Egad,' Mount smote his breast in mock horror, 'you press me sore, good sir. Why?'

'I wish to have it for a good cause.'

'Ah-ha! Now it becomes clear, Mr Singleton, you wish to deprive me of the spoils of my skill so that I shall freeze and you will be warm as an ember, eh?'

'You misunderstand…'

Mount held up his hand, 'Are you aware what trouble I went to, to stop that whelp Quilhampton from claiming the damned animal was his. He had the nerve to claim that without his winging the brute I should not have struck him. There! What d'you think of that, eh?'

'I think it most likely, certainly he did very well to hit a target with his wooden hand.'

'Oh, I do not think you need worry about Mr Q's abilities. He does not seem in any way handicapped. No, Mr Singleton, you want the bear's pelt and so do I. Now what do you suggest we do with it, Rispin? How would you, old Solomon, decide between the two of us, eh?' Mount's eyes fell significantly upon the dice.

'But, Mount, it is not for myself that I wish to have the skin, I have already purchased several of the seal-skins.'

'What is it for then? Not that damned eskimo friend of ours?'

'No. For the Captain, I fear he may have taken a chill and you know that in this weather a chill may become bronchitic or worse, induce a pulmonary inflammation.'

'Why this is Christian charity… come, Singleton, let us ask Rispin to resolve the matter.'

'Very well,' said Singleton, refusing to rise to Mount's bait. 'Mr Rispin?'

'Let the dice decide,' Rispin said, incurring a furious glare from Singleton.

'That is dishonourable, Mr Rispin, you know I do not approve…'

'But it would be amusing, Singleton, come, let us see whether the Almighty will influence the dice…'

'That's blasphemy, Mr Mount! I do not mind you having your joke at my expense but I will not tolerate this.' Singleton turned on his heel indignantly and smashed his forehead against a deck-beam. 'God-damn!' he swore, leaving the gunroom to the peals of laughter from the two officers.

Drinkwater lowered his glass and addressed Bourne. 'Heave-to under his stern, Mr Bourne.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Raising the telescope again Drinkwater stared at Narwhal. It was the third time that forenoon she had lowered her boats after whales and the third time she had recovered them as the beasts eluded the hunt and swam steadily north-west. For two days the Narwhal, Faithful, Diana, Earl Percy and Provident and Truelove had worked their way north-west with Melusine accompanying them. Only Captain Renaudson of the Diana had hit a whale using his brass harpoon gun, and that had turned out to be a razorback.

As Melusine came up under Narwhal's lee, Drinkwater hoisted himself onto the rail, holding onto the mizen rigging.

'Narwhal, ahoy!' He saw Jaybez Harvey's pock-marked features similarly elevate themselves and he waved in a friendly fashion. 'No success, Captain?'

Harvey shook his head. 'No, there be sommat curious about the fish,' he shouted. '

'Tis unusual for them to swim north-west in such schools. Happen they know sommat, right whales is slow, but these devils aren't wanting to fill the lamps of London Town, Captain, that I do know.'

Drinkwater jumped down on deck as Narwhal's hands squared her yards and she moved forward again, bumping aside an ice floe upon which a seal looked up at her in sudden surprise.

'If I hit him, may we lower, sir?' asked Walmsley, eagerly lifting a musket. Drinkwater looked at the seal as it rolled over.

'It's hardly sport, Mr Walmsley, ah… too late…' Drinkwater was saved the trouble of a decision as the seal, worried by the shadow of the Narwhal that passed over it, sought the familiarity of the sea.

Drinkwater saw the grin of pleasure that it had escaped cross Mr Frey's face as he sorted the signalling flags with the yeoman. 'Bad luck, Mr Walmsley, perhaps another time.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Walmsley grimaced at Frey who grinned back triumphantly. 'God knows what you'll do when you meet a Frenchman, Frey, ask him to sit for his bloody portrait I shouldn't wonder…'

Drinkwater heard the jibe, but affected to ignore it. Walmsley's concern was unnecessary, the likelihood of their meeting a Frenchman so remote a possibility that Drinkwater considered Mr Frey's talents with pencil and watercolour box the only profitable part of the voyage.

They braced the yards round and Melusine reached east, across the sterns of the Narwhal, the Diana and the Faithful, tacking at noon in a sea that was scattered with loose floes. Only a dozen ice bergs were visible from the deck and the light north-easterly breeze had re-established clear weather. It was still bitterly cold, but the wind was strong enough to keep the surface of the sea moving, otherwise Drinkwater suspected it might freeze over. Although this would be unseasonable it was a constant worry for him as he inspected the readings of the thermometer in the log book.

Another problem he had faced was that of employment in the ship. During the days since the abatement of the gale there had been less danger from the ice, and they had worked slowly north in the wake of the whalers under easy sail. The diversions they had used on the passage north from the Humber had been re-started, although the weather was too cold for fencing, making the foil blades brittle. But the cutter had been lowered to pursue seals, for Drinkwater wanted all hands to be better clad than Palgrave's slops would allow, and hunting had ceased to be the prerogative of the officers. Marines and topmen trained in the use of small arms under Lieutenant Mount's direction, made up the shooting parties and it was certain that Melusine was the best fed warship in the Royal Navy. This fresh meat was most welcome and thought to be an excellent anti-scorbutic.

Drinkwater devised what amusements he could, even to the extent of purchasing some of the baleen from the whalers, in order that the seamen might attempt to decorate it in the same manner as the men in the whale-ships. As he looked along the waist where Meetuck supervised the cleaning of a fresh batch of seal skins and the gunner checked the flints in the gun-locks, he felt that the ship's services were somewhat wasted. They still went to quarters twice a day and exercised the guns with powder every third day; the unaccustomed presence of a marine sentry at his door and the pendant of a 'private' ship of war at the mainmasthead were constant reminders that Melusine was a King's ship, a man-of-war.

But Drinkwater was aware of a feeling seeping through the ship that she had undergone some curious enchantment, that, for all the hazards they had and would encounter, these were natural phenomena. He could not throw off the growing feeling that they were on some elaborate, dangerous but nevertheless curious pleasurable yachting excursion. Preoccupied with this consideration he was surprised at the little party of officers that suddenly confronted him.

'Beg pardon, sir.'

'Yes, Mr Mount, what is the matter?' It seemed like some deputation and for a moment his heart missed a beat in alarm, for his thoughts had run from yachting to naval expeditions like Cook's and, inevitably, Bligh's. He looked at the officers. With Mount were Rispin and Hill, Gorton, Quilhampton.

Walmsley, Glencross, Dutfield and Wickham with an angry Obadiah Singleton apparently were bringing up the rear with some reluctance. They seemed to be carrying a bundle.

'We thought, sir, that you might consider accepting a gift from us all…'

'Gift, Mr Mount…?'

'Something to keep you warm, sir, as Mr Hill informs me we crossed the seventy-second parallel at noon.'

They offered him the magnificent pelt of the polar bear.

Greatly daring Mount said, 'The Thirty-sixth Article of War is of little use in a boat sir.' It was an impropriety, but an impropriety made in the spirit of the moment, in tune with the bitingly cold, clean air and the sunshine breaking through the clouds. It was all thoroughly unreal for the quarterdeck of a sloop of war.

'Thank you, gentlemen,' he said, 'thank you very much. I am indebted to you all.'

Bourne crossed the deck to join them. 'Perhaps, sir, at a suitable occasion you will honour the gunroom for dinner.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'I shall be delighted,' he said, removing cloak and greygoe and flinging the great skin around him. 'What happened to the animal's head?'

'We had him Mounted, sir,' said Walmsley mischieviously and they drifted forward in high spirits, just as if they were on a yachting cruise.

Chapter Eleven The Great Hunt

Mr Quilhampton swung the glass from larboard beam to starboard bow. At first he saw nothing unusual for they had been aware that the loose floes would give way to close pack ice and probably to an ice shelf, from the ice blink that had been in sight for some twelve hours. He was taking some comfort from the isolation of the crow's nest to nurse his wounded pride. He was disappointed at Mr Gorton's advancement, and although he acknowledged the kindness of Mr Hill in mollifying him, it did not prevent him from suffering. He would have liked to return home a lieutenant, to indulge in a little swagger with a new hanger at his hip and a cuff of buttons instead of the white collar patches of the novice, when he entered the Edinburgh drawingroom of Catriona MacEwan. He had already furnished and populated the room in his imagination, but he was still perfecting the manner of his entrance, torn between an amusing frightening of Catriona's perfectly awful aunt with his wooden hand, or the upstaging of a languid rival who would probably be wearing the theatrical uniform of a volunteer yeomanry regiment, Although amusing, he had already astonished the old lady with his hand, and, in any case, the jape smacked more of the cockpit he wished to leave, than the gunroom to which he aspired. No, the discomfiture of the rival it must be, then…

'Masthead there!' He looked down. The master was looking aloft.

'Sir?'

'Narwhal's signalling, what d'you make of it?'

Recalled to his duty Quilhampton levelled the big watch glass. The six whalers were bowling along on the larboard tack. Melusine was slightly to leeward of them all, but astern of Narwhal. The whaler's signal flaps streamed out in a straight line towards the sloop and were impossible to read. He struggled with the glass but could not make head or tail of the flag hoist. He hailed the deck and told Hill. Looking round the horizon again he saw the reason almost at once. The fast moving school of whales that they had so patiently followed for three days now, beating to windward as the great fish swam with steady purpose to the north-west had slowed. They were circling and there were more of them. Quilhampton wondered if it was the entire school on the surface at the same time or whether they had made some sort of rendezvous for breeding purposes. And then he saw something else, something quite extraordinary.

Opening up upon their larboard beam was a great channel in the ice shelf. Quilhampton realised the extent of his preoccupation in not noticing it before. Apart from loose floes he estimated the opening was several miles wide, partly hidden by a low raft of hummocked ice. In the channel the water appeared greener, forming an eutrophid strait between great continents of ice. Here was the reason for the whales' mysterious migration, a krill and plankton-rich sea which they had sensed from a distance.

Already Narwhal had two boats in the water. Provident, Earl Percy and Faithful were heaving to. Diana had still to come up and Truelove, fallen off to the eastward, had seen Narwhal's signal and altered to the west.

Quilhampton swung himself through the trapdoor and hurried down the mainmast rigging.

Drinkwater realised the significance of the great ice-free lead as soon as he reached the crow's nest. He was perceptive enough to know that the strange channel that seemed to exist as far as the eye could see to the westward was unusual. Entering the channel the right whales had slowed. He could see twenty or thirty at any one time on the surface, their spouts so numerous as to form a cloud above them as they vented through their spiracles. From time to time a great, blunt head would appear, the baleen gleaming in a rigid grin while seawater poured from the corners of the gaping mouth as the fibrous whale-bone strained the tiny organisms from the sea.

He sensed, too, a change of tempo from the pursuing whalers. As he swung his glass on the two nearer ships he counted the boats already in the water. Narwhal and the nearer ships had all their boats out, Diana, a little to the east was lowering, while Truelove had hoisted her topgallants in her haste to join the great hunt.

Surprisingly he saw a boat from Narwhal turn away from the whales towards the sloop and through the glass he could see Harvey himself standing in the bow. He swung his glass once more to the west. The open lead, with hardly a floe loose on its extraordinary surface, beckoned them to the westwards. It seemed to Drinkwater that the ice shelf had suddenly split, moved by some elemental force, and pulled apart. Momentarily he wondered whether that force might be reversed, that if they entered the channel they might be trapped and crushed. Shaking off his apprehension he made his way below, arriving on the quarterdeck as Harvey's boat came up under the quarter and Lieutenant Rispin, at a nod from Drinkwater, invited Harvey on board.

Harvey's eyes were shining with excitement, illuminating his snubnosed face and eradicating the disfigurements of the smallpox. Drinkwater immediately warmed to him. 'Good morning, Captain Harvey, I am surprised you are not in hot pursuit of the fish.'

Harvey grinned and dispensed briefly with the formalities. 'There will be enough pickings here, captain, if we can hold the whales, to fill all our empty casks and send us safe back to Hull, but we want your assistance.'

'How so?'

'Well, the whales will likely follow th'krill and all into yonder lead. Once we get amongst them they'll swim to west, like. If you'd put this ship ahead of the fish and drop cannon fire ahead of them it'll slow them like, stop them escaping… will you do it?'

A quick kill, a short voyage, the success of a task that had seemed once so very difficult and French privateers a figment of the First Lord's overworked imagination. He had only one reservation, and his inexperience in ice nagged him.

'How far into the lead will they go, Captain Harvey? That looks like dense shelf ice to me, if it closes you may survive but this ship will be crushed like an egg-shell.'

Harvey shook his head. 'I've heard of this happening once before, Captain Drinkwater, in my father's day, sixty-eight or nine, I think. Happen if the whales take themselves into the lead then it'll not close.'

Drinkwater could see Harvey's argument, but it was imperfect. The whales might turn and swim back faster than a ship could beat to windward, the wind might shift and blow the ice to the south-west of them to the north again. He said as much to Harvey and watched the disappointment in the Yorkshireman's eyes.

'The ice'll not close, not for a week at least, and we'll have our casks full by then…' The lust of the hunter was strong in him. Drinkwater could sense his sudden impatience to be gone, to be pointing the harpoon gun that gleamed dully in the bow of his whale-boat.

A short voyage. Home and an end to the ache in his shoulder. Elizabeth…

'Very well, three days, damn you.' He grinned and Harvey grinned and smacked him painfully upon his shoulder. The lése-majesté caused the waiting officers to hide their grins and the instant Harvey had regained his boat Drinkwater called for all hands. He would make them pay for their impertinence, damn it!

'Set the t'gallants, Mr Rispin!'

'Set t'gallants, sir.' He watched Rispin pick up the speaking trumpet as the watch below tumbled up the hatchways. The lieutenant launched into his customary stream of largely superfluous orders.

'After guard to hoist the main t'garns'ls. Bosun's mate, send the after guard to man the main t'garns'l halliards, there! Corporal of marines, send the marines aft to man the mizen t'garns'ls halliards. Master at arms! Send below and turn up the idlers, stewards and servants, messmen, cooks-mates, sweepers and loblolly boys!'

This volley of orders was answered by the petty officers who thumped the fife-rails for good effect with their starters, cursing and shouting at the men.

'Topmen aloft, aloft…' Rispin's strange, hysterical system seemed to galvanise the hands, as though they were all suddenly aware that the hunt for whales had taken on a new, more primitive flavour. And yet, watching from the larboard hance, one foot upon the slide of Palgrave's fancy brass carronade, Drinkwater once again received the strong impression that they were engaged upon a yachting excursion. Perhaps it was just the excitement, perhaps the extravagance of Rispin's fancy orders that had about it that ritual quality he had observed aboard such craft as the Trinity House Yacht back in eighty-eight, or perhaps it was the fantastic cake-icing seascape that surrounded him that induced the Arctic calenture.

'Let fall! Sheet home!' The yards rose as the canvas fell.

He shook off the ridiculous feeling. 'Mr Quilhampton!'

'Sir?'

'Aloft with you, we shall run into the ice lead and work ahead of the whales.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Drinkwater looked at the compass.

'Steer west by north.'

'West by north, sir… west by north it is, sir.'

'Sheet home there! Belay!' Rispin at last pronounced topgallants hoisted.

'Square the yards, Mr Rispin, course west by north.'

Rispin acknowledged the order and his voice rose again as he bawled through the trumpet.

'After guard and marines to the weather mainbrace! Forebrace there! Bosun's mate start those men aft here! Haul in the main brace, pull together damn you and mind the weather roll! That's very well with the main yard! Belay there! Belay! Belay the fore-yard, don't come up any…!'

It went on for some minutes before Mr Rispin, fussing under his captain's eye, was satisfied with the trim of the yards and Melusine had already gathered way. From her leeward position she was up among the whalers and their boats now. Two boat-flags were already up, with Narwhal's colours on them, Drinkwater noticed. He raised his hat to Harvey's mate who conned the whaler while his commander was out after the fish. He saluted Abel Sawyers as Melusine swept past the Quaker in his boat, his men pulling furiously to catch a great bull whale a musket shot on the sloop's starboard bow. Then they were in among the whales, the air misty with their breathing, a foetid taint to it. The humps of the shining backs, the flick of a great tail and once a reappearance of that great ugly-noble head as it sluiced the water through the baleen in an ecstasy of surfeit.

'Beat to quarters, Mr Rispin,' Drinkwater said it quietly, watching the young officer's reaction. He noted the surprise and the hesitation and then the acknowledgement.

Pipes squealed again and the marine drummer began to beat the rafale. Men ran to their stations and knelt by the guns, the officers and midshipmen drew their dirks and swords and the gun-captains raised their hands as their guns became ready.

'Sail trimmers, Mr Hill. We'll heave-to and fire a broadside ahead of the leading whales!' Hill was at his station and had relieved Rispin. There was now an economy of orders as Hill deployed the men chosen to trim the Melusine's sails and spars in action. Bourne too was beside him, ready to pass orders to the batteries. 'Load ball, Mr Bourne, all guns at maximum depression, both broadsides to be ready.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Melusine had entered the lead now. On either side the backs of whales still emerged, their huge tails slowly thrusting the water as they drove majestically along. Beyond the whales, close to larboard and some miles distant to starboard, the ice edge glittered in the sunlight, full of diamond brilliants shading to blue shadows with green slime along the waterline.

He was aware of Mr Singleton on the quarterdeck. 'Should you not be at your station?' he asked mildly.

'I beg your pardon, sir, I took it to be another of these interminable manoeuvres that…'

'Never mind, never mind. You may watch now you are here.'

Singleton turned to see Meetuck pointing excitedly from the fo'c's'le as a female whale rolled luxuriously on her side, exposing her nipple for her calf. 'It seems scarcely right to kill these magnificent creatures,' he muttered to himself, remembering the Benedicite. The mother and calf fell astern.

'Down helm, Mr Hill, you may heave the ship to…' There were more orders and Melusine swung to starboard, easing her speed through the water to a standstill.

'Larboard battery! Make ready!' The arms went up and he nodded to Bourne.

'Fire!'

The broadside erupted in smoke and flame with a roar that made the ears tingle. The balls raised splashes, a cable to leeward where two big whales had been seen. Through the drifting smoke Drinkwater saw one huge fluke lift itself for a moment as the whale dived, but he had no idea whether he had reversed its course.

'Reload!' There was a furious and excited activity along the larboard waist. There was nothing to compare with firing their brute artillery that so delighted the men, officers and ratings alike.

'You may give them another broadside, Mr Bourne.'

Again the arms went up and again the shots dropped ahead of the whales. Drinkwater turned to starboard, to look back up the strait. The whalers were three miles away and between them and the Melusine was a most extraordinary sight. The sea seemed to boil with action. He could see more than a dozen boats. Three were under tow by harpooned whales, others were in the act of striking, their harpooners up in the bows as the tense steersmen brought their flimsy oars into the mass of whales that had now taken alarm and were swimming south-west, along the line of the lead. Beyond these two boats crews were lancing their catches, probing for the lives of the great beasts as their victims rolled and thrashed the water with their great tails. Through his glass Drinkwater could see the foam of their death agonies tinged with blood. A few flags were up on dead carcases and these were either under tow to the whalers or awaiting the few boats that could be spared for this task.

Drinkwater saw at once that he could not fire his starboard guns without endangering the boats but their crews were excitedly awaiting the order that would send their shot in amongst the whales.

'By God,' he heard Walmsley mutter to Glencross, 'this is better than partridge.'

'Secure the starboard guns, Mr Bourne, and draw the charges!' He heard the mutter of disappointment from the starbowlines. 'Silence there!'

A new danger suddenly occurred to him. The sloop lay in the path of the advancing animals. The death of some of their number had communicated an alarm to the others and their motion was full of turbulent urgency. He did not wish to think what effect one of those bluff heads would have upon Melusine's hull. 'Haul the mainyard, Mr Hill and put the ship before the wind…' Hill grasped the sudden danger and Melusine turned slowly to larboard as she again gathered headway. She had hardly swung, presenting her stern to the onrushing whales when their attention was attracted by shouts to the south, to larboard. One of the boats that had been fast to a fish had been dashed to fragments on the ice edge two miles away as the tortured beast had dived under the ice. The alarm had been raised by another boat, towing past Melusine's stern, who hailed the sloop to request her rendering assistance and allowing them to hold onto their whale. It was while clearing away the quarterboat that the whale struck them. A large gravid female in the last stages of her pregnancy had been terrified by the slaughter astern of her. The ship shook and the stunned animal rolled out from under the quarter, almost directly beneath the boat. Her astonished crew, half-way down to the water's surface looked down into the tiny eye of the monster. The whale spouted, then dived, her flukes hitting the keel of the suspended boat but not upsetting it.

A few minutes later, under the command of Acting Lieutenant Gorton the boat was pulling across a roil of water, avoiding the retreating whales with difficulty, on her way to rescue the crew of the smashed whale-boat. It did not appear that Melusine had suffered any damage from the collision.

The whalers hunted their quarry for fifty hours while the sun culminated and then began its slow unfinished setting, its azimuth altering round the horizon to rise again to each of two successive noons. Melusine was quite unable to stem the escape of the whales and in the end Drinkwater agreed to the boats securing their captured whales to her sides.

'As fenders!' Harvey had hailed, his eyes dark and sunken in his head with the fatigue of the chase, 'in case the ice closes on you!' The jest was made as he went in pursuit of his eighth whale, his cargo almost complete. Now the five ships lay secured along the ice edge on the northern side of the lead, tied up as though moored to a quay, their head and stern lines secured to ice anchors. Each had a pair of whales alongside, between hull and ice, while rafted outboard in tier after tier lay the remainder of the catch. While Melusine's company stood watch, the exhausted whalers turned below to sleep before the flensing began. They had taken more than thirty whales between them and the labour of cutting up the blubber and packing it in casks took a further two days of strenuous effort.

Melusine's midshipmen went out on the ice with Mount and a party of marines and took some more seals, returning to the ship to pick off the brown sharks that clustered round the whale corpses as they sank after flensing. The fine weather held and the whale-captains expressed their good fortune, accepting an invitation to dine with Drinkwater the instant the flensing was completed. Even Sawyers seemed to be un-Quakerishly cheerful, and Drinkwater, anticipating an early departure from the Greenland Sea, ordered Tregembo to get Palgrave's carvers, silver and plate out of storage.

The high good humour that seemed to infect them all after the success of the last few days allayed his worries about the possible closure of the ice. Besides, he twice-daily ascended the mainmast to the crow's nest, spending as much as half an hour aloft with the big watch glass and making note of the bearings of familiar ice hummocks with a pocket compass. The variation in their positions was minimal, the movement of the ice, like the weather, seemed suspended in their favour. His own natural suspicions, those fine tunings of his seaman's senses, were blunted by the triumphant confidence of Harvey, Renaudson, Sawyers and Atkinson of the Truelove.

As they gathered in Drinkwater's cabin sipping from tankards of mimbo, a hot rum punch that Cawkwell concocted out of unlikely materials, their elation was clear. So great had been their success that the customary jealousy of one whaler who had done less well than his more fortunate colleague was absent. It was true that Harvey's harpoon gun had proved its value, netting him the largest number of whales, but he endured only mild rebukes from Sawyers who claimed the method un-Godly.

'Never a season like it, Captain,' Renaudson said, his face red from the heat in the cabin and the effects of the mimbo. 'Abel bleats about God like your black-coated parson,' he nodded in Singleton's direction, 'but 'tis luck, really. A man may fish the Greenland Seas for a lifetime, like, then, ee,' he shook his head slightly, a small grin of disbelief in his good fortune crossing his broad, sweating features, 'his luck changes like this.' He became suddenly serious. 'Mind you, Captain, it'll not happen again. No. Not in my lifetime, any road. I've seen the best and quickest catch I'm ever likely to make and I doubt my son'll see owt like it himself, not if he fishes for twenty year'n more. Abel's lucky there, both him and his son together in one great hunt.' He drained the tankard. 'I see tha's children of thee own, Captain.' He nodded at the portraits on the bulkhead, his accent thickening as he drank.

'Yes,' said Drinkwater, sipping the mimbo more cautiously. It was not a drink he greatly cared for, but his stocks of good wine were almost exhausted and Cawkwell had suggested that he served a rum punch to warm his guests. Harvey joined them.

'Ee, Captain, your guns weren't as much good as mine.' He grinned, clearly happy that his beloved harpoon gun had established its reputation for the swift murder of mysticetae. 'I shall patent the modifications I've made and make my fortune twice over from this voyage.' He nudged Renaudson. 'Get th'self a Harvey's patent harpoon gun for next season, Thomas, then th'can shoot whales instead of farting at them.' The dialect was thick between them and Drinkwater turned away, nodding to Atkinson, a small, active man with a lick of dark hair over his forehead, who was talking to Mr Gorton. Drinkwater had invited only Hill, Singleton and the lieutenants to the meal, there was insufficient room for midshipmen. Besides, he knew the whalemen would not want the intrusion of young gentlemen at their celebrations.

He found himself confronted by Singleton's blue jaw. His sobriety was disquieting amongst all the merriment. 'Good evening, Mr Singleton.'

'Good evening, sir. A word if you please?'

'Of course.'

'I deduce this gathering is to mark the successful conclusion of the fishery.'

'So it would appear. Is that not so, Captain Sawyers?' He turned to the Quaker who had, as a mark of the relaxation of the occasion, removed his hat.

'Indeed it is, although a few of us have an empty cask or two left. The Lord has provided of his bounty…'

'Amen,' broke in Singleton, who seemed to have some purpose in his abruptness. 'Then may I ask, sir, when you intend landing me?'

'Landing thee…?' Sawyers seemed astonished and Drinkwater again explained for Sawyers's benefit.

'It seems the Almighty smiles upon all our endeavours then, Friend,' he said addressing Singleton, 'and perhaps thine own more than ours.' He smiled. 'This lead towards the south-west will bring you close to the coast of East Greenland, somewhere about latitude seventy. I have heard the coast is ice-free thereabouts, although I have never seen it close-to myself. You may see the mountain peaks in clear weather for a good distance. Nunataks, the eskimos call them…'

'Then we had better land you,' Drinkwater said to Singleton, 'but I am still uncertain of the wisdom of following this lead into the ice shelf. Do you not think it might prove a cul-de-sac?'

Sawyers shook his head. 'No, the fish would not have entered it if some instinct had not told them that the krill upon which they feed were rich here, and that open water did not exist ahead of them…'

'But surely,' Singleton put in, his scientific mind engaged now, 'the whales may dive beneath the ice. My observations while you have been hunting them show they can go prodigious deep.'

'No, Friend,' Sawyers smiled, 'their need of air and their instinct will not persuade them to dive beneath such an ice shelf as we have about us now. Surely,' he said with a touch of irony, the dissenter gently teasing the man of established religion, 'surely thou sawest how, even in their terror, they made no attempt to swim under the ice?'

Singleton flushed at the mocking of his intelligence. Sawyers mollified him. 'But perhaps in the confusion of the gun smoke thine eyes were misled. No, mysticetus will dive only under floes in the open sea and beneath bay ice through which he breaks to inhale…'

'Bay ice?' queried Drinkwater.

'A first freezing of the sea, Captain, through which he may appear with a sudden and majestic entrance…'

They sat to dinner, cod, and whale meat steaks with dried peas and a little sauerkraut for those who wanted it, all washed down with the last bottles of half-decent claret that Tregembo had warmed slightly in the galley. As was usual in the gloom of the cabin despite the low sunshine outside, Drinkwater had had the candles lit and the spectacle of such a meal etched itself indelibly upon his mind. Alternating round the table the whale-ship masters and the naval officers made an incongruous group. In eccentric varieties of their official uniform the lieutenant and the master agreed only in their coats. Beneath these they wore mufflers, guernseys and an assortment of odd shirts. Gorton, presumably slightly over-awed to be included in the company, wore shirt and stock in the prescribed manner, but this was clearly over some woollen garment of indeterminate shape and he presented the appearance of a pouter pigeon. The whale-captains were more fantastic, their garb a mixture of formality, practicality and individual choice.

Sawyers, with the rigidity of his sect, appeared the most formal, clearly possessing a thick set of undergarments. His waistcoat and coat were of the heaviest broadcloth and he wore a woollen muffler. Renaudson, on the other hand, marked the perigee of Arctic elegance, in seal-skin breeches over yellow stockings, a stained mustard waistcoat and a greasy jacket, cut short at the waist and made of some nondescript fur that might once have been a seal or a walrus. Atkinson was similarly equipped, although his clothes seemed a little cleaner and he had put on fresh neck-linen for the occasion, while Harvey, his neckerchief filthy, sported a brass-buttoned pilot jacket. Drinkwater himself wore two shirts over woollen underwear, his undress uniform coat almost as salt-stained as Harvey's pilot jacket. But he was pleased with the evening. The conviviality was infectious, the wine warming and the steaks without equal to an appetite sharpened by cold.

The conversation was of whales, of whale-ships and captains, of harpooners and speksioneers and the profits of owners. There were brief, good-natured arguments as one challenged the claims of another. For the most part the whalers dominated the conversation, the young naval officers, under the eye of their commander and overwhelmed by the ebullience of their guests, playing a passive part. But Drinkwater did hear Singleton exchanging stories of the eskimos with Atkinson who seemed to have met them whilst sealing, and they were debating the reasons why they took their meat raw, when methods of cooking it had been shown to them on many occasions. Thus preoccupied he was suddenly recalled by Sawyers on his right. Above the din Sawyers had been shouting at him to catch his attention.

'I beg your pardon, Captain, I was distracted. What was it you were saying?'

'That thy guns were of little use, Friend.'

'In the matter of stopping the whales? Oh, no… very little, but it allowed my people to share the excitement a little, although,' he recollected with the boyish grin that countered the serious cast to his cock-headed features, 'I think that my order to secure the starboard guns without them being fired, near sparked a mutiny'

'That was not quite what I meant, Friend. I had said that we had no need of thy guns, that thy presence here has proved unnecessary. Oh, I mean no offence, but whatever hobgoblins the enemy were supposed to have in the Arctic seas have proved imaginary.'

Drinkwater smiled over the rim of his glass as he drained it, leaning back so that Cawkwell could refill it. 'So it would seem…'

'Sir! Sir!' Midshipman Frey's face appeared at the opposite end of the table and the conversation died away.

'Narwhal, sir! Narwhal's taken fire…!'

Chapter Twelve Fortune's Sharp Adversity

From Melusine's deck they saw Narwhal already blazing like a torch. Great gouts of flame bellied from her hold and tongues of fire leapt into the rigging. She was moored beyond Truelove, ahead of the sloop, and her crew could be seen rushing down upon the ice. For a second the diners stood as though stunned, then they made for the gangplank onto the ice, led by Harvey.

Pausing only to call for all hands and the preparation of the ship's fire-engine, Drinkwater followed, impelled by some irrational force that caused him to do anything but stand in idleness. Men were pouring down Truelove's gangplank unrolling a canvas hose that was obviously too short to reach much beyond the' barque's bowsprit. As he came abreast of Narwhal's stern and among the milling of her crew, Drinkwater realised they were mostly drunk. Harvey was roaring abuse at them, his face demonic in his rage, lit by a blaze that spewed huge gobbets of flame into the sky as casks of whale kreng exploded. Harvey struck two men in his agony before he turned to his ship. He staggered forward into the orange circle of heat where the ice gleamed as it melted, holding his arms up before his face. He was still shouting, something more persistent than abuse, and Drinkwater was about to start after him when Bourne and Quilhampton arrived with a party of marines and seamen lugging the fire-engine.

'Just coming, sir!'

'Suction into the sea, Mr Q! And get two jets playing on the gangplank…'

To save the ship was clearly impossible, but there seemed some doubt among the men assembled on the ice as to the whereabouts of two or three of Narwhal's company.

Harvey had already reached the gangplank and edged cautiously forward. Above his head the mainyard was ablaze, the furled canvas of the sail burning furiously. Ahead of him the main hatchway vented flame like a perpetually firing mortar and the deck planks could be seen lifting and curling back. The bulwarks had yet to catch and Harvey reached their shelter, hanging outboard of them and peering over the rail. Drinkwater stepped forward and the heat hit him, searing his eyes so that he stopped in his tracks. It was intense and the roaring of the fire deafening.

A man was crouching beside Drinkwater and he turned to see the marine Polesworth pointing the nozzle of the hose and shouting behind him to the men at the handles. The gurgle of the pump was inaudible and the jet, when it came in spurts to start with, quite inadequate. He felt Quilhampton pulling his left arm.

'Come back, sir, come back!'

'But Harvey, James, what the hell does he think he's doing?'

'They say there's a boy still board…'

'My God! But no-one could live in that inferno!'

Quilhampton shook his head, his face scarlet in the reflection of the flames. Their feet were sinking into the melting ice as they stared at Harvey. He was attempting to make his way aft outside the hull, by way of the main chains, but the hand by which he clutched the rail was continually seared and he was making painfully slow progress. And then Drinkwater saw the object of Harvey's foolhardy rescue attempt. The figure was lit from within the cabin where the bulkheads were already burning, silhouetted against the leaded glass of the larboard quarter-gallery. By contrast to the conflagration above, Narwhal's hull was dark as lamp-black but as their eyes adjusted, the pale face with its gaping mouth pressed against the glass in a silent scream, riveted their attention.

'Polesworth! Direct your hose upon the quarter-gallery!' The marine obeyed and Drinkwater hoped he might thereby delay the fire spreading to the place. Harvey had scrambled the length of the main chains and was feeling for a footing to cross twenty feet of hull to the mizen chains. He found some plank land, a perilous footing, but he kept moving steadily aft.

'Rope, we need rope. From Truelove, Mr Q!' He saw Renaudson among the appalled crowd. 'Rope, Captain, rope from your ship!'

There was a hurried exchange of orders and men began to run towards Truelove.

Harvey gained the mizen chains and had leant outboard from their after end to find a footing on the leaded top of the quarter-gallery. But he was too late.

With a roar an explosion shook Narwhal's stern, the windows of the gallery shattered outwards and a small rag of humanity was ejected into the blackness. Harvey was blown off into the water.

As the explosion died away Drinkwater heard several voices shout that Narwhal's small powder magazine was beneath the cabin aft, and then their attention was claimed by a great cracking and splitting of wood as the mainmast, closest to the origin of the fire, burnt through and toppled slowly over onto the ice, bringing the fore and mizen masts with it. The crowd of men moved backwards in fear and when the rope arrived, Renaudson, Quilhampton and Drinkwater made their way to the edge of the ice amid burning spars. Their footing was treacherous. The surface ice was reduced to slush, slush that had no longer the sharp edge of the ice shelf. It now formed a lethal declivity into the freezing black waters of the sea.

They looked down upon Harvey's pale face, curiously blotched and appearing like the head of John the Baptist upon Salome's salver. 'Quick! The rope!'

It snaked over Drinkwater and fell alongside Harvey, but his eyes closed and he did not seem to have seen it.

'God's bones!' Drinkwater began to struggle out of his coat but Quilhampton was quicker, splashing into the water as soon as he saw what the matter was. Drinkwater hesitated a second, concerned that Quilhampton's wooden hand might hamper him, remembering his own pathetic attempts to make a bowline.

But Quilhampton needed no help. He shouted to the men on the ice and Drinkwater stumbled back up the ice-slope to get men to tail onto the line and drag Harvey and Quilhampton to safety, while Narwhal's hull finally erupted, splitting open along her top-sides as the fire consumed her.

Despite the fierce heat both rescued and rescuer were shivering. Blankets miraculously appeared and Singleton arrived with an improvised stretcher and the surgeons of the Truelove and the Narwhal herself.

In seconds Harvey and Quilhampton were on their way back to Melusine and in their wake men followed, drifting away from the fire now that there was no longer anything that could be done.

'Captain Renaudson, ah, and you, Captain Sawyers. A word if you please…' The two men approached, sober faces reflecting the glare of the fire, even though it was the midnight of an arctic summer and quite light.

'What do we do with these men, gentlemen?' Drinkwater asked.

'Hang the lubbers, God blast their bloody stupidity.' Renaudson turned on the shifty eyed and shamefaced Narwhals as they stood on the ice disconsolately, 'You should starve here, if I had my way… drunken bastards!' he said with venom.

'Steady, Friend…' put in Sawyers, putting out a restraining arm.

'A pox on your damned cant, Abel. These harlots' spawn deserve nothing…'

'You do not know that they all…'

'I do not need to know more than that Jaybez Harvey will not live to see his wife again, nay, them art shit,' and he spat for emphasis and turned away.

Drinkwater looked at the crowd of men. 'Which of you is the chief officer?'

The mate stepped forward. 'I'm the mate, Captain, John Akeroyd.'

'How did the ship catch fire?'

'I'm not certain, sir, I was below, turned in.'

'Who had the watch?' Drinkwater addressed the question to the huddle of men. There seemed to be some shoving and then a man came forward.

'Me.'

'What is your name?'

'Peter Norris, third mate… men got among the spirits, sir, there was some sort o'fight over a game o'cards… tried to stop it but it was too late…'

Drinkwater saw the raw bruising round Norris's left eye which indicated he spoke the truth. 'Hhmmm…'

'There is a custom, Friend, in the fishery,' offered Sawyers helpfully, 'that when a disaster such as this occurs the crew of the vessel lost is split up among the other vessels. Perhaps, Mr Akeroyd, thou would'st care to divide the men.' Sawyers caught Drinkwater's arm and turned him away. 'Come, Friend, this is not a naval matter.'

'But there is some degree of culpability… if Harvey should die…'

'The fishery has its own ways, Captain Drinkwater.' Sawyers was tugging him as he tried to turn back, 'Come away, they have lost everything and will go home as beggars…'

'But, damn it, Sawyers, Harvey is like to die and that boy…'

'Aye, Friend, thou mayst be right, but thou cannot flog them and they will be penitent ere long. Come.' And Drinkwater returned reluctantly to Melusine.

Rispin met him formally at the side. 'I beg pardon sir, the side-boys are…'

'Oh, damn the sideboys, Mr Rispin, where is Mr Singleton?'

'He took the injured man below, sir, with the surgeons from two of the whaling vessels, sir.'

'Thank you.'

'And sir, the wind's freshening.'

'And damn the wind too!'

Drinkwater found Quilhampton in the cockpit, a mug of mimbo before him and blankets and midshipmen close about him. He was recovering in good company and although the midshipmen drew deferentially aside Drinkwater offered Quilhampton no more than a nod and the terse observation that he had 'Done very well.'

'Bit tight with the compliments, Q, old chap,' muttered Lord Walmsley as Drinkwater moved forward to where the midshipmen's chests had been dragged into a makeshift table.

'How is he?' The three surgeons turned, grunted and bent over Harvey. The pock-marked face was crusted with burnt flesh, the beard singed and smelling foully. Alongside lay the roll of Singleton's instruments, the demi-lunes, daviers and curettes gleaming in the light of the two battle lanterns suspended from the low beams. Drinkwater looked at the palms of the hands. They were black and swollen.

Singleton straightened. 'How is he?' Drinkwater repeated the question.

'We have administered laudanum as an anodyne, Captain Drinkwater, and I am of the opinion that the wounds must be debrided without delay.'

'If you cannot agree, gentlemen,' said Drinkwater with a sudden edge to his voice addressing the whale-ships' surgeons, 'then you may leave the patient to my doctor.' The surgeon of the Narwhal looked up angrily. He was a man of nearer seventy years than sixty, Drinkwater judged.

'I've been with Cap'n Harvey these last twenty-six years, Cap'n, an' I'll not leave him…'

'Then you will hold your tongue, sir; since you have nowhere else to go, you may remain. As for you,' he turned to the other man, 'I suggest you return and offer Captain Renaudson what assistance he requires in the matter of examining those of Narwhal's crew that join Truelove.' He ignored the sullen glares in the two men's eyes. 'Now, Singleton, how is he?'

'We will debride the wounds, sir, while he is still in a state of shock, those about the face particularly, but…'

'Well…'

'Well what?'

'I have auscultated the pulmonary region and,' he paused, shaking his head, 'the trachea, the bronchia and larynx, indeed it appears the lungs themselves have been seared severely, by the intake of such hot air, sir.'

'Then there is little hope?'

'I fear not, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the Narwhal's surgeon. 'Who was the boy?'

'Cap'n Harvey's sister's son.'

Drinkwater sighed. His eye caught the edge of the circle of lamplight. A face, disembodied in the darkness of the cockpit, seemed to leer at him and for a second Drinkwater imagined himself in the presence of the personification of death. But it was only the loblolly 'boy', Skeete.

He turned in search of the fresh air of the deck, pausing at the foot of the ladder. 'You had better lie him in my cot. And you would best do your curettage in the cabin. There is more light.'

Lieutenant Rispin met him at the companion. 'Ah, sir, I was about to send for you. The wind continues to freshen, sir, and we are ranging a little.'

Drinkwater looked at the ice edge above the rail. 'Only a little, Mr Rispin, pray keep an eye upon it.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Rispin touched the fore-cock of his hat and Drinkwater fell into a furious pacing of the deck. Forward the bell struck two and the sentries called their ritual 'All's well' at hatch, companionway and entry, on fo'c's'le and stern. It was two bells in the middle watch, one o'clock in the morning, bright as day and beneath his feet another man was dying.

It was the waste that appalled him most, that and the consideration that the loss of Narwhal, though it in no way affected the Melusine directly, seemed of some significance. He had liked Harvey, a tarpaulin commander of the finest sort, able, kindly and, in the end, heroic. Drinkwater began to see Narwhal's loss as an epitome, a providential instruction, an illumination of a greater truth as he paced his few yards of scrubbed planking.

The folly of many had destroyed in a twinkling their own endeavours, a few had been victims of the consequence of this folly (for they had later learned that, in addition to the boy, two men were also missing). And one, upon whom all the responsibility had lain, was to be sacrificed; to die to no ultimate purpose, since Narwhal had been lost. Drinkwater could only feel a mounting anger at the irresponsibility of the men who had got among the spirits aboard the whaler. Renaudson had been furious with them, damning them roundly with all the obscene phrases at his disposal and yet Drinkwater began to feel a degree of anger towards himself. Perhaps he should not have had the masters to dinner; had Harvey been aboard Narwhal, his men might not have run wild. In that case Harvey would have been alive.

He clutched at his hat. 'God damn it!' he muttered to himself, suddenly mindful of his duty. Rispin had been right, the wind had an edge to it that promised more. He looked aloft, the pendant was like a bar, stretching towards the south-west as the gale began to rise from the north-east.

Drinkwater strode forward to the main rigging. Swinging himself onto the rail he began the ascent of the mainmast.

He felt the full violence of the gale by the time he reached the main top. It threatened to pluck him from the futtocks as he hung, back downwards. At the topgallant crossing, it tore at his clothes. He cursed as he struggled into the crow's nest, realising that his preoccupation had lasted too long. Commanders of ships should not indulge in morbid reflections. Even before he had levelled the long glass he knew something was wrong.

To the north-east the lead was not only filling with loose ice floes, blown into it by the gale, but it was narrower; quite noticeably narrower. The great ice raft to which they were moored which had cracked away from the shelf to the north and west of them and which was, perhaps, some fifty or sixty miles square, must have been revolving. Drinkwater tried to imagine the physical reasons for this. Had it just been the onset of the gale? Could a few hours of rising wind turn such a vast island of ice so quickly? The logic of the phenomena defeated him. What was certain was that the lead had closed to windward; he did not need take bearings to see that. He swung the glass the other way. If the ice island revolved, then surely the strait ought to open in that direction. It did not. Its'unwillingness to obey the laws of nature as he conceived them disturbed Drinkwater. He was once again confronted by his ignorance. Kicking open the trapdoor, he dangled his legs for the topgallant ratlines.

Regaining the deck and without the ceremony required by the usages of the navy, he hastened precipitately down the makeshift gangplank onto the ice. Hurrying aboard Faithful he woke Sawyers with the news. The Quaker's eyes told him what he already felt in his bones.

'Thou dids't right, Friend. Happen the Lord was about to punish our pride. We must make sail without delay and take this fair wind to the south-west. We have no need to linger. I pray thee do not delay, thy ship is not fit to withstand a single fastening in the ice. Go, go!'

The watches were swiftly alerted on the other whalers and within a few minutes the hands were being tumbled up on all the ships. Diana, the leewardmost would have to leave first, for the wind pinned them slightly onto the ice, but her sturdy sides withstood a scrape or two before her rudder bit and her head came off. Truelove's bow nudged the remnants of Narwhal that had rested, half sunk, upon a ledge of ice, and she too stood out into the lead, her hands dropping the forecourse as well as setting the topsails. Melusine followed, her spirketting grinding on Narwhal as her bow was thrust out into open water. As the hands dropped the fore-course in its buntlines it occurred to Drinkwater, as one of those savage ironies truth thrust before him, that had not Narwhal's burnt timbers lain like a fender ahead of them, the onshore wind might have pinned Melusine's hull against the ice forever.

He looked astern as Diana, Earl Percy and Provident bumped off the wreck and out into the safety of open sea. Then the six ships stood south-west, aware that the lead, once so wide and inviting, so apparently permanent and alive with whales, was already narrowing on either beam.

There was no longer any sign of a single whale.