A Brig of War

Chapter Five The Mistress Shore

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And Mr Grey…'

'Sir?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Mr Rogers!'

'Yes? What is it?'

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

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

'Yes.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'You're a bloody optimist, Drinkwater.'

'I've little choice; besides faith is said to move mountains.'

'Shit!'

Drinkwater shrugged and went aft again. Despite the work of the past hours it was as if he had left Griffiths a few moments earlier. The old Welshman appeared not to have moved, to have shrunk in on himself, almost half-asleep until one saw those hawkish eyes, staring relentlessly astern.

There was no doubt that they were losing the race. The big frigate was clearly visible, hull-up from the deck and already trying ranging shots. As yet these fell harmlessly astern. Drinkwater expressed surprise as a white plume showed in their wake eight cables away.

'He's been doing that for the past half hour,' said Griffiths. 'I think we have about two hours before we will feel the spray of those fountains upon our face and perhaps a further hour before they are striking splinters from the rail. His hands clenched the taffrail tighter as if they could protect the timber from the inevitable .

'We could swing one of the bow chasers directly astern, sir,' volunteered Drinkwater. Griffiths nodded.

'Like that cythral Santhonax did the day he shot Kestrel's topmast out of her, is it?'

'Aye.'

'We'll see. It will be no use for a while. Did Lestock in his zeal douse the galley fire?'

'I've really no idea, sir.' At the mention of the galley Drinkwater was suddenly reminded of how hungry he was.

'Well see what you can do, bach. Get some dinner into the hands. Whatever the outcome it will be the better faced on full bellies.'

Half an hour later Drinkwater was wolfing a bowl of bungoo. There was an unreal atmosphere prevailing in the gunroom where he, Lestock and Appleby were having a makeshift meal. Throughout the ship men moved with a quiet expectancy, both fearful of capture and hopeful of escape. To what degree they inclined to the one or to the other depended greatly upon temperament, and there were those lugubrious souls who had already given up all hope of the latter.

Drinkwater could not allow himself to dwell over much on defeat. Both his private fears and his professional pride demanded that he appeared confident of ultimate salvation.

'I tell you, Appleby, if those blackguards had not fouled up the starboard fore t'gallant stunsail we'd have been half a mile ahead of ourselves,' spluttered Lestock through the porridge, his nerves showing badly.

'That's rubbish, Mr Lestock,' Drinkwater said soothingly, unwilling to revive the matter. 'On occasions like this small things frequently go wrong, if it had not been the stunsail it would likely have been some other matter. Perhaps something has gone wrong on the chase to delay him a minute or two. Either way 'tis no good fretting over it.'

'It could be the horseshoe nail, nevertheless, Nat, eh?' put in Appleby, further irritating Drinkwater.

'What are you driving at?'

'On account of which the battle was lost, I paraphrase…'

'I'm well acquainted with the nursery rhyme…'

'And so you should be, my dear fellow, you are closer to 'em than I myself…'

'Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry, don't you start. There's Mr Lestock here like Job on a dung heap, Rogers on deck with a face as long as the galley funnel…'

'Then what do we do, dear boy?'

'Hope we can hold on until darkness,' said Drinkwater rising.

'Ah,' Appleby raised his hands in a gesture of mock revelation, 'the crepuscular hour…'

'And have a little faith in Madoc Griffiths, for God's sake,' snapped Drinkwater angrily.

'Ah, the Welsh wizard.'

Drinkwater left the gunroom with Lestock's jittery cackling in his ears. There were moments when Harry Appleby was infuriatingly facetious. Drinkwater knew it stemmed from Appleby's inherent disapproval of bloodshed and the illusions of glory. But at the moment he felt no tolerance for the surgeon's high-flown sentiments and realised that he shared with Rogers an abhorrence of abject surrender.

He returned to the deck to find the chasing frigate perceptibly nearer. He swore under his breath and approached Griffiths.

'Have you eaten, sir?'

'I've no stomach for food, bach.' Griffiths swivelled round, a look of pain crossing his face as the movement restored circulation to his limbs. His gouty foot struck the deck harder than he intended as he caught his balance and a torrent of Welsh invective flowed from him. Drinkwater lent him some support.

'I'm all right. Duw, but 'tis a dreadful thing, old age. Take the deck for a while, I've need to clasp the neck of a little green friend.'

He was on deck ten minutes later, smelling of sercial but with more colour in his cheeks. He cast a critical eye over the sails and nodded his satisfaction.

'It may be that the wind will drop towards sunset. That could confer a slight advantage upon us.'

It could, thought Drinkwater, but it was by no means certain. An hour later they could feel the spray upon their faces from the ranging shots that plummetted in their wake.

And the wind showed no sign of dropping.

Appleby's crepuscular hour approached at last and with it the first sign that perhaps all was not yet lost. Sunset was accompanied by rolls of cloud from the west that promised to shorten the twilight period and foretold a worsening of the weather. The brig still raced on under a press of canvas and Lestock, earlier so anxious to hoist the stunsails was now worried about furling them, rightly concluding that such an operation carried out in the dark was fraught with dreadful possibilities. The fouling of ropes at such a moment could spell disaster and Lestock voiced his misgivings to Griffiths.

'I agree with you, Mr Lestock, but I'm not concerned with stunsails.' Griffiths called Drinkwater and Rogers to him. The two lieutenants and the master joined him in staring astern.

'He will see us against the afterglow of sunset for a while yet. He'll also be expecting us to do something. I'm going back on him…' He paused, letting the import sink in. Rogers whistled quietly, Drinkwater smiled, partly out of relief that the hours of passivity were over and partly at the look of horror just visible on Lestock's face.

'Mr Lestock is quite correct about the stunsails. With the preventer backstays I've no fear for the masts. If the booms part or the sails blow out, to the devil with them, at least we've all our water and all our guns… As to the latter, Mr Rogers, I want whatever waist guns we can work double shotted at maximum elevation. You will not fire without my order upon pain of death. That will be only, I repeat only, if I suspect we have been seen. Mr Drinkwater, I want absolute silence throughout the ship. I shall flog any man who so much as breaks wind. And the topmen are to have their knives handy to cut loose anything that goes adrift or fouls aloft. Is that understood, gentlemen?'

The three officers muttered their acknowledgement. A ball struck the quarter and sent up a shower of splinters. 'Very well,' said Griffiths impassively, let us hope that in forty minutes he will not be able to see us. Make your preparations, please.'

'Down helm!'

The brig began to turn to larboard, the yards swinging round as she came on the wind. The strength of the wind was immediately apparent and sheets of stinging spray began to whip over the weather bow as she drove to windward.

'Full an' bye, larboard tack, sir,' Lestock reported, steadying himself in the darkness as Hellebore lay over under a press of canvas.

Drinkwater joined Griffiths at the rail, staring into the darkness broad on the larboard bow where the frigate must soon be visible.

'There she is, sir,' he hissed after a moment's pause, 'and by God she's turning…'

'Myndiawl!' Drinkwater was aware of the electric tension in the commander as Griffiths peered into the gloom. 'She's coming on to the wind too; d'you think she's tumbled us?'

Drinkwater did not answer. It was impossible to tell, though it seemed likely that the stranger had anticipated Griffiths's manoeuvre even if he was unable to see them.

'He must see us…'

The two vessels surged along some nine cables apart, running on near parallel courses. Drinkwater was studying the enemy, for he was now convinced the frigate was a Frenchman. Two things were apparent from the inverted image in the night glass. Hellebore had the advantage in speed, for the other was taking in his stunsails. The confusion inherent in the operation had, for the moment, slowed her. She was also growing larger, indicating she did not lie as close to the wind as her quarry. If Hellebore could cross her bow she might yet escape and such a course seemed to indicate the French captain was cautious. And then several ideas occurred to Drinkwater simultaneously. He could imagine the scene on the French cruiser's deck. The stunsails would be handled with care, men's attention would be inboard for perhaps ten minutes. And the Frenchman was going to reach across the wind and reduce sail until daylight, reckoning that whatever Hellebore did she would still be visible at daylight with hours to complete what had been started today.

He muttered his conclusions to Griffiths who pondered them for what seemed an age. 'If that is the case we would do best to wear round his stern…'

'But that means we might still encounter him tomorrow since we will be making northing,' added Drinkwater, 'whereas if we hold on we might slip to windward of him and escape.'

He heard Griffiths exhale. 'Very well,' he said at last.

There was half a mile between the two ships and still the distance lessened. At any moment they must be observed. Drinkwater looked anxiously aloft and he caught sight of a white blur that was Lestock's face. Nearby stood Dalziell and Mr Q.

Hellebore's mainmast was drawing ahead of the frigate's stem and Drinkwater could see her topgallants bunching up where the sheets were started and the buntlines gathered them up prior to furling. He was certain that his assumption was correct. But another thought struck him: one of the topmen out on those yards could not fail to see the brig close to leeward of them.

A minute later the cry of alarm was clearly heard across the three hundred yards of water that separated the two ships. Drinkwater tried to see if her lee ports were open and waited with beating heart for a wild broadside. He doubted that any of their own guns would bear. He could see Rogers looking aft, itching to give the order to fire. Lestock's fidgetting was growing unbearable while all along the deck the hands peered silently at the ghostly black and grey shape that was the enemy.

There were several shouts from the stranger and they were unmistakably French. A low murmur ran along Hellebore's deck.

'Silence there!' Drinkwater called in a low voice, trusting in their leeward position not to carry his words to the frigate. 'Mr Q. See to the hoisting of a Dutch ensign.'

A hail came over the water followed by a gunshot that whistled overhead, putting a hole in the leeward lower stunsail. A second later it tore and blew out of the bolt ropes.

The horizontal stripes of the Dutch colour caused a small delay, a moment of indecision on the enemy quarterdeck but it was not for long. The unmistakable vertical bands of the French tricolour jerked to her peak and her forward guns barked from her starboard bow. Three of the balls struck home, tearing into the hull beneath the quarterdeck making a shambles of Rogers's cabin, but not one was hit and then the brig had driven too far ahead so the enemy guns no longer bore. Eighty yards on the beam Hellebore drove past the cruiser's bowsprit.

'He's luffing, sir…'

'To give us a broadside, the bastard.' Griffiths looked along his own deck. 'Keep her full and bye Mr Lestock, I'll not lose a fathom, see.'

Drinkwater watched the French ship turn towards the wind and saw the ragged line of flashes where she fired her starboard battery. Above his head ropes parted and holes appeared in several sails, but not a spar had been hit.

'Ha!' roared Griffiths in jubilation, 'look at him, by damn!'

Drinkwater turned his attention from the fabric of Hellebore to the frigate. He could hear faint cries of alarm or anger as she luffed too far and lost way, saw her sails shiver and the flashes of a second broadside. They never remarked the fall of shot. Griffiths was grinning broadly at Drinkwater.

'Keep those stunsails aloft, mister, even if they are all blown to hell by dawn, we'll not have another chance like this.'

'Indeed not, sir. May I secure the guns and send the watch below?'

Griffiths nodded and Drinkwater heard him muttering 'Lucky by damn,' to himself.

'Mr Rogers! Secure the guns and pipe the watch below. Mr Lestock, relieve the wheel and lookout, keep her full and bye until further orders.'

Lestock acknowledged the order and Drinkwater could not resist baiting the man.

'It seems, Mr Lestock, that our opponent appeared to be the one with the lack of horseshoe nails.'

'A matter of luck, Drinkwater, nothing more.'

Drinkwater laughed, catching Rogers's eye as he came from securing his guns. 'Or of faith moving mountains, eh Samuel?'

When he looked astern again two miles separated the two ships. The French ship was again in pursuit but five minutes later she had disappeared in the first rain shower.

Daylight found them alone on an empty ocean and as the hours passed it became apparent that they had eluded their pursuer. They resumed their course, dragged the cannon back to their positions and continued their voyage. The stunsail gear needed overhauling for three booms had sprung during that night and several of the sails needed attention. A week later the even tenor of their routine had all but effaced the memory of the chase.

And then the South Atlantic surprised them a second time. At four bells in the forenoon eight days after their escape from the French cruiser a cry from the masthead summoned Drinkwater on deck.

'Deck there! Boat, sir, broad on the weather bow!'

He joined Lestock by the rail, steadying his glass against a shroud. A minute later Griffiths limped over to them.

'Well?' he growled, 'can you see it?' Both officers answered in the negative.

Patiently they scanned the tumbling waves until suddenly something held briefly in clear silhouette against the sky. It was undoubtedly a boat and for the smallest fraction of a second they could see the jagged outline of waving arms and a strip of red held up in the wind.

'On the beam, sir, there! Passing fast!' The boat was no more than half a mile from them and had already disappeared in the trough of a wave.

'Watch to wear ship, Mr Lestock. Call all hands.'

The cry was taken up as Lestock turned to pass orders through the speaking trumpet. 'I'll get up and keep an eye on 'em sir.' Without waiting for acknowledgement Drinkwater leapt into the main rigging and raced for the top. The sudden excitement lent energy to his muscles and he climbed as eagerly as any midshipman. Over on his back he went, scrambling outboard over the futtocks and up the topmast shrouds to cock his leg over the doublings at the topmasthead. Below him, her spanker brailed, Hellebore had begun her turn to starboard, the watch squaring the yards until she had the wind aft. Drinkwater looked out on the starboard beam. At first he could see nothing. The occupants of the boat might have subsided in despair and he could think of no greater agony than being passed so close by a vessel that did not sight them. Then he saw the flicker of red. Despair had turned to joy as the castaways watched the brig manoeuvre. Hellebore was still turning, the red patch nearly ahead now. Around him the yards groaned slightly in their parrels as the braces kept them trimmed.

'Keep her off the wind, sir, they are fine on the weather bow,' he yelled down.

Hellebore steadied with the wind on her beam. The watches below, summoned for whatever eventuality that might arise, were crowding excitedly forward. Drinkwater saw an arm outstretched, someone down there had spotted the boat. Mindful of his dignity he descended to the deck.

'Afterguard! Main braces! Leggo and haul!' Hellebore was hove to as the main topsail and topgallant cracked back against the mast, reining her onward rush and laying her quiet on the starboard tack some eighty yards from the boat.

They could see it clearly now as its occupants got out a couple of oars and awkwardly pulled the boat to leeward.

'Ere, there's bleeding women in it!' came a shout from forward as the Hellebores crowded the starboard rail. A number of whistles came from the men, accompanied by excited grins and the occasional obscene gesture. 'Cor ain't we lucky bastards.'

'Don't count yer luck too early, one of 'em's pulling an oar.'

'An 'hore on an oar, eh lads?'

'If them's whores the officers'll 'ave 'em!' The ribald jests were cut short by Drinkwater's 'Silence! Silence there! Belay that nonsense forward!'

He and Griffiths exchanged knowing glances. Griffiths had refused to sanction celebrations on the equator for a good reason. 'They'll dress them powder monkeys up like trollops, Nathaniel, and all manner of ideas will take root… forget it.' They had forgotten it then but now they were confronted with a worse problem.

There seemed to be three women in the boat, one of whom was a large creature whose broad back lay on an oar like a regular lighterman on his sweep. She had a wisp of scarlet stuff about her shoulders and it was the waving of this that had saved their lives. Exciting less interest there were also six scarecrows of men in the boat which bumped alongside the Hellebore. The brig's people crowded into the chains and reached down to assist. There was much eager heaving and good natured chaffing as the unfortunate survivors were hoisted aboard. ''Ere, there's a wounded hofficer 'ere.' A topman jumped down into the boat and the limp body of a red-coated infantry captain was dragged over the rail.

Appleby was called and immediately took charge of the unconscious man; in the meantime the other nine persons were lined up awkwardly on deck. They drank avidly from the beakers brought from the scuttlebutt by the solicitous seamen. The six bedraggled men consisted of two seamen and four private soldiers. The soldiers' red coats were faded by exposure to the sun and they wore no cross-belts. They were blear-eyed, the skin of their faces raw and peeled. The two seamen were in slightly better shape, their already tanned skins saving them the worst of the burning. But it was the women who received the attention of the Hellebores.

The big woman was in her forties, red-faced and tough, with forearms like hams and a tangled mass of black hair about her shoulders. She tossed her head and planted her bare feet wide on the planking. Next to her was a strikingly similar younger version, a stocky well-made girl whose ample figure was revealed by rents in the remains of a cotton dress. Her face was burnt about the bridge of her nose and slightly pockmarked.

Beside him Drinkwater heard Griffiths relieve himself of a long sigh. 'Convicts,' he muttered, and for the first time Drinkwater noted the fetter marks on their ankles. The third woman was a sharp faced shrew whose features fell away from a prominent nose. She was about thirty-five and already her dark eyes were roving over the admiring circle of men.

'Which of our men is the tailor, Mr Drinkwater?'

'Hobson, sir.'

'Then get him to cobble something up this very day to cover their nakedness; he can use flag bunting if there's nothing else, but if I see more than an ankle or a bare neck tomorrow I'll have the hide off him.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'And turn the two midshipmen out of their cabins. They can sling their hammocks in the gunroom. I want the women accommodated in their cabins,' he raised his voice, 'now you have had something to drink which of you will speak? Who are you and whence do you come from?'

'We come from His Majesty's Transport Mistress Shore, captain,' replied the big woman, clearing her throat by spitting on the spotless deck. The officers started at this act of gross impropriety for which a seaman would have had three dozen lashes. Griffiths merely raised his voice to send the off-duty watches below and to get the gobbet swabbed off His Majesty's planking.

'Do not do that again,' he said quietly, 'or I'll flog you. Now why were you adrift?'

'Ask the sojers, captain, they're the blackguards who…'

'Shut your mouth woman,' snapped one of the soldiers appearing to come out of a trance. Drinkwater guessed the poor devils had been sick as dogs in the boat while the indomitable spirit of this big woman had kept them all alive. The woman shrugged and the soldier took up the tale, shambling to a position of attention.

'Beggin' your honour's pardon, sir, but I'm Anton, sir, private soldier in the New South Wales Corps. Forming part of a detachment drafted to Botany Bay, sir. The officer wot's wounded is Captain Torrington, sir. We was aboard the Mistress Shore, sir, twenty men under the Cap'n. The main guard consisted of French emigré soldiers and some pardoned prisoners of war, sir, who had volunteered for service with the colours,' Anton turned his head to express his disapproval of such an improvident arrangement and caught himself from spitting contemptuously at the last moment. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

'Beg pardon, sir… these dogs rose one night and under a French gent called Minchin they overpowered the guard, murdered the officers of the ship and took her over.'

'You mean they overpowered the whole crew?'

'It were a surprise, sir,' Anton said defensively, 'they put twenty-nine off in the longboat and twelve of us away in the cutter… two of 'em died, sir.'

'How many days were you adrift?'

'Well, sir, I don't rightly…'

'Twenty-two, Captain,' said the big woman, 'with a small bag of biscuit and a small keg o' water.'

Griffiths turned to Drinkwater. 'Have the men berthed with the people, the soldiers to be quartered in the tops, the two seamen into the gun crews. As to the women I'll decide what to do with them tomorrow when they are presentable. In the meantime, Mr Lestock, we will now be compelled to call at the Cape.'

Drinkwater and Lestock touched their hats and moved away to attend their orders.

Manifold and strange are the duties that may befall a lieutenant in His Majesty's service, Drinkwater wrote in the long letter he was preparing for Elizabeth and that he could send now from the Cape of Good Hope. It was two days after the rescue of the survivors of the Mistress Shore. Already they had been absorbed in the routine of the ship. Drinkwater had learned something of their history. The big woman and her daughter were being transported for receiving stolen goods, offenders against the public morality who had yet thought their own virtue sacrosanct enough to have denied it to the treacherous Frenchmen. So spirited had been their resistance that Monsieur Minchin had wisely had them consigned to a boat before they tore his new found liberty to pieces. The woman was known as Big Meg and her daughter's name was Mary. They were decked out in bizarre costume by Hobson since when Big Meg was also known as 'Number Four', the greater part of her costume having been made from the black and yellow of the numeral flag.

Both Meg and her daughter adapted cheerfully to the tasks that Drinkwater gave them to keep them occupied. They chaffed cheerfully with the men and appeared to maintain their independence from any casual liaisons as Griffiths intended. This the men took in good part. There were women aboard big ships of the line, legitimate wives borne on the ship's books and of inestimable use in tending the sick. They became mothers to the men, confessors but not lovers, and stood to receive a flogging if they transgressed the iron rules that prevailed between decks. But on Hellebore a more delicate situation existed. While the women might be thought to be everybody's without actually being anybody's, while they were willing to banter with the men, their effect was salutary. Even, despite the roughness of their condition, the nature of their convictions and their intended destinations, improving both the manners and the language of the officers. Rogers paid a distant court to Miss Mary who was much improved by some crimson stuff Hobson had laid his hands on which had been tastefully piped with sunbleached codline. Opinion was apt to be kind to them: there were, after all, kindred spirits on the lower deck. If they were guilty in law there was in them no trace of flagitiousness.

Big Meg and her daughter picked oakum and scrubbed canvas, scoured mess kids, mended and washed clothes, while the third woman assisted Appleby. Her crimes were less easy to discover. A sinister air lay about her and it was darkly hinted by her companions that abortion or murder might have been at the root of her sentence of seven years transportation, rather than the procuring commonly held to be her offence. Certainly she claimed to have been a midwife and Appleby was compelled to report she had a certain aptitude in the medical field.

Knowing Appleby's distrust of the sex in general, Drinkwater was amused at his initial discomfiture at having Catherine Best as his assistant. His mates found their unenviable work lightened considerably and that in the almost constant presence of a woman. Catherine Best made sure that her presence was indispensible and whatever her lack of beauty she had a figure good enough to taunt the two men, to play one off against the other and secure for herself the attentions of both. But this was not known to the inhabitants of the gunroom.

'Ha, Harry, it is time you damned quacks had a little inconvenience in your lives,' laughed Drinkwater as he directed a thunderstruck Appleby to find employment for the woman.

'I emphatically refuse to have a damned jade among my business… if it's true she's a midwife then I don't want her on several accounts.'

'Why the devil not?'

'Perceive, my dear Nathaniel,' began Appleby as though explaining rainfall to a child, 'midwives know very little, but that little knowledge being of a fundamental nature, they are apt to regard it as a cornerstone of science and themselves as the high priestesses of arcane knowledge. Being women, and part of that great freemasonry that seeks to exclude all men from more than a passing knowledge of their privy parts, they dislike the sex for the labour they are put to on their behalf and can never tolerate a man evincing the slightest interest in the subject without prejudice .'

Drinkwater failed to follow Appleby's argument but sensed that within its reasoning lay the cause of his misogyny. He was thinking of Elizabeth and her imminent accouchement. He did not relish the thought of Elizabeth in the hands of someone like Catherine Best and hoped Mrs Quilhampton would prove a good friend to his wife when her time came. But he could not allow such private thoughts to intrude upon his duty. He was impotent to alter their fates and must surrender the outcome to Providence. For her part the woman Catherine Best attended to Captain Torrington and earned from Appleby a grudging approval.

The men who had been rescued were soon indistinguishable from Hellebore's crew, the soldiers as marines under Anton, hastily promoted to corporal. Captain Torrington emerged from his fever after a week. He had been thrust twice with a sword, in the arm and thigh. By great good fortune the hasty binding of his wounds in their own gore had saved them from putrefaction, despite the loss of blood he had suffered.

The sun continued to chase the brig into southerly latitudes so that they enjoyed an October of spring sunshine. The beautiful and unfamiliar albatrosses joined them, like giant fulmars, elegant and graceful on their huge wings. Here too they found the shearwaters last seen in the Channel, and the black and white Pintada petrels the seamen called 'Cape pigeons'.

They sighted land on the second Sunday in October, Griffiths's sonorous reading of Divine Service being rent by the cry from the masthead. At noon Lestock wrote on the slate for later transfer to his log: Fresh gales and cloudy, in second reefs, saw the Table land of the Cape of Good Hope. East and half North eight or nine leagues distant. In the afternoon they knocked the plugs out of the hawse holes and dragged the cables through to bend them on to the anchors. The following morning they closed the land, sounding as they approached, but it was the next afternoon before they let go the bowers and finally fetched an open moor in twenty-two fathoms with a sandy bottom. To the north of them reared the spectacular flat-topped massif of Table Mountain. Beneath it the white huddle of the Dutch-built township. Drinkwater reported the brig secure. The captain's leg was obviously giving him great pain.

'Very good, Mr Drinkwater. Tomorrow we will purchase what fresh vegetables we may and water ship. If any citrus fruits are available we will take them too. Do you let the purser know. As for our guests we will land them all except the seamen. They will stay. I wish the gig to be ready for me tomorrow at eight of the clock. I will call upon the Governor then; in the meantime do you direct Rogers to salute the fort.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' He turned away.

'Mr Drinkwater.'

'Sir?' Griffiths was lowering himself on to his chair, his leg stiffly extended before him. An ominous perspiration stood out on his forehead and his flesh had a greyish pallor.

'There are Indiamen inshore there, three of them. I am sure one of them will carry our mails to England.'

'Yes, sir. Thank you.'

As he sat to finish the long letter to Elizabeth the first report of the salute boomed out overhead.