The Corvette

London

'He has what?'

The First Lord of the Admiralty swung round from the window, suddenly attentive. He fixed a baleful eye on the clerk holding the bundle of papers from which he was making his routine report.

'Resigned, my Lord.'

'Resigned? Resigned, God damn and blast him! What does he think the Service is that he may resign it at a whim? Eh?'

The clerk prudently remained silent as Earl St Vincent crossed the fathom of Indian carpet that lay between the window and his desk. He leaned forward, both hands upon the desk, his face approximating the colour of the Bath ribbon that crossed his breast in anticipation of a court levée later in the morning. He looked up at Mr Templeton.

Considerably taller than the first lord, Templeton nevertheless felt his lack of stature before St Vincent. Although used to his lordship's anger, his lordship's power never failed to impress him. The earl continued, his deep frustration obvious to the clerk.

'As if I have not enough with the war renewed and the dockyards but imperfectly overhauled, that I have to teach a damned kill-buck his duty. Good God, sir, the Service is not to be trifled with like a regiment. It has become altogether too fashionable.'

St Vincent spat the word with evident distaste. Since the Peace of Amiens he had laboured to clean the dockyards of corruption, to stock them with naval stores and to end the peculation and jobbery which beset the commissariat of his rival, Sir Andrew Snape Hammond, Comptroller of the Navy and head of the powerful Navy Board. He had found suppression of mutiny in the Cadiz squadron an easier task. He could not hang every grasping malefactor who stole His Majesty's stores, nor break every profiteer in the business of supplying His Majesty's Navy. Yet his affection for his ships and their well-being demanded it, and his honest opposition to the worldliness of the London politicians had made him many enemies.

Lord St Vincent hunched his shoulders and wiped his nose on a fine linen handkerchief. Templeton knew the gesture. The explosion of St Vincent's accumulated frustration would be through the touch-hole of his office, since his opponents stopped his muzzle.

'Be so kind, Templeton, as to add upon the skin of Sir James Palgrave's file that he is not to be employed again during the present war…'

'Yes my Lord.' St Vincent turned back to the window and his contemplation of the waving tree-tops in St James's Park. It was now his only eye upon the sky he had watched from a hundred quarterdecks. Templeton waited. St Vincent considered the folly of allowing a man a post-captaincy on account of his baronetcy. He recollected Palgrave; an indifferent lieutenant with an indolent fondness for fortified wines and a touchy sense of honour. It was perhaps a result of the inconsequence of his title. St Vincent, whose own honours had been earned by merit, disliked inherited rank when it eclipsed the abilities of better men. Properly the replacement of Palgrave should not concern the First Lord. But there was a matter of some importance attached to the appointment.

Templeton coughed. 'And the Melusine, my Lord?' St Vincent remained silent. 'Bearing in mind the urgency of her orders and the intelligence…'

'Why did he resign, Templeton?' asked St Vincent suddenly.

'I do not know, my Lord.' It was not the business of the Secretary's third clerk to trade in rumour, no matter how impeccable the source, nor how fascinating it sounded in the copy-room. But Sir James's hurried departure was said to stem from an inconvenient wound acquired in an illegal duel with the master of one of the ships he had been ordered to convoy. Templeton covered his dissimulation: 'And the Melusine, my Lord? It would seem she was in your gift.'

St Vincent looked up sharply. Only recent illness, a congestive outbreak of spring catarrh among the senior clerks, and including his Lordship's secretary Benjamin Tucker, had elevated Templeton to this daily tête-à-tête with the First Lord. Templeton flushed at his presumption.

'I beg pardon, my Lord, I meant only to allude to the intelligence…'

'Quite so, the intelligence had not escaped my recollection, Templeton,' St Vincent said sharply, and added ironically, 'whom had you in mind?'

'No one, my Lord,' blustered the clerk, now thoroughly alarmed that the omniscient old man might know of his connection with Francis Germaney, first lieutenant of the Melusine.

'Then who is applying, sir? Surely we are not in want of commanders for the King's ships?'

The barb drove home. 'Indeed not, my Lord.' The clerks' office was inundated daily with letters of application for employment by half-pay captains, commanders and lieutenants. All were neatly returned from the secretary's inner sanctum where the process of advancement or rejection ground its pitiless and partial way.

'Bring me the names of the most persistent applicants within the last month, sir, and jump to it.'

Templeton escaped with the alacrity of a chastened midshipman while St Vincent, all unseeing, stared at the rolling cumulus, white above the chimneys of Downing Street.

Since the renewal of the war two weeks earlier, officers on the half-pay of unemployment had been clamouring for appointments. The lieutenant's waiting-room below him was filled with hopeful officers, a bear-pit of demands and disappointments from which the admiralty messengers would be making a fortune in small coin, God rot them. St Vincent sighed, aware that his very overhaul of the navy had caused a dangerous hiatus in the nation's defences. Now the speed with which the fleet was recommissioning was being accomplished only by a reversion to the old vices of bribery, corruption and the blind eye of official condonement. St Vincent felt overwhelmed with chagrin while his worldly enemies, no longer concerned by the First Lord's zealous honesty, smiled with cynical condescension. Templeton's return broke the old man's bitter reverie.

'Well?'

'Three, my Lord,' said Templeton, short of breath from his haste. 'There are three whose persistence has been most marked.'

'Go on, sir, go on.'

'White, my Lord, Captain Richard White…'

'Too senior for a sloop, but he must have the next forty-four, pray do you note that…'

'Very well, my Lord. Then there is Yelland. He did prodigious well at Copenhagen…'

St Vincent sniffed. Whatever Yelland had done at Copenhagen was not enough to overcome the First Lord's prejudice. Templeton, aware that his own desire to please was bordering on the effusive, contrived to temporise: 'Though of course he is only a commander…'

'Just so, Templeton. Melusine is a twenty, a post-ship. Who is the third?'

'Er… Drinkwater, my Lord. Oh I beg your pardon he is also only a commander.'

'No matter,' St Vincent mused on the name, trying to recall a face. 'Drinkwater?'

'I shall have to return…' began Templeton unhappily, but the First Lord cut him off.

'Read me his file. We may appoint him temporarily without the necessity of making him post.'

Templeton's nerve was near breaking point. In attempting to shuffle the files several papers came loose and floated down onto the rich carpet. He was beginning to regret his rapid promotion and thank his stars it was only temporary. He had forgotten all about his promises to his kinsman on the Melusine.

'Er, Nathaniel Drinkwater, my Lord, commissioned lieutenant October 1797 after Camperdown. First of the brig Hellebore sent on special service to the Red Sea by order of Lord Nelson. Lieutenant-in-command of the bomb tender Virago during the Baltic Campaign, promoted Master and Commander for his services prior to and during the battle of Copenhagen on the recommendation of both Parker and Nelson. Lately wounded in Lord Nelson's bombardment of Boulogne the same year and invalided of his wound until his present persistent application, my Lord.'

St Vincent nodded. 'I have him now. I recollect him boarding Victory in '98 off Cadiz before Nelson incurred their lordships' displeasure for sending that brig round Africa. Did he not bring back the Antigone?'

Templeton flicked the pages. 'Yes, my Lord. The Antigone, French National Frigate was purchased into the Service.'

'H'm.' St Vincent considered the matter. He remembered Mr Drinkwater was no youngster as a lieutenant in 1798. Yet St Vincent had remarked him then and had a vague recollection of a firm mouth and a pair of steady grey eyes that spoke of a quiet ability. And he had impressed both Parker and Nelson, no mean feat given the differences between the two men, whilst his record and his persistent applications marked him as an energetic officer. Maturity and energy were just the combination wanted for the Melusine if the intelligence reports were accurate. St Vincent began to cheer up. Palgrave had not been his choice, for he had commanded Melusine throughout the Peace, a fact that said more about Palgrave's influence than his ability.

'There's one other thing, my Lord,' offered Templeton, eager to re-establish his own reputation in his lordship's eyes.

'What is it?'

'Drinkwater, sir,' said the clerk, plucking the fact from the file like a low trump from a bad hand, 'has been employed on secret service before: the cutter Kestrel, my Lord, employed by Lord Dungarth's department.'

A gleam of triumph showed in St Vincent's eye. 'That clinches it, Templeton. Have a letter of appointment drawn up for my signature before eight bells… noon, Templeton, noon, and instructions for Captain Drinkwater to attend here with all despatch.' He paused reflecting. 'Desire him to wait upon me on Friday.'

'Yes, my Lord.' Templeton bent to retrieve the papers scattered about the floor. St Vincent returned to his window.

'Does one smoke a viper from his nest, Templeton?' The clerk looked up.

'Beg pardon, my Lord, but I do not know.'

'No matter, but let us see what Captain Drinkwater can manage, eh?'

'Yes, my Lord.' Templeton looked up from the carpet, aware that his lordship was no longer angry with him. He wondered if the unknown Captain Drinkwater knew that the First Lord's receiving hours were somewhat eccentric and doubted it. He reflected that there were conditions to the patronage of so punctilious a First Lord as John Jervis, Earl St Vincent.

'Be so kind as to have my carriage sent round, Templeton.'

The clerk rose, his bundle of papers clasped against his chest. 'At once, my Lord.' He was already formulating the letter to his kinsman aboard the Melusine:

My Dear Germaney,

In my diurnal consultations with his excellency The First Lord, I have arranged for your new commander to he Captain Nathaniel Drinkwater. He is not to be made post, hut appointed as Job Captain so there is hope yet for your own advancement…

Chapter One The Job Captain

'Non, m'sieur, non… Pardon,' Monsieur Bescond smote his forehead with the palm of his right hand and switched to heavily accented English. 'The shoulder, Capitaine, it must be 'igher. More… 'ow you say? Elevated.'

Drinkwater gritted his teeth. The pain in his shoulder was still maddening but it was an ache now, a manageable sensation after the agony of splintered bone and torn muscle. And he could not blame Bescond. He had voluntarily submitted himself to this rigorous daily exercise to stretch the butchered fibres of his shoulder whose scars now ran down into the right upper arm and joined the remains of an old wound given him by the French agent Santhonax. That had been in a dark alley in Sheerness the year of the Great Mutiny and he had endured the dull pain in wet or cold weather these past six years.

Monsieur Bescond, the emigre attorney turned fencing master, recalled him to his purpose. Drinkwater came on guard again and felt his sword arm trembling with the effort. The point of his foil seemed to waver violently and as Bescond stepped back he lunged suddenly lest his opponent notice the appalling quivering.

Mr Quilhampton's attention was elsewhere. The foible of Drinkwater's foil bent satisfyingly against the padding of Quilhampton's plastron.

'Bravo, M'sieur, tres bien… that was classical in its simplicity. And for you, M'sieur,' he said addressing Quilhampton and avoiding the necessity of using his name, 'you must never let your attention wander.'

Pleased with his unlooked for success Drinkwater terminated the lesson by removing his mask before Quilhampton could avenge himself.

'Were you distracted, James?' Whipping off his own mask Quilhampton nodded in the direction of the door. Drinkwater turned.

'Yes, Tregembo, what is it?'

Drinkwater peeled off his plastron and gauntlet. His shirt stuck to his lean body, still emaciated after his wounding. A few loose locks of hair had escaped the queue and were plasted down the side of his head.

'I brought it as soon as I saw the seal, zur,' rumbled the old Cornishman as he handed the packet to Drinkwater. Quilhampton caught sight of the red wafer of the Admiralty with its fouled anchor device as Drinkwater tore it open.

Waiting with quickening pulse Quilhampton regarded his old commander with mounting impatience. He saw the colour drain from Drinkwater's face so that the thin scar on the left cheek and the blue powder burns above the eye seemed abruptly conspicuous.

'What is it, m'sieur? Not bad news?' Bescond too watched anxiously. He had come to admire the thin sea-officer with the drooping shoulder and his even skinnier companion with the wooden left hand. To Bescond they personified the dogged resistance of his adopted country to the monsters beyond the Channel who had massacred his parents and driven a pitchfork into the belly of his pregnant wife.

'Mr Q,' said Drinkwater with sudden formality, ignoring the Frenchman.

'Sir?' answered Quilhampton, aware that the contents of the packet had transformed the salle d'armes into a quarterdeck.

'It seems we have a ship at last! M. Bescond, my best attentions to you, I give you good day. Tregembo, my coat! God's bones, Mr Q, I have been made a "Job Captain", appointed to a sloop of war!'

An elated James Quilhampton accompanied Drinkwater to his house in Petersfield High Street. Since his widowed mother had obtained him a midshipman's berth on the brig Hellebore, thanks to the good offices of Lieutenant Drinkwater, Quilhampton had considered himself personally bound to his senior. Slight though Drinkwater's influence was, Quilhampton recognised the fact that he had no other patron. He therefore accorded Drinkwater an absolute loyalty that was the product of his generous nature. His own mother's close ties with Elizabeth Drinkwater had made him an intimate of the house in the High Street and it had been Quilhampton who, with Mr Lettsom, late surgeon of the bomb vessel Virago, had brought Drinkwater home after his terrible wounding off Boulogne.

To Quilhampton the Drinkwater household represented 'home' more than the mean lodgings his mother maintained. Louise Quilhampton, a pretty, talkative widow assisted Elizabeth Drinkwater in a school run for the poor children of the town and surrounding villages. Her superficial qualities were a foil to Mistress Drinkwater's and she was more often to be found in the house of her friend where her frivolous chatter amused five-year-old Charlotte Amelia and the tiny and newest arrival in the Drinkwater menage, Richard Madoc.

James Quilhampton was as much part of the family as his mother had become. He had restrained Charlotte Amelia from interfering while her father sat for his portrait to the French prisoner of war, Gaston Bruilhac. And he had rescued her from a beating by Susan Tregembo, the cook, who had caught the child climbing over a fire to touch the cleverly applied worms of yellow and brown paint with which Bruilhac had painted the epaulette to mark Drinkwater's promotion to Master and Commander. That had been in the fall of the year one, when Drinkwater had returned from the Baltic and before he rejoined Lord Nelson for the fateful attack on Boulogne.

Quilhampton smiled at the recollection now as he looked at Bruilhac's creditable portrait and waited for Drinkwater to return from informing Elizabeth of their imminent departure.

That single epaulette which had so fascinated little Charlotte Amelia ought properly to have been transferred to Drinkwater's right shoulder, Quilhampton thought. Apart from concealing the drooping shoulder it was scandalous that Drinkwater had not been made post-captain for his part in extricating the boats after Nelson's daring night attack had failed. Their Lordships did not like failure and Quilhampton considered his patron had suffered because there were those in high places who were not sorry to see another of Nelson's enterprises fail.

Quilhampton shook his head, angry that even now their Lordships had stopped short of giving Drinkwater the post-rank he deserved. Allowed the title 'captain' only by courtesy, Commander Drinkwater had been made a 'Job Captain', given an acting appointment while the real commander of His Britannic Majesty's Sloop Melusine was absent. It was damned unfair, particularly after the wounding Drinkwater had suffered off Boulogne.

The young master's mate had spent hours reading to the feverish Drinkwater as he lay an invalid. And then, ironically, peace had replaced war by an uneasy truce that few thought would last but which made those who had suffered loss acutely conscious of their sacrifices. The inactivity eroded the difference in rank between the two men and replaced it with friendship. Strangers who encountered Drinkwater convalescing with energetic ascents of Butser Hill in Quilhampton's company, were apt to think them brothers. From the summit of the hill they watched the distant Channel for hours, Drinkwater constantly requesting reports on any sails sighted by Quilhampton through the telescope. And boy-like they dodged the moralising rector on his lugubrious visits.

Gaston Bruilhac had been repatriated after executing delightful portraits of Drinkwater's two children and, Quilhampton recalled, he himself had been instrumental in persuading Elizabeth to sit for hers. He turned to look at the painting. The soft brown eyes and wide mouth stared back at him. It was a good likeness, he thought. The parlour door opened and Elizabeth entered the room. She wore a high-waisted grey dress and it was clear from her breathing and her colour that the news of their departure had caught her unawares.

'So, James,' she said, 'you are party of this conspiracy that ditches us the moment war breaks out again.' She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and Quilhampton mumbled ineffectual protests. He looked from Elizabeth to Drinkwater who came in behind her. His face was immobile.

'Oh, I know very well how your minds work… You are like children…' Her voice softened. 'You are worse than children.' She turned to her husband. 'You had better find something with which to drink to your new command.' She smiled sadly as Drinkwater stepped suddenly forward and raised her hand to his lips. She seated herself and he went in search of a bottle, waving Quilhampton to a chair.

'Look after him for me James,' she said quietly. 'His wound will trouble him for many months yet, you know how tetchy he becomes when the wind is in the south-west and the weather thickens up.'

Quilhampton nodded, moved by Elizabeth's appeal.

'This is the last of Dick White's malmsey.' Drinkwater re-entered the room blowing the dust off a bottle. He was followed by the dark-haired figure of his daughter who swept into the room in a state of high excitement.

'Mama, mama! Dickon has fallen into the Tilbrook!'

'What did you say?' Elizabeth rose and Drinkwater paused in the act of drawing the cork.

'Oh, it's all right,' Charlotte said, 'Susan has him quite safe. He's all wet, though…'

'Thank God for that. How did it happen?'

'Oh, he was a damned lubber, Mama…'

'Charlotte!' Elizabeth suppressed a smile that rose unchecked on the features of the two men. 'That is no way for a young lady to speak!'

Charlotte pouted until she caught the eye of her father.

'Perhaps,' said Elizabeth, seeing the way the wind blew, 'perhaps it would be better if you two went to sea again.' And then she began to explain to Charlotte Amelia that old King George had written a letter to Papa from Windsor and that Papa was to go away again and fight the King's enemies. And James Quilhampton sipped his celebratory malmsey guiltily, aware of the reproach in Elizabeth's gentle constancy.

Captain Drinkwater eased his shoulders slightly and settled the heavy broadcloth coat more comfortably. The enlarged shoulder pad which he had had the tailor insert to support the strained and wasted muscles of his neck did not entirely disguise the misalignment of his shoulders nor the cock of his head. The heavy epaulette only emphasised his disfigurement but he nodded his satisfaction at the reflection in the mirror and pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. It wanted fifteen minutes before six in the morning. Earl St Vincent, First Lord of the Admiralty, had already been at his desk for forty-five minutes. Drinkwater swallowed the last of his coffee hitched his sword and threw his cloak round his shoulders. Picking up his hat from its box, he blew out the candle and lifted the door latch.

Three minutes later he turned west into the Strand and walked quickly through the filth towards Whitehall. He dismissed any last minute additions he should have made to the shopping list he had left with Tregembo and composed his mind for his coming interview with the First Lord. He paused only to have his shoes blacked by a skinny youth who polished them with an old wig.

As the clock at the Horse Guards, the most accurate timepiece in London, struck the hour of six he turned in through the screen wall that separated the Admiralty from the periodical rioting seamen who besieged it for want of pay. He touched two fingers to his hat brim at the sentry's salute.

Beyond the glass doors he stopped and coughed. The Admiralty messenger woke abruptly from his doze and almost fell as he rose to his feet, extricating them with difficulty from the warming drawer set in the base of his chair. This he contrived to do without too much loss of dignity before leaving the hall to announce Commander Nathaniel Drinkwater.

Earl St Vincent rose as Drinkwater was ushered into the big office. He wore an old undress uniform with the stars of his orders embroidered upon his breast.

'Captain Drinkwater, pray take a seat.' He used the courtesy title and motioned Drinkwater to an upright chair and re-seated himself. Somewhat nervously Drinkwater sat, vaguely aware of two or three portraits that stared down at him and a magnificent sea-battle that he took for a representation of the action of St Valentine's Day off Cape St Vincent.

'May I congratulate you, Captain, upon your appointment.'

'Thank you, my Lord. It was unexpected.'

'But not undeserved.'

'Your Lordship is most kind.' Drinkwater bowed awkwardly from the waist and submitted himself to the First Lord's scrutiny. St Vincent congratulated his instinct. Commander Drinkwater would be about forty years of age, he judged. The grey eyes he remembered from their brief encounter in '98, together with the high forehead and the mop of hair that gave him a still youthful appearance despite the streaks of grey at his temples. The mouth was a little compressed, hiding the fullness of the lips and deep furrows ran down from his nose to bracket its corners. Drinkwater's complexion was a trifle pale beneath its weathering but it bore the mark of combat, a thin scar down the left cheek from a sword point, St Vincent thought, together with some tiny powder burns dotted over one eye like random inkspots.

'You have quite recovered from your wound, Captain?'

'Quite, my Lord.'

'What were the circumstances of your acquiring it?'

'I commanded the bomb tender Virago, my Lord, in Lord Nelson's attack on the Invasion Flotilla in December of year one. I had gone forward in a boat to reconnoitre the position when a shell burst above the boat. Several men were regrettably lost. I was more fortunate.' Drinkwater thought of Mr Matchett dying in his arms while the pain from his own wound seeped with a curiously attenuated shock throughout his system.

St Vincent looked up from the papers on his desk. The report of Commander Drinkwater's boat expedition into Boulogne was rather different, but no matter, St Vincent liked his modesty. A hundred officers would have boasted of the night's exploit and measured the risk according to the number of corpses in their boats. Palgrave would have done that, St Vincent was certain, and the thought pleased the old man in the Tightness of his choice.

'Lord Dungarth speaks well of you, Captain.'

'Thank you, my Lord.' Drinkwater was beginning to feel uneasy, undermined by the compliments and aware that an officer with St Vincent's reputation was tardy of praise.

'You are perhaps thinking it unusual for a newly appointed sloop-captain to be interviewed by the First Lord, eh?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Indeed, my Lord.'

'The Melusine is a fine sloop, taken from the French off the Penmarcks in ninety-nine and remarkably fast. What the French call a "corvette", though I don't approve of our using the word. Not an ideal ship for her present task…'

'No, my Lord?'

'No, Captain, your old command might have been better suited. Bomb vessels have proved remarkably useful in Arctic waters…'

Drinkwater opened his mouth and thought better of it. Before he could reflect further upon this revelation St Vincent had passed on.

'But it is not intended that you should linger long in northern latitudes. Since the King's speech in March it has been clear that the Peace would not last and we have been requested by the northern whale-fishery to afford some protection to their ships. During the last war it was customary to keep a cruiser off the North Cape and another off the Faeroes during the summer months while we still traded with Russia. Now that Tsar Alexander has reopened trade this will have to be reinstated. The whale-fishery, however, is sensitive. A small cruiser, the Melusine to be exact, was long designated to the task, principally because she was in commission throughout the peace.

'Now that war has broken out again her protection is the more necessary and the Hull ships are assembled in the Humber awaiting your convoy. That is where the Melusine presently lies. Her captain has recently become, er, indisposed, and you have been appointed in his stead…'

Drinkwater nodded, listening to the First Lord and eagerly wishing that he had known his destination was the Arctic before he despatched Tregembo and Quilhampton on their shopping expeditions. But there was also a feeling that this was not the only reason that he was waiting on the First Lord.

'During the peace,' St Vincent resumed, 'the French have despatched a vast number of privateers from their ports. These letters-of-marque have been reported from all quarters, most significantly on the routes of the Indiamen and already cruisers are ordered after them. That is of no matter to us this morning…' St Vincent rose and turned to the window. Drinkwater regarded the small, hunched back of the earl and tried to catch what he was saying as he addressed his remarks to the window and the distant tree-tops of the park.

'We believe some of these private ships have left for the Greenland Sea.' St Vincent spun round, a movement that lent his words a peculiar significance. 'Destruction of the northern fishery would mean destitution to thousands, not to mention the removal of prime seamen for His Majesty's ships…' He looked significantly at Drinkwater. 'You understand, Captain?'

'Aye, my Lord, I think so.'

St Vincent continued in a more conversational tone. 'The French are masters of the war upon trade, whether it be Indiamen or whalers, Captain. This is no sinecure and I charge you to remember that, in addition to protecting the northern whale-fleet you should destroy any attempt the French make to establish their own fishery. Do you understand?'

'Yes, my Lord.'

'Good. Now your written instructions are ready for you in the copyroom. You must join Melusine in the Humber without delay but Lord Dungarth asked that you would break your fast with him in his office before you left. Good day to you, Captain Drinkwater.'

Already St Vincent was bent over the papers on his desk. Drinkwater rose, made a half-bow and went in search of Lord Dungarth.

'Nathaniel! My very warmest congratulations upon being given Melusine. Properly she is a post-ship but St Vincent won't let that stop him.'

Lord Dungarth held out his hand, his hazel eyes twinkling cordially. He motioned Drinkwater to a chair and turned to a side table, pouring coffee and lifting the lid off a serving dish. 'Collops or kidneys, my dear fellow?'

They broke their respective fasts in the companionable silence of gunroom tradition. Age was beginning to tell on the earl, but there was still a fire about the eyes that reminded Drinkwater of the naval officer he had once been; ebullient, energetic and possessed of that cool confidence of his class that so frequently degenerated into ignorant indolence. Lord Dungarth wiped his mouth with a napkin and eased his chair back, sipping his coffee and regarding his visitor over the rim of the porcelain cup.

When Drinkwater had finished his kidneys and a servant had been called to remove the remains of the meal, Dungarth offered Drinkwater a cheroot which he declined.

'Finest Deli leaf, Nathaniel, not to be found in London until this war is over.'

'I thank you, my Lord, but I have not taken tobacco above a dozen times in my life.' He paused. Dungarth did not seem eager to speak as he puffed earnestly on the long cigar. 'May I enquire whether you have any news of, er, a certain party in whom we have…'

'A mutual interest, eh?' mumbled Dungarth through the smoke. 'Yes. He is well and has undertaken a number of tasks for Vorontzoff who is much impressed by his horsemanship and writes that he is invaluable in the matter of selecting English Arabs.' Drinkwater nodded, relieved. His brother Edward, in whose escape from the noose Drinkwater had taken an active part, had a habit of falling upon his feet. 'I do not think you need concern yourself about him further.'

'No.' In the service of a powerful Russian nobleman Edward would doubtless do very well. He could never return to his native country, but he might repay some of his debt by acting as a courier, as was implied by Dungarth. Vorontzoff, a former ambassador to the Court of St James, was an anglophile and source of information to the British government.

'I am sorry you were not made post, Nathaniel. It should have happened years ago but,' Dungarth shrugged, 'things do not always take the turn we would wish.' He lapsed into silence and Drinkwater was reminded of the macabre events that had turned this once liberal man into the implacable foe of the French Republic. Returning through France from Italy where his lovely young wife had died of a puerperal fever, the mob, learning that he was an aristocrat, had desecrated her coffin and spilled the corpse upon the roadway where it had been defiled. Dungarth sighed.

'This will be a long war, Nathaniel, for France is filled with a restless energy and now that she has worked herself free of the fervour of Republican zeal we are faced with a nationalism unlikely to remain within the frontiers of France, "natural" or imposed.

'Now we have the genius of Bonaparte rising like a star out of the turmoil, different from other French leaders in that he alone seems to possess the power to unite. To inspire devotion in an army of starving men and secure the compliance of those swine in Paris is genius, Nathaniel. Who but a fated man with the devil's luck could have escaped our blockade of Egypt and returned from the humiliation of defeat to retake Italy and seize power in France, eh?'

Dungarth shook his head and stood up. He began pacing up and down, stabbing a finger at Drinkwater from time to time to make a point.

'It is to the navy that we must look, Nathaniel, to wrest the advantage from France. We must blockade her ports again and nullify her fleets. God knows we can do little with the army, except perhaps a few conjoint operations, and they have been conspicuously unsuccessful in the past. But with the Navy we can prop up our wavering allies and persuade them to persist in their refusal to bow to Paris.'

'You think it likely that Austria will ever reach an accommodation with a republic?'

'There are reports, Nathaniel, that Bonaparte would make himself king and found a dynasty. God knows, but a man like that might stoop to divorce La Josephine and marry a Hohenzollern or a Romanov, even a Hapsburg if he can dictate a peace from a position of advantage. You know damned well he reached for India.' Dungarth looked unhappily at Drinkwater who nodded.

'Yes, my Lord, you are right.'

'On land France will exhaust herself and it is our duty to outlast her.'

'But she will need to be defeated on land in the end, my Lord, and if our own forces…'

Dungarth laughed. 'The British Army? God, did you see what a shambles came out of Holland? No, the Horse Guards will achieve nothing. We must look to Russia, Nathaniel, Russia with her endless manpower supported by our subsidies and the character of Tsar Alexander to spur her on.'

'You purport to re-establish liberty, my Lord, with the aid of Russia?' Drinkwater was astonished. Enough was known of Holy Russia to mark it as a strange mixture of refinement and barbarism. Russian ships had served with the Royal Navy in the North Sea, their officers a mixture of culture and incompetence. Russian troops had served in the Dutch campaign and relations between the two armies had been strained, while Suvorov's veterans had established a name in Northern Italy as synonymous with terror as anything conceived in Paris. Only two years earlier Alexander's father, the sadistic Tsar Paul, had turned on his British ally and leagued himself with France in a megalomaniac desire to carve up Europe with Bonaparte. Although Alexander professed himself the friend of England and a Christian Prince, he was suspected of conniving at his own father's assassination.

'I am informed,' Dungarth said with heavy emphasis and a nod that implied a personal connection, 'that Tsar Alexander wishes to atone for certain sins and considers himself a most liberal prince.' Dungarth's tone was cynical.

'So Vorontzoff's man is of some use…?'

Dungarth nodded. 'Together with a certain Countess Marie Narishkine… Still, this is not pertinent to your present purpose, Nathaniel. It is more in the line of, er, shall we say, family news, eh?'

Drinkwater grinned. Clearly Edward was more than a courier and Dungarth had made him an agent in his own right. He wondered how Edward liked his new life and, recalling the man aboard the Virago, decided he would manage.

'Doubtless St Vincent mentioned that the late and unlamented Peace afforded the French every opportunity to get ships away to cruise against our trade. This is the most dangerous weapon the French can bring against our sea-power. Look at the success enjoyed by privateers in the American War. Yankees, French and Irish snapped up prizes on our own doorstep, reduced our ports to poverty, raised insurance rates to the sky and induced the merchant classes to whine until the government rocked to their belly-aching. There won't be a captain in command of an escort like yours that don't bear a burden as heavy as that of a seventy-four on blockade duty. Mark me, Nathaniel, mark me. Loss of trade is loss of confidence in the Royal Navy and, bearing in mind the effort we must sustain for the foreseeable future, that augurs very ill.

'Now, to be specific, there are some whispers lately come from sources in Brittany that a number of ships, well armed and equipped, sailed north a year ago. They have not returned, neither has any news of them. Their most obvious destination is Canada where they may make mischief for us. But no news has come from the Loyalists in New Brunswick who keep a sharp eye on our interests. Neither have they been seen in American waters…'

'Ireland?'

'Perhaps, but again, nothing. The Norwegian coast provides ample shelter for privateers and was used by the Danes before Copenhagen but I am inclined to think they lie in wait for our whalers. Two disappeared last summer and although the loss of these ships is not remarkable, indeed they may simply have wintered in the ice, there is a story of some sighting of vessels thought not to be whalers by the Hull fleet last season.'

'You mean to imply that two whalers might have been taken by French privateers during the peace?'

'I do not know, Nathaniel. I only tell you this because these ships have not been heard of since they left France bound to the northward. It is a possibility that they have wintered in a remote spot like Spitzbergen and are waiting to strike against the whale-fishery on the resumption of hostilities. It is not improbable. French enterprise has sent letters-of-marque-and-reprisal to cruise in most of the areas frequented by British merchantmen. Opportunism may sometimes have the appearance of conspiracy and most of us knew the peace would not last.'

'Do you know the force of these vessels?'

'No, I regret I do not.'

Drinkwater digested the news as Dungarth sat down again. 'There is one other thing you should know.' Dungarth broke into his thoughts.

'My Lord?'

'Captain Palgrave did not leave his command willingly.'

'I heard he was indisposed.'

'He was shot in a duel. A very foolish affair which I heard of due to the loose tongue of one of the clerks here who is related to your first lieutenant. It seems that Palgrave had some sort of altercation with one of the captains of the whalers. Nothing will be done about it, of course; Palgrave cannot afford scandal so he has resigned his command and he has enough clout to ensure the facts do not reach the ears of the Court. But it is exceedingly unusual that a merchant master should incapacitate the captain of the man-of-war assigned to give him the convoy he has been bleating for.'

'Perhaps some affair locally, my Lord, an insult, a woman…'

'I grow damnably suspicious in my old age, Nathaniel,' Dungarth smiled, 'but since you speak of women, how is Elizabeth and that charming daughter of yours. And I hear you have an heir too…'

Chapter Two The Corvette

Drinkwater leaned from the window of the mail-coach as the fresh horses were whipped up to draw them out of Barnet. Dusk was already settling on the countryside and he could make out little of the landmarks of his youth beyond the square tower of Monken Hadley church whose Rector had long ago recommended him to Captain Hope of the Cyclops.

From above his head a voice called, 'Why she flies like a frigate going large, sir.' Looking up he saw Mr Quilhampton's face excited by their speed, some eight or nine miles to the hour.

Drinkwater smiled at the young man's pleasure and drew back into the coach. Since his breakfast with Lord Dungarth it had been a busy day of letter writing and last minute purchases. There had been a brace of pistols to buy and he had invested in a chronometer and a sextant, one of Hadley's newest, which now nestled beneath his feet. They had seen the bulk of their luggage to the Black Swan at Holborn and left it in the charge of Tregembo to bring on by the slower York Stage.

He and Quilhampton had arrived at Lombard Street just in time to catch the Edinburgh Mail, tickets for which Quilhampton had purchased earlier in the day. He smiled again as he remembered the enthusiasm of Mr Quilhampton at the sight of the shining maroon and black Mails clattering in and out of the Post Office Yard, some dusty from travel, others new greased and washed, direct from Vidler's Millbank yard and ready to embark on their nocturnal journeys. The slam of the mail boxes, shouts of their coachmen and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles as their scarlet wheels spun into motion was one of affecting excitement, Drinkwater thought indulgently as he settled back into the cushions, and vastly superior to the old stage-coaches.

The lady opposite returned his smile, removing her poke bonnet to do so and Drinkwater suffered sudden embarrassment as he realised that not only had he been grinning like a fool but his knees had been in intimate contact with those of the woman for some minutes.

'You are going to join your ship, Captain?' Her Edinburgh accent was unmistakable as was the coquettish expression on her face.

'Indeed, ma'am, I am.' He coughed and readjusted his position. The woman was about sixty and surely could not suppose…

'Catriona, my niece here,' the lady's glove patted the knee of a girl in grey and white sitting in the centre of the coach, 'has been visiting with me in London, Captain, at a charming villa in Lambeth. Do you live in London, Captain?'

Drinkwater looked at the girl, but the shadow of her bonnet fell across her face and the lights would not be lit until the next stop. As she boarded the coach he remembered her as tall and slim. He inclined his head civilly in her direction.

'No, ma'am, I live elsewhere.'

'May one ask where, sir?' Drinkwater sighed. It was clear the widow was determined to extract every detail and he disliked such personal revelations. He answered evasively. 'Hampshire, ma'am.'

'Ah, Hampshire, such a fashionable county'

As Mistress MacEwan rattled on he smiled and nodded, taking stock of the other passengers. To his left an uncomfortably large man in a snuff-coloured coat was dozing, or perhaps feigning to doze and thus avoid the widow's quizzing; while to his right a soberly dressed divine struggled to read a slim volume of sermons in the fast fading light. Drinkwater suspected he, like the corpulent squire, affected his occupation to avoid the necessity of conversation.

There was, however, no doubt about the condition of the sixth occupant of the swaying coach. He was sunk in a drunken stupor, snoring gracelessly and sliding further down in his seat.

'… And at the reception given by Lady Rochford, Catriona was fortunate enough to be presented to…'

The widow MacEwan's prattle was beginning to irritate him. The overwhelming power of her nonsense was apt to give the impression that all women were as ridiculously superficial. His thoughts turned to Elizabeth and their children and the brief note he had written to her explaining the swift necessity of his departure. Elizabeth would understand, but that did not help the welling sadness that filled his heart and he cursed the weakness acquired from a long convalescence at home.

'… And then the doctor advised the poor woman to apply poultices of green hemlock leaves to her breast and to consume as many millipedes as her stomach could take in a day and the tumour was much reduced and the lady restored to health. Is that not a remarkable story, Captain? You are a married man, sir?'

Drinkwater nodded wearily, aware that the clergyman next to him had let his book fall in his lap and his head droop forward.

'Of course, sir, I knew you were, you have the unmistakable stamp of a married man and a gallant officer. My husband always said…'

Drinkwater did not attend to the late Mr MacEwan's homespun wisdom. He had a sudden image of Richard standing naked after his fall in the Tilbrook while Susan Tregembo rubbed him dry.

'… But I assure you, Captain, it was not something to smile about. She died of smallpox within a month, leaving the child an orphan…' Catriona's knee was patted a second time.

'My apologies, ma'am, I was not smiling.'

Drinkwater felt the coach slow down and a few minutes later it stopped to change horses at Hatfield. 'Your indulgence ma'am, but forgive me.' He rose and flung open the coach door, going in search of the house of office and, having returned, shouted up to Quilhampton.

'Mr Q, we will exchange for a stage or two.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Quilhampton descended. The new horses were already being put to and the guard was consulting his stage-watch. 'Half-a-minute, gentlemen.'

'Your boat cloak, Mr Q.' Drinkwater took the heavy cloak and whirled it round his shoulders. He reached inside the coach for his hat.

'I beg your forgiveness ma'am, but I am a most unsociable companion. May I present Mr Quilhampton, an officer of proven courage now serving with me. Mr Q, Mrs MacEwan.' He ignored Quilhampton's open jaw and shoved him forward. 'Have a care for the instruments.'

'Oh!' he heard Mrs MacEwan say, 'Honoured I'm sure, but Captain, the night air will affect you to no good purpose, sir and may bring on a distemper.' The speech ended in a little squeal of horror and Drinkwater grinned as he hoisted himself up. Mrs MacEwan had discovered Mr Quilhampton's wooden hand.

'All aboard!' called the guard mounting the box and raising his horn. He jammed his tricorne down on his head as the coach leapt forward. The blast of the horn covered his laughter. They had been less than the permitted five minutes in changing their horses.

Above the racing coach the sky was bright with stars. A slim, crescent moon was rising. The mail was passing through the market-garden country north of Biggleswade and the horses were stretching out. He did not encourage his fellow outsiders to converse, indeed their deference to his rank made it clear that Mr Quilhampton had been telling tall stories. He was left alone with his thoughts and dismissed those of Elizabeth and the children to concentrate upon the future. He was pleased to be appointed to the Melusine even as a 'Job Captain', a stand-in. It was a stroke of good fortune, for she would be manned by volunteers having been in service throughout the peace. All her men would be thoroughgoing seamen. The officers, however, were likely to be different, probably place-seekers and time-servers. Influence and patronage had triumphed once again, even in the short period of the Peace of Amiens. Worthy officers of humble origins had been denied appointments. Melusine was unlikely to have avoided this blight. He knew nothing about Palgrave beyond the fact that he was a baronet and had been compelled to resign his command after being seriously wounded in a duel. In the sober judgement of Nathaniel Drinkwater those two facts spoke volumes.

He shivered and then cursed the widow MacEwan for her sagacity. The night air and the cold had found the knotted muscles in his shoulder. Holding fast with one hand he searched for the flask of brandy in his tail-pocket with the other. The coach swayed as the guard rose to pierce the night with his post-horn. As he swigged the fiery liquid Drinkwater was aware of a toll-keeper wrapped in a blanket as he threw wide his toll-gate to allow the mail through.

The glorious speed of the coach seemed to speak to him of all things British and he smiled at himself, amused that such considerations still had the power to move him. His grim experience off Boulogne and the brush with death that followed had shaken his faith in providence. The ache in his shoulder further reminded him that he was going to venture into Arctic waters where he would need all the fortitude he could muster. Command of the Melusine and her charges would be his first experience of truly independent responsibility and, in that mid-night hour, he began to feel the isolation of it.

He took another swig of brandy and remembered the melancholia he had suffered after the fever of his recovery had subsided. The 'blue-devils' were an old malady, endemic among sea-officers and induced by loneliness, responsibility and, some men maintained, the enforced chastity of the life. Drinkwater was acutely conscious that he owed his full recovery from these 'megrims' to the love of his wife and friends. This thought combined with the stimulation of the brandy to raise his spirits.

Tonight he was racing to join a ship beneath a cloudless sky at what surely must be twelve miles to the hour! His thoughts ran on in a more philosophic vein, recalling Dungarth's long speech on the ambitions of France and the defence of liberty. He might talk of freedom being the goal of British policies, but at this very moment the press was out in every British sea-port, enslaving Britons for service in her Navy with as savage a hand as her landowners had appropriated and enclosed the countryside through which he was passing. The complexities of human society bewildered and exasperated Drinkwater and while his ordered mind was repelled by the nameless perfidies of politics, he was aware of the conflict it mirrored in himself.

There were many in Britain and Europe who welcomed the new order of things that had emerged from the bloody excesses of the French Revolution. Bonaparte was the foremost of these, an example of the exasperation of youth and talent at the blind intractability of vested interest. Surely Dungarth had overplayed the real danger posed by Bonaparte alone? Yet he would sail in command of his 'corvette' to drive the tricolour of France from the high seas with the same eagerness that the mail-guard consulted his watch and urged his charge through the night. He suppressed the feeling of radical zeal easily. The excitement of the night was making him foolish. He had a duty to do in protecting the Hull whale-fleet. The matter was simplicity itself.

Then a precarious sleep swallowed him, sleep that was interrupted by sudden jolts and the contraction of aching muscles, and accompanied by the memory of Elizabeth's sadness at his departure.

They broke a hurried fast at Grantham after the terrifying descent of Spitalgate Hill and by noon had crossed the Trent at Muskham. Drinkwater rode inside for a while but, assaulted again by Mrs MacEwan who seemed desirous of information regarding the 'gallant and charming Mr Quilhampton', he returned irritably to the box. He did not observe Mr Quilhampton's look of joy as he again exchanged seats and he was thoroughly worn out by the time the mail rolled into the yard of the Black Swan at York.

'And what, my dear, did you think of Mr Quilhampton?' asked Mrs MacEwan staring after the captain and the tall young officer beside him.

'I thought, Aunt,' said the young woman, removing her bonnet and shaking her red-gold hair about her shoulders, 'That he was a most personable gentleman.'

'Ahhh.' Mrs MacEwan sighed with satisfaction. 'See, my dear, he has turned…' She waved her gloved hand with frivolous affectation while Catriona simply smiled at James Quilhampton.

Drinkwater took to his bed before sunset, waiting only to instruct Quilhampton to mind the baggage and engage a conveyance to take them to Hull the following morning. Quilhampton was left to walk the streets of York alone, unable to throw off the image of Catriona MacEwan.

The good weather held. The following day being a Sunday they were obliged to hire a private chaise but the drive over the gentle hills was delightful. Drinkwater was much refreshed by his long sleep at York where, by a stroke of good fortune, he had enjoyed clean sheets. They ate at Beverly after hearing mattins in the beautiful Minster, reaching Kingston-upon-Hull at five in the afternoon.

First Lieutenant Francis Germaney stood in his cabin and passed water into the chamberpot. His eyes were screwed up tight against the pain and he cursed with quiet venom. He was certain now that 'the burns' had been contracted in a bawdy house in Kingston-upon-Hull and he wondered if Sir James Palgrave were similarly afflicted. It would serve the God-damned smell-smock right for he deserved it, that pistol ball in his guts notwithstanding.

'Oh Christ!' He saw the dark swirl of blood in the urine. And their blasted surgeon had not been sober since the morning of the duel. Not that he had been sober much before that, Germaney reflected bitterly, but there had been periods of near sobriety long enough to attend the occasional patient and maintain an appearance of duty. But now, God rot him, just when he was wanted…

Germaney resolved to swallow his pride and consult a physician without delay. Mr Surgeon Macpherson with his degree from Edinburgh could go to the devil. As he refastened his breeches his eyes fell on the letter from cousin Templeton. Commander Drinkwater's arrival was imminent and Templeton indicated that the First Lord himself was anxious to brook no further delay. Germaney reached for his coat and hat when a knock came at the door. 'What is it?'

The face of Midshipman the Lord Walmsley peered round the door.

'Mr Bourne's compliments, sir, but there's a shore-boat approaching answering the sentry's hail with "Melusine".'

'God damn!' Germaney knew well what that meant. The boat contained the new captain. 'Trying to catch us out,' he muttered.

'That's what Mr Bourne says.'

'Get out of my fucking way.'

Drinkwater folded his commission after reading it aloud and looked about him. Beneath a cloudless sky the corvette Melusine floated upon the broad, muddy Humber unruffled by any wind. Her paint and brass-work gleamed and her yards were perfectly squared. She lay among the tubby black and brown hulls of the whalers and the squat shapes of the other merchantmen and coasters at anchor off the port of Hull, a lady among drabs.

Not a rope was out of position beneath the lofty spars that rose to a ridiculous height. Named after a Breton sprite, Melusine showed all the lovely hallmarks of her French ancestry. Drinkwater's spirits soared and although he knew her for a showy thing, he could not deny her her beauty. He clamped the corners of his mouth tightly lest they betrayed his pleasure and frowned, nodding to the first lieutenant.

'Mr Germaney, I believe.'

'Your servant, sir. Welcome aboard.' Germaney removed his hat and bowed. 'May I present the officers, sir?'

Drinkwater nodded. 'Mr Bourne and Mr Rispin, sir; second and third lieutenants.' Two young officers in immaculate uniforms bowed somewhat apprehensively.

'Mr Hill, the Master…'

'Hill! Why, 'tis a pleasure to see you again. When was the last time?'

'Ninety-seven, sir, after Camperdown…' Hill was beaming, his face ruddy with broken veins and little of his fine black hair left beyond a fringe above his nape. Drinkwater remembered he had been wounded when a master's mate in the cutter Kestrel.

'How is the arm?'

'An infallible barometer signalling westerly gales, sir.' They both laughed. 'I heard you was wounded off Boulogne, sir…'

'I am a trifle sagged amidships, Mr Hill, but otherwise sound. I have an excellent second for you. May I present Mr James Quilhampton, Master's Mate, lately qualified at the Trinity House of London and a veteran of Copenhagen.' He stepped aside allowing the little knot of officers to receive Quilhampton's bow. Drinkwater turned to Germaney who resumed the introductions.

'Mr Gorton, sir, whose six years are nearly up.'

'How many have you served at sea, Mr Gorton?'

'All of them, sir,' replied the midshipman, looking Drinkwater in the eye. 'I was two years a volunteer before that, sir.' Drinkwater nodded with satisfaction. Mr Gorton seemed to possess more potential than either of the two commissioned lieutenants. He turned to the next youth, perhaps a year or two younger than Gorton.

'Lord Walmsley, sir.'

Drinkwater caught his jaw in time and merely nodded and turned to the next. Another seventeen-year-old, the Honourable Alexander Glencross essayed a bow and was received with similar frigidity. Drinkwater had the impression that neither of these two young gentlemen took their profession very seriously and was relieved to see two fairly commonplace specimens at the end of the line.

'Messrs Wickham and Dutfield, sir and Mr Frey.'

Mr Frey emerged from behind Dutfield where, Drinkwater suspected, the latter young gentleman had been holding him. Palgrave, it appeared, let his midshipmen fool about and skylark. That was all very well but it led too often to bullying and Mr Frey was a child of no more than twelve years of age.

Germaney produced a purser named Pater, a bosun and a carpenter before drawing Drinkwater's attention to a disreputable figure half hidden behind the mizenmast.

'Mr Macpherson, our surgeon.'

'Macpherson of Edinburgh, Captain,' slurred the surgeon, his face wet with perspiration, his eyes watery with rheum, 'A votre service.' Drinkwater could smell the rum at a yard distant and noted the dirty coat and stained linen.

'Lieutenant Mount, sir,' Germaney ploughed on, distracting Drinkwater from the state of the surgeon. Macpherson's shortcomings would be the subject of some conversation between captain and first lieutenant, but later, and on Germaney's terms. 'Lieutenant Mount, sir, of His Majesty's Marines.'

'Royal Marines, Mr Germaney, you should not neglect the new title.' Drinkwater indicated the blue facings of a royal regiment. 'An improvement upon the old white, Mr Mount,' he said conversationally and paced along the line of scarlet and pipe-clayed soldiers drawn up for his inspection. Mr Mount glowed with pleasure. He had spotted the glitter of gold lace a good fifteen minutes before the midshipman of the watch and had turned his men out in time to create a good impression.

'Your men do you credit, Mr Mount. I would have them all proficient marksmen to a high degree and I should like you to take charge of all the small-arms training on the ship. I have a prejudice against the junior lieutenant being responsible for the matter. He is better employed with his division and at the great guns.'

Drinkwater looked round, pleased with the obvious stir this small innovation had caused. He strode forward to stand by the larboard hance. A solitary brass carronade marked the limit of the hallowed quarterdeck of Captain Sir James Palgrave and the non-regulation addition to Melusine's long guns shone with an ostentatious polish.

'I hope, Mr Germaney,' said Drinkwater in a clear voice, 'that all this tiddley work ain't at the expense of the ship's true fighting qualities, eh?'

He was facing the men assembled in the waist and caught half a dozen swiftly suppressed grins.

'N… no, of course not, sir.'

'Very well.' He looked over the ship's company. They seemed to be made up of the usual mixture. Tow headed Scandinavians, swarthy Portuguese, three negroes, an Indian and an Arab amongst a herd of old and young from the two kingdoms and the emerald isle. 'Do your duty men and you have nothing to fear.' It was an old formula, hack words but good enough for the moment. And if it lacked inspiration it at least encapsulated all that was required of them.

'Pray take a seat, Mr Germaney.' Drinkwater hung his hat and turned to his first lieutenant. Captain Palgrave's hurried departure had made Drinkwater temporary heir to some handsome cabin furniture and a full decanter of rich malmsey.

He poured a glass for himself and the first lieutenant, aware that they had just inspected parts of the ship that he doubted Mr Germaney even knew existed.

'That cockpit, Mr Germaney, is an ill-ventilated spot at best. I want it white-washed as soon as possible. There are marks there, and in the demeanour of the young gentlemen, of a slackness that I do not like. Now, your good health.' They drank and Drinkwater looked shrewdly at the lieutenant. He was on edge, yet displayed a certain lassitude to the task of showing the captain round the ship. An officer intent on creating a good impression would have shown off some of Melusine's good points rather than ignoring them. Well, it was no matter. For the present there were more urgent considerations.

'The ship is well enough, Mr Germaney, although I withhold my full approbation until I see how her people make sail and work the guns. What I am not happy about is the surgeon.'

A surprising and noticeable interest stirred Germaney.

'Tell me,' Drinkwater continued, 'how was such a slovenly officer able to hold his position under an officer as, er, punctilious as Captain Palgrave?'

'I am not certain, sir. It seemed Sir James owed him some service or other.'

'Is the man perpetually drunk?'

Germaney brightened. Things were turning a little in his favour. 'I regret to say that that is most usually the case, sir. There is no confidence in him among the people.'

'That dees not surprise me. His instruments were filthy with rust and his loblolly boys looked perilous close to being gangrenous themselves. Come, another glass of this excellent malmsey…' Drinkwater watched the first lieutenant shrewdly. In the few hours he had been aboard much had already been made clear. He did not find the weakness of his three lieutenants comforting.

'What made your late captain leave such a taut ship, Mr Germaney?'

Germaney was beginning to relax. Captain Drinkwater seemed amiable enough: a trifle of a democrat, he suspected, and he had a few bees in his bonnet, to which his rank entitled him. But there was little to mark him as special, as Templeton had intimated. If anything he seemed inclined to tipple. Germaney drained his glass and Drinkwater refilled it.

'Oh, er, he resigned, sir. He was a man of some wealth as you see,' Germaney indicated the richness of the cabin furnishings and the french-polished panels of the forward bulkhead.

'An odd circumstance, wouldn't you say, to resign command of such a ship on the outbreak of war?'

Germaney shrugged, aware of the imputed slight. 'I was not a party to Sir James's affairs, sir.'

'Not even those most touching his honour, Mr Germaney?'

Germaney moved uneasily. 'I… I do not understand what you mean, sir.'

'I mean that I doubt if Captain Palgrave engaged in an affair of honour without the support of yourself as his second.'

'Oh, you know of that… some damned gossip hereabouts I…'

'I learned at the Admiralty, Mr Germaney, and I do not need to tell you that the news was not well received.' The implication went home. It was fairly logical to suppose that Germaney would have served as Palgrave's second in the duel. Often a first lieutenant was bound to his commander by greater ties than mere professional loyalty. It was inconceivable that a peacetime captain like Palgrave would not have had such a first lieutenant.

Germaney regretted his gossiping letter to Templeton and swore to have his cousin answer for this indiscretion. 'Was my name… am I, er… ?'

'I think,' said Drinkwater swiftly, avoiding a falsehood, 'I think that you had better tell me the precise origin of the quarrel. It seems scarcely to contribute to the service if the commander of the escort is to be called out by the masters he is sent to protect.'

'Well, sir, I er, it was difficult for me…'

'I would rather the truth from you, Mr Germaney,' said Drinkwater quietly, 'than rumour from someone else. You should remember that Hill and I are old messmates and I would not want to go behind your back because you concealed information from me.'

Germaney was pallid. The Royal proscription against duelling or participating in such affairs could be invoked against him. Palgrave had abandoned him and his thoughts would not leave the discomfort in his loins. Palgrave had his share of the responsibility for that too.

'There was an altercation in public, sir. An exchange of insults ashore between Captain Palgrave and the captain of one of the whale-ships.'

'How did this happen? Were you present?'

Germaney nodded. 'Sir James met Captain Ellerby, the master of the Nimrod, in the street. Ellerby was out walking with his daughter and there had previously been some words between him and Sir James about the delays in sailing. It is customary for the whale-ships to sail in early April to hunt seals before working into the ice in May…'

'Yes, yes, go on.'

Germaney shrugged. 'Sir James paid some exaggerated and, er, injudicious compliments to the daughter, sir, to which Ellerby took exception. He asked for a retraction at which Sir James, er…'

'Sir James what?'

'He was a little the worse for liquor, sir…'

'I should hope he was, sir, I cannot think an officer would behave in that manner sober. But come, what next? What did Sir James say?'

'He made the observation that a pretty face was fair game for a gentleman's muzzle.'

'Hardly an observation, Mr Germaney. More of a highly offensive double-entendre, wouldn't you say?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then what happened?'

'Ellerby struck him with his stick and Sir James was restrained by myself and Mr Mount. Sir James said he would call for satisfaction if Ellerby had been a gentleman and Ellerby shouted that he would meet him if only to teach a gentleman manners… And so the unhappy affair progressed. Sir James was not entirely well the following morning and though he fired first his ball miscarried. Ellerby's ball took him in the spleen.'

'So the affair was public hereabouts?'

'As public as a Quaker wedding, sir,' concluded Germaney dejectedly.

'And hushed up, I don't doubt, with public sympathy supporting Ellerby and the town council firmly behind the move, eh?'

'Yes, sir. They provided a doctor and a chaise to convey Sir James away to his seat as fast as possible. It was not difficult to persuade him to resign, though damnably difficult to stop Macpherson leaving with him. But the city fathers would not hear of it. Macpherson had become too well-known in the taverns for a loud-mouthed fool. Until you told me I had supposed the matter hushed outside the town. I stopped all shore-leave, though I expect that by now the water-folk have spread the news among the men.'

'I don't doubt it. You and Mount stood seconds, did you?'

'Mount refused, sir.'

'Ahhh.' Mount's conduct pleased Drinkwater. It must have taken considerable moral courage. 'Well, Mr Germaney, your own part in it might yet be concealed if we delay no further.'

'Thank you, sir… About the surgeon, sir. It is not right that we should make a voyage to the Arctic with such a man.'

'No.' Drinkwater refilled the glasses. Germaney's explanation made him realise the extent of his task. The whale-ship captains, already delayed by government proscription pending the outcome of developments with France, had been further held up by Palgrave's dilatoriness, to say nothing of his arrogance and offensiveness. He knew from his own orders that the Customs officers would issue the whale-ships their clearances at a nod from Melusine's captain, and he had no more desire than the whalers to wait longer. Delay increased the risk of getting fast in the ice. If that happened Melusine would crack like an egg-shell.

'But there is now no alternative. We will sail without delay. Now I desire that you send a midshipman to visit each of the whale-ships, Greenlanders they call 'emselves, don't they? He is to invite them to repair on board tomorrow forenoon and we can settle the order of sailing and our private signals. And tell the young gentleman that I would have the invitation made civilly with my cordial compliments.'

'Yes, sir,' said Germaney unhappily, 'and the surgeon?'

'Tell the surgeon,' said Drinkwater with sudden ferocity, 'that if I find him drunk I shall have him at the gratings like any common seaman.'

Two hours later Drinkwater received a round-robin signed by a dozen names stating that the whale-ship commanders 'Would rather their meeting took place ashore at the Trinity House of Kingston-upon-Hull…'

Drinkwater cursed Sir James Palgrave, annoyed that he must first set out to woo a set of cantankerous merchant masters who set the King's commission so lightly aside. Then he calmed himself and reflected they had little cause to love the Royal Navy. It plundered their ships of prime seamen, usually when they were entering the Humber and after the hardships of an Arctic voyage. There was already a Regulating Captain set up in the city with all the formal machinery of the Impress Service at his finger tips. Drinkwater remembered the story of a whaler abandoned by her entire crew off the Spurn Head as the cruising frigate hove in sight to press her crew.

No, they had no cause to love the Navy hereabouts and suddenly the vague, universal preoccupation of the justice of the present war came back to him. And as quickly was dismissed as irrelevant to the task in hand.

Chapter Three The Greenlanders

The tie-wigged usher conducted Drinkwater through the splendid corridors of the Trinity House of Kingston-upon-Hull. His previous connections with the corporation had been with the Baltic pilots it had supplied for the Copenhagen campaign two years earlier. Their performance had been disappointing and had clouded his opinions, so that he had forgotten the Arctic connection of the brotherhood.

The usher paused for a second before a heavy door from beyond which came the noise of heated argument. Drinkwater caught the phrase 'two months late' and the angrier, 'what guarantee have we of a bounty…?' Then the usher opened the door and announced him.

Drinkwater advanced into the room. He was in full dress with cocked hat and sword. The room was lit by tall windows and rushes were strewn across the plain boarded floor. Sitting and standing round a long mahogany table about two dozen men in all shades of civilian clothing turned towards him. Their complexions varied from the effects of their diet, the privations of their calling and the present heat of their passions. He was acutely aware of a wall of prejudice and remained observantly circumspect. He inclined his head.

'I give you good day, gentlemen.'

'Huh!' A huge black bearded man who sat cross-armed and truculent upon the nearer edge of the table turned his face away. Drinkwater kept his temper.

'Thou woulds't do better to keep thyself civil, Friend Jemmett.' A man in the dark green and broad-brimmed hat of a Quaker rose from a seat behind the table. He came forward and indicated an upright chair.

'Pray seat thyself, sir. I am Abel Sawyers, master of the Faithful.' The Quaker's voice was low and vibrant.

Drinkwater sat. 'I am indebted to you, Captain Sawyers.' He looked round the circle of faces. They remained overwhelmingly hostile, clearly awaiting his first move.

'I am aware, gentlemen, that there has been disruption of your intentions…'

'Some disruption!' The big, black bearded man spoke after spitting into the straw for emphasis. 'Some disruption! We are nearly two months late, too late to qualify for the bounty, God damn it! I do not expect you to give a toss for our dependents, Captain, but by God do not you try to prevent us sailing by trading our clearances against men out of our ships.'

A chorus of agreement greeted this remark. Drinkwater knew the Melusine was short of a dozen hands but the idea of pressing men out of his charges had not occurred to him. Indeed he considered the deficiency too small to worry over. It seemed that Sir James Palgrave's iniquities extended to the venal.

'Aye, Cap'n, my guns are loaded and if you sends a boat to take a single man out of my ship I swear I'll not answer for the consequences,' another cried.

A further chorus of assent was accompanied by the shaking of fists and more shouts.

'First they reduce the bounty, then they take half our press exemptions and then they order us not to sail until there is a man o'war to convoy us…'

'Bloody London jacks-in-office…'

'The festering lot of 'em should be strung up!'

'Do they think that we're fools, Captain?' roared the bearded captain, 'that we cannot see they wish to delay us only to take the men out of our ships to man the fleet now that war has broken out again.'

'Gentlemen!' Drinkwater stood and faced them. 'Gentlemen! Will you be silent God damn you!' He was angry now. It was quite likely that all they said was true. There might yet be a frigate cruising off the Spurn to relieve the Hull whale-fleet of 'surplus men', pleading the excuse that they could recruit replacements in Shetland or Orkney as they were entitled to. Drinkwater would not have been at all surprised if the authorities had it in mind, but at least his presence made it more difficult if he refused to cooperate… 'Gentlemen…'

'Friends!' The mellow roar of Sawyers beside him seemed to carry some authority over the angry Greenlanders and they eventually subsided. 'Let us hear what Captain Drinkwater has to say. He has come hither at our request. Please continue, Captain.'

'I have been to the Custom House this morning…'

'We do not want you or your damned government orders,' said the bearded Ellerby again.

'Except in the matter of bounty, friend,' put in the Quaker Sawyers quickly, which drew a hum of 'Ayes' and showed the first split in the assembly's unanimity.

'You would sail alone, Jemmett, but I could not risk an encounter with a cruiser off the Spurn. Men have been reluctant to sail this year for fear of the press. Let us see what Captain Drinkwater says about the matter of his own complement.'

Drinkwater looked at the new speaker. Dressed in brown drab he had a heavily pocked face with thin lips and snub nose which was, despite its inherent ugliness, possessed of a certain charm, enhanced by the kindness of the eyes. He caught Drinkwater's glance and bowed from his seat.

'Jaybez Harvey, Captain, master of the Narwhal.' He smiled. 'Your colleagues are too eager to press our men and pay scant regard to any exemptions…'

Drinkwater nodded and felt the need to exonerate his service. 'There is a war…'

'If there was no wars, Captain, thou knowest there woulds't be no navies to press innocent and God-fearing men from their unfortunate wives and children,' reproved the Quaker Sawyers.

'This endless debate shows no sign of ending, Captain Drinkwater. Will you tell us, when you propose to sail?' A tall man dressed in a sky-blue uniform elaborately trimmed with fur rose from his place. A similarly dressed colleague joined him and the two officers picked up lavishly trimmed hats and made for the door.

'Commander Malim and myself will await your instructions at the White Hart. Perhaps you will oblige us with your company at dinner, Captain.'

'And where are your ships, sir?' asked Drinkwater sharply, aware that the two officers, commanders of two vessels belonging to the Hudson's Bay Company, threatened to break the meeting up.

'Off Killingholme where they have been at a short scope this past sennight.'

Drinkwater restrained them from leaving as a babble of talk engulfed the whale-captains round the table.

'Be silent!' he bawled, 'may I suffer you to be silent for a moment!'

Eventually the noise diminished.

'This morning I visited the Custom House and authorised the release of your clearances.' He paused as this revelation found its mark. At last the Greenlanders fell silent. He turned to the pockmarked Harvey.

'Do I understand that it is customary to embark additional men at Shetland whether or not men are pressed out of your ships?'

Harvey nodded cautiously. 'If we are bound for the Greenland fishery. If we are bound for the Davis Strait we recruit in Orkney. We also fill up our water casks.'

'And to which fishery are you bound, gentlemen?' He looked round expecting a further outbreak of argument but apparently this matter, at least, had been brought to a conclusion.

'We have resolved that, due to the advance of the season, sir, we shall repair to the Greenland fishery. Shoulds't the fish not prove to be swimming there we may then catch some favourable effects from rounding Cape Farewell and entering the Davis Strait. But this matter we hold in abeyance, to be decided upon later by a majority and for those that wish to try the enterprise.'

'Thank you, Captain Sawyers. Then I must advise you that I cannot winter in the ice…'

'We do not need you, Captain,' said the black bearded Ellerby aggressively, 'and we shall in any case fish where the whim takes us, so do not expect us to hang upon your skirts like frightened children.'

'I have no intention of so doing. I shall require that you attend me upon the passage as I have word that there are French cruisers already at sea. I shall cruise in company with those captains who wish for my protection on grounds of their own choosing. I further propose we sail the instant we are ready. Shall we say the first of the ebb at daylight tomorrow morning?'

A murmur of surprise greeted this news and the Greenlanders debated briefly among themselves. After a while Sawyers rose.

'Thou hast our agreement.'

'Very well. You should each send a boat to the Melusine at six of the clock this evening for your written instructions. I shall include a table of signals to be used by us all for our mutual support and the direction of the convoy. The rendezvous will be Bressay Sound until the end of the first week in June. That is all, but for reminding you that I was informed in London that French private ships of war have sailed for the Polar regions, gentlemen. You may yet have need of Melusine.' Drinkwater watched for reaction to this slight exaggeration. It would do no harm to induce a little co-operation from these independent ship-masters. He was quite pleased with the result. Even the black bearded ruffian Ellerby exchanged glances of surprise with a captain near him.

Drinkwater rose and picked up his hat. The meeting broke up into groups. The Hudson Bay Company officers made for the door. The one who had spoken introduced himself as Commander Learmouth and congratulated Drinkwater on taming 'the polar bears'. He repeated his invitation to dinner which Drinkwater declined on the grounds of insufficient time. Learmouth and Malim departed and Drinkwater paused only to thank the curious Quaker Sawyers for his help.

'Thou hast an evil calling, friend, but thou dost not discredit it.' Sawyers smiled. 'And now I shall attend the Custom House and tomorrow pilot thy ship to sea.'

Drinkwater moved towards the door and found himself behind the big, bearded Greenlander. Suddenly the man turned, barring the way so that Drinkwater almost bumped into him and was forced to take a step backwards.

Drinkwater looked up at the face. Beneath the mass of dark hair and the beard he noticed a sharpness of feature and the eyes were a peculiar pale blue which caused the pupils to seem unnaturally piercing.

'Have you ever been to the polar regions, Captain?'

'No, I have not.' The big man turned to his companion, the same whaler captain who had sat next to him.

'They send a novice to protect us, God damn and blast them.' The Greenlander turned on his heel. Behind him Drinkwater was aware of other men gathered in a group. His reserve snapped.

'Captain!' There was no response and Drinkwater stepped quickly into the corridor where his voice echoed: 'Captain! '

With ponderous contempt the big man turned slowly.

'What is your name?'

The big man retraced his steps, intimidating Drinkwater with his height. 'Ellerby, Jemmett Ellerby of the Nimrod.' Drinkwater put out his hand to prevent a further dismissal.

'I understood, Captain Ellerby,' he said quickly but in a voice that carried to the curious group behind him, 'I understood you had a reputation for good manners. It seemed I was mistaken. Good day to you, gentlemen.'

'No, sir, you may not go ashore. I require the services of three midshipmen as clerks this afternoon to make copies of my orders to the convoy. You must make the final rounds of the ship to ensure that she is ready to weigh tomorrow morning. We will refill our water casks in Shetland so you may stum a few casks in readiness. Tell me, did Captain Palgrave lay in a store of practice powder?'

'Yes, sir,' replied Lieutenant Germaney unhappily.

'Good. Will you direct the purser to attend me and extend to the gunroom my invitation to dinner. Mr Quilhampton and Mr Gorton are also invited. I shall rate Mr Gorton as master's mate. As for the rest of the young gentlemen I may make their acquaintance in due course.' He turned and peered through the stern windows at the high, white mare's tails in the west.

'We shall have a westerly breeze in the morning,' he rose, 'that is all.'

'Aye, aye, sir. There is a gentleman come aboard, sir, with a trunk and God knows what besides. He has a letter of introduction and says he is to sail with us.'

Drinkwater frowned. 'Sail with us? What imposition is this?'

Germaney shrugged. 'He is in the gunroom.'

'Send him in.'

'Yes, sir… sir, may I not take an hour…?'

'God's bones, Mr Germaney, can you not take no for an answer! We are about to sail for the Arctic, you have a hundred and one things to attend to. I have no objection to your sending a midshipman ashore on an errand. Send Dutfield or Wickham, neither can write a decent hand, judging from their journals. Now where the devil is that pen…?'

Drinkwater cursed himself for a fool. In the luxury of Palgrave's cabin he had forgotten he was without half of his own necessaries. Tregembo had not yet arrived and here he was giving orders to sail!

He swore again, furious with Palgrave, Ellerby and that cabal of whale-ship masters that had distracted him. Sudden misgivings about Germaney's competence and the fitness of his ship for Polar service seized him. He had made no preparations himself, relying on those made by Palgrave. But now Palgrave's whole reputation threw doubts upon the matter. He remembered Ellerby's taunt about being a novice in Arctic navigation. His eyes fell on the decanter and he half-rose from the table when a knock came at the door.

'Yes?'

The man who entered was dressed from head to foot in black. He was about thirty years of age with hair short cropped and thinning. His features were strong and his shaved beard gave his lantern jaw a blue appearance. His brown eyes were full of confidence and his self-assurance had led him into the centre of the cabin where the skylight allowed him to draw himself up to his full height.

'I give you good day, sir. My credentials.' He handed Drinkwater a packet sealed with the fouled anchor wafer of the Admiralty. It contained a second letter and simply instructed Captain Drinkwater to afford every facility to the bearer consistent with the service he was presently engaged upon, as was set out in the bearer's letter of introduction.

Drinkwater opened the enclosed letter. It was dated from London three days earlier.

Honourable Sir,

Having been lately acquainted with Their Lordships' Intention of despatching a ship into Arctic Regions, the Governors of this body conceived it their Christian Duty to carry the word of Christ to the peoples Domiciled upon the Coasts of Greenland. It is with this purpose in mind that you are asked to convey thither the bearer of this letter, the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, D.D., M.D.

Your landing him at a Settlement of the Esquimaux, or causing him to be landed at some such Settlement, will assure you the Warmest Approbation from this Society for your furtherance in the Spread of the Christian Gospel.

The signature was illegible but was accredited to the Secretary of the Church Missionary Society.

Drinkwater put down the letter and looked up. He was beginning to feel the burden of command too great for him and the decanter beckoned seductively.

'Mr Singleton, pray take a seat. Will you take a glass of wine?' He rose.

'I do not drink intoxicating liquors, sir.' Drinkwater sat again, aware that the splendid isolation, the power and the purpose of command was, in reality, a myth. Only men like Palgrave sustained the illusion.

'Mr Singleton, are you aware of the extreme climate of the Arctic regions? Do you mean to winter there among the Eskimos?'

'I do, sir.'

'Entirely alone?'

'With God, sir,' Singleton answered with devastating simplicity. Drinkwater rose, a sense of helpless exasperation filling him. Almost defiantly he helped himself from the decanter, ignoring the disapproval in Singleton's eyes. Well damn Singleton! There would be much that Singleton did not approve of aboard a King's ship.

'But like me, Mr Singleton,' he said sipping the wine, 'you are flesh and blood.'

'Imbued with the Holy Spirit, sir, and the faith that can move mountains.'

'Let us hope,' remarked Drinkwater, 'that your faith sustains you.'

'Amen to that, sir.'

Drinkwater looked at the missionary, searching for some gleam of humour evident in the man. There was none. He was an alien amongst them, uncomprehending of their jack-ass humour, unable to understand the bawdy small talk, the rigid divisions that made a man-of-war. Singleton was an academic, a product of universities where the distilled wisdom of a thousand generations might be assimilated within the confines of a library. Drinkwater sighed and drained his glass. Singleton's insufferable self-righteousness would doubtless combine with an assumed right to criticise. That augured ill for the future and Drinkwater could see squalls ahead.

'Where have you been berthed, Mr Singleton? There is little room in the gunroom.'

'I do not think a gunroom a fit place for a missionary, sir. No, Lieutenant Germaney has permitted me to use the cockpit.'

Drinkwater could well imagine it! The harassed lieutenant would not want the intrusion of a priggish irrelevance challenging his position in the gunroom.

'I doubt you will find it to your liking, but this is a small ship and there is no alternative.'

'It is true the air is mephitic, sir, but it will be a fit preparation for my ministry. The darkness alone will condition me to the Arctic winter.'

'It was not the darkness I had in mind, Mr Singleton, but no matter. You will see soon enough.' He ignored Singleton's puzzlement and went on: 'There is one thing you should know and that is that while you remain aboard this ship you are answerable for your conduct under the Articles of War as surely as if you were truly a midshipman. You will doubtless observe things that you do not approve of. Have you ever seen a flogging, sir? No? Well, it does not matter but you must accept that the usages of the naval service will come as a surprise to you and you would do well to remember that the wooden bulwarks behind which your church so comfortably nestles, are purchased at the price of blood, sweat and indignity'

Singleton ignored this homily. 'When do you propose to land me, sir?'

'Land you? Good heavens, do not trouble me with such matters now. First I have to get these confounded ships out of this Goddamned river!'

Drinkwater saw the look of shock on Singleton's face and found that it gave him a pleasurable sensation. 'Saving your cloth, Mr Singleton,' he said ironically and added, 'I should like you to join the officers and dine with me this evening. And I should like you to make no hasty judgements about the sea service; parsons have a bad reputation at sea, far worse than that of seamen ashore.'

He rose and smiled, dismissing Singleton abruptly as another knock came at the cabin door. The purser entered.

'You sent for me, sir?'

'I did, Mr Pater… I shall see you at dinner, Mr Singleton.'

'Your man has arrived, sir,' put in the purser, 'they are swinging your baggage aboard now.'

'Excellent. Will you take a glass, Mr Pater?'

'With pleasure, sir.'

'Thou should'st address the ship's head a half-point more to starboard.'

Drinkwater nodded at Hill as the master sought his approval.

Melusine leaned slightly as the wind shifted forward a trifle as they altered course. The distant banks of the broad river were low and barely perceptible as the steeples and roofs of Hull dropped astern. Drinkwater raised his glass and studied the two vessels hoisting their topsails off Killingholme. The Hudson Bay Company's ships were superbly fitted, of a similar size to Melusine and with the appearance of sixth-rates of the smallest class. They were certainly a contrast to the squat whalers following Melusine down the river.

'Thou hast competition in the matter of elegance, Captain.'

'You object to elegance, Captain Sawyers?'

'It is irrelevant to the true meaning of life, Captain.'

'How will the Faithful fare with you piloting Melusine from the Humber?' asked Drinkwater, changing the subject and feeling preached at for the second time in as many days.

'My son is a chief mate, Captain Drinkwater, a man as skilled as myself.'

'Come, sir,' put in Drinkwater grinning, 'that is immodest!'

'Not at all. Ability is a gift from God as manifest as physical strength or the fact that I have brown hair. I do not glory in it, merely state it.'

Drinkwater felt out-manoeuvred on his own quarterdeck and turned to look astern. Alone among the whale-ships foaming in their wake, Faithful was without a garland slung between fore and mainmasts. The ancient symbol of a Greenlander's love-tokens was absent from her topgallant rigging, neither were there so many flags as were flying from the other ships. Drinkwater wondered how many of Sawyers's crew shared his gentle and sober creed. Perhaps his rumoured success at the fishery reconciled them to a lack of ostentation as was customary on sailing day.

The other ships were under no such constraint. The otherwise dull appearance of the whale-ships was enlivened by streamers, ensigns and pendants bearing their names, lovingly fashioned by their wives and sweethearts whose fluttering handkerchiefs had long since vanished. The embroidered pendant that flew from Nimrod's mainmasthead was fifty feet long, an oriflamme of scarlet, and Drinkwater could see the dominating figure of Jemmett Ellerby at the break of her poop.

Nimrod was crowding on sail and bid fair to pass Melusine as she slipped easily along at six knots, going large before the wind under her topsails and foretopmast staysail, leading the slower whalers towards the open waters of the North Sea.

'He hath the pride of Goliath before the Philistine Host,' Sawyers nodded in Ellerby's direction. 'He shall meet David at God's will.'

Drinkwater looked at the Quaker. He was not surprised that there were divisions of opinion and rifts between a group of individuals as unique as the whale-captains. Once on the fishing grounds there would be a rivalry between them that Drinkwater foresaw would make his task almost impossible. But the remark had either a touch of the venom of jealousy or of a confidence. Given what he had seen of Sawyers he doubted the man was a hypocrite and marked the remark as a proof of the Quaker's friendship. He responded.

'I am most grateful, Captain Sawyers, for your kind offer to pilot us clear of the Humber. It is an intricate navigation, given to much change, but I had not supposed that a gentleman of your persuasion would countenance boarding a King's ship.' He gestured towards the lines of cannon housed against the rail.

'Ah, but thou hast also doubtless heard how those of my persuasion, as thou has it, are not averse to profit, eh?' Sawyers smiled.

'Indeed I have,' replied Drinkwater smiling back.

'Well I shall confess to thee a love of the fishery, both for its profits and its nearness to God. It seems that thy presence is indispensable this season and so,' he shrugged, 'in order to practise my calling, sir, I have needs to assist thee to sea. Now, thou must bring her to larboard two points and square the yards before that scoundrel Ellerby forces you ashore on the Burcom.'

Nimrod was foaming up on their quarter, a huge bow wave hissing at her forefoot.

'May I give her the forecourse, sir?' asked Germaney eagerly.

'Aye, sir, he knows well enough to keep astern according to the order of sailing,' added Hill indignantly.

Drinkwater shook his head. 'This is not a race. Mr Q!'

'Sir?'

'Make to Nimrod, "Keep proper station".'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater turned his full attention to the Nimrod. She was almost level with the Melusine's mizen now, no more than a hundred feet off as she too swung to larboard.

In the waist of the sloop men milled about watching the whaler and looking aft to see the reaction of their new commander. Officers too, advised of the trial of strength taking place above, had come up from their watch below. Drinkwater saw Singleton's sober black figure watching from the rail while Mr Gorton explained what was happening.

Drinkwater felt an icy determination fill him. After the days of being put upon, of being the victim of circumstance and not its master, he secretly thanked Ellerby for this public opportunity. By God, he was damned if he would crowd an inch of canvas on his ship.

Quilhampton and little Frey were sending up the signal. It was a simple numeral, one of two score of signals he had circulated to his charges the evening before. Mr Frey had even tinted the little squared flags drawn in the margins with the colours from his water-colour box. Drinkwater smiled at the boy's keenness.

Amidships the newly joined Tregembo nudged the man next to him.

'See that, mate. When he grins like that the sparks fly.' There was renewed interest in the conduct of their captain, particularly as the Nimrod continued to surge past.

Drinkwater turned to his first lieutenant. 'Give him the larboard bow chaser unshotted, if you please.'

'Larbowlines! Spitfire battery stand by!'

It was all very modish, thought Drinkwater ruefully, the divisions told off by name as if Melusine had been a crack seventy-four. Still, the men jumped eagerly enough to their pieces. He could see the disappointment as Germaney arrived forward and stood all the guncrews down except that at the long twelve pounder in the eyes.

Germaney looked aft and Drinkwater nodded.

The gun roared and Drinkwater saw the wadding drop right ahead of Nimrod's bowsprit. But still she came on.

'Mr Germaney! Come aft!'

Germaney walked aft. 'Sir?'

'Have your topmen aloft ready to let fall the forecourse, but not before I say. Mr Rispin!' The junior lieutenant touched his hat. 'Load that brass popgun with ball. Maximum elevation.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Do you propose to fire on him, friend?' There was anxiety in Sawyers's voice.

'Merely putting a stone in David's sling,' said Drinkwater raising his glass.

'But I do not approve…'

Drinkwater ignored him. He was staring at Ellerby. The Greenlander was pointing to the men ascending Melusine's foremast and spreading out along the foreyard, casting off alternate gaskets.

'Pass me the trumpet, Mr Hill.' He took the megaphone and clambered up into the mizen rigging.

'Take station, Ellerby! do you hear me! Or take the consequences!'

He watched the big man leap into Nimrod's mizen chains and they confronted one another across eighty feet of water that sloshed and hissed between them, confused by the wash of the two ships.

'Consequences? What consequences, eh, Captain?' There was a quite audible roar of laughter from Nimrod's deck. Without climbing down Drinkwater turned his head.

'When his mainmast bears, Mr Rispin, you may open fire.'

Drinkwater felt the wave of concussion from the brass carronade at the larboard hance. The hole that appeared in Nimrod's main topsail must have opened a seam, for the sail split from head to foot. A cheer filled Melusine's waist and Drinkwater leapt inboard. 'Silence there!' he bawled. 'Give her the forecourse, Mr Germaney.'

The big sail fell in huge flogs of billowing canvas. In an instant the waisters had tailed on the sheets and hauled its clews hard down. Melusine seemed to lift in the water and start forward. Nimrod fell astern.

'Tell me, Captain Sawyers,' Drinkwater asked conversationally, 'do you throw a harpoon in person?'

'Aye, Captain, I do.'

'And cause more harm than that ball, I dare say.' Drinkwater was smiling but the Quaker's eyes were filled with a strange look.

'That was a massive pride that thou wounded, Captain Drinkwater, greater than the greatest fish in the sea.'

But Drinkwater did not hear. He was sweeping the horizon ahead, beyond the low headland of Spurn and its slim lighthouse. There were no topsails to betray the presence of a frigate cruising for men.

'Mr Hill, please to back the main topsail and heave the Faithful's boat alongside. Captain Sawyers, I am obliged to you, sir, for your assistance, but I think you may return to your ship.' He held out his hand and the Quaker shook it firmly.

'Recollect what happened to David, sir. I give you God's love.'

Chapter Four The Captain's Cloak

Captain Drinkwater nodded to his first lieutenant. 'Very well, Mr Germaney, you may secure the guns and pipe the hammocks down.' He turned to the lieutenant of the watch. 'Mr Rispin, shorten sail now and put the ship under easy canvas.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater paced aft, ignoring the stream of superfluous orders with which Mr Rispin conducted the affairs of the deck. He was tempted to conclude the young officer hid his lack of confidence beneath this apparent efficiency. It deceived no-one but himself. But in spite of misgivings about his lieutenants Drinkwater was well satisfied with the ship. Melusine handled like a yacht. He stared aft watching a fulmar quartering the wake, its sabre wings rigid as it moved with astonishing agility. He eased his shoulders beneath his coat aware that he could do with some exercise. There were other compensations besides the qualities of his former French corvette. Mr Hill, the master, had proved an able officer, explaining the measures taken in the matter of stores for the forthcoming voyage. Furthermore his two mates, Quilhampton and Gorton, seemed to be coming along well. Drinkwater was pleased with Hill's efficiency. He seemed to have assumed the duties of both sailing master and executive officer, and not for the first time Drinkwater regretted the system of patronage that promoted a man like Germaney and denied a commission to Stephen Hill.

Drinkwater turned forward and began pacing the windward side of the quarterdeck. Since they had returned Sawyers to his ship off the Spurn lighthouse the wind had held at west-northwest and they had made good progress to the north. Four more whalers had joined them from Whitby and this evening they were well to the eastward of the Firth of Forth, the convoy close hauled on the larboard tack and heading due north.

Drinkwater stopped to regard the whalers as the sun westered behind him. He could see a solitary figure on the rail of Narwhal. Taking off his hat he waved it above his head. Jaybez Harvey returned the salute and a few seconds later Drinkwater saw the feather of foam in the whaler's wake jerk closer to her stern as Harvey's men pulled in the cask at which Melusine's gunners had been firing.

It had been a good idea to practise shooting in this manner. He had been able to manoeuvre up to, cross astern of and range alongside the cask, making and taking in sail for a full six hours while Harvey maintained his course. Finally to test both their accuracy and their mettle after so protracted an exercise, he had hauled off and let the hands fire three rounds from every gun, before each battery loosed off a final, concussive broadside.

The Melusines were clearly pleased with themselves and their afternoon's work. There was nothing like firing guns to satisfy a British seaman, Drinkwater reflected, watching the usual polyglot crowd coiling the train tackles and passing the breechings. He took a final look at the convoy. One or two of the whalers had loosed off their own cannon by way of competition and Drinkwater sensed a change of mood among the whale-ship masters. It was clear that preparations were under way for the arrival at the fishing grounds and he fervently hoped the differences between them were finally sunk under a sense of unanimous purpose.

He had stationed the Hudson Bay Ships at the van and rear of the convoy where, with their unusual ensigns, they gave the impression of being additional escorts, while Melusine occupied a windward station, ready to cover any part of the convoy and from where all her signals could be seen by each ship. He turned forward and looked aloft. The topmen were securing the topgallants and he could see the midshipmen in the fore and main tops watching over the furling of the courses. He considered himself a fortunate man in having such a proficient crew. Convoy escort could frustrate a sloop captain beyond endurance but the whalers, used to sailing in company and manoeuvring with only a handful of men upon the deck while the remainder were out in the boats after whales, behaved with commendable discipline. They were clearly all determined to reach the fishing grounds without delay. Even Ellerby seemed to have accepted his humiliation off the Spurn in a good grace, although it was at Nimrod that Drinkwater first looked whenever he came on deck.

'Beg pardon, sir.'

'Mr Mount, what is it?'

'I should like to try my men at a mark, sir, when it is convenient.'

'By all means. May I suggest you retain the gunroom's empty bottles and we'll haul 'em out to the lee foreyard arm tomorrow forenoon, eh?'

'Very good, sir.'

'Have the live marines fire at the dead 'uns,[1] eh?' Mr Mount's laughter was unfeigned and, like Hill, he too inspired confidence.

'Are there any fencers in the gunroom? Mr Quilhampton and I have foils and masks and I am not averse to going a bout with a worthy challenger.'

The light of interest kindled in Mount's eye. 'Indeed, yes, sir. I should be pleased to go to the best of…'

A scream interrupted Mount and both men looked aloft as the flailing body of a seaman fell. He smacked into the water alongside. Drinkwater's reaction was instantaneous.

'Helm a-lee! Main braces there! Starboard quarterboat away! Move God damn you! Man overboard, Mr Rispin!' Mount and Drinkwater ran aft, straining to see where the hapless topman surfaced.

'Where's your damned sentry, Mount?'

'Here, sir.' The man appeared carrying a chicken coop. He hove it astern to the fluttering, squawking protest of its occupants.

'Good man.' The three men peered astern.

'I see him, sir.' The marine pointed.

'Don't take your eyes off him and point him out to the boat.'

Melusine was swinging up into the wind like a reined horse. Men were leaping into the quarter-boat and the knock of oars told where they prepared to pull like devils the instant the boat hit the water. Mr Quilhampton, holding his wooden hand out of the way as he vaulted nimbly over the rail, grabbed the tiller.

'Lower away there, lower away lively!'

The davits jerked the mizen rigging and the boat hit the water with a flat splash.

'Come up!' The falls ran slack, the boat unhooked and swung away from the ship, turning under her stern.

'Hoist Princess Charlotte's number and "Man overboard".' Drinkwater heard little Frey acknowledge the order and hoped that Captain Learmouth would see it in time to wear his ship round into Melusine's wake. The marine was up on the taffrail, one hand gripping a spanker vang, the other pointing in the direction of the drowning man. He must remember to ask Mount the marine's name, his initiative had been commendable.

'Ship's hove to, sir,' Rispin reported unnecessarily.

'Very well. Send a midshipman to warn the surgeon that his services will be required to revive a drowning man.'

'You think there's a chance, sir… Aye, aye, sir.' Rispin blushed crimson at the look in Drinkwater's eye.

Everyone on the upper deck was watching the boat. Men were aloft, anxiety plain upon their faces. They could see the boat circling, disappearing in the wavetroughs.

'Can you still see him, soldier?'

'No sir, but the boat is near where I last saw 'im, sir.'

'God's bones.' Drinkwater swore softly to himself.

'Have faith, sir.' The even features of Obadiah Singleton glowed in the sunset as he stopped alongside the captain. The pious sentiment annoyed Drinkwater but he ignored it.

'Do you see the coop, soldier?'

'Aye, sir, 'tis about a pistol shot short of the boat… there, sir!'

Drinkwater caught sight of a hard edged object on a wave crest before it disappeared again.

'What's your name?'

'Polesworth, sir.'

'Oh! May God be praised!' Singleton clasped his hands on his breast as a cheer went up from the Melusines. A man, presumably the bowman, had dived from the boat and could be seen dragging the body of his shipmate back to the boat. The boat rocked dangerously as willing hands dragged rescued and rescuer inboard over the transom. Then there was a mad scramble for oars and the boat darted forward. Drinkwater could see Quilhampton urging the oarsmen and beating the time on the gunwhale with his wooden hand.

The boat surged under the falls and hooked on. Drinkwater looked at the inert body in the bottom of the boat.

'Now is the time for piety, Mr Singleton,' he snapped at the missionary as the latter stared downwards.

'Heave up!' The two lines of men ranged along the deck ran away with the falls and held the boat at the davit heads while the body was lifted inboard. The blue pallor of death was visible to all.

'Where's Macpherson?'

'Below, sir,' squeaked Mr Frey.

'God damn the man. Get him to the surgeon and lively there!' Men hurried to carry the dripping body below. Drinkwater felt the sudden anger of exasperation fill him yet again. He was damned if he wanted to lose a man like this!

'Mr Rispin! Don't stand there with your mouth open. Clap stoppers on those falls and secure that boat, then put the ship on the wind.' The boat's bowman slopped past, his ducks flapping wetly about his legs, his knuckle respectfully at his forehead as he crossed the hallowed planking of the quarterdeck.

'What's your name?'

'Mullack, sir.'

'That was well done, Mullack, I'll not forget it. Who was the victim?'

'Jim Leek, sir, foretopman.'

'A messmate of yours?' Mullack nodded. 'Did you see what happened?' The seaman met Drinkwater's eyes then studied the deck again. 'No, sir.' He was lying, Drinkwater knew, but that was nothing to hold against him in the circumstances.

'Very well, Mullack, cut along now.' Drinkwater watched for a second as Melusine paid off to steady on her course again.

'Begging your pardon, sir,' offered Lord Walmsley, stepping forward, 'but the man was only skylarking, sir. Leek was dancing on the yardarm when he missed his footing.'

'Thank you, Mr Walmsley. He is in your division ain't he?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Kindly inform the midshipmen that they will be put over a gunbreech every time they permit a man in their division to fool about aloft… and Mr Rispin! Set the main t'gallant again, we are three miles astern of our station.'

The smell of tobacco smoke filled the dimly lit cockpit which housed the midshipmen. For a second Drinkwater was a 'young gentleman' again, transported back to an afternoon in Gibraltar Bay when he had caught a messmate in the throes of sodomy. As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust he took in the scene before him.

Leek's body was thrown over a chest, his buttocks bared while a loblolly boy held his abdomen face downwards. Behind him Surgeon Macpherson stood with a bellows inserted into Leek's anus. The clack-hole was connected to a small box in which tobacco was burning and, in addition to the aroma of the plug and the stink of bilge, the smell of rum was heavy in the foetid air.

'He's ejecting water,' said the loblolly boy. Drinkwater felt himself pushed aside in the darkness and looked round sharply as Singleton elbowed his way into the cockpit.

'What diabolical nonsense is this?' he snapped with uncommon force, opening a black bag. Macpherson looked up and his eyes narrowed, gleaming wetly in the flickering light of the two lanterns.

'The Cullenian cure,' he sneered, 'by the acrimony of the tobacco the intestines will be stimulated and the action of the moving fibres thus restored…'

'Get that thing out of his arse!' Macpherson and the loblolly boys stared at Singleton in astonishment as the missionary completed his preparations and pushed the drunken surgeon to one side.

Drinkwater had recovered from his shock. He was remembering something in Singleton's letter of introduction; the two letters 'M.D.'.

'Do as he says, Macpherson!' The voice of the captain cut through the gloom and Macpherson stepped back, his rum-sodden brain uncomprehending.

'By my oath… here, on his back and quickly now or we'll have lost him…'

Singleton waved two onlookers, Midshipmen Glencross and Gorton, to assist. Leek was laid face up on the deck and Singleton knelt at his head and shoved a short brass tube into his mouth. Pinching Leek's nose Singleton began to blow into the tube. After a while he looked at Gorton.

'Sit astride him and push down hard on his chest when I take my mouth away'

They continued thus for some ten minutes, alternately blowing and punching down while the watchers waited in silence. About them Melusine creaked and groaned, her bilge slopping beneath them, but in the cockpit a diminishing hiatus of hope suspended them. Even Macpherson watched, befuddled and bewildered by what he was seeing.

Suddenly there was a contraction in Leek's throat. Singleton leapt up and pushed Gorton to one side, rolling Leek roughly over and slapping him hard between the shoulder blades. There was a massive eructation and Leek's chest heaved and continued to heave of its own accord. A quantity of viscid fluid ran from his mouth.

Singleton stood up and fixed Macpherson with a glare. 'I suggest you forget about Cullen, sir. The Royal Humane Society has advocated resuscitation since seventy-four.' He bumped into Drinkwater. 'Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.'

'That is quite all right, Mr Singleton. Thank you. Have that man conveyed to his hammock and excused watches until noon tomorrow, Mr Gorton.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Lieutenant Germaney leant on the rail and endeavoured to distract his preoccupied mind by concentrating upon the wine bottle at the yard arm. The pain was constant now and he thought his bowels were on fire and melting away.

The snap of a musket called his attention momentarily. The bottle swung intact, a green pinpoint at the extremity of the yard, catching the morning sun and twinkling defiantly.

A second musket spat and the bottle shattered. The marines were forbidden to cheer but there were congratulatory grins and one or two sullen faces. Mount was not under the same constraint.

'Ho! Good shooting, Polesworth. Next man, fire!' Mount's voice was bright with exhilaration and Germaney cursed him for his cheerfulness, seeing in the merriment of others a barometer of his own despair. Since the ship was witness to the remarkable medical talents of the Reverend Obadiah Singleton, Germaney had seen an opportunity to end his suffering. But fate had dealt him a mean trick, providing him with the means of a cure but entailing him in the awkward business of a confession before a gentleman of the cloth. Germaney writhed with indecision, an indecision made worse by the sudden popularity of Mr Singleton and the fact that he was seldom alone, was universally courted by all sections of the ship's company and encouraged in it by the captain, having seen the disgusting state of Melusine's own surgeon.

The revival of Leek had also stimulated a sudden religious fervour, for the topman claimed he had died and seen God. While Singleton's attitude to his own medical abilities was purely professional, the theologian in him was intrigued. This circumstance seemed to make Germaney's distress the more acute.

A second bottle shattered and, a few minutes later, Mount dismissed his men. The Marine officer crossed the deck and removed his sword belt, sash, gorget and scarlet coat, laying them over the breech of the quarterdeck carronade next to Germaney. He doffed his hat and held it out.

'Be a good fellow, Germaney…' Germaney took the hat.

'What the deuce are you up to?'

Mount smiled and bent down to rummage in a canvas bag. He pulled a padded plastron over his shirt, produced a gauntlet, foil and mask and made mock obeisance.

'I go, fair one, to joust with the captain. Wilt thou not grant me a favour?'

'Good God.' Germaney was in no mood for Mount's humour but Mount was not to be so easily suppressed.

'See where he comes,' he whispered.

Commander Drinkwater had emerged on deck in his shirt sleeves and plastron. Germaney could see the extent of the rumoured wound. The right shoulder sagged appreciably and the reason for the cock of his head, that Germaney had dismissed as a peculiarity of the man, now became clear.

Drinkwater ignored the frank curiosity of the idlers amidships, whipped his foil experimentally, donned his mask and strode across the deck. He flicked a salute at his opponent.

'Best of seven, sir?' asked Mount, hooking the mask over his head.

'Very well, Mr Mount, best of seven.' Drinkwater lowered his mask and saluted.

Mount dropped his mask and came on guard. Both men called 'Ready' to Quilhampton, who was presiding, and the bout commenced.

The two men advanced and retreated cautiously, feeling their opponent by an occasional change of line, the click of the blades inaudible above the hiss of the sea and the thrum of the wind in the rigging.

There was a sudden movement. Mount's lunge was parried but the marine was too quick for Drinkwater, springing backwards then extending as the captain came forward to riposte.

Drinkwater conceded the hit. They came on guard again. Mount came forward, beat Drinkwater's blade and was about to extend and hit Drinkwater's plastron when the captain whirled his blade in a circular parry, stepped forward and his blade bowed against Mount's breast.

They came on guard again and circled each other. Mount dropped his left hand and threw himself to the deck, intending to extend under Drinkwater's guard but the captain pulled back his pelvis, then leaned forward, over Mount's sword and dropped his point onto the Marine officer's back.

'Oh very good, sir!' There was a brief round of applause from the knot of officers assembled about the contest.

Mount scored two more points in quick succession before a hiatus in which each contender circled warily, seeking an opening without exposing himself. The click of the blades could be heard now as they slammed together with greater fury. Mount's next attack scored and he became more confident, getting a fifth hit off the captain.

Mount came in to feint and lunge for the sixth point. Drinkwater realised the younger man was quicker than Quilhampton and he was himself running short of breath. But he was ready for it. He advanced boldly, bringing his forte down hard against Mount's blade and executing a croise, twisting his wrist and pulling his elbow back so that his sword point scratched against Mount's belly. He leaned forward and the blade curved. Mount straightened and stepped back to concede the point. The second he came on guard again Drinkwater lunged. It would have gratified M. Bescond. Mount had not moved and Drinkwater had another point to his credit.

The muscles in Drinkwater's shoulder were hurting now, but the two quick hits had sharpened him. He caught Mount's next extension in a bind and landed an equalising hit. The atmosphere on the quarterdeck was now electric and the quartermaster called the helmsmen to their duty.

Drinkwater whirled a molinello but Mount parried quinte. There was a gasp as the onlookers watched Mount drop his blade to attack Drinkwater's unguarded gut, stepping forward as he did so.

But Drinkwater executed a brilliant low parry. The two blades met an instant before they collided corps-à-corps. They separated and came on guard again.

'A guinea on Mount,' muttered Rispin.

'Done!' said Hill, remembering the slithering deck of the Draaken one dull October afternoon off Camperdown.

Drinkwater scored again as Mount slipped on the deck then lost a point to the marine with an ineffectual parry. They came on guard for the last time. There was a conversazione of blades then Mount's suddenly licked out as he lunged low. Drinkwater stepped back to cutover but Mount seemed to coil up his rear leg and thrust himself bodily forward. His blade curved triumphantly against the captain's breast.

The fencers removed their masks, smiling and panting. They shook their left hands.

'By God you pressed me damned hard, sir.'

'You were too fast for me, Mr Mount.' Drinkwater wiped the sweat from his brow.

'You owe me a guinea, Mr Hill.'

'I shall win it back again, Mr Rispin, without a doubt.'

Drinkwater returned below, nodding acknowledgement to the marine sentry's salute as he entered the cabin. Tregembo had the tub of salt water ready in the centre of the cabin and Drinkwater immersed himself in it.

'I've settled all your things now, zur, but we have too many chairs.'

'Strike Palgrave's down into the hold. Get the sailmaker to wrap some old canvas round them.'

'I hope the pictures are to your liking, zur.'

He looked at the portraits by Bruilhac and nodded. Sluicing the icy water over his head he rose and took the towel from Tregembo.

'Don't cluck like an old hen, Tregembo. Don't forget I'm short of good topmen.'

'Aye, zur, I doubt you'll take to Cap'n Palgrave's lackey,' replied Tregembo familiarly, brushing Drinkwater's undress coat, 'but I'll exchange willingly, zur, I'm not too old yet.'

'D'you think I could stand Susan's reproaches if I sent you aloft again?' Drinkwater stepped out of the bath-tub. 'Where's Germaney put Palgrave's man?'

'He is mincing about the gunroom, sir,' replied Tregembo with a touch of ire and added under his breath, 'and 'tis the best bloody place for 'im.'

The Cornishman picked up the tub and sluiced its contents down the quarter gallery privy.

Dressing, Drinkwater sent for Mr Midshipman the Lord Walmsley. Donning his coat he sat behind his desk and awaited the appearance of his lordship. A glance out of the stern window showed the tail of the convoy. The sea was a dazzling blue and the wind still steady from the north of west, blowing fluffy cumulus clouds to leeward. It was more reminiscent of the Mediterranean than the North Sea: too good to last.

'Come in!' Lord Walmsley entered the cabin, his uniform immaculate, his hose silk. Drinkwater could imagine that he and his servant were popular in the confines of the cockpit.

'You sent for me, sir.'

'I did. The man Leek fell from the fore t'gallant yard yesterday, a consequence of skylarking didn't you say.'

Walmsley nodded. 'That is so, sir.'

'Skylarking upon the yards is irresponsible when it leads to losing men…'

'But sir, it was only high spirits, why Sir James…'

'Damn Sir James, Mr Walmsley,' Drinkwater said quietly. 'I command here and I intend to flog Leek this morning.' He paused. 'I see that disturbs you. Do you have a weak stomach, or a feeling of solicitude for Leek? Eh?' Drinkwater suppressed the smile that threatened to crack his face as he watched perplexity cross his lordship's face. 'Do you have any feeling for Leek?'

'Why… I, er… yes, er…'

'Is he a good seaman?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Then I rely upon you to intercede for him. Do you understand? When I call for someone to speak for him. Now, kindly tell the first lieutenant to pipe all hands aft to witness punishment and to rig the gratings.'

Drinkwater gave way to suppressed mirth as Walmsley retreated, his face a picture of confusion. The lesson would be better learned this way.

Half a minute elapsed before the marine drummer began to beat the tattoo. Drinkwater heard the pipes at the hatchways and the thump of marines' boots and the muffled slap of bare feet. He rose, hitched his sword and tucked his hat under his arm. He picked up the slim brown book that gave him the right to do what he was about to.

Germaney's head came round the door. 'Ship's company mustered to witness punishment, sir. Lord Walmsley tells me it's Leek.'

'That's correct, Mr Germaney'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but I conceive it my duty to inform you that Sir James encouraged…'

'… Such rash bravado. I know. Walmsley has already informed me. But, Mr Germaney, I would have you know that I command here now and I would advise you to recollect that Sir James's example is not to be followed too closely.' He was unaware that his remark pierced Germaney to his vitals.

Drinkwater stepped on deck into the sunshine. Half a mile to leeward the convoy foamed along. Mount's marines glittered across the after end of the quarterdeck and the officers were gathered in uniform with their swords. Forward a sea of faces was mustered. 'Off hats!'

Drinkwater cleared his throat and read the Thirty-Sixth Article of War.

'All other crimes not Capital, committed by any Person or Persons in the Fleet, which are not mentioned in this Act, or for which no Punishment is hereby directed to be inflicted, shall be punished according to Laws and Customs in such cases used at Sea.'

It was colloquially known as the Captain's Cloak, a grim pun which covered every eventuality likely to be encountered in a man-of-war not dealt with by the other thirty-five Articles.

'Able-Seaman Leek step forward.' The murmur from amidships as Leek stepped out in utter surprise was hostile. 'Silence there! You stand condemned by the provisions of this Article, in that you did skylark in the rigging, causing risk to yourself and to others in your rescue, and that you did delay the passage of His Majesty's sloop Melusine engaged in the urgent convoy of other ships. What have you to say?'

Leek hung his head and muttered inaudibly. He was bewildered at this unexpected ordeal. He had never been flogged, he was a volunteer, he began to tremble.

Drinkwater's eye was caught by a movement on his right.

Singleton was pushing through the midshipmen. Drinkwater turned his head and fixed Singleton with a glare. 'Stand fast there!' Singleton paused.

'I sentence you to one dozen lashes. Does anyone speak for this man?' He sought out Lord Walmsley. The young man came forward.

'Well, sir?'

'I, er… I wish to speak for the man, sir. He is a topman of the first rate and I have previously entertained no apprehensions as to his good behaviour, sir. I should be prepared to stand guarantor against his good conduct.'

Drinkwater bit his lip. Walmsley's speech was nobly touching and he had played his part to perfection.

'Very well. I shall overlook the matter on this occasion. But mark me, my lads, we are bound upon a service that will not tolerate the casual loss of good seamen. But for Mr Singleton, Seaman Mullack and Marine Polesworth, Leek, we would be gathered here this morning to send you over the standing part of the foresheet.[2] Do you reflect on that.' He turned to Germaney. 'Dismiss the men and pipe up spirits, Mr Germaney'

Drinkwater chuckled to himself. Talk at dinner over the mess kids would be about this morning's theatricals. He hoped they would conclude that he would stand no nonsense, that although he might only be a 'job captain', temporarily commanding a post-captain's ship, he was not prepared to tolerate anything but the strictest adherence to duty.

Chapter Five Bressay Sound

The wind held fair and they raised Sumburgh Head at daylight after a passage of three days from the Spurn Head. By previous agreement the Hudson Bay ships, usually escorted to longitude twenty west, left them off the Fair Isle. Due to the mild weather the convoy had kept together and by the afternoon all the ships had worked into the anchorage in Bressay Sound and lay within sight of the grey town of Lerwick.

That evening Drinkwater received a deputation of whale-ship masters in his cabin. It consisted of Jaybez Harvey, Abel Sawyers and another captain whose name he did not know. Sawyers introduced him.

'Captain Waller, Captain Drinkwater. Captain Waller is master of the Conqueror.'

'Your servant.' Drinkwater remembered him as having sat next to Ellerby at the meeting in Hull. He was surprised that Ellerby was not among the announced deputation. Drinkwater hoped Ellerby realised he was no longer dealing with a man of Palgrave's stamp and had come to his senses. In any event Waller seemed a mild enough character, leaving most of the talking to Sawyers.

'Well, gentlemen,' Drinkwater said when he had settled them with a glass and placed Palgrave's decanter on the table before them, 'to what do I owe this honour?'

'As thou knowest, Captain Drinkwater, since we cast anchor we have been taking water and augmenting our crews. The islanders are as eager as ourselves to avoid delay, the season already being far advanced. It is therefore hoped that within these twenty-four hours thou also wilt be ready to weigh.'

'I see no reason for thinking otherwise.'

'Very well. We have therefore to decide upon the procedures to be adopted when we reach the fishing grounds. Know therefore that we have agreed to consider ourselves free to pursue whales once we cross the seventy-second parallel. Opinion is divided, as to the most advantageous grounds, the mysticetus…'

'Mysticetus?' broke in Drinkwater frowning.

'Baleana Mysticetus, the Greenland Right Whale…' Drinkwater nodded as Sawyers continued, 'has become wary of the approach of man in recent years. There are those who advocate his pursuit upon the coast of Spitzbergen, those who are more disposed to favour a more westerly longitude, along the extremity of the ice.'

'I gather you favour this latter option?' Sawyers nodded while a silent shake of the head indicated that Waller did not. 'I see, please go on.'

'I do not think this late arrival on the grounds will inconvenience us greatly. It was our practice to spend the first month in the Greenland Sea in sealing, waiting for the ice to open up and spending the first days of continuous daylight in the hunting of seal, walrus and bear. However, those of us that have, of late, pursued mysticetus into the drift ice, have been rewarded by a haul as high as ten or even a dozen fish in a season, which amply satisfies us.'

It was clear that Harvey and Sawyers were of one mind in the matter. But if the whale-fleet dispersed his own task became impossible.

'Would you be kind enough to indicate the degree to which these options are supported by the other masters?' The three men consulted together while Drinkwater rose and pulled out a chart of the Greenland Sea. Seven hundred miles to the north-north-west of Bressay Sound lay the island of Jan Mayen. His present company, he knew, still referred to it as Trinity Island, after their own corporation.

'I think, sir,' said Harvey in his broad accent, 'that a few favour the Spitzbergen grounds while the majority will try the ice-edge.'

'Very well.' Drinkwater paused to think. He could not cover both areas so which was the better post to take up with the Melusine? During the last war Danish privateers had operated out of the fiords of Norway. Would these hardy men attempt to entrap British whaleships on the coast of Spitzbergen? The battle of Copenhagen and Britain's new alliance with Russia must surely persuade Denmark that she had nothing to gain by provoking Britain from her Norwegian territories. Drinkwater cleared his mind of these diplomatic preoccupations. His own responsibilities were to the whalers and he conceived the greater threat, as indicated at the Admiralty, to come from French privateers. Long experience of French corsairs had led Drinkwater to admire their energy. He did not share the contempt of many of his contemporaries for French abilities. The Republican Navy had given the Royal Navy a bloody nose from time to time, he recalled, thinking that even the great Sir Edward Berry, one of Nelson's Band of Brothers, had nearly caught a tartar in the Guillaume Tell off Malta in 1800. And the corsairs were of greater resource than the Republican Navy. What of those Breton ships that had sailed north? Where were they now?

He looked at the chart. The huge area of the Greenland Sea was imperfectly surveyed. Hill had added every scrap of detail he could glean but it was little enough. Drinkwater concentrated on the problem from the French point of view. If the intention of the privateers was to harass British whalers then they would probably hide in the fiords of Iceland or around Cape Farewell. The former, ice free on its southern and eastern coasts would threaten the Greenland fishery whilst the less hospitable coast of Greenland would permit a descent upon the trade in the Davis Strait. Either station would give the ships a favourable cast well to the windward of British cruisers in the Western Approaches and a clear passage back to the French coast where they had only to run the British blockade to reach safety. And given the fact that they were unlikely to be making for the great French naval arsenals this would be relatively simple. It was clear that if the Hull ships were determined to fish in the Greenland Sea he must conceive the greater threat, if it existed at all, would come from Iceland and that he should support the whalers on the ice-edge.

'I shall make known to you that I shall cruise upon the ice-edge in company with the majority of ships. I would ask you therefore that you appoint one of your number to consult and advise me as to your intentions, that we may not be at cross-purposes.'

'That matter has already been settled, Captain. Abel Sawyers, here, has been elected to be our commodore.' Harvey's ugly face smiled.

'Then that is most satisfactory…'

'There is one thing, Captain.' Waller's apparent insignificance was enhanced by a thin voice with an insinuating quality.

'What is that, Captain Waller?'

'I do not think you understand the diversity of individual method employed by masters in the whalefishery. We do not expect to be constrained by you in any way. We wish to be free to chase fish wherever we think it to our advantage.'

Drinkwater shrugged, irritated by the man's pedantic manner. Alone among the whale-ship masters Waller seemed the least appropriate to his calling.

'Captain Waller, I have my orders and they are to extend to you the protection of a ship of war. I cannot prevent you from hunting the whale wherever you desire, but I can and have arranged a rendezvous and a distress signal to use if you are attacked.'

'And what do you propose?'

'My gunner is preparing Blue Lights for you. A Blue Light shot into the sky and accompanied by two guns may transmit your distress over a large distance and if this signal is used whenever strange sails are sighted I am sanguine that Melusine may be deployed to cover you.'

'And if we are attacked from two directions simultaneously?' asked Waller.

'I shall deal with hypothetical situations when they become real, sir, you ain't the only people used to active operations with boats, Captain.'

'And you are not the only people fitted with cannon. There have been instances where whale-ships have driven off an enemy…'

'Chiefly, I believe,' snapped Drinkwater, 'when the enemy was one of their own kind disputing the possession of a fish. Frankly, Captain Waller, since you have made it clear that you intend to fish off Spitzbergen I cannot see why you wish to enquire into the methods I intend to employ to protect the trade.'

Waller did not retort but lolled back into his chair. 'Aye, Captain, you will perfectly satisfy me if you do not interfere.'

Angrily Drinkwater looked at Harvey and Sawyers. They were clearly out of sympathy with Waller but said nothing as he equally obviously represented a body of opinion among this curious Arctic democracy. Drinkwater swallowed pride and anger. 'Another glass, gentlemen,' he conciliated. 'I suggest that we remain in company until the seventy-second parallel in eight degrees easterly longitude.' He laid a finger on the chart and the three men bent over the table. 'From here the Spitzbergen ships can detach.'

'I think that would be most agreeable,' said Sawyers.

'Agreed,' added Harvey.

Waller on the left, smoothed the chart out and nodded. 'Aye, 'twill do,' he said thoughtfully. Drinkwater saw his three visitors to their boats. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of cloud as they came on deck.

'I shall hoist the signal to weigh at noon tomorrow then, gentlemen.' They all agreed. Drinkwater looked across the Sound at the whalers. Odd shapes had appeared at their mastheads.

'Crow's nests,' explained Sawyers in answer to Drinkwater's question. 'It is necessary to provide an elevated lookout post both for sighting the fish and for navigating through the ice. I myself have spent many hours aloft there and have a nest of my own devising.'

'I see… Good night, Captain Waller.'

'They are also indispensable for shooting unicorns, Captain,' added Harvey.

'Unicorns? Come sir you haze me…'

'A name given to the Narwhal or Tusked Dolphin, Captain Drinkwater, after which my own ship is named. He may be hit from the masthead where a shot from the deck will be deceived by the refraction of the sea.'

'Ahhh… Your boat, Captain Harvey.'

Harvey's ugly face cracked into a grin and he held out his hand. 'If a King's Officer won't.take offence from an old man, may I suggest that excessive concern will have a bad effect on you. Whatever heated air may have been blown about back in Hull, no-one expects the impossible. While we don't want to be attacked by plaguey Frenchmen we are more anxious to hunt fish.'

'I fear I cut a poor figure.'

'Not at all, man, not at all. You are unfamiliar with our ways and your zeal does you credit.'

'Thank you.'

'And I'll go further and say, speaking plainly as a Yorkshireman, you'm a damned sight better than that bloody Palgrave.' Harvey went over the side still smiling. Drinkwater turned to say farewell to Sawyers. The Quaker was staring aloft.

'Thou woulds't oblige thyself, Captain, by constructing a similar contrivance aloft.'

'Crow's nest? But it would incommode the striking of my t'gallant masts in a gale, Captain Sawyers.'

Sawyers nodded. 'Thou hast a dilemma, Friend; to keep thy lofty spars in order to have the advantage in a chase, or to snug thy rig down and render it practical.'

Drinkwater looked aloft and Sawyers added, 'Come, Friend, visit the Faithful tomorrow forenoon and familiarise yourself with the workings of a whale-ship.'

'I am obliged to you, Captain.' They shook hands and Sawyers clambered down into his boat. Drinkwater watched him pulled away, across the steel-grey waters of the Sound.

Immediately after Lieutenant Germaney had seen the captain over the side the following morning he returned to the gunroom and kicked out those of its occupants who lingered over their breakfasts. He took four glasses of blackstrap in quick succession and sent for the Reverend Obadiah Singleton.

'Take a seat, Mr Singleton. A glass of blackstrap?'

'I do not touch liquor, Mr Germaney. What is it you wish to see me about?'

'You are a physician are you not?'

Singleton nodded. 'Can you cure clap?'

Singleton's astonishment was exceeded by Germaney's sense of relief. The wine now induced a sense of euphoria but he deemed it prudent to restrain Singleton from any moralising. 'I don't want your offices as a damned parson, d'you hear? Well, what d'you say, God damn it?'

'Kindly refrain from blasphemy, Mr Germaney. I had thought of you as a gentleman.'

Germaney looked sharply at Singleton. 'A gentleman may be unfortunate in the matter of his bedfellows, Singleton.'

'I was referring to the intemperance of your language, but no matter. You contracted this in Hull, eh?'

Germaney nodded. 'A God da… a bawdy house.'

'Were you alone?'

'No. I was in company.'

'With whom, Mr Germaney? Please do not trifle with me, I beg you.'

'Captain Sir James Palgrave, the Lord Walmsley and the Honourable Alexander Glencross.'

'All gentlemen,' observed Singleton drily. 'May I ask you whether you have advertised your affliction to these other young men?'

'Good God no!'

'And why have you not consulted Mr Macpherson?'

'Because the man is a drunken gossip in whom I have not the slightest faith.'

'He will have greater experience of this sort of disease than myself, Mr Germaney, that I can assure you.'

Germaney shook his head, the euphoria wearing off and being again replaced by the dread that had been his constant companion since his first intimation of the disease. 'Can you cure me Singleton? I'll endow your mission…'

'Let us leave it to God and your constitution, Germaney. Now what are your symptoms?'

'I have a gleet that stings like the very devil…'

Germaney described his agony and Singleton nodded. 'You appear to be a good diagnostician, Mr Germaney. You are not a married man?'

'Affianced, Singleton, affianced, God damn and blast it!'

The deck of the Faithful presented a curious appearance to the uninitiated. Accompanied by Quilhampton, Gorton and Frey, Drinkwater was welcomed by Sawyers who introduced his son and chief mate. He directed his son to show the younger men the ship and tactfully took Drinkwater on a private tour.

The Faithful gave an immediate impression of strength and utility, carrying five boats in high davits with three more stowed in her hold. Her decks were a mass of lines and breakers as her crew attended the final preparations for fishing and the filling of her water casks. The men worked steadily, with little noise and no attention paid to their commander and his guest as they picked their way round the cluttered deck.

Sawyers pointed aloft. 'First, Captain, the rig; it must be weatherly but easily handled. Barque rig with courses, top and t'gallant sails. Thou doubtless noticed the curious narrow-footed cut to our courses, well this clears the davits and allows me to rig the foot to a 'thwartships boom. The boom is secured amidships to those eye-bolts on the deck and thus tacks and sheets are done away with. As thou see'st with course and topsail braces led thus, through that system of euphroes I can handle this ship, of three hundred and fifty tons burthen, with five men.'

'Ingenious.'

'Aye, 'tis indeed, and indispensable when working after my boats in pursuit of fish running into the ice. Now come…' Sawyers clambered up onto the rail and leaned his elbows on the gunwhale of one of the carvel-built whale-boats. Drinkwater admired the lovely sheer and sharp ends of the boat and at his remark a man straightened up from the work of coiling a thin, white hemp line into a series of tubs beneath the thwarts.

'Whale line,' explained Sawyers, 'six tubs per boat, totalling seven hundred and twenty fathoms. The inner end accessible to the boat steerer, so that the lines of another boat may be secured and thus extend the line. This is done in the event of a fish sounding deep or running under ice. The outer end at the bow is secured to the foreganger, a short line attaching it to the harpoon which is kept to hand here, on this rest.' The instrument itself was not in place and Sawyers added, 'This is Elijah Pucill, Captain, speksioneer and chief harpooner; a mighty hunter of mysticetus.' The man grinned and Sawyers pointed to various items in the boat.

'Five oars and a sixth for steering. We prefer the oar for steering as it doth not retard the speed of a boat like a rudder. By it the boat may be turned even when stopped. By sculling, a stealthy approach may be made to a fish caught sleeping or resting upon the surface of the ocean. Of course a whale-boat may, by the same method, be propelled through a narrow ice-lead where, by the lateral extension of her oars, she would otherwise be unable to go.'

Drinkwater nodded. 'The oars,' Sawyer tapped an ash loom, 'are secured by rope grommets to a single thole pin and may thus be trailed without loss, clearing the boat of obstruction and allowing a man two hands to attend to any other task.'

'Who commands the boat?'

'In our fishery the harpooner, although in America they are sufficiently democratic to prohibit the officer from pulling an oar and he combines the duties of mate and steersman. My boats are commanded by the chief and second mates and the speksioneer, here. They pick their boat-steerers and line managers and all are men with whom they have sailed for many seasons.

'Remember, Captain, the harpooner is the man who places the harpoon, who must cut the fish adrift if danger threatens and who, having exhausted the fish, finally comes up with him and attacks with the lance.' Sawyers pointed to half a dozen slim bladed, long shafted weapons like boarding pikes. 'The lance is plied until the vitals of the fish are found and he is deprived of life.'

'It is not against your sensibilities to deprive the fish of life, Captain?'

Sawyers looked surprised. 'Genesis, Captain, Chapter One, verses twenty-six to twenty-eight, "God gave man dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and every living thing that moveth upon the earth." And in the Eighth Psalm "the Almighty madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; thou hast put all things under his feet… the fowl of the air, and the fish of the sea, and whatsoever passeth through the paths of the seas. O, Lord, our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth…".'

'Amen.' The speksioneer added fervently and then Sawyers resumed his discourse as though nothing had interrupted it.

'It is ordained thus.' He looked at Drinkwater, 'But I do not hold with the practice used by Jaybez Harvey and others, including thy friend Ellerby, of discharging the harpoon from a gun. It is a method lately introduced and not much in favour among the more feeling masters. Now there,' he said indicating a massive vertical post set near the bow of the whale-boat, 'is the bollard, round which a turn of whale-line may be taken to retard his progress and the more quickly tire him. This is very necessary in the case of a young whale or one which swims under the ice. It is, as you see, deeply scored by the friction of the line and may require water, supplied by this piggin, to prevent it setting fire to the timber.'

'Good heavens, and the line is able to take this strain?'

'Aye. The line is of the very best hemp and the finest manufacture. I have seen a boat pulled under when a fish dives and towed along underwater until the fish surfaced exhausted.'

'And you recovered the boat?'

'Yes. It does not always occur and here is an axe with which the harpooner can, at any time, cut free. But once a boat is fast, the harpooner is reluctant to let it go and he may, as we say, give the fish the boat, to induce fatigue or drown it.'

'Drown it? I do not understand.'

'The fish breathes air, respiring on the surface. He is able, however, to sustain energetic swimming for many minutes before nature compels him to return to the surface for more air. Should he dive too deep, as is often the case with young fish, he may gasp many fathoms down and thus drown.'

'I see,' said Drinkwater wondering. 'It must be of the first importance to ensure that the line is properly coiled and does not foul.' The man in the boat grinned and nodded.

'Aye, Cap'n, for if it fouls and the line-tender or harpooner don't cut it through quick enough, it may capsize the boat and take a man down in its 'tanglement.'

'Thou hast seen that, Elijah, hast thou not?'

'Aye, Cap'n. Once in the Davis Strait and once off Hackluyt's Head.'

Drinkwater shook his head in admiration. 'I do not see a harpoon, Captain Sawyers, and am curious to do so.'

'Ah.' Sawyers regained the deck and led Drinkwater forward. Three men sat upon a hatch, each carefully filing the head of a harpoon. A forge was set up on deck, with bellows and anvil at which a fourth man was fashioning another.

'The harpoon is made of malleable iron allowing it to twist but not to break. Here, Matthew, pray show Captain Drinkwater what I mean.'

A huge man rose from the hatch and grasped the harpoon he was sharpening, holding it at each end of the shank. Drinkwater noted the narrow shank which terminated at one end in the barbed head and at the other in a hollow socket intended to take the wooden stock used by the harpooner to throw the deadly weapon.

The man Matthew walked to the rail and hooked the shank round a belaying pin. With a grunt he bent and then twisted it several times.

'The devil!'

'Old horseshoe nails, Captain, that is what the finest harpoons are made from.'

'And the barbs on the harpoon's head are sufficient to secure it in the flesh of the fish enough to tow a boat?' Drinkwater asked uncertainly.

'Aye, Friend. The mouth, or head as thou calls't it, has withered barbs as you see. The barbs become entangled in the immensely strong ligamentous fibres of the blubber and the very action of the fish in swimming away increases this. The reverse barb, or stop-wither, collects a number of the reticulated sinews which are very numerous near the skin and once well fast, it is unusual to draw it.'

They passed on along the deck. Sawyers pointed out the various instruments used to flens a whale. They were razor sharp and gleaming with oil as each was inspected.

'They are cleaner than my surgeon's catling.'

The two men peered into the hold where, Sawyers explained, the 'whale-bone' and casks of blubber would be stowed, 'If God willed it that they had a good season.'

Drinkwater followed Sawyers into his quarters. It was a plain cabin, well lit by stern lights through which Drinkwater could see Melusine.

'I see you have struck your main topgallant mast, Friend.'

'I took your advice.' Drinkwater took the offered glass of fine port, 'To the mortification of several officers, I am amputating the upper twelve feet.'

'You will not regret it.'

'Thank you for your hospitality, Captain Sawyers. I have to admit to being impressed.'

Sawyers smiled with evident pleasure. 'The ship is but a piece of man's ingenuity, Captain Drinkwater. You have yet to see the wonders of the Almighty in the Arctic Seas.'