'Mr Q, do you see to lowering the after falls on each of the quarterboats. Not far enough to scoop up water but to act as sails.' He left Quilhampton in puzzled acknowledgement and noted with satisfaction the speed with which Grey's party had hauled the four inch manila hemp springs aloft. The gun tackles were already rigged and being sweated tight.
'Mr Rogers!'
'Yes? What is it?'
Drinkwater explained about the guns. 'We'll start with the forward two and get a log reading at intervals of half an hour to check her best performance.'
Rogers nodded. 'She's gaining is she?'
'Yes.'
'D'you think the old bastard's lost his nerve,' he paused then saw the anger in Drinkwater's face. 'I mean she might be British…'
'And she might not! You may wish to rot in a French fortress but I do not. I suggest we attend to our order.'
Drinkwater turned away from Rogers, contempt flooding through him that a man could allow himself the liberty of such petty considerations. Although the stranger was still well out of gunshot it would need only one lucky ball to halt their flight. And the fortress of Bitche waited impassively for them. Drinkwater stopped his mind from wandering and began to organise the hauling aft of the forward guns.
In the waist the noise of the sea hissing alongside was soon augmented by the orchestrated grunts of men laying on tackles and gingerly hauling the brig's unwieldy artillery aft. Two heavy sets of blocks led forward and two aft, to control the progress of the guns as the ship moved under them. From time to time Grey's party of men with handspikes eased the awkward carriage wheels over a ringbolt. After four hours of labour they had four guns abaft the mainmast and successive streaming of the log indicated an increase of speed of one and a half knots. But that movement of guns aft had not only deprived Hellebore of four of her teeth, it had seriously impeded the working of her after cannon since the forward guns now occupied their recoil space.
When the fourth gun had been lashed the two lieutenants straightened up from their exertions. Drinkwater had long forgotten Rogers's earlier attitude.
'I hope the bastard does not catch us now or it'll be abject bloody surrender, superior goddam force or not,' Rogers muttered morosely.
'Stow it, Rogers, it's well past noon, we might yet hang on until dark.'
'You're a bloody optimist, Drinkwater.'
'I've little choice; besides faith is said to move mountains.'
'Shit!'
Drinkwater shrugged and went aft again. Despite the work of the past hours it was as if he had left Griffiths a few moments earlier. The old Welshman appeared not to have moved, to have shrunk in on himself, almost half-asleep until one saw those hawkish eyes, staring relentlessly astern.
There was no doubt that they were losing the race. The big frigate was clearly visible, hull-up from the deck and already trying ranging shots. As yet these fell harmlessly astern. Drinkwater expressed surprise as a white plume showed in their wake eight cables away.
'He's been doing that for the past half hour,' said Griffiths. 'I think we have about two hours before we will feel the spray of those fountains upon our face and perhaps a further hour before they are striking splinters from the rail. His hands clenched the taffrail tighter as if they could protect the timber from the inevitable .
'We could swing one of the bow chasers directly astern, sir,' volunteered Drinkwater. Griffiths nodded.
'Like that cythral Santhonax did the day he shot Kestrel's topmast out of her, is it?'
'Aye.'
'We'll see. It will be no use for a while. Did Lestock in his zeal douse the galley fire?'
'I've really no idea, sir.' At the mention of the galley Drinkwater was suddenly reminded of how hungry he was.
'Well see what you can do, bach. Get some dinner into the hands. Whatever the outcome it will be the better faced on full bellies.'
Half an hour later Drinkwater was wolfing a bowl of bungoo. There was an unreal atmosphere prevailing in the gunroom where he, Lestock and Appleby were having a makeshift meal. Throughout the ship men moved with a quiet expectancy, both fearful of capture and hopeful of escape. To what degree they inclined to the one or to the other depended greatly upon temperament, and there were those lugubrious souls who had already given up all hope of the latter.
Drinkwater could not allow himself to dwell over much on defeat. Both his private fears and his professional pride demanded that he appeared confident of ultimate salvation.
'I tell you, Appleby, if those blackguards had not fouled up the starboard fore t'gallant stunsail we'd have been half a mile ahead of ourselves,' spluttered Lestock through the porridge, his nerves showing badly.
'That's rubbish, Mr Lestock,' Drinkwater said soothingly, unwilling to revive the matter. 'On occasions like this small things frequently go wrong, if it had not been the stunsail it would likely have been some other matter. Perhaps something has gone wrong on the chase to delay him a minute or two. Either way 'tis no good fretting over it.'
'It could be the horseshoe nail, nevertheless, Nat, eh?' put in Appleby, further irritating Drinkwater.
'What are you driving at?'
'On account of which the battle was lost, I paraphrase…'
'I'm well acquainted with the nursery rhyme…'
'And so you should be, my dear fellow, you are closer to 'em than I myself…'
'Oh, for heaven's sake, Harry, don't you start. There's Mr Lestock here like Job on a dung heap, Rogers on deck with a face as long as the galley funnel…'
'Then what do we do, dear boy?'
'Hope we can hold on until darkness,' said Drinkwater rising.
'Ah,' Appleby raised his hands in a gesture of mock revelation, 'the crepuscular hour…'
'And have a little faith in Madoc Griffiths, for God's sake,' snapped Drinkwater angrily.
'Ah, the Welsh wizard.'
Drinkwater left the gunroom with Lestock's jittery cackling in his ears. There were moments when Harry Appleby was infuriatingly facetious. Drinkwater knew it stemmed from Appleby's inherent disapproval of bloodshed and the illusions of glory. But at the moment he felt no tolerance for the surgeon's high-flown sentiments and realised that he shared with Rogers an abhorrence of abject surrender.
He returned to the deck to find the chasing frigate perceptibly nearer. He swore under his breath and approached Griffiths.
'Have you eaten, sir?'
'I've no stomach for food, bach.' Griffiths swivelled round, a look of pain crossing his face as the movement restored circulation to his limbs. His gouty foot struck the deck harder than he intended as he caught his balance and a torrent of Welsh invective flowed from him. Drinkwater lent him some support.
'I'm all right. Duw, but 'tis a dreadful thing, old age. Take the deck for a while, I've need to clasp the neck of a little green friend.'
He was on deck ten minutes later, smelling of sercial but with more colour in his cheeks. He cast a critical eye over the sails and nodded his satisfaction.
'It may be that the wind will drop towards sunset. That could confer a slight advantage upon us.'
It could, thought Drinkwater, but it was by no means certain. An hour later they could feel the spray upon their faces from the ranging shots that plummetted in their wake.
And the wind showed no sign of dropping.
Appleby's crepuscular hour approached at last and with it the first sign that perhaps all was not yet lost. Sunset was accompanied by rolls of cloud from the west that promised to shorten the twilight period and foretold a worsening of the weather. The brig still raced on under a press of canvas and Lestock, earlier so anxious to hoist the stunsails was now worried about furling them, rightly concluding that such an operation carried out in the dark was fraught with dreadful possibilities. The fouling of ropes at such a moment could spell disaster and Lestock voiced his misgivings to Griffiths.