The guns were shotted already, but all ports were closed and caulked, all tampions were in, every mess between every pair was full of groaning, useless men. Partitions were up, mess tables were in position. He looked into the wind. Although a very short time had passed since the first sighting, the weather frigate was noticeably closer. He could see what Jack had seen. She was making to intercept them.
‘Is she carrying colours yet?’ Evans replied after a long moment.
‘Not yet. But hell’s teeth, Will, when do you think your unc—’ He broke off. William flushed.
‘Shut your mouth,’ he said viciously. But he said it to himself. Then the penetratingly thin voice warbled up from below. A sudden stronger gust carried the first part of it away.
‘…or I’ll flog every last son of a whore of you!’
Aha! The word to close-reef. William watched the men.
They did nothing. They must not have heard either. He was about to repeat what he guessed was the order, when Captain Swift’s voice rose once more, full of venom even at that distance.
‘Get that canvas set, God damn you! Shake out those reefs I say!’ It was unbelievable. Bentley and Evans exchanged glances. Shake them out? Another order rose from the deck, not directed upwards this time, but still audible.
‘Tacks and braces! Tacks and braces there, you buggers! Man the sheets!’
The master had gone to the helm. The men laid to the spokes with a will. All over the decks others scrambled, to man the topsail halyards, to brace the yards as the frigate altered course. There was a thunderous clapping as the canvas bellied and flapped during a series of sail and helm manoeuvres done at double-quick time. The men on the yard clung on for dear life as they were flung about, then they were all round the two boys, then at other parts of the rigging, then away like lightning towards the deck. Jack Evans was pink around the gills. They felt like a couple of hopeless lubbers. Collapse of the young gentlemen.
‘I say,’ he shouted miserably. ‘Had we better get down off here?’
It was no moment to wait for orders. Captain Swift would have forgotten all about them, anyway. William went down the ratlines lost and unhappy. He glanced to windward, which was now over the larboard quarter. The French ship had not altered, as far as he could see. Doubtless her commander was as surprised by the frigate’s latest move as were all on board her.
He picked his moment carefully, to avoid the seas that still combed the deck. The knots of seamen standing about had on sullen, closed expressions, and an air of depression had replaced the cheeriness. Disbelief, too. Not one of them apparently who could believe they were really attempting to run. It must be some ploy on the owner’s part. Swift might be a hard man, even a tyrant. But no one had ever caught him playing the coward.
As was his duty, William reached the quarterdeck.
The first and second lieutenants were there, studiedly looking away to starboard at nothing in particular. Captain Swift was alone, high on the weather side, his lips grim. Mr Robinson looked incuriously at the two midshipmen, then returned his gaze to the masts. At a signal, William approached his uncle.
‘On whose instruction have you left your post?’
He jumped. His uncle’s eyes were cold and savage. His voice had a cutting edge that was almost palpable.
‘I…I am sorry, sir, I—’
‘Sorry you will be, damn it, and sooner than you think, Mr Bentley. And your friend, too. Why sir, did you abandon your position?’
Swift’s face was white. The muscles in his cheeks worked. He was consumed with rage.
‘I…am sorry, sir,’ said William. ‘I shall return immediately. I…misunderstood.’
The captain turned away. There was silence for several seconds. William wondered if he should go aloft. He dared not ask.
‘Take that fool Evans with you and keep an eye on the Frenchman. I want to know everything about him. Every move he makes. Is that understood?’
‘Aye aye sir.’
‘Then jump, boy, jump!’
William leapt smartly away. He motioned to Jack, and they raced along the deck to the main shrouds. The decks were clear of heavy water now, with wind and sea almost astern. When they reached the topgallant yard Jack panted: ‘What did he say?’
‘To shut up and watch,’ returned William. ‘So get to it, instant, or I think we may be flogged like common sailors. In Uncle Daniel’s eyes we have done wrong. So use yours now, Jack. Use them.’
And almost immediately Jack Evans picked out men scrambling aloft in the Frenchman. Within minutes her fore topsail began to blossom as the reefs were shaken out. There was going to be a chase.
Mr Robinson was master of the Welfare, and a master seaman he showed himself to be. Jesse Broad, who above all men wanted the frigate to stand and fight, nevertheless had an eye for a chase, and an inbuilt feeling for the one who was running. He had spent more hours than he could guess escaping from ships – both revenue cutters and the small men-of-war which sometimes thought it would be fine sport to run down a smuggling lugger. He had honed his seamanship on the gentle art of getting clear away, so he could appreciate the finest points of sail-handling and steering.
Mr Robinson, quiet and practically motionless, yet had the Welfare in the palm of his hand. He could sense her every response. He kept the sailors busy at tack, sheet and brace, repositioning there, easing or hauling here. The best helmsman on board was handling the wheel, with the second best alongside him to lend weight. Broad felt an urge to have a go himself after they shipped a lump of sea over the quarter; he would have avoided that one.
A stern chase, they say, is a long chase, and he was interested despite himself to see what would be the outcome. They were heading fairly towards the coast of England, unless he was much mistaken. If they had to come about for fear of getting too close on to the lee shore, nothing could save them from an action. He could not see that they would be able to outstrip the Frenchman, who was pretty much of a size, so perhaps the captain was counting on dark to save them. In this weather they would escape in the darkness as easy as winking. Or maybe Swift was putting his money on Robinson’s seamanship.
That bold man decided at that moment that Welfare could carry a shade more canvas. Broad did not entirely agree, but that was of little moment. And he granted the master’s greater experience of his own ship ungrudgingly. A sudden thought of Mary, and his home, surprised him; but there was nothing he could do but admit to himself that he would do his level best to get the frigate clear. He dearly loved a chase.
After several hours, it became clear that Robinson’s skill was winning the day. The two frozen boys aloft could see a definite widening of the gap. Shortly after they had reported this to the quarterdeck (after ten minutes’ conference on the wisdom of expressing such a dangerously dogmatic opinion) it was confirmed by the Frenchman. She opened up with her bow chasers, which at that range could be little other than a gesture of frustration. The balls fell so far short that their splashes were lost in the creamy caps of the waves. Not long after that, the eagle eyes of Evans saw her fore topsail split. Within seconds his diagnosis was proved to a doubting William, when the sail blew to tatters then scattered over the waves and disappeared. A short time later, night began to close in.
Below, after another hour of violent work, shortening sail, bringing the frigate back on the wind, starting the process of clawing off the lee shore that was somewhere in the darkness to the north, Jesse Broad came to realise the furious resentment that most of his shipmates felt. Unlike him, to whom the chase had been absorbing, exciting, the others were filled with outraged shame almost to a man.
His whole mess had been on deck throughout, even young Peter. Now, together between the guns that bounded their home, the conversation waxed furious over the tin pannikins of rum and water, that were the only hot thing they were likely to get in their bellies while the dirty weather lasted.