Then his tormentors stopped, blown upwards as the first powder-packed barrico exploded and counter-mined the others with a terrific roar, setting the whole after part of the General Wayne ablaze. Dully, he realized what had happened and rolled over on to his back.
The stern of the American privateer appeared in black silhouette against the blaze. He could see the apertures of the stern windows within which the fire rapidly became an inferno. The mines had blown the decks upwards and flames shot skywards, licking hungrily at the mizen rigging, taking hold, then racing aloft. Around the stern dark objects of debris, animate and inanimate, fell into the cold and crystal waters of the fiord.
He turned away. To his left the other privateer was on fire, sparks and cinders rising rapidly from her as the flames, little yellow flickers at first, grew redder in their intensity as they rose up her rigging. It was like some over-blown and monstrous firework display. The neat and ordered lines of the rigging were displayed to perfection by the racing flames, holding their accustomed pattern for one brilliant, incandescent instant, and then falling away in ashen dissolution.
He no longer felt cold. Somewhere to his right he could hear English voices. One of them called his name. He shouted back.
It was with considerable difficulty that they dragged him shivering into the boat.
He was still shuddering so badly three hours later that he could not level his glass at the burning ships, but fumbled and dropped the telescope. The cold water had struck deep into his body. The damaged muscles of his old shoulder wound ached with breath-taking pain, the scab on his cheek had softened and partly sloughed off. As he warmed through, the enlarging capillaries began to bleed again. Oddly, he felt nothing of the slight flesh wound, where the Yankee musket-ball had galled his arm.
It was almost dark and the fog had gone, but he needed no lens to watch as the two privateers blazed against the sombre background of the forest behind them. He derived no satisfaction from the sight; only a loathing for what he had accomplished.
'You must go below, sir,' Kennedy insisted, almost manhandling Drinkwater from his position by the mizen rigging. 'Frey has a rare fever from his wound, and if you don't take care of yourself upon the instant, I cannot answer for the consequences.'
Drinkwater submitted, and allowed himself to be led off.
'We have neither the men nor the boats to tow out through the narrows,' he heard Birkbeck saying as he stumbled below, leaning on Kennedy's shoulder.
And the words mocked his success as Kennedy and Templeton wrapped him in warmed blankets and plied him with hot molasses.
CHAPTER 15
The Fortune of War
Drinkwater had no idea how long he slept, only that when he was woken he regretted it, that Jameson's face was strange to him, and he wished to be left alone. He closed his eyes, seeking again the oblivion of sleep.
'Sir, you must wake up! Sir!'
Jameson shook the cot. It made Drinkwater's head ache and with the acknowledgement of pain came memory. He shook off the luxury of oblivion.
'What is the matter?'
'The Danish frigate, sir, the Odin, she is under weigh!'
Drinkwater frowned. 'Where is the wind?'
'In the north, sir.'
'The north!' Drinkwater flung his legs over the edge of the cot and realized he was completely naked. Jameson averted his eyes.
'What o'clock is it?'
'Four bells, morning watch.'
Ten in the morning! He had slept the clock round and more! Why had they not woken him? What had they been doing? 'Pass word for my servant and then you had better beat to quarters. We shall have a battle this morning.'
But Jameson had gone and he was talking to himself.
The two frigates presented an odd sight as they stood down the fiord, both heading for the narrows and the open sea beyond. But this was a deceit, for neither could leave the other behind; the honour of their respective flags denied them this escape, so their almost parallel courses converged slightly, to a point of intersection some half a mile before the gorge, where the matter between them must be decided.
Their unusual aspect was caused by the mutual damage they had suffered and inflicted. It was some consolation to the watching Drinkwater that he had cut up his opponent so badly, for she bore no mizen topsail, her aftermost mast supporting a much-reduced and extemporized spanker, and although her main and foremasts bore topsails, that on the foremost was a diminutive, a former topgallant. Clearly the Odin possessed insufficient spars to replace all her losses. Drinkwater shut his glass with a decisive snap and summoned Jameson and Birkbeck. They conferred in a huddle beside the starboard hance.
'We have one opportunity, gentlemen. Our lack of manpower ... well, I have no need to emphasize our disadvantages. I shall exchange fire and run directly aboard him. He has the weather gauge, but with that rig he will find it impossible to draw ahead of us. Mr Birkbeck, you will remain on the quarterdeck and handle the ship. Mr Jameson the starboard battery. I will lead the boarders. The topmen are to grapple, then seize us yard-arm to yard-arm. The matter will be decided on her deck. Very good. To your posts and good fortune.'
Drinkwater turned away. 'Sergeant Danks?'
The marine sergeant hurried over and Drinkwater explained his intentions. 'Volley fire as we approach, then, when we close, let the men fire independently. When I give the order to board, half your fellows are to follow me, you are to remain on board in command of the rest and cover our retreat if we are driven back. Understand?'
'Aye, sir. Odds will follow you, evens stay with me.'
'And tell the men in the tops to mind their aim. Fire ahead of us, not into our backs!'
'Aye, aye, sir.'
Danks went off and Drinkwater studied his enemy again. His fears on waking had been unjustified, for he had come on deck flurried and anxious to find Birkbeck had the matter in hand, his re-rigging as complete as skill and artifice could make it and the anchor a-trip.
'I told you, sir,' Birkbeck had said when Drinkwater complimented him, 'I am quite keen to get home all in one piece.'
They had been under weigh within moments of Drinkwater's appearance on deck and now the two frigates were running neck and neck, Andromeda drawing slighdy ahead.
'That'll change when we fall under her lee,' Drinkwater muttered to himself.
'What will? Our speed?'
He looked round to find Frey beside him. The young lieutenant had been at some pains to repair the ravages of battle to his uniform.
'I heard there was to be an action, sir.'
'Yes, but you are not fit ... What about your wound? Your fever?'
'I'm as fit as you, sir,' Frey said quietly. He looked astern. 'What happened to Kestrel?'
Drinkwater regarded his young colleague and their eyes met. There was the glitter of resolution in Frey's and Drinkwater sighed, then smiled.
'A master's mate named Ashley volunteered to bring her in with a prize crew. He's on our larboard beam.'
Frey craned round and saw the man-of-war cutter. 'Ah, yes. I wonder what their chances are?'
'Less than fifty-fifty.'
Drinkwater did not say that he would never have let Ashley go had not the odds against their own survival been considerably shorter. Ashley carried a hurriedly written report of proceedings and a secret, enciphered dispatch. Both had been prepared by Templeton at Drinkwater's dictation while he had dressed.