'Are you implying...?'
'I am implying nothing, sir,' Wheeler said with more force, 'I am merely stating that both Mr Drinkwater and myself in particular, as the officer commanding the marines, did our duty with an assiduity of which even Mr Callowell should have approved.'
'And you would have concealed this ... this evident combination from me?'
Wheeler shook his head. 'I do not know where you received the idea of a mutinous combination, sir. Had it been such a thing, I doubt Mr Drinkwater would have survived his ordeal, since he confronted the disaffected men alone, and by the time I arrived he had cooled their ardour.'
'Well, what in God's name d'you think a party of men wanderin' around in the middle of the night is about, if it ain't murdering their officers?'
'Had they been intent on so doing, sir, Mr Drinkwater would not be here. He turned aside their anger very quickly ...'
'What the devil d'you mean, "anger"?'
Wheeler sighed. 'Sir, in my opinion, and since you press me on the matter, it was unwise to have flogged Roach on the word of Midshipman Baskerville.' Wheeler paused for a second and then an idea seemed to strike him, for he suddenly asked, 'Mr Callowell, did you see Mr Drinkwater with a drawn sword?'
'I knew he had drawn his sword ...'
'But did you see him?'
'Well, I, er ...' Callowell scratched his head.
'Or did Midshipman Baskerville tell you he had seen Mr Drinkwater with a drawn sword?'
'What the devil has Baskerville got to do with all this?' Smetherley asked, signs of boredom evident in the captain's face.
'He's a veritable imp of Satan, Captain Smetherley. I'm surprised you didn't know that...'
'But you lied to me, Wheeler,' Callowell said, 'you told me Drinkwater had called your attention to that marine we flogged for being asleep at his post.'
'That was not a lie, Mr Callowell, that was the perfect truth.'
'It wasn't all...'
But before Callowell had completed his new explanation or Smetherley had gathered his wits, a peremptory knock at the cabin door ushered in Midshipman White. 'Mr Wallace's compliments, sir, but we've a frigate under our lee and Mr Wallace thinks it's the man-o'-war we've been looking for!'
There was a moment's hiatus in the cabin, then Captain Smetherley shoved his chair back and rose to his feet. 'I shall have to give this matter further consideration, gentlemen. It seems we have more pressin' matters to hand. We shall resolve this later.'
The strange sail lay to until Cyclops, foaming downwind towards her, bared her iron teeth and broke out British colours at her peak. Having expected a friend and now realizing his rashness, the stranger crowded on sail and a chase began.
As they had left the captain's cabin with Smetherley's 'we shall resolve this later' ringing ominously in his ears, Drinkwater had expressed his gratitude to Wheeler.
'We are not yet off the lee shore, Nat, but by heaven I'll not see you ruined by that little bugger Baskerville, nor that oaf Callowell, neither. Just thank providential intervention for this fellow.' Wheeler jerked his head as though at the strange sail. 'Who, or whatever he is, he is a deus ex machina!'
Drinkwater's only shred of comfort was that his action station was now on the quarterdeck as signals midshipman and the captain's aide, a position that seemed to offer at least the opportunity of demonstrating his loyalty if an action resulted in the forthcoming hours. A cold resolution grew on him as time passed and the autumn day drew towards its close. He entertained little hope for the future, and the memory of his more recent mastheading filled him with a wild contempt for life itself.
A gibbous moon shone fitfully from behind the clouds, the pale shape of the stranger's towering canvas now dimming to a distant faintness, now revealed as a dramatic image. The two ships were close enough to remain in sight of each other throughout the night as both ran on to the northwards but, though Cyclops held her ground, she was unable to overhaul her quarry.
At about three o'clock in the morning the enemy attempted a ruse to throw off Cyclops and catch her pursuer at a disadvantage. Still some three points to starboard and about two miles distant, the enemy ship abruptly came to the wind, tacked and stood across Cyclops's bow.
'Stand to your guns! Stand to your guns!' Callowell roared through his speaking-trumpet. The crew of the Cyclops, who had been clustered half-awake at their action stations for hours, were now summoned to full consciousness.
'What is it, Mr Callowell?' Smetherley asked, staggering forward and peering into the gloom. Quite unaware that the enemy was athwart his own hawse with his larboard broadside trained on Cyclops as she bore down upon his guns, like a bull upon the matador's sword, Smetherley rubbed the sleep from his eyes and relinquished the slight shelter and support of the mizen rigging.
'Up helm!' Callowell roared again. 'Up helm or we'll be raked!'
Callowell's order was too late. The flicker of the enemy cannon showed close ahead, just as the helmsmen began to drag the great tiller across the steerage below.
'Larboard battery! Fire as you bear!' Smetherley's voice cracked the night in its imperious shrillness. As the enemy shot tore into Cyclops, there was a brief pause and then a desultory fire was returned. The strange ship continued to turn off the wind to larboard and the two frigates ran down each other's sides on opposite courses, with Cyclops herself beginning her swing off the wind.
'Belay that order!' Smetherley now shouted, confusing the issue. 'Put your helm down, sir! Down!'
As the British frigate turned, she increasingly presented her vulnerable stern to the enemy, inviting further raking fire. Smetherley now sought to cross the enemy's rear, but the matter had been left far too late. The reversing helm dragged speed off the British frigate's progress and the brief moment in which Cyclops had her quarry at a disadvantage was lost. The larboard guns had yet to be reloaded, and the raking shots fired were far too few to achieve anything of significance. Then, as the enemy extended the range, the opportunity was lost.
Drinkwater reported his sighting of the enemy's ensign. 'French colours, sir.'
Smetherley's attention, however, was swiftly diverted to a more immediate concern.
'She'll not stay, sir,' Drinkwater heard Blackmore shout as Cyclops came up in the wind with a sluggish feel to her.
'God damn!' Smetherley swore as the ship steadied, heading into the wind's eye. With a crack and a kind of roaring noise that was compounded of parting ropes, flapping canvas and wood and iron descending in slow motion, the foretopmast went by the board. The extra pressure of the wind had parted forestays damaged by the enemy's opening shots and now, as Cyclops emerged into a patch of moonlight, the foredeck was littered with fallen spars and festooned with rigging and canvas from aloft. Some hung over the side; to tear at the frigate's forechains where men were already cutting away the wreckage.
Drinkwater dutifully returned his attention to the progress of the enemy. He thought the Frenchman would now escape entirely, but the enemy commander, having seen the predicament of the British frigate in the sudden moonlight, was not about to let an opportunity slip through his fingers.
'Enemy's wearing ship, sir!' Drinkwater reported.
'What's that?' Smetherley spun round, distracted from the mess on the forecastle and in the waist by Drinkwater's shout.