Ebb tide

'Harden in those sheets!' Drinkwater roared, pushing the tiller with all his might. 'Stand by to tack ship!'

Instantly Frey divined Drinkwater's intentions. 'Prepare those starboard swivels! Get those port swivels mounted over here!'

Kestrel dipped into the wind with a flogging of her sails and paid off on the other tack. Runners were set up and let go, the sheets shifted and slackened as Kestrel spun to port, swung off the wind and ran back towards her late tormentor. Confusion reigned on the deck of the chasse marée as Kestrel passed on the opposite tack, spattering her with small-arms fire and raking her with the swivels.

'Here, Jago!' Drinkwater tossed the seaman one of his pistols and Jago aimed and fired it into the throng of men struggling to bring their lugger under command again. Seeing the pitiful sight and the execution done to the lugger's decks, Drinkwater noted the mainsail had ripped badly so that she was almost immobilized.

'How I wish we had one decent gun,' be lamented to himself, but Frey had had all four swivels discharge into the enemy as they passed and the carnage was bad enough. The second lugger was a mile away now, and stood steadily south-eastwards. Drinkwater pursued her for a while and had the satisfaction of chasing her from the field before he turned back towards their erstwhile enemy. The larger chaste marée was a sorry sight, her mainsail down on deck. And though the main topsail was being hoisted and she might yet run off before the wind, it appeared she was hors de combat. Inspiration struck Drinkwater. 'Where's young Charles, Jago?'

Jago called out in French and Drinkwater saw the lad raise his head from beside the boat on her chocks amidships where he had been huddled, watching the action.

'Tell him to find out this fellow's name, Jago, and then ask if he surrenders.' Drinkwater raised his voice. The rest of you prepare to fire and to scandalize the mainsail and heave to.'

As they came dancing up under the overcast and pointed their little guns at the lugger, the boy called upon her to surrender. The response was a torrent of French at which the lad stiffened and Jago merely laughed.

'Well, damn you, what does the bugger say?' Drinkwater prompted Jago, who addressed a few words to Charles.

'Elle est la Mathilde Drouot de Calais, M'sieur. Le maître est mort, et...' The boy shrugged and looked appealingly at Jago.

'She's the Mathilde Drouot of Calais, sir, the master is killed and her mate says he is compelled to surrender to pig-butchers. He has had five men killed besides the master, and eight wounded. One is very bad and he asked if we had a surgeon.'

Drinkwater pulled a face. 'That is unfortunate, I had no idea the swivels were so effective ...'

Jago shook his head. 'I don't think it was our swivels, sir. I reckon it was the men on the alarm vessel firing broken glass bottles at 'em from a large-bore carronade mounted on the quarter.'

'I see. We may take the prize, but not the credit.'

'Aye, I reckon so, sir. 'Tis against the laws of war, the Frog yonder says, sir.'

Drinkwater ignored the objection. 'Tell the Mathilde Drouot to pitch all his ramrods overboard, then head for Harwich. Tell him to stay in close contact under my guns. If he tries to make a run for it, I shall sweep his decks with glass bottles myself. I think we have a few down below, don't we, Mr Frey?'

'A few, sir, but not many.'

'Then let us hope the matter is not put to the test, eh?

Captain Scanderbeg was somewhat ruffled to be woken early next morning by a lieutenant demanding accommodation for prisoners-of-war in the town bridewell.

'And who, sir, are you, pray?' he asked, emerging dishevelled from his chamber in the Three Cups.

'Lieutenant Frey, sir, of the hired cutter Kestrel. I have some twenty-seven prisoners and several need a surgeon, sir.'

Scanderbeg frowned. 'Kestrel she's Captain Drinkwater's yacht, ain't she?'

'Yes, sir, under my command. We fought an engagement off the Sunk yesterday afternoon and took a French National lugger, sir. We anchored last night on the southern end of the Shelf and...'

'And here you are disturbing me, lieutenant...'

'Frey, sir.'

Scanderbeg sighed, then said mildly, 'I recall you now. Well, damn you, sir, you shall wait until I have shaved and broken my fast and then perhaps we shall find somewhere for your confounded prisoners. Don't you know I have an army to embark?'

'So I see, sir,' said Frey politely, withdrawing. 'I do beg your pardon. I had no idea it took quite so long.'

Scanderbeg stared at the retreating young man, then he scratched his head and burst out laughing. 'By God, sir, neither did I!'

PART THREE Ebb Tide

It is said that of all deaths, drowning is the least unpleasant.

The Oar

14 July 1843

Captain Poulter leaned over the railing at the port extremity of his bridge. His agitation was extreme, though he fought to conceal it as he waited patiently for the wreckage of the boat to be recovered, along with the survivors clinging on to it.

He counted the bobbing heads; two remained missing. One was almost certainly old Sir Nathaniel and he half-hoped the other might be Drew, but he could see the Elder Brother now and realized the other was Mr Quier, Vestal's second mate.

Poulter willed Forester to hasten the recovery, though he knew full well that the mate and his boat's crew were doing their utmost. When at last the matter was concluded, he shouted for half speed ahead.

'We have everyone except Sir Nathaniel and Peter Quier, sir,' Forester reported when he eventually came up on the bridge.

'Yes, I know.' The two men looked at each other. They were both thinking their luck had run out, but neither wished to voice the apprehension. 'We must keep on searching, Mr Forester.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

'Quier has a chance, I suppose ...' 'Let us hope so.'

Drinkwater was not so cold now and thought he had stopped shivering. It did not seem to matter that the water rose above his head. There was a simple inevitability about things; an acceptance. All would be well, and all would be well ...

It was almost a disappointment when, without effort, almost in spite of himself, he encountered the oar again and found that he was breathing, his head clear of the water with the arch of the sky above him. But now it hurt to breathe; almost as much as it hurt not to...