Drinkwater swore again. Their jury rudder and obvious reduction of rig bespoke their weakness. He looked again at the Requin for signs of damage to her bow. She had a bowsprit, perhaps a trifle shorter than when they had first met, and therefore a jury rig, but it looked perfectly serviceable.
'That's the bloody Nimrod!' Hill called in astonishment, 'and the Conqueror!'
Drinkwater swung his glass left. The extent of his own ineptness struck him like a blow even as Bourne replied to the sailing master.
'They must have been taken off Spitzbergen, by God!'
Was Bourne right? Had the Requin taken Nimrod and Conqueror off Spitzbergen and cruised with complete impunity throughout the Greenland Sea? If so, Melusine's presence had been a farce, a complete charade. Every exertion of her company a futile waste of time. He could see again the contempt for his own inexperience in Captain Ellerby's pale blue eyes. How mortifyingly justified that contempt was now proved. He had bungled his commission from Lord St Vincent and failure stared at him from every one of Requin's gun muzzles.
Drinkwater swallowed hard. He felt as though he had received a physical blow.
'Make ready the larboard battery, Mr Bourne. Put the ship on the wind, Mr Hill, starboard tack. We will open fire on the Requin, Mr Bourne, all guns to try for the base of her mainmast.' His voice sounded steady and assured despite his inner turmoil.
He nodded as the two officers acknowledged their orders, then he raised his glass again, anxious to hide his face.
Melusine headed inshore, her bowsprit pointing at the stern of the Faithful as Requin fired her second broadside. It was better pointed than the first as the British sloop stood well into range. Drinkwater felt shots go home, holes appeared in several sails and he felt acutely vulnerable with his clumsy jury steering gear. But a plan was formulating in his mind. If he could lay Melusine alongside the Faithful he might be able to launch a boat attack on the Requin while partially protecting Melusine's weak stern from the Requin's heavier guns.
'Larboard battery ready, sir,' Bourne reported, and Drinkwater took his glass from his eye only long enough to acknowledge the readiness of the gunners.
'Fire when you bear, Mr Bourne.'
They were closing Faithful rapidly and more shots from Requin arrived, striking splinters from forward and sending Meetuck scampering aft and down the companionway like a scuttering rabbit. A roar of laughter ran along the deck and then Melusine's guns replied, the captains jerking their lanyards in a rolling broadside.
'Mr Mount! Your men are to storm the whaler Faithful when I bring the ship under her lee. I doubt she has more than a prize crew aboard and…'
'Bloody hell!' A heavy shot thumped into the quarter rail and smashed the timbers inboard. It was perilously close to Mr Hill as he stood by the big tiller and he swore in surprise. Drinkwater looked up to determine the source of the ball and another hit Melusine, dismounting an after larboard gun. It was carronade fire.
'It's the fucking Nimrod, by God!' howled Hill, his face purple with rage as he capered to avoid the splinters. Whatever it was it was dangerous and Drinkwater decided to retire.
'Larboard tack, Mr Hill, upon the instant!'
Hill jumped to the order with alacrity and Drinkwater swung his glass onto the whaler Nimrod. Smoke drifted away from her side and he saw another stab of yellow fire and a second later was drenched in the spray from the water thrown up no more than five yards astern.
'By Christ…' Drinkwater saw a black-bearded figure standing on the rail. There was no doubt about it being Jemmett Ellerby and he was waving his hat as yet another shot was fired from his carronades.
Drinkwater's blood froze. He wanted to make sure of what he saw and studied the big figure intently. Yes, there could be no doubt about it. Nimrod flew no colours while above his own head the British ensign snapped out as Melusine lay over to the larboard tack, exposing her stern, but rapidly increasing her distance from the enemy.
'Ship full and bye on the larboard tack, sir,' Hill reported. Drinkwater nodded, his brain still whirling with the evidence his senses presented him with. It seemed impossible, but then, as the ship stood out of danger to the eastward and he could order the gun crews stood easy, he gave himself time to think.
'Beat to windward, Mr Hill. You may reduce sail and have the men served dinner at their guns…'
'Look at that, sir! Do you see it?' Lieutenant Bourne cried incredulously. He pointed astern to where, beyond the anchored ships what looked like stone huts, low and almost part of the beach, showed beyond the anchored ships. There was a flagpole and from it flew the unmistakable colours of Republican France.
Drinkwater attempted to make sense of the events of the forenoon. At first he was bewildered but after a while he set himself the task of assembling the evidence as he saw it. He retired to his cabin as Melusine stood eastward under easy sail, making short tacks. On a piece of paper he began to list the facts and as he wrote he felt a quickening of his pulse. Under the stimulus of a glass or two his memory threw up odd, remembered facts that began to slot neatly together. He was seized by the conviction that his reasoning was running true and he sent for Singleton, explaining that he would land the missionary as soon as it was safe to do so but what appeared to be Frenchmen held the post at Nagtoralik.
'I want you to question Meetuck exhaustively, Mr Singleton. His attitude to the guns has been odd, so has his attitude to myself. You recollect he talked of "bad" white men,' Drinkwater explained and Singleton nodded.
'I do not expect he is able to tell the difference between British, French, Dutch or Russians, all of whom have frequented these seas from time to time. He could not be expected to comprehend a state of war exists between us and the men occupying his village.'
'You saw a village then?'
Singleton nodded. 'I saw twenty or so topeks and a number of kayaks drawn up on the beach.'
Drinkwater sighed, biting off a sarcasm that Singleton would have been better employed in the cockpit. The divine was no longer bound to serve there, he was free to go ashore when circumstances permitted, and, thank God, Melusine had suffered no casualties thanks to Drinkwater's timely withdrawal.
'Very well. Be a good fellow and see what information you can extort from our eskimo friend. I am almost certain that Ellerby, the master of the Nimrod, is in league with whoever is ashore there. He opened fire on us.'
Singleton nodded. 'I wish to land in a place untainted by such doings, Captain Drinkwater. I shall see what I can do.'
After he had gone Drinkwater again gathered his thoughts. Of course St Vincent had not guessed that the French would attempt to make settlements in Greenland. Drinkwater could only imagine what privations the inhabitants endured during the Arctic winter. But since the loss of Canada forty years earlier France had held St Pierre and Miquelon and it was not inconceivable that now she dominated Denmark, the country that claimed sovereignty over these remote coasts, France might attempt such a thing. St Vincent had mentioned Canada and had seemed certain that some moves were being made by Bonaparte's government or its agents, official or entrepreneurial, in these northern seas. 'This is no sinecure,' the Earl had said, 'and I charge you to remember that, in addition to protecting the northern whale-fleet you should destroy any attempt the French make to establish their own fishery…'