Ричард Вудмен - 1805

'Silence there!' barked Rogers as the hands murmured their delight when Walmsley stepped uncertainly forward. He had lost his cocksure attitude and was clearly very apprehensive. It occurred to Drinkwater that Walmsley might have imagined such a thing as this could never happen to him, that it was something that affected others not of his standing.

'Mr Walmsley, the enquiry held by myself and the officers of His Britannic Majesty's frigate under my command have examined and condemned your conduct this forenoon and found you guilty of behaviour both scandalous and oppressive. This crime, not being capital, shall be punished according to the Custom of the Navy under the Thirty-Sixth Article of War, as enacted by the King's most excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of, Drinkwater paused and fixed his eyes on the abject Walmsley, 'the Lords Spiritual and Temporal and Commons in Parliament assembled.

'You are, Mr Walmsley, to be flogged over the breech of a gun.' He snapped the book closed. 'Mr Comley!' The boatswain stepped forward. 'Two dozen strokes, sir. And lay 'em on!'

Comley put his hand on Walmsley's shoulder and pushed him forward until he stood by the breech of one of the quarterdeck guns. A shove sent the young man over the cannon and Comley drew back his rattan. In the next few minutes the boatswain did not spare his victim.

Captain Drinkwater continued walking the windward side of the quarterdeck long after sunset. The blazing riot of scarlet had faded by degrees to a pale lemon yellow and finally to a duck-egg blue that remained slightly luminous as the stars in their constellations blazed overhead. The air remained warm although there was enough of a breeze to enable Antigone to be steered under her topsails, and she cruised slowly southwards.

Drinkwater thought over the events of the day, distressed by the incident in the boats and aware that he had dealt with it in the only just way. Walmsley had begged an interview with him which he had refused, and the sight of Waller lying inert in the care of Mr Lallo convinced him that he was right, that the longer the young man felt his punishment the better. Drinkwater sighed, worrying about the effect on the rest of the ship's company. The internal business of the ship was oppressing him, already the tedium of blockade, even in this relatively independent form of cruising, was making him irritable and the ship's company fractious. The fine summer weather and apparent inactivity of the French seemed to lend a quality of futility to their movements, although logic proclaimed the necessity of their presence, along with the other independent frigates and all the vessels of the various blockading squadrons. There was a quality of stalemate in the war and it was difficult to determine what would happen next. It seemed to Drinkwater that the equation was balanced, that even the weather, usually so impartial a player in the game, had assimilated some of this inertia and put no demands on his own skill or the energies of his people. It seemed an odd contrast to the previous summer when the changeable moods of the Greenland Sea kept them constantly about the business of survival.

He found himself longing for action. Antigone had missed the bombardment of Havre in late July and seen no more than some pedestrian chases after small fry which had achieved little. At the beginning of August had come the news that Admiral Ganteaume had attempted a break-out from Brest, but had turned back; so that the equation, showing for a moment signs of imbalance, had had its equilibrium re-established.

Drinkwater heard seven bells struck. Eleven o'clock. It was time he took himself below. Mr Quilhampton, who had been confined to the lee quarterdeck in the down-draught from the main-topsail for his entire watch, looked after the retreating figure and clucked his tongue sympathetically.

'Poor fellow,' he muttered to himself, taking up the weather side and ordering Gillespy to heave the log, 'fretting over a pair of ne'er-do-wells!'

'All hands, ahoy! All hands, reef topsails!'

Drinkwater staggered as Antigone slammed into a sea. A burst of spray exploded over her weather bow and whipped aft, catching the officers on the quarterdeck in the face to induce the painful wind-ache in their cheeks. The equinox had found them at last and Drinkwater experienced a pang of sudden savage joy. He had been warned of the onset of the gale by the increasing ache in his neck and shoulder that pressaged damp weather. During the long, warm, dry days of that exceptional summer he had hardly been reminded of his wound, but now the illusions were gone, stripped aside in that first wet streak of winter that incommoded his officers and afforded him his amusement.

He clapped his hand to his hat as a gust more violent than hitherto laid the ship over. 'Mr Rogers!'

'Sir?'

'We'll reef in stays, Mr Rogers. See what the hands can do!' He saw Rogers's look of incredulity and grinned as the first lieutenant turned away.

'Hands, tack ship and reef topsails in one!' bawled Rogers through his speaking trumpet. It amused Drinkwater to see the variety of reactions his order provoked. Hill caught his eye with a twinkle, Quilhampton grinned in anticipation, while Lieutenant Fraser, still considering Drinkwater something of an enigma, looked suitably quizzical. The hands milled at their mustering points.

'Man the rigging! 'Way aloft, topmen!'

Drinkwater crossed the deck and stood by the helm. 'Keep her off the wind a half point, quartermaster.'

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Drinkwater felt the thrill of anticipation. There was no real need to put the ship upon the other tack at this precise moment, but the evolution of going about and reefing the topsails at the same moment was an opportunity for a smart frigate to demonstrate the proficiency of her ship's company. By the eagerness with which the topmen lay aloft, some of this had communicated itself to them. One could always count on an appeal to a professional seaman's skill.

'Deck there!' The masthead look-out was hailing. 'Sail four points on the weather bow, sir. Looks like a cutter!'

Drinkwater acknowledged the hail, his sense of satisfaction growing. They now had a reason for tacking and an audience, and Fraser was looking at Drinkwater as if wondering how he had known of the presence of the other vessel.

'Down helm!'

Next to Drinkwater the four men at the double wheel spun the spokes through their fingers. Antigone came upright as she turned into the wind, the rush of her forward advance slowed rapidly and the scream of the wind across her deck diminished.

'Clew down topsails! Mainsail haul! Trice up and lay out!'

This was the nub of the manoeuvre, for the main and mizen yards were hauled with the topmen upon them at the same moment as the topsail yards were lowered on their halliards, the braces tended, the bowlines slacked off and the reef-pendants hauled up. Apart from Drinkwater's orders to the helmsmen and the general commands to the deck conveying the progress of the manoeuvre, there was a host of subsidiary instructions given by the subordinate officers and petty officers at their stations at the pin rails, the braces, the halliards and in the bunts of the topsails aloft.

As the yards were lowered, the studding sail booms lifted and the main and mizen topsails flogged, folding upwards as the reef-pendants did their work. Antigone continued her turn, heeling over to her new course as the fore topsail came aback, spinning her head with increasing speed.

'Midships and meet her.' Drinkwater peered forward and upwards where he could see the foretopmen having the worst time of it, trying to reef their big topsail while it was still full of wind.