Richard Woodman - A Brig of War

'Come you sons of whores, move it up, lively with that sponge, God damn you…'

Drinkwater looked for the fall of shot. At maximum elevation with the ship heeling away from the enemy they must have done some damage. Christ, they had hurled all the damned bar shot and chain shot they could cram in the guns, all the French dis-masting projectiles to give the Frogs a taste of their own medicine.

And they had missed her. Mortified, Drinkwater's ever observant eye could already read the name of the passing frigate: Romaine . And now, by heaven, they must run.

A cheer was breaking out on the fo'c's'le and he looked again. The enemy's maintopmast was tottering to leeward. It formed a graceful curve then fell in a splintering of spars and erratic descent as stays arrested it and parted under the weight.

Relief flooded Drinkwater. There was cheering all along the upper deck and from down below. Rogers had come up and was pumping his hand. Even Lestock's face wore a sickly, condescending grin.

'Sir! Sir!' Quilhampton was pointing.

'God's bones!'

The wreckage was slewing the Romaine sharply to larboard, across Antigone 's bow. In the perfect position to rake. And men were working furiously at the wreckage with axes. Forward a man screamed as his leg flew off. It was Mr Brundell. 'Mr Grey! Back the yards on the foremast!' He turned, 'Mr Dalziell, back the yards on the main, lively now.'

He waited impatiently. Antigone had hove herself to. Now they must make a stern board, to get out of trouble before…

The raking broadside hit them, the balls whirling the length of the deck. Mr Quilhampton fell and beside Drinkwater Lestock went 'Urgh!' and a gout of blood appeared all over Drinkwater's breeches. Drinkwater stood stock still. On the fo'c's'le, legs still apart, stood Mr Grey. The two men stood numbed, one hundred feet apart, regarding each other over a human shambles. As if by magic figures stood up and the main yards groaned round in their parrels. They were followed by those on the foremast. Antigone began to gather sternway. The next broadside roared out. It had been fired on an upward roll. Antigone 's foretopgallant mast went overboard.

'Helm a weather! Hard a-starboard!' But Drinkwater's order was too late. The frigate was already paying off, her bows coming up into the wind, across the wind, until finally she wallowed with her unarmed larboard side facing the enemy.

'Lee forebrace!' If he could trim the yards to the larboard tack they might yet escape. The third broadside brought the main topmast down, the mizen topgallant with it. No one stood alive at the wheel.

Drinkwater looked at the Romaine . French cruisers, he knew, carried large crews. Now the advantages thus conferred upon them became apparent. Already the wreckage was cleared away and she was under control, setting down towards them.

'Mr Dalziell, prepare your larboard carronades. Mr Grey! Larboard fo'c's'le carronades.' Bitterly Drinkwater strode forward and jerked one of the brass gangway swivels. He lined it up on the approaching frigate.

'Mr Drinkwater!' He turned to find Morris pointing the pistol at him. 'You failed, Drinkwater…'

'Not yet, by God, Morris, not yet!'

'What else can you do, dog's turd, your cleverness has destroyed you.' Drinkwater's brain bridled at Morris's suggestion. True, a second earlier he himself had been on the verge of despair but the human mind trips and locks onto odd things under stress. It did not occur at that moment that Morris's action in pointing the gun at him was irrational; that Morris's apparent delight at his failure would also result in Morris's own capture. It was that old cockpit epithet that sparked his brain to greater endeavours.

'No, sir. By God there's one card yet to play!' he shouted below for Mr Rogers even as Dalziell approached with a coloured bundle in his arms.

'What the hell is that?' screamed Drinkwater.

'I was ordered to strike,' said Dalziell.

Drinkwater snatched the ensign from Dalziell's grasp. The red bunting spilled onto the deck. He turned to Morris, the question unasked on his lips. Morris inclined his head, implying his authority lay behind the surrender.

The belief that he was dying had taken so sharp a hold upon his mind that he was sure surrender offered him survival. The enemy cruiser was from lie de France. As commander of such a well-fought prize he would be treated with respect, and removed from the source of his poisoning he would recover. Into Morris's mind came another reason, adding its own weight in favour of surrender. While he enjoyed an easy house arrest at Port Louis his officers would be incarcerated. Drinkwater would be mewed up for the duration of the war. It would finish the work he had failed to do at Kosseir.

In the electric atmosphere that charged the quarterdeck all this was plain to them both. Their mutual antipathy had reached its crisis.

'The French are sending a boat, sir,' said Dalziell, eyes darting from one to the other. Drinkwater turned and shoved the ensign back at Dalziell.

'That is Hellebore 's ensign, by God! I'll not see it struck yet!'

Rogers arrived on the quarterdeck. He saw the ensign. 'Surely we haven't…?'

'No, by Christ, we have not!' Dalziell was pushed towards the halliards as Drinkwater snapped to Rogers. 'Get Santhonax up here, and Bruilhac! Quick!'

Drinkwater looked at the approaching boat, a launch packed with men, a cable from them.

'I command, damn you!' Morris hissed furiously. Drinkwater turned and looked down the barrel of the pistol.

He crossed the deck in two strides and wrenched the gun from his grasp. 'You may rot, Morris, but I am not through yet… get that ensign up, Dalziell, you lubber…'

Drinkwater was aware that he was holding the pistol at the young man. Dalziell threw a final, failing glance at Morris then did as he was bid. He belayed the halliards as Santhonax came on deck. The Frenchman looked curiously about him, took in the fallen spars, the broken bodies and blood spattered across the deck. He saw too the ensign being belayed and his quick mind understood. A glance to windward showed him his countrymen, the gunports of Romaine , and the boat, almost alongside.

'Get 'em up on the rail, Rogers, that Frog won't fire on his own boat.'

But a gun did fire, the ball whistling overhead, a single discharge to recall the British to the etiquette of war.

Drinkwater pointed the pistol at Santhonax. 'Captain, tell that boat to pull off. This ship has not surrendered. The ensign halliards were shot through. If the officer in the boat pulls off I will not open fire until he has regained his ship, otherwise I shall destroy him,' he paused, 'and you also, Captain.'

The French boat was ten yards off, the officer standing in the stern, looking up in astonishment at the apparition of a Republican naval officer standing beneath the British ensign like Hector on the walls of Troy.

Santhonax looked at Drinkwater. 'No,' he said simply. 'I leave it to the desperation of your plight and your conscience to shoot me.'

Drinkwater's heart was thumping painfully and he could feel the sweat pouring out of him. He sensed Morris awaiting events. He swore beneath his breath.

'Get up, Bruilhac!' The terrified boy climbed trembling on the rail as Drinkwater jerked his head at Rogers to pull Santhonax off the rail. Rogers leapt forward, together with Tregembo. But they were too late.

Drinkwater was about to threaten Bruilhac with instant death if he did not do his bidding but he was spared this cruel necessity. A sudden eruption of cannon fire to the east of them swung the focus of attention abruptly away from the wretched little drama on Antigone 's rails. At first is seemed Romaine had fired a final shattering broadside to compel Antigone to strike. In their boat the French thought the same. There was a simultaneous ducking of heads. Bruilhac fainted through sheer terror while a similar reflex caused Santhonax to dive outboard.