Free A Brig of War by Richard Woodman Page A

wind showed no sign of dropping.
    Appleby’s crepuscular hour approached at last and with it the first sign that perhaps all was not yet lost. Sunset was accompanied by rolls of cloud from the west that promised to shorten the twilight period and foretold a worsening of the weather. The brig still raced on under a press of canvas and Lestock, earlier so anxious to hoist the stunsails was now worried about furling them, rightly concluding that such an operation carried out in the dark was fraught with dreadful possibilities. The fouling of ropes at such a moment could spell disaster and Lestock voiced his misgivings to Griffiths.
    ‘I agree with you, Mr Lestock, but I’m not concerned with stunsails.’ Griffiths called Drinkwater and Rogers to him. The two lieutenants and the master joined him in staring astern.
    ‘He will see us against the afterglow of sunset for a while yet. He’ll also be expecting us to do something. I’m going back on him
    ‘ He paused, letting the import sink in. Rogers whistled quietly, Drinkwater smiled, partly out of relief that the hours of passivity were over and partly at the look of horror just visible on Lestock’s face.
    ‘Mr Lestock is quite correct about the stunsails. With the preventer backstays I’ve no fear for the masts. If the booms part or the sails blow out, to the devil with them, at least we’ve all our water and all our guns
    As to the latter, Mr Rogers, I want whatever waist guns we can work double shotted at maximum elevation. You will not fire without my order upon pain of death. That will be only, I repeat only, if I suspect we have been seen. Mr Drinkwater, I want absolute silence throughout the ship. I shall flog any man who so much as breaks wind. And the topmen are to have their knives handy to cut loose anything that goes adrift or fouls aloft. Is that understood, gentlemen?’
    The three officers muttered their acknowledgement. A ball struck the quarter and sent up a shower of splinters. ‘Very well,’ said Griffiths impassively, let us hope that in forty minutes he will not be able to see us. Make your preparations, please.’
     
    ‘Down helm!’
    The brig began to turn to larboard, the yards swinging round as she came on the wind. The strength of the wind was immediately apparent and sheets of stinging spray began to whip over the weather bow as she drove to windward.
    ‘Full an’ bye, larboard tack, sir,’ Lestock reported, steadying himself in the darkness as Hellebore lay over under a press of canvas.
    Drinkwater joined Griffiths at the rail, staring into the darkness broad on the larboard bow where the frigate must soon be visible.
    ‘There she is, sir,’ he hissed after a moment’s pause, ‘and by God she’s turning
    ‘
    ‘Myndiawl!’ Drinkwater was aware of the electric tension in the commander as Griffiths peered into the gloom. ‘She’s coming on to the wind too; d’you think she’s tumbled us?’
    Drinkwater did not answer. It was impossible to tell, though it seemed likely that the stranger had anticipated Griffiths’s manoeuvre even if he was unable to see them.
    ‘He must see us
    ‘
    The two vessels surged along some nine cables apart, running on near parallel courses. Drinkwater was studying the enemy, for he was now convinced the frigate was a Frenchman. Two things were apparent from the inverted image in the night glass. Hellebore had the advantage in speed, for the other was taking in his stunsails. The confusion inherent in the operation had, for the moment, slowed her. She was also growing larger, indicating she did not lie as close to the wind as her quarry. If Hellebore could cross her bow she might yet escape and such a course seemed to indicate the French captain was cautious. And then several ideas occurred to Drinkwater simultaneously. He could imagine the scene on the French cruiser’s deck. The stunsails would be handled with care, men’s attention would be inboard for perhaps ten minutes. And the Frenchman