Free The Corvette by Richard Woodman Page A

instantaneous.
    ‘Helm a-lee! Main braces there! Starboard quarterboat away! Move God damn you! Man overboard, Mr Rispin!’ Mount and Drinkwater ran aft, straining to see where the hapless topman surfaced.
    ‘Where’s your damned sentry, Mount?’
    ‘Here, sir.’ The man appeared carrying a chicken coop. He hove it astern to the fluttering, squawking protest of its occupants.
    ‘Good man.’ The three men peered astern.
    ‘I see him, sir.’ The marine pointed.
    ‘Don’t take your eyes off him and point him out to the boat.’
    Melusine was swinging up into the wind like a reined horse. Men were leaping into the quarterboat and the knock of oars told where they prepared to pull like devils the instant the boat hit the water. Mr Quilhampton, holding his wooden hand out of the way as he vaulted nimbly over the rail, grabbed the tiller.
    ‘Lower away there, lower away lively!’
    The davits jerked the mizen rigging and the boat hit the water with a flat splash.
    ‘Come up!’ The falls ran slack, the boat unhooked and swung away from the ship, turning under her stern.
    ‘Hoist Princess Charlotte’s number and “Man overboard”.’ Drinkwater heard little Frey acknowledge the order and hoped that Captain Learmouth would see it in time to wear his ship round into Melusine’s wake. The marine was up on the taffrail, one hand gripping a spanker vang, the other pointing in the direction of the drowning man. He must remember to ask Mount the marine’s name, his initiative had been commendable.
    ‘Ship’s hove to, sir,’ Rispin reported unnecessarily.
    ‘Very well. Send a midshipman to warn the surgeon that his services will be required to revive a drowning man.’
    ‘You think there’s a chance, sir
    Aye, aye, sir.’ Rispin blushed crimson at the look in Drinkwater’s eye.
    Everyone on the upper deck was watching the boat. Men were aloft, anxiety plain upon their faces. They could see the boat circling, disappearing in the wavetroughs.
    ‘Can you still see him, soldier?’
    ‘No sir, but the boat is near where I last saw ‘im, sir.’
    ‘God’s bones.’ Drinkwater swore softly to himself.
    ‘Have faith, sir.’ The even features of Obadiah Singleton glowed in the sunset as he stopped alongside the captain. The pious sentiment annoyed Drinkwater but he ignored it.
    ‘Do you see the coop, soldier?’
    ‘Aye, sir, ‘tis about a pistol shot short of the boat
    there, sir!’
    Drinkwater caught sight of a hard edged object on a wave crest before it disappeared again.
    ‘What’s your name?’
    ‘Polesworth, sir.’
    ‘Oh! May God be praised!’ Singleton clasped his hands on his breast as a cheer went up from the Melusines. A man, presumably the bowman, had dived from the boat and could be seen dragging the body of his shipmate back to the boat. The boat rocked dangerously as willing hands dragged rescued and rescuer inboard over the transom. Then there was a mad scramble for oars and the boat darted forward. Drinkwater could see Quilhampton urging the oarsmen and beating the time on the gunwhale with his wooden hand.
    The boat surged under the falls and hooked on. Drinkwater looked at the inert body in the bottom of the boat.
    ‘Now is the time for piety, Mr Singleton,’ he snapped at the missionary as the latter stared downwards.
    ‘Heave up!’ The two lines of men ranged along the deck ran away with the falls and held the boat at the davit heads while the body was lifted inboard. The blue pallor of death was visible to all.
    ‘Where’s Macpherson?’
    ‘Below, sir,’ squeaked Mr Frey.
    ‘God damn the man. Get him to the surgeon and lively there!’ Men hurried to carry the dripping body below. Drinkwater felt the sudden anger of exasperation fill him yet again. He was damned if he wanted to lose a man like this!
    ‘Mr Rispin! Don’t stand there with your mouth open. Clap stoppers on those falls and secure that boat, then put the ship on the wind.’ The boat’s bowman slopped past, his