Free A Brig of War by Richard Woodman

rigged and being sweated tight.
    â€˜Mr Rogers!’
    â€˜Yes? What is it?’
    Drinkwater explained about the guns. ‘We’ll start with the forward two and get a log reading at intervals of half an hour to check her best performance.’
    Rogers nodded. ‘She’s gaining is she?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜D’you think the old bastard’s lost his nerve,’ he paused then saw the anger in Drinkwater’s face. ‘I mean she might be British . . .’
    â€˜And she might not! You may wish to rot in a French fortressbut I do not. I suggest we attend to our order.’
    Drinkwater turned away from Rogers, contempt flooding through him that a man could allow himself the liberty of such petty considerations. Although the stranger was still well out of gunshot it would need only one lucky ball to halt their flight. And the fortress of Bitche waited impassively for them. Drinkwater stopped his mind from wandering and began to organise the hauling aft of the forward guns.
    In the waist the noise of the sea hissing alongside was soon augmented by the orchestrated grunts of men laying on tackles and gingerly hauling the brig’s unwieldy artillery aft. Two heavy sets of blocks led forward and two aft, to control the progress of the guns as the ship moved under them. From time to time Grey’s party of men with handspikes eased the awkward carriage wheels over a ringbolt. After four hours of labour they had four guns abaft the mainmast and successive streaming of the log indicated an increase of speed of one and a half knots. But that movement of guns aft had not only deprived
Hellebore
of four of her teeth, it had seriously impeded the working of her after cannon since the forward guns now occupied their recoil space.
    When the fourth gun had been lashed the two lieutenants straightened up from their exertions. Drinkwater had long forgotten Rogers’s earlier attitude.
    â€˜I hope the bastard does not catch us now or it’ll be abject bloody surrender, superior goddam force or not,’ Rogers muttered morosely.
    â€˜Stow it, Rogers, it’s well past noon, we might yet hang on until dark.’
    â€˜You’re a bloody optimist, Drinkwater.’
    â€˜I’ve little choice; besides faith is said to move mountains.’
    â€˜Shit!’
    Drinkwater shrugged and went aft again. Despite the work of the past hours it was as if he had left Griffiths a few moments earlier. The old Welshman appeared not to have moved, to have shrunk in on himself, almost half-asleep until one saw those hawkish eyes, staring relentlessly astern.
    There was no doubt that they were losing the race. The big frigate was clearly visible, hull-up from the deck and already trying ranging shots. As yet these fell harmlessly astern. Drinkwater expressed surprise as a white plume showed in their wake eight cables away.
    â€˜He’s been doing that for the past half hour,’ said Griffiths. ‘I think we have about two hours before we will feel the spray of those fountains upon our face and perhaps a further hour before they are striking splinters from the rail. His hands clenched the taffrail tighter as if they could protect the timber from the inevitable.
    â€˜We could swing one of the bow chasers directly astern, sir,’ volunteered Drinkwater. Griffiths nodded.
    â€˜Like that
cythral
Santhonax did the day he shot
Kestrel
’s topmast out of her, is it?’
    â€˜Aye.’
    â€˜We’ll see. It will be no use for a while. Did Lestock in his zeal douse the galley fire?’
    â€˜I’ve really no idea, sir.’ At the mention of the galley Drinkwater was suddenly reminded of how hungry he was.
    â€˜Well see what you can do,
bach
. Get some dinner into the hands. Whatever the outcome it will be the better faced on full bellies.’
    Half an hour later Drinkwater was wolfing a bowl of burgoo. There was an unreal atmosphere prevailing in the gunroom