The Corvette (30 page)

Fabricating the jury rudder and stock was comparatively easy. What exercised Drinkwater's ingenuity was the manner of shipping it so that it could be used to steer the ship. After some consultation with the warrant officers, particularly regarding the materials available, it was decided that an iron ring to encircle the masthead could be fabricated from the head-iron at the top of the mizen lower mast. This was of a sufficient diameter to encompass the heel of the mizen topmast so, by fitting it to the lesser diameter of the topmast's other end, there was sufficient play to allow the mast to rotate. The head-iron also had the advantage of having a second ring, a squared section band, which capped the mizen lower masthead. To this could be secured two chains, made from the yard slings from the main yard and elongated by those from the foreyard. These could then be led as far forward as was practical and bowsed taught at the fore-chains. This head-iron would thus become the new heel-iron for the rudder stock, a kind of stirrup.

The first part of the work went well. Some considerable delay was experienced in driving the head-iron off the mizen lower mast, but while Bourne and the bosun were aloft struggling with wedges, two stout timbers were prepared to be lashed either side of the vertical mizen topmast when it was lowered upside down, over the stern. A large pudding-fender was also slung over the side and lashed against the taffrail. The jury rudder stock would then turn against this well-slushed fender, restrained from moving to left or right by the side timbers.

There remained two problems. The first was to keep tension on the heel arrangement which it would be impossible to attend to once the thing was hoisted over the side. And the other would be to fabricate a method of actually turning the rudder.

Drinkwater estimated that
Melusine
's forward speed would contribute greatly to the first as long as her alterations of direction were small, such as would occur while steering a course. Terrific strain would be imposed if large rudder angles were necessary, as would be the case with tacking or wearing or, God help them, if they had to fight another action with the
Requin
. To this end Drinkwater had the mizen topgallant yard slung over the stern and lashed below the level of his quarter galleries. From here tackles were led to the mizen topmast-head which would, of course, be the heel of the rudder stock when rigged. The cross-jack yard was similarly readied across the upper taffrail from quarter to quarter and lashed to the stern davits. From here two tackles could be rigged to the upper end of the topmast which would extend some feet above the rail and give good leverage to steady the spar.

The problem of rigging some steering arrangement proved the most difficult. The idea of lashing a tiller was rejected owing to the great strain upon it which would almost certainly result in the lashing turning about the round mast. In the end it was found necessary to bore the mast, a long task with a hand auger that occupied some four hours work. Into the mortice thus made, the yard arm of the mizen topgallant yard was prepared to go to become a clumsy tiller.

While these works were in progress Drinkwater frequently called for reports from the masthead about the movement of the
Requin
. But she, too, seemed to be refitting, although her inactivity did not remit the anxiety Drinkwater felt on her account, and he fumed at every trivial delay.

His impatience was unjust for, as he admitted to himself, he could not have been better served, particularly by Hill, Bourne, Gorton and
Quilhampton. Comley, the bosun and Mr Marsden, the carpenter were indefatigable, while the men, called upon to exert themselves periodically in heaving the heavy timbers into position, in fetching and carrying, in the rigging of tackles and the frequent adjustment of leads until all was to the demanding exactness Drinkwater knew was the secret of such an operation, carried out their multifarious orders willingly.

There were considerable delays and a few setbacks, but after eight hours labour the timbers assembled on the quarterdeck looked less like a lowered mast and more like a rudder and stock. In one of these delays Drinkwater took himself below to attend the wounded.

Melusine
had suffered greatly in the action, not only in her fabric, but in her company. As Drinkwater made his way below to the cockpit he refused to allow his mind to dwell on the moral issues that crammed the mind in the aftermath and anti-climax of action. No doubt Singleton would hector him upon the point in due course and Drinkwater felt a stab of conscience at the way he had been instrumental in turning little Frey from a frightened boy to a murderous young man who had killed in the service of his King and Country. Still, Drinkwater reflected, that was better than fulfilling that mendacious platitude:
Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori
.

But it was not Singleton's face that reproached him in the gloom of the cockpit. Skeete leered at him abruptly, holding up the horn lantern to see who it was.

‘Are 'ee wounded, Cap'n, sir?' The foul breath of Skeete's carious teeth was only marginally worse than the foetid stink of the space, crammed as it was with wounded men. They lay everywhere, some twisted in agony, some slumped under the effects of laudanum or rum, some sobbed and cried for their wives or mothers. Singleton looked up as Drinkwater leaned over the body of Mr Rispin. Their eyes met and Singleton gave the merest perceptible shake to his head. Drinkwater knelt down beside the lieutenant.

‘Well now, Mr Rispin. How goes it, eh?' he asked quietly.

Rispin looked at him as though he had no idea who it was. There was very little left of Rispin's chest and his eyes bore testimony to the shock his body had received. His pupils were huge: he was already a dead man, astonished to be still alive, if only for a little longer.

Drinkwater turned aside. He almost fell over one of the ship's nippers, a boy of some nine years of age named Maxted, Billy Cue Maxted, Drinkwater remembered from the ship's books, named for the battleship
Belliqueux
, from whence his father had come to ruin the
reputation of poor Mollie Maxted. Now little Billy was a cripple. He had been carrying powder to his gun when a ball knocked off both his legs. They were no more than dry sticks and he was conscious of their loss. Drinkwater knelt down beside him.

The child's eyes alighted on the captain and widened with comprehension. He struggled to rise up, but Drinkwater pushed him back gently, feeling the thin shoulder beneath the flannel shirt.

‘Oh, Cap'n Drinkwater, sir, I've lost both my legs, sir! Both on 'em, and this is my first action, sir. Oh, sir, what'm I going to do, sir? With no legs, who'll carry powder to my gun, sir, when next we fights the Frogs, sir?'

‘There, Billy, you lie back and rest. It's for me to worry about the guns and for you to be a good boy and get well . . .'

‘Will I get well, sir?' The boy was smiling through his tears.

‘Of course you will, Billy . . .'

‘And what'll happen to me, sir?' Drinkwater swallowed. How could you tell a nine-year-old he was a free-born Briton who would never be a slave? He was free to rot on whichever street corner took his fancy. He might get a pension. Perhaps ten pounds a year for the loss of two legs, if someone took up his case. Drinkwater sighed.

‘I'll look after you, Billy. You come and see me when you're better, eh? We'll ship you a pair of stumps made of whale ivory . . .'

‘Aye, sir, an a pair o' crutches out o' the Frog's topgallant yards, eh, Cap'n?'

An older seaman lying next to Billy hoisted himself on one elbow and grinned in the darkness. Drinkwater nodded, rose and stepped over the inert bodies. Rispin had died. Somewhere in the stinking filth of the orlop his soul sought the exit to paradise, for there were no windows here to throw wide to the heavens, only a narrow hatchway to the decks above. At the ladder Drinkwater paused to look back.

‘Three cheers for Cap'n Drinkwater!' It was little Billy's piping voice, and it was answered by a bass chorus. Drinkwater shuddered and reached for the ladder man-ropes.

Dulce et decorum est
 . . .

He had not seen Tregembo in the cockpit, he realised as he passed the marine sentry stationed outside his cabin. He opened the door only to find a party of men under Mr Quilhampton completing the lashings of the mizen topgallant mast across the stern.

‘We had to break two of the glazings, sir,' said Quilhampton
apologetically, pointing at the knocked-out corners of the stern windows.

‘No matter, Mr Q. How does it go?'

‘Just passing the final frappings now.'

‘Very well.' Drinkwater paused and looked hard at one of the men. The fellow had his back to Drinkwater and was leaning outboard. ‘Is that Tregembo?'

‘Yes, sir. He refused to stay in the cockpit,' Quilhampton grinned, ‘complained that he wasn't having a lot of clumsy jacks in
his
cabin.'

Drinkwater smiled. ‘Tregembo!'

The Cornishman turned. ‘Aye, zur?' His head was bandaged and he spoke with difficulty.

‘How is your face?'

‘Aw, 'tis well enough, zur. Mr Singleton put a dozen homeward bounders in it an' it'll serve. I reckon I'll be able to chaw on it.'

Drinkwater wondered what sort of an appearance Tregembo would make, his cheek crossed by the scars of Singleton's sutures. If they ever reached Petersfield again he could expect some hard words from Susan. He nodded his thanks to the man for saving his life. The Cornishman's eyes lit. There was no need for words.

‘Very well.'

‘You've broke your sword, zur.' Tregembo was reproachful. The French sword had hung on his hip since he had taken it from the dead lieutenant of
La Creole
twenty-odd years ago off the coast of Carolina. He had forgotten the matter.

‘You'd better have Mr Germaney's, zur. For the time bein'.'

Drinkwater nodded again, then turned to Quilhampton.

‘Carry on, Mr Q.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.'

They were ready to heave the jury rudder over the taffrail when he returned to the deck. All the purchases were manned, each party under the direction of an officer or midshipman. The former mizen topmast, the ball from the
Requin
prised out of it and the improvised rudder blade bound to it, jutted out over the stern. The heel-iron at its extremity was fitted with the requisite chains and hackles and the head of the mast was, where it passed through the heel-iron, well slushed with tallow to allow free rotation.

‘All ready, sir.' Bourne touched his hat.

‘Very good, Mr Bourne. Let's have it over . . .'

‘Aye, aye, sir. Set tight all. Ready, Mr Gorton?' Gorton was up on the taffrail, hanging overboard with two topmen.

‘Ready, sir.'

Bourne lifted the speaking trumpet and turned forward. ‘Mr Wickham! Mr Dutfield! Your parties to take up slack only!'

‘Ay, aye, sir!' The tackles from the heel iron came inboard at the chess-trees and here the two midshipmen had half a dozen men each to set the heel of the rudder tight.

‘Very well, Mr Comley, haul her aft.'

‘Haul aft, aye, aye . . .'

The mast was pushed aft, the tackles overhauling or tightening as necessary. At the point of equilibrium the weight was slowly taken on the side tackles that led downwards from the mizen topgallant mast, Mr Gorton shouting directions to Quilhampton in the cabin below, where the hauling parts came inboard.

‘Some weight on the retaining tackle, Mr Comley . . .'

‘Holding now, sir.' They had rigged a purchase from the base of the mizen mast to the upper end of the rudder stock. This now took much of the weight until the stock approached a more vertical angle and the full weight was taken by Quilhampton's quarter tackles. The rudder blade dipped down and entered the sea. There was an ominous jerk as Comley eased his purchase and the weight came upon the quarter tackles. But they were heavy blocks, with sufficient mechanical advantage to handle the weight. The rudder stock approached the vertical, coming to rest on the pudding fender and, further down, the cross member formed by the mizen topgallant mast.

‘I think some parcelling there, Mr Gorton, together with a loose frapping will make matters more secure,' said Drinkwater, leaning over the stern by the starboard stern davit.

‘Aye, aye, sir.' He called down to Quilhampton and explained what Drinkwater wanted. Looking down, Drinkwater could see Quilhampton's quarter tackles disappear into the water. They were bar-tight. Above his head Comley was removing the purchase to the mizen mast and setting up two side purchases, stretched out to the arms of the cross-jack yard which was lashed up under the boat davits. This was to ease some of the effects of torsion the improvised rudder could be expected to undergo.

Forward Wickham and Dutfield were hauling their tackles tight under Bourne's direction. As Comley clambered down Drinkwater directed him to set up some additional bracing lines to support the extremities of the mizen topgallant mast and the cross-jack yard. He
felt his anxiety subside and rubbed his hands with satisfaction.

‘Well done, Mr Bourne, a splendid achievement.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Drinkwater hailed the masthead. Mr Frey looked over the rim of the crow's nest.

‘Any sign of the
Requin
, Mr Frey?'

‘No change, sir! East-nor'-east, distant three or four leagues, sir!'

‘Very well!' Drinkwater turned to Bourne. ‘Heave the ship to, Mr Bourne, then set an anchor watch. Pipe “Up spirits”, all hands to have a double tot and then send 'em below. We'll lie-to, then get under way in four hours. The masthead is to be continually manned. Carry on.'

Drinkwater was cheered for the second time that day, only on this occasion he felt less guilty.